A Fistful of Dynamite

by James Lewis

“You really want to go, huh?” Mallory said.

  He nodded. America was the place. No more petty banditry. No more filthy whores. A rich man in America was like a rich man nowhere else; he could buy a whole state for himself. He could even … he could even buy his own bank.

  Mallory pushed back the gate and stepped aside.

  “Let’s go,” Juan bellowed, and rushed blindly for the door. Delirious with his fantasies, his body burning in feverish anticipation, he hurled himself into space.

  And landed amidst a throng of exultant guerrillas.

  Chapter Two

  Cheering madly, the guerrillas lifted Juan in the air and settled him atop their shoulders. Their swollen, triumphant cries rang in the air. Dazed, Juan looked desperately back at Mallory. Mallory smiled. It was Mesa Verde all over again, he thought. Hail the conquering hero, that poor bastard! When they wrote the history of the revolution there would be a paragraph about Juan. The man who freed the Mesa Verde prisoners. The man who had killed the despised Don Jaime. What had Wilde said about heroes? That they represented a failure of the imagination by the unimaginative.

  Mallory got down slowly from the cattle car. Instantly, he was surrounded by excited, backslapping guerrillas who looked at him as if he were some demigod. The friend of the great man is automatically a great man himself, he mused.

  Juan was still looking at him imploringly. He clutched the red bag under his arm and twisted frantically around in the supporting arms to watch Mallory as the rebels bore him to the front of the train. Mallory smiled thinly up at him and looked away. To his right, a group of guerrillas was dragging Don Jaime’s body by the feet. The running wound where his eye had been glared obscenely into the sun.

  Still jabbering and pounding him, the guerrillas steered Mallory along behind Juan. From the front of the train another large group of rebels approached them. Leading them was a giant of a man, one of the biggest men Mallory had ever seen. He had a thick moustache and wore his hair long for a Mexican, almost to his neck. Ammunition belts crisscrossed his massive chest. He was beaming up at Juan as he came forward.

  Mallory saw the guerrillas suddenly grasp Juan and hurl him with a shout at the big man. The man caught him against his chest as he might a doll and hugged him in a warm, fraternal embrace. Then he set Juan down before him, stepped back and opened his arms.

  “Juan Miranda!” he roared. “The hero of Mesa Verde!!”

  “Huh, who told you that?”

  The man pointed to two guerrillas. “They did. They were there. You freed them. They recognized you immediately.” He clapped Juan on the shoulder, and the Mexican’s burly frame shook under the blow. “And they tell me you killed that animal, Don Jaime, and threw him out to them. Hah! You’ll be more famous than Villa soon.” His eyes dropped to the red bag. He reached out and plucked it easily from Juan’s grasp. “Ay, and what’s this?”

  The big man opened the bag. He whistled. “Incredible! What a fortune!”

  Mallory had moved just to the side of Juan. He saw the Mexican’s face pale into bewilderment, then turn hard—as hard as he’d ever seen it. The pistol was in Juan’s belt, Mallory noticed. He watched Juan’s hand.

  “And who the hell are you?” Juan breathed. He glared balefully at the big man.

  The man handed the red bag to a small, wiry guerrilla beside him. “Florestano Santerna,” he announced grandly. “Commander of Villa’s advanced forces.” He put an arm around Juan’s shoulder and turned him back toward the cattle car. “The general’s heard about you. He wants to meet you.”

  Juan looked dumbstruck. “Me?”

  “Sure. He knows what you’ve done. The head of the revolutionary committee told us everything—”

  Mallory heard another voice, a too familiar one, break in. “Never enough …” the voice said.

  Mallory saw Juan turn in surprise to his left. He followed the Mexican’s gaze. Villega stood among the rebels, his thin body seeming thinner than ever, almost lost in the crowd.

  Villega’s face was heavily scarred. Mallory stared at him. An icy hand gripped his spine. How had Villega explained Mesa Verde? How had he explained those scars? Couldn’t these bastards put two and two together?

