by John Harris
This time Consuela made no attempt to find a room for herself and lay down next to Slattery in what had once been a grain store. She was shy in a way the Mexicans never were, but insisted on holding his hand and the following morning she looked at him in a strange, questioning, speculative manner. She said she was too tired to continue. ‘I’ll follow,’ she said.
Slattery had heard that Loyce Lidgett was somewhere just ahead with one of the outposts and agreed to bring him to her. She gave him a grateful look and waited uncertainly beside him as he saddled his horse.
He rode across a desert of dried creek beds, chaparral, cactus and sword plant, his lips rimmed with an outline of pasty saliva and alkali dust. To the east lay the mountain range, broken only where the pass crossed it. From the top you could see for fifty miles over another arid plain to the distant town where the Orozquistas were supposed to be. It was dark and the moon was up when he arrived and the men of the outpost were nervous. They had heard that the Orozquistas were about to move and were worried because, never allowed mercy themselves, the Orozquistas would never show any to a Villista. Mexican warfare was one in which vengeance played a large part and they would be certain by now to have heard of the butchery near San Pedro Solitario and be eager for revenge.
They were billeted in a huddle of adobe houses, looked forgotten and half-starved, and possessed no more then ten rounds of ammunition apiece. They gave Slattery a meal, nevertheless, and took him to their commanding officer. Major Ruíz was an old man, unshaven, dirty and carrying a huge, dramatic and useless looking revolver strapped to his hip. He wore a khaki tunic and sun helmet, knickerbocker trousers, black and white shoes and yellow spats. He was living in the ruins of an old hacienda attached to the village, a magnificent porticoed palace in the centre of a great square of peóns’ houses, corrals and stables, but totally lacking in plumbing. Horses were tethered on the patio and rifles and a few rusty sabres lay haphazardly in corners, while in the middle of the room a fire of corncobs was burning.
When Slattery asked for Lidgett, the old man gestured irritably. ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘With the machine gun.’
As Slattery moved along the village street, children pointed to the one large house that existed outside the hacienda, a dusty little rancho where men were cleaning a machine gun of ancient French design that looked like a broomstick surrounded by a spring. When he asked for Lidgett, one of them looked up, his face shadowed under a hanging lantern.
‘Who wants him?’
‘I’m from General Villa.’
The man waved him into the house. There were more men in the hall who nodded to a closed door, grinning and gesturing with their forearms and fists. It was obvious what they meant and, as Slattery hesitated, the door opened. Lidgett stood in the opening. He looked older and was puffy-faced as if he’d been drinking too much for a long time. He was stark naked and was holding a revolver. Behind him lying on a mattress on the floor, was a Mexican girl, also naked, the yellow light of the lamp picking up the planes and curves of her body.
‘Who’s asking for me?’ Lidgett peered at Slattery then recognition dawned and he grinned. ‘The Limey!’ he said. ‘The Limey on the train! What the hell are you doin’ here?’
Slattery explained that he was on Villa’s staff and on duty. ‘Your wife’s here,’ he said. ‘Waiting for you.’
‘My wife?’ Lidgett’s jaw dropped and, using the muzzle of the gun, he scratched at the mat of black hair on his chest. ‘She’s here? In Mexico?’
‘A few miles back.’
Lidgett lowered the gun. ‘What in the name of God Almighty is she doin’ here?’
‘She’s looking for you.’
‘For Christ’s sake, this is no place for a woman! The goddam Orozquistas are only twenty miles away!’
‘She’s come to find you.’
‘Well, hell’ – Lidgett gestured at the naked girl – ‘I don’t want her to find me like this. Would you? Tell her to get the hell out of here.’
‘How about telling her yourself? She’ll be here soon.’
‘Here?’ Lidgett’s grin died. ‘Goddammit, did you bring her?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Slattery snapped. ‘She tagged along. She needs to see you and I think she’d be satisfied if she did.’
‘For Christ’s sake’ – Lidgett flung the gun down on the mattress – ‘I don’t want to see her! She’ll be beggin’ me to go home. All that goddam pleadin’ and tears and stuff. I don’t want it. I quit. I don’t aim to go back.’
