by James Lewis
At the side of the road, the coachman noticed now, several Mexicans, perhaps ten, sat in the shade of a dilapidated old cart, their sombreros over their eyes. Siesta. Most of them were children but even they looked to be sturdy little peons. Odd that they were there; but as they were, they could be useful.
“Hey, you!” the coachman called in Spanish. “Hey, give us a hand. We need a push.”
No one moved.
The coachman flayed the straining horses. “Come on, now,” he shouted. “Give us a push.”
The Mexicans slumbered on.
“Shit! Those lazy bastards never move their asses.” He screamed again at the horses, and they trudged slowly past the cart and out of sight around a ridge.
When the stage disappeared, the Mexicans sprang up and darted after it, keeping hidden behind the ridge. Unseen, two boys dashed out to the road and quickly wedged blocks of wood under the slipping rear wheels. Then they faded back into the roadside.
The stage was stuck now. Frantically, the coachman lashed at the horses. To no avail. On the sharp incline, five thousand pounds was too much of a burden to haul over the wood.
On their bellies now, the two boys slithered under the front of the stage. They held large, heavy knives. They rolled onto their backs and began hacking at the taut leather straps inches above their faces. One parted, then another, then with a sharp snap the last brace gave.
Freed suddenly, the horses tottered forward and broke into a run. A terrifying scream, the scream of a man in abject panic, rent the air. With the reins still wrapped tightly around his hands, the coachman plummeted earthward, pulled by the unleashed horses. His body hit the ground with a dull plop and his screams died out instantly. He was dragged another fifty yards before the reins unravelled from his hands.
Atop the stage, the three guards swung desperately around, guns level. Nothing. Then the bushes rustled and a boy who looked no more than sixteen stepped onto the road. An old, single-shot carbine was slung under his arm.
“Put your guns down and notheeng will happen to you,” he said in English. His accent was heavy.
As a man, the guards turned to shoot him. The boy never moved. He didn’t have to. A volley from unseen guns cut the guards down before they got off a shot. “Estúpido,” the boy muttered.
Inside the coach Juan sat impassive on his small seat, watching the others. At the coachman’s scream they started up in alarm. “What the hell—” the American landowner said. His wife clutched his arm.
“Oh, God!” she gasped. “That was awful!”
They looked about them confusedly. The monsignor shrank back against his seat, groping for a cross.
The sound of the shots contorted their faces in fear. “Los insurrectos!” the noble cried. “The rebels!” His jaundiced face had gone white.
They froze at the word. A spasm shook the jellied body of the monsignor. In the corner, the man who looked like a salesman began to whimper.
A moment later the white curtains parted violently. Rifles and shotguns suddenly were thrust through the windows.
Behind the level gun barrels, peering into the coach, appeared the faces of grinning peons. Save for one, they were the faces of boys. Each was dark, with a blunt chin setting off an oval face. They looked very much alike. The youngest appeared to be no more than ten or eleven.
The only man was old, very old, with the soft, weathered skin and sorrowful eyes of the Mexican peasant. He too was grinning.
The noble relaxed visibly at the sight of the peons. Juan saw his scrawny hand steal quickly toward the inside of his jacket. The butt of a short-barreled revolver emerged.
The youngest boy was at the window nearest Juan, his hands encasing an enormous shotgun. The barrel was pointed at the noble, but the boy was looking elsewhere, staring in fascination at the shuddering monsignor.
Without rising, Juan leaned toward the boy. His hands encircled the boy’s and his massive finger forced the small finger back against the trigger. The shotgun crashed loudly.
The impact threw the boy backward. A scream exploded from the woman, a long, fearful cry that made her husband grab her violently and pull her, trembling, against him.
Across from her, almost within reach, a gaping hole appeared in the chest of the noble. Blood spurted from it. The man’s eyes stared glassily for a moment at the blood, then up at Juan. Juan smiled. The man slumped down in the velvet seat. He was dead.
