Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  "Patriotic to this country," yelled Castillo, repeating like a parrot. "What the hell do I care about the word patriotic? Those are just stupid words that someone thought up. Enough! It doesn't matter now!" railed Castillo, who had no sympathy and very little patience. His nerves were out of control. He began kicking the old man with his boot and blasted several shots into the ground at his feet. "You, old man get back to your people or be shot," he shouted. "You, mister big wheel from Texas, start digging." He turned his horse around and announced to the other bandits, "Before the sun comes to this peak," pointing to an old wooden cross that was decaying with age, "I will start the execution." The threat was not a figment of his imagination, but the unvarnished truth.

  The young Texas Ranger Smith had other ideas. Hearing Don Federico talking to Castillo, and seeing the bandits being distracted with their backs to them, he decided to make a desperate escape through the dense, hostile fields of maguey. Not knowing where he was going or where he was heading, naked, barefooted, no guns, no horse, only to run and get away, he ran as fast as his feet would carry him over the rough ground. They were all going to be killed sooner or later. He was too young to die. He knew too much. He knew the truth about Hanson and Hobbs marauding in the little village of Rio Rico, raiding, killing, and raping, selling the United States' guns and rifles for their own profit. He knew about Tom White and how he and Hanson had killed him because he also knew too much. He wanted no part of this, only to escape and get back to Texas, where he would get back and find his wife and inform the Texas government about Hanson and Hobbs.

  There was a loud shout and commotion before Don Federico got back to digging his own grave. One of the bandidos was screaming, "The gringo has escaped!"

  "Estúpidos! You fools, imbéciles!" Castillo shouted, madder than a hornet. "What are you waiting for? Go get him! We mustn't let him escape. They must all be killed!" He went into a wild rage, pointing his rifle and shooting bullets at the feet of the naked, shivering men.

  Mass confusion erupted as the bandidos carrying large machetes looked like cockroaches running through the fields of maguey. Two had mounted their horses and headed in the opposite direction, trying to block the runaway gringo Ranger. Loud screams were coming from the dense field. After several minutes had passed, suddenly the commotion and the shouting stopped. Time felt like an eternity. Everyone's heart was beating fast. Everyone had stopped digging and stood still, standing, waiting. Moments later the bandidos returned with the body of Smith. His head had been severed. One of the bandits was holding his head by its hair, with bright red blood still pouring from his neck. The others were dragging his body with their horses as a prize for Castillo.

  Hanson and Hobbs were infuriated. "You will hear from the Texas government for this you bastard!" said Hanson, brazenly.

  Castillo fired several bullets into the ground again where Hanson was standing. "Silence, gringo!" he yelled. "Your turn will come very soon. Hijos de la Chingada!" he said, along with more foul words in Spanish. "The government up north doesn't owe me a shittin' thing!" he stormed. "Keep digging, you bastardos, or you will get the same thing with the machetes."

  Don Federico was now grasping at straws. His knees jerked. He could not escape. He did not want to die. He had too much to live for. His entire life was unraveling before his very eyes. He kept thinking about all of his years of education and success, all of his money, cattle, and influence—for what? And those poor village people could not help him. They were afraid, hungry, uneducated, powerless, and without guns or horses. Why? He kept asking himself. What about Juan? Did he plan it this way, so that if I died, it would be easy for him to have his way with my daughter? Surely not, he thought. His mind was starting to play games with him. It was all becoming a nightmare, far beyond what he had expected. The beasts of the Revolution were starting to stalk the land. It was amazing what men would do and say in times of desperation.

  Dreadful hours passed, with the sun periodically peeking out of the clouds. Castillo then gave a motion with his rifle, "Bring the tall one here," indicating Jones. "Put him against the church wall!"

  "But, I have only dug two feet!" replied Jones with hostility and rebellion, stalling for time.

  "Three feet," corrected Castillo.

  "Yeah, maybe three feet," he replied argumentatively with Texas pride. "Look shit-face! This is not deep enough! In Texas, we bury people six feet deep."