They were still arguing as the men in the hallway, who had been watching the scene with great interest, shuffled aside, whispering behind their hands and grinning. Turning, Slattery saw Consuela appear from the darkness between them.
‘Loyce,’ she said. She was about to move forward when the men in front of Lidgett moved away and she saw he was naked.
‘Loyce!’ She sounded embarrassed. Then she saw the girl on the mattress. For a long time she stood staring at Lidgett, who made no attempt either to cover himself or to explain, then she managed to speak. ‘All these people’ – she gestured at the grinning men – ‘they knew – I – Oh, my God – !’
Slattery was still wondering what his part in the scene should be when he heard the thunder of hooves and a horse came tearing down the street.
‘The Orozquistas!’ the rider was yelling through the cloud of dust he had stirred up. ‘The Orozquistas are coming!’
Ignoring his wife and the fact that he was naked, Lidgett thrust forward. ‘How many?’
‘Thousands!’
The girl on the mattress had been smiling at Consuela, certain of her hold on Lidgett, but now she hurriedly began to search for her clothes. Consuela tried to grab at her husband as he reached for his shirt, and he whirled on her, his face red with fury.
‘You got no sense?’ he roared. ‘Leave me be! The goddam Orozquistas are coming! At night, too! For Christ’s sake, get the hell out of it!’
Three
The houses were vomiting men. In one corner of the great square of the hacienda a mob of women with torches were struggling to gather their belongings. In another a bunch of frightened horses swung together, their heads up, their ears back, the whites of their eyes showing, and galloped to another corner where they gathered again, milling around furiously in a cloud of dust.
Men were running out into the moonlight clutching rifles, trying to catch horses or throwing saddles over the backs of animals that had been trapped. More were rummaging among the badly-stacked weapons for their ammunition. Nobody seemed to know where to go and, despite the hour, a cockerel was crowing as if its heart would burst.
His shirt flapping over his trousers, a peón’s straw hat on his head, Lidgett was yelling to his men who were bringing up the solitary machine gun on a cart.
‘Where are they?’
‘About four kilometres away.’
‘What happened to the outposts?’
‘They were overrun.’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘At night! They must be crazy!’ A man holding a horse called to him and, totally ignoring Consuela who stood looking lost, bewildered and frightened, he ran awkwardly to it, impeded by the big spurs he was wearing. Dragging himself into the saddle, he swung the animal round and galloped off.
Consuela gave a little moan. ‘He’ll come back,’ she said to Slattery. ‘It’ll be different when he does.’
The moon hung like an icy ball over the mountains, flooding the plain with light, and over a dark line of trees the heavens were full of stars that seemed to grow brighter with every minute. But there was no sign of the advancing Orozquistas and Slattery began to wonder if the panic was for nothing. Behind him the uproar was beginning to subside a little and, now that the frightened horses had gone, the dust was settling and a huddle of sheep, stirred from their sleep, moved into the street.
There were still a lot of men near the wrecked hacienda and the old major appeared, complete with yellow spats. Carefully adjusting a pair of
motoring goggles over his eyes, he climbed on to a horse that looked as ancient as he was and, followed by a small group of men, plodded off down the road towards the hills, looking like Don Quixote about to tilt at windmills. It was possible in the moonlight to watch them all the way, appearing and disappearing in and out of the rolling terrain, trailing a plume of white dust as they moved.
Then Slattery noticed puffs of dust like shell bursts silvered by the moon moving against the base of the mountains, and realised they were the Orozquistas. They were moving in and out of the folds of the land now, advancing slowly towards him, and he saw they were heading east to come up on the flank of the defenders.
Leaving Consuela with the women, he saddled his horse and rode forward a little to see what was happening. The puffs of dust were drawing nearer and moving further and further to one side. Then they seemed to disappear and Slattery heard the faint crackle of rifle fire and then short bursts – brrp, brrp – which he recognised as a machine gun.