Juan rose and opened the door. Several boys clambered into the carriage, jostling one another and taking fake pot shots at the cowering passengers. The passengers sat stunned, staring stupidly at Juan. He regarded them with amusement. Instead of the heavy, sodden peasant, he knew he suddenly appeared to them to be immense and formidable. He knew his own face, too: When he wasn’t acting the sleepy, humble peon, it was hard and cunning.
“Throw him out,” he said, pointing to the noble. “He’ll mess up the furniture.”
The youngest boy looked at him. “We kill them all, okay, Pa?” he said. As if in assertion of his power to do it, he fired his shotgun in the direction of the monsignor, blowing a hole in the window curtain.
Juan smacked him. The boy’s eyes watered and his mouth curled in pain, but he gave no cry.
“Chulo, you are an idiot,” Juan said. “You do not shoot unless Papa pulls the trigger. You are too young. You understand?”
He glanced at the sweating, trembling passengers and felt a flush of delight at their baffled expressions. “These are my kids,” he explained. “You treat them nice. You give them all the money you got. Comprende?” He pointed at the quivering monsignor. “And you, padre, those rings from your fingers. Okay?”
He remembered something then. He crossed to the landowner and seized the flesh of his cheek, squeezing brutally until it was red. The man looked up helplessly. His wife moaned beside him.
Juan put his face down to the American’s. “You asked about my family, didn’t you?” he breathed. “How many kids I got? Here …” His free hands swept the air. “Count them!
“The little one,” Juan said, “that’s Chulo. Those two, Pepe and Napolean, they’re twins. That one with the old gun, that’s Benito. A good boy. Likes the girls. That’s Nene. He’s a good boy. And that’s the oldest, Sebastian. He drinks too much but he’s okay.”
He pointed to the open door. “Those are my men out there.” Three men could be seen watching the coach. “That’s Fefe, that’s Amando, that’s Pancho.”
The American sucked in his breath. It was suddenly very quiet in the coach.
“And you wanted to know if I knew my father.” Juan reached out and pulled the old man toward him. “Here, say hello. His name’s Nino.” The American nodded toward the old man. “At least he says he’s my father,” Juan laughed. “But I believe him.”
Nino grinned toothlessly.
Juan let go the man’s cheek and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Okay?” he said. “You be nice from now on to dumb Mexicans. Right?”
The American nodded silently but remained tense and hesitant. Juan studied the man. The certainty of what would happen overwhelmed him. The American would abuse the first dumb, weak mejicano he met; he would need the vindication. Juan’s mouth tasted sour. The man was hopeless. Or was he?
“By the way,” Juan said softly. “How many children you got?” He looked at the wife as he spoke.
The landowner shrank back and stammered, “I, uh … we … uh …”
Juan shook his head sadly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That can be fixed.” He patted the American solicitously on the back.
He reached out suddenly and grabbed the wife and pulled her to her feet. Her dress rustled noisily in the quiet coach. She looked anxiously at her husband, too confused and frightened to say anything. Her mouth dropped but no sound came out.
Juan pulled her toward the door. She hung back, casting desperate looks around, until the old man, Nino, prodded her in the rear with the stock of his rifle.
“Andale!”
he ordered.
Hesitantly, she allowed herself to be dragged along behind Juan. Her wrist felt cool in his hand. He noticed his sons watching in amusement.
“Where is he taking her?” the American whined. “What’s he gonna do to her?”
“You ain’t figured it out yet?” the old man replied.
They dismounted the stage. The sun was bright, almost dazzling, and the air was dry and still.
“Where are we going?” the woman asked. Her voice was tiny and afraid. Juan didn’t answer.
He pulled her off the road and through some bushes. The leaves raked his face and left an air of mint in his nose. He liked the woman’s perfume better.
He left her standing in a bush near the edge of the road. He noticed that her fists were balled and that in the shade she looked even prettier than she had in the stage, darker and more sensual. Her expression was forlorn but her eyes still burned into him, making a lie of all the rest. He hoped that she would resist just a little. For the sport of it.
