“You have my deepest regrets, Señora,” he said, tipping his hat. “With ten men like him, I’d have an army! God keep you well! And keep your wagon!” he said. “Get to the train immediately! They’re loading families to go north. And if anyone troubles you, you just use my name, General Felipe Kelly!”
He gave his horse the spurs, leaping off at a gallop with his horsemen pulling the cannon.
Up ahead were alleys full of dead human bodies, piled up two or three deep. Heads and arms and legs were twisted every which way, and rats were running over the gruesome mounds of the dead.
Juan thought he’d vomit. These corpses were infested with flies. Stomachs open and rotted, the smell was terrible. They must have come from the battle that had been fought the week before. The rumors had it that the fighting in León had been going on for nearly a month.
“Don’t look,” said Epitacio, covering his nose. “Quick, just keep going!”
“What is that awful smell?” asked Emilia, looking around blindly and gagging, but no one answered her. She just held on to the side of the wagon and they pressed on, further into the smoldering city and the awful smells of death and destruction. Epitacio couldn’t stop talking, he was so nervous.
“Remember, I speak English,” he said to Juan, “so once we get across the Rio Grande, everything’s going to be fine. I’ve worked all over the United States. I know places like Miami, Arizona, as well as I know the palm of my hand. I know El Paso, Texas, and Albuquerque, New Mexico, as good as most Mexicans know Guadalajara, Torreón and Gómez Palacio. Oh, I tell you, all we have to do is get on the train, Juan, and get shipped up north, and then everything will be paradise.”
Epitacio just couldn’t stop talking, but Juan didn’t pay any attention to him. He was too tired, exhausted, and gagging at the smell; all the years of seeing the Revolution up in their mountains hadn’t prepared Juan for what he was seeing now. Up in their beloved mountains of Los Altos de Jalisco, he’d seen a few men shot and their homes burned and their animals stolen and slaughtered, but never had he seen so much death and blood and total destruction.
At the railhead, Juan and his family found people backed up by the thousands for more than a mile. They were all hungry, thirsty, lost and crying in despair. Juan and his family now knew that it had been a mistake to have ever left their beloved mountains. Up there, at least, people had known who they were and they could always dig up wild roots to eat and trap quail to roast on a fire.
That night they made their home out in the open, next to their wagon, but they could find nothing to build a fire. All the nearby trees and brush had already been taken by the masses of people. So Juan and Inocenta went out beyond the breaks to look for wood or cow pies, but they came up with nothing. Everything had been used up by the people waiting for the train.
The wind came up, and suddenly it began to grow cold as the sun went down. Shivering, Emilia asked why they didn’t just go back home.
“She’s right,” said Juan. “Let’s go back home.”
“But we’ve been on the road two weeks,” said Epitacio. “And believe me, once we get to the border our troubles are over. I’ve been there. The Rio Grande valley’s all green and beautiful, and I can get a job with ease.”
“Oh, no,” said Emilia, “I just know that it’s going to get worse.”
“Shut up!” said Luisa. “For being blind, you sure claim to see everything. Especially the future!”
“All right,” said their mother, “no more of this. We’re all tired and hungry. This isn’t the best time to make decisions. So now come, all of you, and let’s kneel down and say our evening prayers. We’re alive, so we’ve had another good day.”
They all knelt down alongside the railhead with thousands of people all around them, and Doña Margarita led them in prayer.
“Oh, thank You, God,” she said, “yesterday You gave us food for our bodies, and today You gave us food for our souls. It gave my heart wings that the name of my son, José, caused a perfect stranger to show us not just mercy, but respect. You were so good to us, dear God, giving us Your hand in this miracle of human kindness.
“And, also, dear God, I must admit that, well, when You first delivered us into this sea of hunger, I was disturbed. But now, in Your infinite wisdom, I see that this, too, is but another test for us to prove our love to You. And so, yes, we are going to share our little burro with the multitudes as You so well showed us how to do through Your own beloved Son, Jesus Christ, our Savior, when He shared His fish and loaves of bread.”
