Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  "Take my clothes off?" Remarked Hanson again in absolute disbelief. "But it's too sun ava bitching cold! I'm not going to! I'll get pneumonia!"

  "Enough!" yelled Castillo, icily. Trying to control his restless horse, which was going around in circles, he blasted a bullet inches away from Hanson's feet. "What difference does it matter now? With your clothes on or off, you are all dead men. Hurry," he yelled again, pointing his rifle toward Hanson and blasting another closer bullet between his boots.

  Hanson was dancing like he had hot coals in his ass and began gasping for air, madder than a hornet. He could have killed them all with his bare hands for his demon spirit was all raw nerve ends. He began slowly taking off his clothes, first his hat, then his boots, one fetid sock, and then the other. He began unbuttoning his shirt, and with each button, he would say, "Sonuvabitches! Sonuvabitches! How in the hell did I get into this mess! Damn! Damn!" He was down to his red long johns when he turned around and saw Hobbs, shaking terribly and redder than hot coals, trying in slow motion to get his pants off. Hanson wanted to laugh at first and then had the irresistible urge to cry, knowing that his life was over. No, perhaps he would escape into the dense jungle like a wild heathen. The Bandidos were occupied, busy picking up their boots and clothes, and would never notice him missing. But the thought was cowardly, and Hanson had never been known for his cowardliness. They all knew they were dead men.

  "You stupid asshole," Hobbs shouted wildly at Hanson. Every time he opened his mouth, steam rolled out of it. "This was all your brilliant idea, thinking of taking over the gold mine. You'll be rich, you said! Just think of all that gold and what it will buy you in Texas! Lawdy, it's like swimming in cow shit. You stupid fool! You never mentioned Bandidos, and how you can get your ass killed. I should have known better! How in the hell did you sell me on this idea? The damn gold! We should have stayed with selling the guns like you were and already making a profit on the side. We already made a ton of money, across the border with the Rio Rico trade. We still could have sold tons of rifles and guns to the revolutionists in Mexico and would have come out all right."

  "Shut up!" Hanson snapped. "You're talking to Gawd damn much!" He turned and glanced at Don Federico who was stripping down to his pants and was listening to Hobbs' delirious ramblings.

  "So, the raid in Rio Rico was your men's idea!" said Don Federico with interest.

  "Yeah," Hobbs replied mindlessly, shaking with cold, continuing his nervous blather. "Hanson also talked me into that idea, and it worked. The idea was brilliant, especially dressing up like bandits, trading with the two revolutionists, and raiding the village, killing the old people because they witnessed the chaos. What was fun was raping the Mexican greaser girl—I wouldn't mind doing that again!" He went silent, knowing that his life was on the line, but then continued, "What did it get us? Not a goddamn thing. We are all going to die, and the Mexican government doesn't give a rat's ass about us."

  "You’ve said too goddamn much!" interrupted Hanson, infuriated at Hobbs' admission of their guilt.

  "Raping women, stealing, killing, sounds very interesting," Don Federico interrupted. He had put two and two together and had gotten his memory working on the incident with Soledad. He turned and glared at Hanson, who was naked as a jaybird. "Good job, Hanson," he said hatefully. "It's funny how things come full circle. Here you were blaming the Bandidos for killing those people, and now it's the bandits who are going to kill you. Excellent justice! You and Hobbs are now going to get yours. You had everyone convinced in the Valley of how terrible the Mexicans Bandidos were, killing and ransacking the border towns, when all along it was you and your henchmen who were doing all the murdering, and making it look like the Mexicans did it. The whole story is coming to a full conclusion. So tell me, Hanson, about Howard Ale—what part did he have in this plot?"

  "He gave us the idea, all along convincing us how to get the money from your father."

  "And who killed José Esquibel, during our fiesta? And who gave you permission to trespass onto my property during the night?" Don Federico was utterly convinced of Hobbs' story. By putting two and two together, all the pieces were being joined in the puzzle. What happened with the redheaded woman who was never found on his property? And what part did she have?