He found what he wanted ten feet the other side of a thick cluster of bushes: a tree standing in a mossy clearing. Through an opening in the bushes the woman was clearly visible. Juan whistled, as to a dog, and just as obediently the woman came toward him, taking small, timid steps.
Juan reached for her, ignoring the terrified look she suddenly flashed. He grasped her by the shoulders and as easily as if she were a doll, propped her against the tree. His grimy hands flew up to her breasts and curled around the gold dress.
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “No.” Good, she was resisting. Not enough to be convincing—but enough.
Under his hands her flesh was firm but the starched, crinolined dress material was irritating. Juan reached down and threw up her skirt, discovering smooth stocking and garters and, to his delight, soft thighs. His fingers probed under the garters.
“Oh, Jesus,” the woman moaned. “Oh, God, I’ll faint.”
“You gonna miss the best part if you faint,” he said, and tore open the front of her dress.
Her breasts tumbled out. Juan held her at arm’s length and looked down at them. They were very white. A shadow from a branch above slashed across her breasts, muting the pink tips. Juan leaned toward her.
Her eyes were aglow now and her mouth hung half open. A pained looked suddenly twisted across her face and her nostrils flared. The look made him tense in anticipation: he knew it well. Still, she managed to surprise him.
Before he could react, the woman’s hands shot out and grabbed his pants at the waist. With frenzied strength, she pulled violently downward. The shabby material gave. Buttons dropped to the ground.
Juan felt a breath of cool air whisk across his bare buttocks. Sounds of whooping and laughter reached him from the coach as he and the woman tumbled to the ground in a sweating, thrashing heap. He thought briefly of her husband, then abandoned himself to the role of stud. He hoped it was her time. She deserved the momento.
She was being very good.
Chapter Three
Juan’s boys stripped the passengers down to their underwear. All but the one who looked like a salesman. “I’m an American,” he protested. “I’m a citizen of the United States. You can’t do this to me.”
Him they made strip naked.
They pushed the men from the coach and went through the passengers’ clothing, emptying the pockets. Then they rifled the baggage. One of the landowner’s shirts appealed to Sebastian and he pulled it on, stuffing his own torn and greasy shirt into the man’s rucksack. Napolean appropriated a belt and vest from the other American. Old man Nino spurned a challenge to put on the monsignor’s frock. Then they tossed some pants out to the passengers and waited for Juan.
Juan tied his torn trousers together as best he could. He fumbled with the few remaining buttons, watching the woman seated silently on the ground before him. She was langorously combing her hair, taking slow, thoughtful strokes. Her dress was held together with hairclips.
Finished, Juan called to her. “Adelita.”
Startled and apprehensive, she looked up at him. His huge, calloused hand was extended toward her. “Your hand,” he said.
She hesitated, then flashed him a languid smile and held out her hand. Juan took it. It was cool and delicate. Juan caught a sudden, sensual appeal in her eyes. He beamed at her and slid two rings off her fingers.
She jerked her hand free in outrage. “Gracias,” Juan said.
The boys were already at the wine when they returned to the coach. Juan came up behind little Chulo, who seemed determined to outdo his brothers, and plucked the bottle from his mouth. “Later,” he said, and cuffed the boy affectionately on the head.
The passengers were herded into the old mule cart on the side of the road and the still unconscious coachman was lowered into the back. The landowner stared imploringly at his wife all the while, but she looked away in icy indifference. When he tried to put a comforting arm around her, she slapped him resoundingly. Chulo giggled at the sight. “Why is she angry with him, Papa?” he said. “Because he didn’t protect her from you?”
“No, niño. Because he isn’t me.”
The monsignor was still trembling when Juan handed him the reigns. “You should have no trouble, padre,” Juan said. “You are used to being nice to asses.”
He slapped the nearest mule and the cart inched forward. “Have a nice trip.” He glanced amiably at the woman but she averted her eyes. The cart moved slowly up the hill and out of sight.
“Hey, Fefe,” Juan called to one of his men. “Go find the horses for the stage. Okay? Hurry.”