At first, Juan didn’t fully comprehend what it was that his mother was saying. But then, when he did, and he realized that she meant for them to kill his little burro to feed the people, he stopped praying.
“But, Mama,” he said, interrupting her, “we can’t kill my little burro. I’ve had him since I was little! And he’s old—he won’t even taste good.” Tears came to his eyes. “Why, don’t you remember that even the coyotes refused to eat him when they stole the goats because he stinks with age?” Juan’s face was running fast with tears. “Oh, please, Mama,” he continued, “I love him!”
“Mi hijito,” said his mother calmly, “but what do you think will happen to him once we get on the train? You tell me.”
There was a long silence as Juan thought of his mother’s statement.
“They’ll work him to death,” she said. “Then they’ll eat him. This way we can at least know he will have a painless death among friends, mi hijito.”
Kneeling on the ground, Juan looked at his little burro and all the people around them and his eyes cried freely, but a part of him knew his mother was right. He began to tremble, getting a sick feeling as they went on with their evening prayers.
“And so, dear God,” said Doña Margarita, “I thank You a million times for this great opportunity that You’ve presented to us. For You are all merciful, dear God, and we thank You with all our hearts for giving us this opportunity to serve You. And, also, once again, I thank You for showing us the inspiration that the very name of my son, José, carries. He was a great, great son, rest his soul.”
They finished their prayers, but Juan just couldn’t believe it. If God was so big and powerful, then why did they need to show Him anything? Especially when it came to eating a good, loyal friend like his little burro. Tears ran down Juan’s face, but still he made the sign of the cross over himself. He went over to his little burro and he petted him and hugged him, talking to him gently so he’d relax and not feel alone when he went into the next world.
The people were already gathering around with their clay pots and knives so they could get a good, fresh piece of meat. But they were basically God-loving, good country people, so they kept back at a respectful distance as Epitacio now walked up to Juan. Gently, Epitacio moved Juan aside, then he quickly pushed his sharp, thin blade into the little white-faced burro’s throat, right under his jaw, cutting the jugular so fast that the little animal didn’t really know what had happened. The little animal just felt a sharp pain like a horsefly biting him. He stomped his right hoof, turned and looked at Epitacio, then at his lifelong friend, Juan, who’d ridden him as a boy up and down the hillsides. His big, dark, liquid eyes moistened, blinked rapidly, and he whirled his tail around, farted, felt weak and went down to his knees. He was unconscious before his body hit the ground.
Quickly, Luisa rushed in and put a pot under his throat to catch the fresh warm blood for cooking. Some of the other people also stepped in to help skin him. But the little burro’s body suddenly went into the reflexive kicks of death. The hungry people had to get back to avoid a blow. These kicks of death were so strong that they could cripple a person. But once the kicks subsided, the people rushed in again.
That night, not one single piece of the little animal was wasted. Not even his intestines or the long, furry ears. The people were starving; they hadn’t eaten well in months, so they used every tiny piece of the fine, wonderful, loyal little animal.
But
no matter how much Juan tried, he couldn’t eat any of his little burro. And, when Juan went to sleep under the stars that night, he cried and cried until his mother drew him close.
“Mi hijito,” she said, “cry if you must, because crying cleanses a troubled heart, but also realize the truth. The most anyone can hope for in life is to go out quickly like your burro just did, and be surrounded by those we love in our hour of death. I truly hope I’m as lucky as your burro when my time comes.”
Hearing this, Juan turned and looked at his mother’s large eyes, shining there in the darkness, and he started to cry all the more. “Oh, no, Mama, you can’t ever die!” he said. “Please, I love you! I don’t want to be left alone!”
“But who says I’m dying now?” she snapped. “I’ll live to see you old and married, mi hijito!”