  "Three feet, four feet," fumed Castillo. "What differences does it make?" He averted his eyes to the other bandidos, who stood dumbly waiting for his orders. "He says six feet." They all went into loud guffaws and Castillo cackled. "When you are dead, you are dead, hombre. Understand? And this country is not Texas. What difference does it make when you are dead? You're dead!" saying it in a sarcastic manner and halfway laughing at himself. "Believe me you will not feel a thing, gringo."

  "Like hell!" Jones resisted in a confrontational attitude, provoking Castillo. "I have not dug six feet yet, and I refuse to be killed and buried in only three feet," he challenged, and with a fierce glare, stood his ground.

  "You have big balls, hombre, speaking to me that way when in several minutes you are going to die," said Castillo. He motioned with his eyes and head to his men.

  Still resisting, Jones tried to fight off the bandidos holding onto his arms. Several bandits dragged him, putting him in position against the whitewashed church.

  The rest of the bandidos nudged the other prisoners with their rifles. Everyone stood at attention. The village women in meekness fell quiet and knelt down on the damp earth with their handmade rosaries. The village men took off their straw hats and sombreros, slowly crossing themselves. They had witnessed the same scene many times. There was a nervous whisper as a baby cried in the background. Then the afternoon went silent at the click of rifles pointed toward the church wall.

  "It's your fault and your crazy ideas," screamed Hobbs at Hanson. "You bastard! We are all going to get killed with your shit-brain idea about the gold! Who in the hell is going to save our skins?”

  The cross-eyed bandit hit Hobbs on the head, cold-conking him with his rifle, forcing him to quiet down. Hobbs fell to the cold ground holding his head.

  Then Castillo gave the orders. There was a crash of several rifles firing simultaneously, and at the first shot, Jones fell down the wall broadside and collapsed like a rag puppet in a heap. There were loud cries coming from the women kneeling. The wall of the whitewashed church was spattered with blood, rippling down, as the waiting naked prisoners all gasped in horror, speechless. Who was next?

  The bandidos uttered profanities and reloaded their rifles.

  The terror grew in intensity, driving them all into uncontrollable hysterics. Any minute, thought Don Federico, he would become insane. But he managed to keep his composure, trying to never let go of his senses. He was losing all sight of rationality and could feel the sweat breaking out on his entire body. How ridiculous, since it was so bitterly cold.

  Castillo laughed crazily, then pointed to Don Federico. "Take him! He's next!" He laughed insanely, again looking directly at the Don. "See if the Great Madero will come and help you!"

  There was a great stir, and much whispered protest among the villagers. "No, please, not Don Federico," begged Señor Martinez, making himself known, as he stepped out from the wailing crowd, pleading with his hands. "He is a good, honest man and has been my friend!"

  "Silence, old man! Get back to your stupid crying woman, or you will be next!"

  Don Federico felt his blood go cold and his face turned pallid. He took a deep breath and bravely walked slowly to where the body of Jones lay sprawled on the ground. He calmly turned and faced the horror of the firing squad while his hands covered his privates. His feet felt rooted in the rocky ground. His stomach lurched, feeling as if he were going to vomit. His fingers trembled, his knees shook. My God! He kept saying to himself. My God! His heart raced. He thought in that anguished, desperate moments. Is this what was in store for
me throughout all of my years? God, please have mercy on my soul. He swallowed hard.

  Castillo then gave the orders. Now, seven rifles pointed in Don Federico's direction like canons ready to go off at any minute. He could see the people from the village crying. Several yards away stood the aging Señor Martinez, grieving, helpless. He turned to view Hanson and Hobbs looking shocked and desperate, with gray, hollow faces, awestruck, trying to cover themselves with their hands. Too bad they could not have been first. Somewhere in the deep cavern of his mind, his mother's words seemed to come flooding back from the first book of Psalms:

  "Blessed is the man that walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the way of sinners and scornful. For the Lord knows the way of the good, and the way of the ungodly shall perish."

  Don Federico then blinked. Those were the memories and the words that his mother used to preach to him from the Holy Book. How ironic, since he had never believed in anything, especially in any religion. He had been a good man, and yet he now stood condemned like a criminal, among thieves and vile people. This was the conclusion, his coup de grâce moment, and soon he would be with his parents in the great unknown. His thoughts wandered to his family. What would become of them? He wanted so much for his children. He wanted so much for his sons, especially Fred, who showed much promise in the near future. Soon he would stand in judgment before the Almighty.