A man came galloping back, his eyes wild. ‘We need ammunition!’ he yelled. ‘Madre de Dios, we can’t keep them back with ten rounds each!’
The driver of the old stage-coach was trying to harness the mules. The dynamite was still aboard with the boxes of ammunition but, because the ammunition was underneath, he was intending to drive the whole lot to the defenders. Another rider thundered towards them. He had been hit on the side of the head and blood was streaming in long trickles down his face, black in the moonlight.
‘For the love of God,’ he yelled. ‘Ammunition!’
When Slattery looked again at the distant puffs of dust, they were nearer and men were tearing back at full speed. One of them pointed to the other side of the hacienda. ‘They’re on that side, too,’ he yelled.
The puffs were bigger now, and Slattery saw the women begin to collect children, pots and pans and the uncooked meal, and start wrapping things in rags and handkerchieves. One of them started to drive off the sheep, another started throwing stones at the roosting chickens to scatter them. A pig squealed and bolted, followed by its young.
Consuela was looking scared. A last group of riders heading from the hacienda towards the fighting had halted, uncertain what to do.
‘It’s over!’ one of them yelled, and, turning, Slattery saw dozens of men streaming back. Immediately, the waiting riders swung their horses round and fled.
The firing had grown closer and the man trying to push the mules into the coach was beginning to panic. There were now dozens of figures moving through the chaparral. It was impossible to tell which side they belonged to, but occasionally they heard bursts of firing and one of them dropped. Heaving on his reins, Slattery cantered back to where Consuela was waiting.
‘They’ve stolen my horse,’ she wailed.
A bullet whacked against the wall of the hacienda, gouging out a lump of plaster, and the women began to scream, scattering in all directions. A man galloped past, his face black with powder, and the driver of the coach, fumbling the last adjustments of the harness straps, began to make the animals nervous. As they backed away, he lost his temper and punched one on the nose. It started kicking wildly, the wagon tongue snapped and the animals bolted into the desert, trailing the remains of the tongue and the loose leather straps. The driver stared after them for a second and started to run. Then, unexpectedly, the coach exploded with a roar and a flare of flame that lit up the whole village, sending glass, planks, wheels and fragments of wood in every direction.
Reaching down without a word, Slattery heaved Consuela up behind him; she was slight and light as a feather. As they left the hacienda, they were almost caught by a posse of men coming out of the shadows, covered with sweat and blood and powder burns, their horses staggering after a mad gallop. Bullets started to peck at the walls and, with a moan of terror, Consuela buried her face in Slattery’s back. As the horsemen went past, one of them began shooting backward, then they disappeared, crouched low, their sarapes flapping, the wide brims of their sombreros bouncing up and down.
There were men everywhere now, moving in and out of the shadows, shooting from the saddle at anything that moved, and behind them came more, line after line of them. The horse moved with difficulty over the uneven ground with its double load. About a mile from the hacienda was a huddle of adobe houses with crude plank doors and shutters. Already, women were barricading themselves inside. Then, suddenly, the horse stopped dead and nothing Slattery could do would make it move. Dismounting, he saw it had been hit and blood was streaming from its mouth and nostrils. He had just dragged Consuela from its back when it dropped with a crash.
The shooting was still going on behind them as they started to run and they saw men on their left bolting in a group, with another group on horses galloping to cut them off. By the grace of God, they were moving in a different direction and they saw them vanish among the chaparral. By this time Consuela was whimpering. ‘I can’t go on,’ she kept saying. ‘I can’t go on!’
Slattery was beginning to wish he’d never seen her. ‘Just a little further,’ he panted. ‘Then we’ll find somewhere to hide.’
A man ran across their front with the horsemen after him. They were shooting at him and eventually he fell. Then they saw another group, in front of them the ancient major in his knickerbockers and yellow spats, his motoring goggles round his neck. His chest heaving, unable to run any more, he stopped to face his pursuers as they came at a gallop over a rise in the ground. They all fired together and the shock of the heavy bullets lifted him off his feet to drop him on his back, half-propped up by a mesquite bush, his face white in the moonlight.