  “Hey, Doc!” Juan gushed in genuine surprise. Mallory saw him surge toward Villega and grasp his arms. “This is really—” Juan turned to his right. His eyes searched out Mallory. “Hey, Irish, look who’s here.”

  Villega looked toward him with a smile. Something in Mallory’s expression visibly startled him. Villega’s face went ashen. Mallory found himself thinking about guilt complexes as he made his way through the crowd. His eyes never left Villega.

  He stopped before the doctor and stared at him. Villega smiled wanly. “John!” he said. “Nice to see you.” His voice was weak.

  He extended his hand. Mallory noticed that it was trembling slightly. Villega must be wondering whether he, Mallory, could possibly know. “Me too,” Mallory said blandly. He reached out and gave Villega a quick handshake. The doctor’s hand felt frail and cold.

  Santerna was signaling for attention. He raised his treetrunk arms and waved them until the rebels fell silent. Then he shouted, “Everybody on the train. We’ll drop the passengers at the next station and then we’re going to meet Pancho Villa. We’re going to the revolution! The REVOLUTION!!!!”

  Whooping frenziedly, the mass of guerrillas broke for the train, pushing past Mallory and Juan. The rebels stormed onto the already overloaded cars and clambered onto the roof. They filled the locomotive, the cattle car, and the armored car to capacity.

  Juan grabbed Mallory’s arm and pulled him toward the open plain. A flying grasshopper fluttered up and buzzed away from them.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Mallory said. He knew before Juan answered.

  “What do you mean, what am I doing? Gutierrez wants me. Villa wants me. You have to ask what I’m gonna do?”

  Mallory pulled away. Juan needed some more Irish practicality and a little less Latin blood. “We’re going to get on that train because if you try to get away now those men will tear you to pieces.”

  “But Jesus Christ, I’m their hero!”

  Mallory threw him a strained look. “Heroes don’t run in that direction when the revolution is in the other direction.” He nodded toward the head of the train. “Only cowards do.”

  Juan’s lips twisted into bitterness. He started to speak, changed his mind and stalked off toward the train, pushing his way through a few laggard guerrillas. Mallory followed him.

  The train was hot and noisy. The rebels buzzed incessantly, talking of battles never fought but already won. Outside, a gray dusk was filtering down like dust settling on a mirror.

  They had been traveling for two hours and the passengers had long since been let off. The train was filthy and the seats were splitting. Flies swam through it in thick clusters.

  Mallory sat in a corner seat in the crowded car. The smell of sweat and of cheap, acrid tobacco hung in the air. He would have liked a cool bath just then. He would have liked a warm woman better, he thought.

  Santerna slept on the seat beside him. His huge body crowded Mallory into the window. Across from Santerna Juan was also sleeping. Both men had their heads back against the seat and were snoring.

  Villega was seated directly opposite Mallory. The doctor had sat there quietly, visibly uneasy, since they’d boarded the train. Now with Juan and Santerna asleep he was trying to make conversation. Mallory stared at him in silence, not moving, absorbed in thought.

  “Latest news says that Villa has reached the outskirts of Mexico City,” Villega began tentatively. He studied Mallory for reaction. Mallory showed none. “A few weeks ago it was only a dream—”

  He broke off, clearly embarrassed by Mallory’s unfaltering gaze, and looked out the window. How the hell had he gotten away with it, Mallory wondered again? Somebody must have suspected. A hundred rebels don’t get slaughtered without someone asking questions. Not when their leader shows up aliv
e and with torture marks. What kind of story could Villega have told them?

  The doctor turned back to him. “Let’s hope for all of us the future—” Mallory’s stare forced him again to look away in embarrassment. He finished the sentence gazing at the fleeting countryside. “—is able to erase all the ugliness and sadness of the past.”

  He fell silent. A fly landed on his hand and he flicked it away. Mallory only barely saw the movement. What was it Villega said? Erase the past …? The gentle bumping of the train lulled him. The ugliness and sadness …? Mallory’s eyes glazed over. Villega’s face became watery and distant.

  He saw himself in that pub in Ireland. He saw the tortured, surprised face of Nolan, the eyes crying for help, before Nolan grasped at his stomach and crumbled to the floor. Those pitiful eyes begged him for something until the very last moment. Begged him for what … for understanding? For forgiveness?