  All stood at attention, when someone from the villagers announced to Castillo, "Look! Look!" A peón pointed to the clouds that had gathered in the sky. Castillo looked befuddled, gazing at the vision in the sky.

  "It's a sign, Castillo! It's a sign," cried one of the ladies who was kneeling with her hand pointing toward the sky. "Hijole, Dios Mío," she replied. "This is a godly man and needs to be spared," replied the villagers, who were now standing with their heads tilted up and hands pointing toward the heavens. The commotion grew as they began stirring and speaking, voicing their opposition, believing Don Federico to be a saintly man. "Piedad, Piedad, mercy," they chanted.

  The configuration of the clouds had formed a huge cross, creating a spectacular panorama, with gleaming pink, yellow, and gold glowing streaks penetrating through the heaviness of the clouds and illuminating the full-figured cross from all sides.

  "It's a miracle! A miracle!" cried the excited villagers, and they began chanting again, "Aucellio, mercy, mercy for that man!"

  Castillo glanced up and stood for a minute, not knowing if he was on foot or horseback, and shuddered, horrified. "Madre de Dios!" he exclaimed out loud. "I have never in my life seen anything like this!" Removing his sombrero, he began scratching his head. The other bandidos removed their hats also, copying Castillo and doing the same. All stood gazing toward the sky in total amazement.

  From the dirt road leading to the mine, could be heard the sound of thundering hooves. "Castillo!" yelled one of the bandits, "I think I hear horses coming!" The cross-eyed Bandido knelt and dropped his head, putting his ear to the ground. "I hear horses coming from the gold mine," he said. "Someone is coming!" cried another. The bandidos scattered like mad ants—everyone gathering up their stolen goods, guns, and ammunition. Then someone cried in alarm, "Los Federalists!" The scene erupted into chaos. Everyone became distracted, and in the mass confusion, the bandidos forgot about the prisoners. The villagers were all smiling and standing in the middle of the dirt road.

  Don Federico struggled to curb his emotions, feeling that angels from the heavens had given him another chance in life. His mind scrambled to make sense of the supernatural event. He had tears flowing down his cheeks, and used the dead Smith's bloodstained handkerchief to wipe his eyes. He had forgotten that he was holding onto it so tightly. His hands still trembled, and perspiration ran down his sides. He gasped in utter disbelief, realizing he had been saved. How good it was to be alive and to breathe again. He had never experienced anything so spiritual. It had truly been a miracle!

  "Los Federalists! Ay, Chihuahua! Hurry! We must leave, quickly!" They all rushed to load the wagon and their horses with their stolen goods. Everything was in a mad state of confusion. With wild shouts to the mules, they took off in a cloud of dust down the opposite slope and out of the village.

  The prisoners stood in awe, staring at each other in amazement; they were in a total state of shock. They all looked like fools, speechless and immoveable, standing naked and bewildered. The villagers quickly went into their humble adobe huts, children, dogs, and all, and closed their doors. If the Federalists were coming, they were no different than the bandidos, for they were just as ruthless.

  The Federalists rode in with twenty-five soldiers in full uniform, looking weary and cold. The Capitán Emiliano Nafarrate was startled, seeing a group of naked men standing around in the cold temperature with purple bodies and trying to cover their private parts. It was hard not to laugh!

  "Caray! What do we have here?" He said, snickering and slightly embarrassed. The rest of the soldiers grinned, and one laughed out loud. "Quiet!" He commanded. The Capitán’s conversation was sprinkled with soldierly curses. "We have just come from José Hinojosa's hacienda and were ordered to come this way and see if we could help. Señor Hinojosa was worried about his vaqueros and sent word to come and help a Señor Juelson. Who is Señor Juelson?" He said in a loud voice.

  Don Federico stepped up from behind the other naked men, trying to get his cold lips to form the words. "I'm Señor Juelson," he replied, feeling weary and fatigued. His pale face was stricken and drawn, his body cold, purple, and quivering with goosebumps. He felt as though he was on the fringes of insanity. "I am José Hinojosa's son-in-law." His voice was trembling as he talked to the Capitán, and explaining what had taken place, and the main reason he was up in the mines. "Our family has owned the mine with the approval of Díaz —"

  "Say no more, hombre," interrupted Capitán Nafarrate by raising his hand. "Don't waste any more of your energy. You are tired, cold, and hungry. Señor Hinojosa has already explained everything to me."