  Hanson never answered because he was startled by a hard blow to his back, hit by one of the bandits and shoved with the end of a rifle. They were all being rounded up like cattle. They huddled there, stark naked to the world, as the bandits all fought among themselves, trying to measure up to the clothes. "What fine boots," one said. "But, they are too big," answered another one. "Fine, fine!" said another one. "Put old rags in them." Others were trying on the pants. "Hijole, how big," one commented. "I'll put a rope around them."

  "Fine leather jackets," another added, "this one will keep me warm during the winter."

  "Bring the shovels from the mine," shouted Castillo from his horse. "These hombres are going to dig their own graves. One at a time, and we have all the time in the world." He laughed again.

  Don Federico seemed to have neither mind nor tongue. Every time he breathed, he exhaled white vapor. He was terrified by the bombshell announcement, and his legs wobbled dangerously. He knew at a gut level that something had gone terribly wrong. Surely Juan had not hired Castillo, for he was notorious for his brutality on both sides of the border. He was known for not sparing anyone. The silence of the countryside gripped Don Federico, as all of the men were being rounded up and forced down into a ravine.

  Everyone was thinking of death. Hanson and Hobbs, who were in front, kept arguing between themselves as to who did what and vice-versa. Occasionally, Castillo would insist, "That's enough!" and, "No more talking, you stupid gringos!" as bullets carved themselves into the dirt close to the men's bare feet. Hanson and Don Federico had been playing a game with death, and now it was all coming into reality. His heart fluttered. It could be possible, thought Don Federico. But it was so damn cruel to die this way and never have a chance to write anything or to tell anyone what happened. He kept holding his temple with one hand, with the other cupped between his legs, as he trailed behind the other men. He noticed that his thighs and legs were starting to turn purple.

  The bandits knew where they were going, and the prisoners were being driven like cattle down into a rocky area where small, sharp-edged stones cut the bottoms of their feet. They came upon a dry field of corn that cut their arms and legs, then into a field of maguey, the century plant. Everyone had grown strangely silent. Each was feeling like a damn fool, trying to cover his body with his hands, but they found no comfort from the freezing cold. White clouds of vapor spewed into the cold air with every panting breath. The naked men kept walking hunched over, huddling together, and occasionally rubbing their arms and shoulders to keep warm.

  They came to an ancient, rundown ruin of a church in a small village with several unpainted adobe huts. At one time the church had been a beautiful place where people prayed to the one God everyone worshiped. Where was God now? Don Federico was thinking. All his riches, money and high education would not get him out of this situation. And if there were a God, would he help him? Was there anything that would get him out of this ridiculous mess?

  Standing at the rear of the group, Don Federico heard Hobbs trying to compromise with Castillo. As Hobbs looked up, Castillo, mounted on his horse, kicked him with his boot. "You estúpido!" he screamed. "You are going to die, you gringo!" Hobbs fell to the ground, while the rest of the naked men stood shivering, waiting for their executioner to give the orders. Hanson began cussing. The rest of the bandits, who couldn't have cared less, laughed and squatted down to smoke, wearing the clothes, hats, and boots that were way too big for them, giving them the comical appearance of swashbuckling pirates.

  Among the group of rugged bandits was one who looked like a refugee from the funny farm and cross-eyed to boot. He had one wayward eye that consistently refused to position itself with the other one, and he could have easily
directed traffic both ways standing in the middle of the crossway. He kept pinching the naked men's behinds and was enjoying what he saw and would calmly rub his hand over the men's bodies and testicles, while Castillo was yelling to the villagers to come out of their huts. Hanson, already spooked, cold and irritable, doubled up his fist and hit the cross-eyed one on the side of his jaw. "Don't touch me, you asshole!" he shouted. The bandit fell to the ground, and then slowly got up, shocked and angry.

  "Maldito gringo," he said, glaring at Hanson with hatred in his eyes. The other bandits laughed between their smoking siestas. It was almost becoming comical to the rest of the naked men, in spite of their tense, terrifying situation.

  "Did you knock him on his ass?" commented Hobbs, snickering and quivering while holding onto his privates. "You probably straightened his other eye out so they will focus right."