Coming to a narrow cleft in the ground, they dropped into it and burrowed into the shadows among the thorny brush that grew along it. As they crouched down, there were shots and yells and the thudding of hooves. Bullets cracked through the brushwood and, lifting his head, Slattery saw Orozquistas in their red shirts led by a man with a moustache shooting at a cart dragged by a frantic foaming horse. Lashing at the horse he recognised Loyce Lidgett.
His shirt was torn almost from his back and there was blood on his face. Clinging to the cart, trying to hold the gun down was a boy aged about thirteen, but, as they watched, he cried out and fell to the ground. Then one of the shafts broke and the horse, its legs tangled with the trailing wood, came to a stop, whinnying nervously. Lidgett jumped down, reaching for the revolver strapped to his waist. As he fired, one of the approaching riders fell from the saddle, but others turned towards him and began to close in on him.
Turning aside again, he tried to flee, riding away from the spot where his wife was crouching with Slattery, but the riders swung after him. He seemed to bear a charmed life for a while then the leading horse caught him with its shoulder. In the light of the moon the rider’s face was plain. It was Fausto Graf. What he was doing with the Orozquistas Slattery could only guess. Only that tortured diplomacy that infuriated Villa and allowed the Germans to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds could explain it. As Lidgett staggered, he tried to fire but the shot went wild and he fell, and Slattery saw Graf and the Orozquistas riding backwards and forwards over him, firing downwards as they did so.
Feeling Consuela move, he grabbed her quickly.
‘I must go to him.’
He didn’t argue but thrust her down and sprawled on top of her, holding her still by his weight.
In the moonlight they could see the Orozquistas riding up and down the village street, shooting at anything that moved. A child trying to run to safety was knocked flying by a horse and ended in a dusty bundle of rags against the wall. Squealing pigs were shot as they ran, and men, struggling to escape, were killed without hesitation. By one of the houses, lit by the moon, a girl was weeping. She was only young and one of the Orozquistas had backed her against the wall and was standing in front of her, one hand carelessly holding a revolver, the other wrenching open the front of her dress. She made no attempt to move but stood quite still, petrified with terror as he pulled th
e material aside, his hand moving slowly as if the girl’s fear added savour to what he was doing. Then, unbuckling his belt, he grinned at her plump young breasts and pushed his hand forward to force her against the wall. Little by little the two of them slid down out of sight. As the girl started to sob, Consuela began a strangled protest and Slattery clapped a hand over her mouth.
The Orozquistas had begun now to kick the doors down to get at the screaming women. The girl they had seen with Lidgett appeared, shrieking, and a hand came out of the lamplit doorway after her, grabbing at her dress. The material tore away, leaving her a thin, brown naked figure and a horseman snatched her up as she ran. But another man with a rifle emerged from inside the house and, as he fired, the rider fell from the saddle one way, the girl the other, landing on her back in the dust. As she staggered to her feet, blank-eyed and half-stunned, the man with the rifle snatched at her hand and dragged her back into the house.
As the harsh screaming started, Consuela began to moan and Slattery pushed her down into the dusty earth. Half-hysterical, she began to struggle and he brought his hand up to slap her hard across her face so that she collapsed against him. Then, putting his arm around her, he pulled her closer to him and held her tight.
By the time the darkness faded the Orozquistas had disappeared and the shooting had stopped. The village street was full of flattened figures sprawled in the dust, half-hidden by their huge sombreros. Two or three dazed women and girls stumbled past, weeping, then an old woman carrying the corpse of a child.
After a while, with the light increasing, Slattery pulled Consuela to her feet and they moved cautiously along the narrow arroyo, keeping low, praying that no one would see them. The sun was hot and the chaparral, cactus and the long interlaced spikes of the espada slashed at their clothing.
Eventually, they decided it was safe to leave the arroyo and the first thing they saw was a man sprawled on his back, half covered with a red sarape. His trousers and shoes had been taken but his shirt had been left because it was saturated with blood. A little further on lay the carcass of a horse beginning to swell in the increasing heat, its legs sticking up like the branches of a tree. Underneath it lay another man.