“Oh, yes! And I’ll marry someone as wonderful and perfect as you!”
“Me, perfect? Oh, your father turns in his grave to hear those words. I’m not perfect, mi hijito, and far from wonderful. Believe me, I’m just a woman prepared to see her duty done!”
“Yes, just like the girl I’ll marry—an angel!”
“Oh, you silver-tongued devil, I love you!”
She laughed and he did, too, and they held each other close—mother and son— alongside the railroad tracks with thousands of people all around them.
That night the coyotes howled in the distance, but Juan paid them no attention. After all, he was in the arms of his greatest love in all the world, so what could possibly go wrong? Nothing.
CHAPTER NINE
And so they could no longer see the mountain range on which Don Pío had touched the hand of God. But still, they were strong-hearted in their belief in the Almighty.
During the next few days, Juan met many boys his own age as they waited alongside the railroad tracks. There were boys from all over the Republic of Mexico, and they were on their way north to the United States with their families, too.
A few of the boys liked to gamble, so Juan set up foot races with them to see who was the fastest, and they threw rocks to see who was the strongest. And Juan, who’d always thought he was pretty strong and fast, lost most of the contests.
Many of these boys were really powerful, especially the full-blooded Tarascan Indians from the State of Michoacán. In fact, Juan figured that some of them were probably as good as his long-legged brother, Domingo, who’d been five years older than him, and one of the fastest and strongest boys in all their region.
Domingo and Juan had been closest in age and they’d been raised together. Juan missed Domingo dearly. He’d disappeared just two months before they’d left, but their mother thought that there was a good chance Domingo was still alive.
Juan and his newfound friends played up and down the tracks and through the burned-out buildings, pretending to be Villa and Zapata and other heroes of the Revolution. They were mostly nine, ten and eleven years old, and they couldn’t wait for the day when they’d be big enough to take up arms.
Juan told the boys about the different incidents of war he’d seen up in his mountainous region, and how brave and courageous his brothers and uncles had been. Hearing Juan’s stories, the other boys told their stories, too, and little by little Juan grew to understand that either these boys were huge liars or they’d truly had it much worse in other parts of Mexico than his family had it up in their desolate mountains. Not until the last year had the war really hit them up in Los Altos de Jalisco. Before that, José, Juan’s oldest brother and a handful of local boys had managed to keep their mountains free of war, just as Don Pío and his Rurales had managed to keep them free of bandits years before.
“¡Mira!” yelled Juan, hitting his legs with a stick. “I’m my brother’s famous, white-stockings stallion! And here come five hundred horsemen after me, but I jump across to another cliff, and they all fall to their death!”
“Me, too!” said another boy, named Eduardo. “I’m the great Villa! And here I come to help you, Juan, with my Dorados del Norte, the finest horsemen on earth!”
“Oh, no, they’re not!” said a third boy, named Cucho. “General Obregón’s cavalry led by Colonel Castro are the finest!”
“Hey, that’s my cousin!” said Juan excitedly. “On my mother’s side! My Great Uncle Agustín’s fifth son!”
“But I thought you were for Villa!” said Eduardo. He was almost twelve and the strongest of them all.
“I am!” said Juan. “But I’m also for my cousin! How can I not be, eh?”
The boys played and challenged each other, throwing stones and racing. Then it was the day for Juan and his family to go north. They got on the train along with the thousands of other people. The family climbed into one of the tall, empty cattle cars. But the floor of the car was so full of cow manure that they had to get back out and shovel all the manure out by hand before they could find a place to sit down for the long ride north.
They had no more than settled in when the train started to move, and Juan got up and sneaked out of the boxcar along with five of his new friends. The day before, Juan, Eduardo, Cucho and three other boys had made a bet among themselves to see who was the bravest of them all. The bet was to see who would stay alongside the tracks as the train took off and be the last one to run and jump on the train. Toreando, or bull-fighting with the train, they called it, and all six boys realized that this was a very risky game because if they didn’t catch the train and got separated from their families, it could be death for them.