  "Ah, hell," remarked Hanson, holding onto his testicles and shaking with cold, teeth chattering. "My peter is frozen and about to fall off. I was planning to use it later."

  "Later, hell, you wouldn't be worth a damn after today!" said Hobbs dubiously cocky and cold.

  Dark-complexioned old women with black rebozos covering their heads and old men with white beards and white clothes with serapes wrapped around their shoulders began coming out of their adobe huts. Younger women holding babies, and small children clinging to the mothers' skirts, looked on with shock and terrified dismay, crossing themselves. "Hijole," they would remark. Another spoke, "Dios mío!" One of the younger women with an infant in her arms put her hand over her face spread her fingers, as if hiding from embarrassment.

  "Take them out into those bushes and have them dig their own graves over by those other fresh ones," Castillo yelled, giving out the orders showing his furious, mindless strength backed up by his rifle. This was a demonstration of bitterness generated by the terrible years of oppression that had fomented resentment among the commoners of the Mexican countryside.

  Mangy, starving dogs came to the digging scene, slouching and sniffing the fresh earth, while the men began furiously using the shovels.

  Don Federico began shoveling the ground and was busy praying, praying to a God who seemingly did not listen, struggling to restrain his emotions. He hesitated for a few minutes and thought of his education, his class as a human being, and all of his studies in dealing with people. He decided to use his diplomacy, which had always won in the past. Appalled by Castillo's audacity and onerous demands, he put his shovel down and began walking toward one of the bandits who was in charge of the digging assignment.

  "I want to speak to your high excellency, Señor Castillo," the Don demanded.

  "Ah, you sound like a man with much class." The bandit laughed rudely.

  Castillo, observing the conversation, rode over to where the two were talking. "Why is this man not digging?" he demanded angrily.

  "Máximo, this man with much class wants to talk to you," replied the soiled, smelly, ragged bandit nervously, saying the words in mockery. "Your high excellency, I present Señor Castillo!"

  "Silence, you fool!"

  Don Federico grimaced. Standing proud and fearless, he looked straight into the cold, dark eyes of Castillo. The other men were busy digging many yards away, so he was able to speak to the vile, ruthless leader in private.

  "Well?"

  "Does the name Juan Alvarez sound familiar to you? Is this the way you treat gentlemen that want to help your people?" Don Federico felt a new strength that had overtaken him, as his voice became loud and strong, for fear had now become his greatest friend.

  "Ah! Juanito! Why, of course. How do you know Alvarez?"

  "I paid him for this mission. I paid Juan for you to do your job. I do not want the Mexican vaqueros killed," Don Federico demanded with much authority.

  "Ah! Telling me what do? Giving me orders? When have you Hijos de la Chingada ever helped our people here in Mexico?" Agitated, Castillo's eyes became as dark as the peak of night; he grumpily curled his lips. "You come into our country, with all of your high superiority, demanding everything for yourselves. Taking our women, taking our land with gold and silver, and this is what you call help?" he retorted, with a fury like a wild animal knowing no keeper. No doubt, the mescal had fried what little brains he had. "Because you stupid foreigners come from the bully of the United States, you think you can tell us what to do. Look at us, we are hungry. We have become Bandidos to be able to survive in this country. With the little that we have, you men come and take everything."

  Don Federico nearly swallowed his tongue in anguish, not knowing if he was making any sense to the Bandido Castillo. He tried not to rise to the monster's bait. "I suppose you have never heard of the new liberator of Mexico?"

  "New liberator, who in the hell is he? What do we all care?" he raged.

  "Francisco Madero, my friend, will be the next President of Mexico. With your help, that of Juan Alvarez, and mine, we can nominate him for the office."

  "Madero," answered Castillo, calming himself and rubbing his chin. "But I have heard of other great hombres who want to help the poor, but when they get on the throne in Mexico City, they forget about the little people like me and my compadres."