  He saw himself back slowly out of the pub. And he saw … no, he heard the deep, mournful horn of a departing ship. He was on the ship. He was on it looking back at the coast of Ireland in the morning mist. It was green and brown and there was a small gray house of stone at the end of the quay. The horn blew sadly on, and the mist closed round the quay until it was just a memory.

  His eyes cleared and he found himself looking at the back of a newspaper. Villega was reading. Probably so as not to have to look at me, Mallory thought.

  He gazed absently at the back of the paper until the screeching of brakes jolted him alert. The train lurched violently and slammed to a halt. Juan was thrown almost into Santerna’s lap.

  “Hey, what the—”

  Santerna shook himself awake. All around the car men were scrambling to their feet and pushing their heads out the windows. “What the hell is it?” Santerna roared.

  A peon brought his chalky face back in. “There’s a barricade across the tracks. It looks like some of our compadres up there.”

  A moment later the door burst open and a bearded young rebel climbed in. “Who’s Santerna?” he said excitedly.

  “I am.”

  “We’ve got a message for you. An army train has left Parral and is heading toward you.”

  “What about Villa?”

  “He met resistance on the Sierra. He’s sent word that you must hold out for at least twenty-four hours once the soldiers attack you. Gutierrez knows you’re coming and is planning to cut you off.”

  Mallory watched Santerna. His lips had gone bloodless and were now edged in a taut line. He looked puzzled and betrayed. He turned to Villega.

  “You said a train,” the doctor said to the young guerrilla. “How many soldiers?”

  “More than a thousand. With cavalry and heavy weapons.”

  An anxious rumble swept through the train. “Quiet!” Santerna barked. He was sweating heavily. He pulled a grimy old piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it across his lap. A map.

  Mallory leaned around the huge man’s shoulder and planted his finger on the map. “We’re here, right?” he said calmly. Santerna eyed him curiously. Mallory studied the map a moment. “Huh, not even a canyon or a bridge.” He tapped the paper. “There’s only this hill. How long do we have before we get there?”

  “Two hours, more or less.”

  “Will we get there before Gutierrez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, it seems to me we’ll have to stop them here.”

  Santerna shook his head impatiently. “All it takes is unbolting two yards of track. But what then? They’ll still slaughter us.”

  “There’s more than one way to stop a train.”

  Juan broke in suddenly. “You got any dynamite?”

  “We’ve got about one hundred pounds,” Santerna said.

  Juan turned to Mallory. “That enough for you?” He sounded thoroughly businesslike. Mallory wondered what the hell he was planning now. He dismissed the notion. Why worry about it?

  “It’ll have to be. I’ll need the locomotive as well. And I don’t think you’ll get it back.” He pushed his bowler to the back of his head, leaned back and thought a moment.

  “I’ll also need one other man,” he said nonchalantly. “Somebody with courage, faithful to the cause.” He didn’t want to lay it on too thick.

  Juan took the bait. He sighed heavily and said, with resignation, “All right. All right. What do you want me to do?” Ah, so the slippery son-of-a-bitch was scheming to get away on the locomotive.

  Mallory ignored him. “Somebody like Doctor Villega,” he said, turning toward the man. His eyes burned into him.

  Villega stiffened and an almost imperceptible shadow of fear flickered across his face. He forced a smile. A fly buzzed between Mallory and the doctor and flew off.

  “It will be an honor,” Villega said huskily.

  Chapter Three

  The headlights of the locomotive cut through the night. They illuminated gleaming track rushing away from the backing locomotive and low brown scrub along the ground. The night was pale and warm, with a half moon casting dim gray light through a thin cloud cover.

  Mallory checked the pressure gauge. It was too low. He looked at Villega, his scarred face pink and sweating in the red glow from the open boiler. Villega was in shirtsleeves. His thin frame bent and threw shovel after shovel of coal into the boiler.

  “Step on it, Villega,” Mallory snapped. “I need more pressure in this baby.”