  The young and ambitious Capitán Nafarrate adjusted his cap and looked around, grasping the situation at a glance. He could clearly see what had taken place, given the bloodstains on the church wall. "How many are dead?" he asked Don Federico somberly.

  "Three," answered the Don, as his voice rose to an impressive gravity, forgetting that he was cold and hungry, feeling his hatred rekindling for Hanson and Hobbs. "The two over there," he pointed out, "were killed by the bandido, Castillo, and his highwaymen. The Mexican vaquero, Jorge, from the Hinojosa's hacienda, whose body is up by the mine, was killed by these gringos," he said, indicating Hanson and Hobbs.

  The determined and impressive captain then gave the orders and motioned to his soldiers. "Take them! Take the gringos and put them under arrest. Better find some clothes for them, and for the other two vaqueros, and for Señor Juelson." He also gave orders to ten of his men to follow the tracks of the bandidos and round them up. The bandidos, if caught, would be killed.

  "No clothes are going to fit your big ass, Hanson. You're too goddamn big," said Hobbs, quivering and stammering.

  "Shut up, you shit-face. What is it to you, what the hell fits me? You've said enough already. Our asses are in big trouble now," roared Hanson, pugnacious as ever. "We get out of one shit-hole and now we are going into another. I'm not too crazy about those goddamn Mexican jails, feeding you shit, with rats and cockroaches all over. I'll take any clothing wrapped around me for now. I'm too damn cold, but a swig of undiluted White Mule would sure calm my nerves."

  "Well, we're alive," replied Hobbs. "And we can figure some way of getting out of this rat shit-hole sooner or later. It will require more planning," he said cynically.

  "And go where?" Hanson shouted. "Frankly I don't give a rats-ass what happens to you, but the U.S. Marshals will be waiting for me up there, and I'll have to justify to the Commander of the Texas Rangers why the hell I left my post. You should have kept your trap shut all along. It would have worked out all right, but now
we have a bunch of explaining to do." Hanson and Hobbs continued their squabble, blaming each other for who did what. For Hanson it was like a bad draw to an inside straight, coming full circle.

  The Capitán addressed Don Federico once again. "Señor! These gringos will go to jail in Monterrey until we and the Mexican government decide what to do with them. My soldiers will help carry the body of the dead Mexican back to the hacienda. The rest of the men will have to ride together on the horses with some of my soldiers." He then ordered his men to bury the two dead gringos.

  "My father-in-law and I will pay you well for this service, Capitán. And we will see that your commander hears about your goodwill service rendered."

  "It's not necessary. We are on duty and in the service of General Antonio Garcia in Monterrey. He will be happy that you were pleased with our service to you and to Señor Hinojosa. And my soldiers and I will be rewarded with other commendation. Very well, it will be done! Adelante."

  CHAPTER 15

  For the first three weeks, Victoria and Felicia had enjoyed their stay in the Hinojosa's hacienda, with all the traditional comforts. The days had passed in a whirl of meeting many high-class, educated, influential people, all dressed with a European flair. Up to now, Victoria felt lucky, for she hadn't had to confront the Calderóne family.

  While Don Federico was gone, an unpleasant incident had occurred. One of the peón men had grabbed and fondled Felicia's leg while helping her onto her horse. Emma had made a fuss and had demanded punishment for his having touched Felicia. It was horrible the way in which the foreman had strung the peasant over a wagon wheel and whipped him, giving him over thirty lashes. The two girls still shivered and talked for days following the incident, after witnessing the episode from their upstairs window and seeing the bloody stripes on the servant's back. "But he deserved it," said Victoria, trying to make Felicia feel better. "It wasn't your fault. It seems that all of the Mexicans are love-starved crazies. Look at the comments when we go to the stables. Remember how they eyed us and made remarks among themselves in whispers, of what they would do because we are from Texas? They think that the Tejanas, are free and easy!"