  Several of the Bandidos had formed a circle around Don Federico, intrigued at the conversation, nodding their heads and smiling at Castillo's remarks, and fascinated by the Don's courage. Castillo continued, "Look at Díaz, sitting on his great throne of gold, with all the fancy ladies and men coming from all over the world, having parties and good times. No, no, Señor! The only way to do things is our way and by ourselves. My law is the only law here, do as I say or get killed! We are the only ones who know the land. We live here, and you do not."

  "Why don't you join Madero and help him? He will help the people when he gets elected. There is going to be a new election, with Madero leading the party in the future. Men with power and money like me are helping and trying to overthrow the government for the same reasons you just mentioned. Look at Pancho Villa from the North and Zapata from the South. They are considered bandits but have joined Madero with his troops, helping with the new Revolution for the betterment of Mexico."

  "But, what do you have to do with all of this? You come from rich Texas and shouldn't care what happens here in Mexico."

  "Madero and I have been friends for a long time, we went to school together. He sent Juan to me for help. I'm one of the supporters of Madero. I have been helping him with money for guns and ammunition to overthrow Díaz’s corrupt government." Don Federico was talking as fast as he could, grasping for words, and nervously trying to save his skin and that of the other two workers, hoping that Castillo understood his predicament. He realized that Castillo was a bandit, and a thief, and even worse, he was ignorant, uneducated, not understanding political issues. His talk had gone over his head. The only world that Castillo knew was killing and stealing. He was a tyrant, ignorant in his own land.

  "I have heard enough of this foolishness," snapped Castillo, now very angry. "Nothing is going to save your skins or the others. Get back to digging!" He glanced toward the sky as angry clouds had started to surround them. "You have wasted too much of my time! Hurry and go on and dig!" He turned his horse around and galloped toward the villagers who stood in awe watching the exhibition of naked men busy digging. He began showing his ego and pride, displaying what could be done with guns and power, especially in controlling the rich foreigners from the North.

  A thin, ragged old man dressed in a dingy, white cotton pants and shirt, and wearing a straw hat, approached Don Federico, bravely making his way through the group of bandits. He had lived in this village all his life and had been the foreman of the gold mine for many years, first for Señor Hinojosa, then a faithful worker for his father. "Don Federico, Don Federico!" repeated the old man. He was shocked to see the son of George Juelson, naked, cold and hurt, at first not knowing if he should hug him or shake his hand. "I was so sorry to hear about your father's death." He said it with much sorro
w. "Things have not been the same here, as you can see." The old man looked shaken and aghast; his face was thin, gaunt and drawn, covered by wrinkles, stricken by the condition in which he found Don Federico.

  "Señor Martinez," replied Don Federico, pleased to see the old man and a familiar face. "We didn't find you at the mine. We rode in last night and found it abandoned and in terrible disrepair." He said it very fast, ignoring Castillo's orders, holding onto his temple and for the moment forgetting that he was cold, naked, and the hellish awkward condition he was in. Time and death were moving fast for him.

  "I got your letter many months ago with the money," answered the old man. "It has helped me and the people of the village. We have not been able to work at the mine, as you are aware of the flooding. Those who stayed, wanting to find more gold, all ended up being killed. See all those crosses? Those were the husbands and fathers of these poor little orphan children. Most of the women here are widowed." He pointed to where the rest of the men were digging. "We have also been raided several times and have seen many deaths. We have no horses and no guns. We are all afraid, as you can see." Saying it, he mouthed his words cautiously.

  Don Federico, weary, sickened, and still shaken felt his heart palpitate, and in the distance, he could hear Hanson and Hobbs cussing. "Plans have changed and there is nothing that I can do now, as you are very well aware of the situation I'm in—" He never finished because Castillo was on his heels.

  "What is this?" shouted Castillo in raging anger from the back of his restless horse. "A family reunion?"

  "No, Señor," answered Señor Martinez, terror-stricken. His voice became meek and humble. Removing his worn-out straw hat, he replied, "I have known Don Federico since he was a young man, and he comes from a fine family in Texas. His father was very patriotic to this country. If it wasn't for his family, we at this village wouldn't have survived—"