  The doctor obeyed automatically. He doubled his effort. His heavy breathing could be heard above the clatter of the engine.

  Mallory took off his bowler and wiped his forehead. He replaced the hat and looked out the window, watching the engine back into the night. He guessed they had almost gone far enough. A mile would do it nicely. He glanced toward the front of the engine and beyond the headlight, trying to make out the shadow of the hill where the guerrillas lay hidden. He couldn’t see anything from that distance.

  He stopped the engine and shut down the headlight. Darkness swallowed them. He let the engine sit, his eye on the pressure gauge, the boiler hissing softly. How long had it been since he’d run a train? Was it ten years, fifteen years since he’d been a good laboring man? And then it had only been for six months.

  He turned to Villega. The doctor set the shovel down and inhaled deeply. He looked at Mallory. He seemed to be steeling himself to say something. Mallory waited.

  Villega inhaled again. “Let’s stop playacting, Mallory,” he said softly. “You know everything, don’t you? You either sensed it … or guessed it.”

  “It’s much simpler than that. I saw you, Villega. That night … in the lorry.”

  “I see.”

  Villega grimaced. His eyes closed momentarily. “And you’ve already judged and condemned me?”

  Mallory moved toward the shovel. “You killed the children of a friend of mine, you know?”

  “Juan?”

  “Yeah.”

  Villega fell silent. Mallory picked up the shovel and hurled a heavy load of coal into the boiler.

  “How’d you fool them, Villega?” he grunted, shoveling in more coal. “How’d you get them to take you back with all that artwork on your face?”

  “I told them it wasn’t I who had informed. That it was one of the men who was shot. I told them I was arrested with the others and saved for torture because of my position with the revolutionary committee.”

  “And they believed you?”

  “I had a witness.”

  Mallory looked up in surprise. “Who?”

  “A boy. A soldier whose father had been killed by Huerta and who wanted to join the cause. He was the one who helped me escape.”

  “And he lied for you?”

  “He knew what they had done to me. He understood what it had been like.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead. He was killed in some fighting in Orozco.”

  “How convenient.”

  Villega looked pained.

  Mallory asked: “How did Guti
errez know Santerna was on his way to help Villa?”

  “It wasn’t from me.”

  Mallory studied his face.

  “You have judged and condemned me,” Villega said. “That’s why you brought me with you, isn’t it? To kill me!”

  Mallory didn’t answer. He turned back to the coal and shoveled in silence.

  Villega seemed to give off as much tension as the boiler did heat. He stood faintly quivering for a moment, unnerved by Mallory’s silence, then exploded in exasperation: “Oh, sure, it’s easy to judge! But have you ever been tortured? Are you sure … sure you wouldn’t talk? I was sure. And instead … I talked. And now am I supposed to kill myself? Why? For what? The dead stay dead. But me, I haven’t changed. I still believe in the same things. I can still be useful to the cau—”

  Mallory felt his blood suddenly rage through him. He dropped the shovel and grabbed for Villega’s collar, twisting until he bent Villega’s leathery neck, strangling him. “Shut up, Villega. For God’s sakes, shut up!”

  He let go his own breath and then released Villega’s collar. He sighed and looked away, staring absently at the glistening pressure gauge. “I don’t judge you,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I only did that once in my life.”

  He felt drained. “I started using dynamite because I also believed in a cause,” he said. “And then I ended up believing only in dynamite.” He picked up the shovel and threw it to Villega. “I don’t want to kill you, Villega. I’m going to give you a chance.”

  Mallory looked over to the window. “Get moving with that shovel. The pressure’s still too bloody low.” Villega eyed him uncertainly and then returned to the task.

  Mallory put his head out the window and stared into the night ahead. It couldn’t be long now. Maybe an hour at most. Maybe a good deal less. His hand tightened on the gear lever. The whole thing would be in the timing. If he got the timing right, there’d be no problem at all.

  He waited. His ears adjusted to the hissing of the engine until he could pick up the sound of baying out on the plain and the whistle of the wind through the scrub. Would he hear it or see it first, he wondered? His eyes burned as they peered into the darkness.