The sound of distant explosions suddenly brought his head up sharply. The explosions had the timbre of gattling fire but were more uneven, with a hollow ring. He stared curiously into the distance. A small dust cloud was visible on the horizon.
Juan snapped his fingers and held out his hand. Napolean understood immediately and placed a spyglass in it. Unconsciously, Juan reached into his pocket for something to clean the lens.
“Oh, weeeeeee. Weeeeeee.”
Chulo was squealing. The others were cackling and slapping each other’s backs. Juan looked down at his hand. In it were the woman’s panties, soft white things edged in lace. He wiped the lens with them and casually tossed the garment over his shoulder to the ground.
The glass revealed a tiny figure astride a metallic machine with two wheels. The figure was bent over the handlebars, head up, and was guiding the machine swiftly and deftly along the curving road. His body rose gracefully with each bump and his arms seemed to absorb the impact as if they were springs. Juan watched in curiosity and admiration. So that was a motorcycle. But what the hell was it doing out here?
The machine rounded a bend and disappeared behind a hill. Juan lowered the glass and shrugged. If he waits long enough, he thought, a man finds out everything he has to in life. Maybe he’d find out about the machine.
They hitched the horses to the coach when Fefe returned with them an hour later. Old man Nino, an old stagehand, spliced the straps together with some leather thongs, braiding them rapidly in an expert handweave that fascinated the muchachos. Then, against his will, he obeyed Juan’s order to climb up and take the reins.
“Hey, Papa. I ride inside with you, okay?” Chulo implored.
“You all ride inside with me. The men can ride on the roof.”
Napolean grimaced. “That means I have to ride on the roof, huh?” Napolean was fifteen.
“You? Who says you’re a man,” Juan chided. “If you were a man you would’ve said, ‘Me first!’ when I grabbed that woman. No, you ride inside.”
An hour later they were winding through the mountains, past outcroppings of jagged rock set against a bleak and barren terrain. The air was cooler than it had been on the desert floor, not much but enough to make for a pleasant ride.
Juan was sprawled on one of the seats inside. The velvet felt soft and reassuring under him. He watched his sons hungrily tear into the food left behind by the former
passengers. Wine ran in a meandering stream down the shirtfront of Benito, the second youngest at fourteen, and his eyes already looked glazed and far away. He kept insisting, with a silly expression, that he wasn’t drunk. The others just as insistently urged more wine on him.
Juan lit a cigar and studied it in satisfaction. Napolean had liberated it from the body of the noble. It tasted only slightly stale. No matter.
He looked around him. His eyes fondled every crevice of the coach, made love to the filagreed gold fixtures, ran blissfully over the hand-tooled door coverings, reveled in the texture of the flooring. Ay, yes, they had done a splendid job for him.
Chulo pulled a dirty finger out of his nose and wiped it on the upholstery. Enraged, Juan lurched up and slapped him. Quickly, he cleaned the offending spot with his sleeve. “From now on,” he snapped, “this is our house.” He kicked out hard and knocked Sebastian’s feet off one of the seats.
Juan grabbed a bottle of wine from Sebastian and leaned out the window. Nino was driving with a determined set to his face. His jaw muscles bulged under the wrinkled skin and his lips were pursed in a near snarl.
“Hey, old man.”
“Yeah?”
“Wanna drink?”
The old man made a vulgar gesture. He started to say something but was suddenly cut short by a loud explosion that made him grab in shock at the reins. The sound was loud and nearby, much louder than a gun blast.
“What the hell—?” Juan gripped tightly to the doorframe. A coughing, sputtering bark followed the blast and was in turn succeeded by the same sharp pops they had heard in the distance earlier. Only now the explosions were close, very close.
“Stop!” he screamed up at Nino. “Stop this thing!”
The stage jolted to a halt. Juan threw open the door and leaped out, trailed by his sons. He peered down the road. They were in a narrow canyon. A dust cloud from off the plain was swirling through the pass, blocking his view of the road ahead. Juan stood dumbfounded, listening to the approaching backfire of the motorcycle.