Juan’s heart was pounding with fear as he now stood alongside the tracks and watched the huge, iron wheels of the train turning slowly in front of him, carrying the long row of cars down the tracks. He watched the train weighted down with people, stuffed full in the boxcars, piled high in the flatbeds with more people and their bags and boxes. His heart went wild, but still he held and watched people hold onto anything they could so that they would get to the safety of the north.
Juan was full of the devil; he just knew this was one event he was sure to win. After all, he was a Villaseñor with Castro blood, and all week long these boys had been outdoing him in throwing rocks and running foot races, but now he’d show them in one great swift challenge what he was truly made of. For Juan was the boy who’d gotten a man’s reputation up in his mountainous region at the age of six when he’d proved himself to be so brave it was said his blood ran backwards from his heart.
Oh, he’d never forget that night. It had been a full moon and the local witch had put a curse on his family and so it was up to the youngest, who was purest of heart, to redeem the family, and he’d done it.
Licking his lips, Juan glanced at his friends as the train started to move a little faster. He felt like a fighting cock. He had the blood of his grandfather, Don Pío, running through his veins.
“Getting scared, eh?” said Eduardo to Juan as the train slipped past them. He was the oldest and strongest of them all and the second fastest runner.
“Not me,” said Juan.
“Nor I,” said Cucho.
The big iron wheels were turning faster, crying metal to metal as the long line of boxcars and flatbeds went by. Five thousand people were going out that day, and there wouldn’t be another empty train traveling north for weeks.
Juan’s heart began to pound. Oh, how he wished these boys would just get scared and run for the train so he, too, could run after his family.
The huge iron wheels turned faster and faster. A part of Juan’s mind started telling him to stop this ridiculous game and jump forward and get on the train to join his mother while he still had the chance. But he wouldn’t move. No, he just held there, alongside the other boys, refusing to be the first one to give in.
The sounds of the big, turning, sliding, moving iron wheels on the shiny-smooth steel rails were getting louder and louder. The huge long train—well over fifty units and two locomotives—was picking up speed. Finally, one of the younger boys couldn’t stand it anymore and screamed out, “I’m going!”
He leaped forward and caught one of the passing boxcars and swung on.
“He wants his mama!” laughed the boys.
Juan and the other boys laughed at him, saying that he was a cowardly little tit-sucking baby. Why, the end of the train hadn’t even slid by them yet. But still, down deep inside their souls they all knew that he’d done the right thing and they all wanted to be with their mamas, too.
Then there came the end of the train, passing by them at a good pace, but still not going so fast that a good runner couldn’t catch it. Juan grinned, feeling good. Now it truly took balls, tanates, not to cry out and run. So there went the end of the train, cranking iron to iron, past Juan’s face. It left him and all the other boys behind, going up the long, desolate valley. A second boy now cried out in fear.
“This is stupid!” he screamed. “We could lose our families forever!” He took off running after the end of the train and swung on. Once more Juan and the boys who’d remained behind laughed, calling this other boy a coward, too.
“Well, I guess this only leaves us, the real men!” said Juan, watching the train beginning to pick up speed as it went up the long, flat valley.
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Cucho, “but at least I’m the fastest runner so I can afford to wait. I don’t know what you other slowpokes are doing here. It’s four days by horseback to the next town.” And saying this, he suddenly took off running up the track, he, Cucho, the fastest boy among them. Juan wanted to scream out in fear, but he didn’t. He held strong. He had to. He was from Los Altos de Jalisco, after all.
“Damn, Cucho,” said Eduardo, who’d been left behind with Juan and another boy, “trying to scare us. Hell, a good man can always out walk any train. All you need is water.”
“Right,” said Juan, trying to act like he, too, wasn’t scared, but inside he was ready to pee in his pants. He was so terrified. “With water, a good man can always survive,” he added.
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