The Underdogs

by Mariano Azuela

  “What weapons do you have here?” Demetrio asks, harshly.

  “Weapons?” the woman answers, her tongue thick as a rag. “What weapons do you want us to have? We are but a handful of decent women, by ourselves.”

  “Ah, by yourselves, huh? And Don Mónico?”

  “He is not here, señores . . . We just rent his house . . . We only know Don Mónico by name.”

  Demetrio orders that the place be sacked.

  “No señores, please . . . We will give you everything we have, and we will bring it to you ourselves. But, for the love of God, do not harm us. We are decent girls, all on our own!”

  “And the little urchins?” Pancracio asks, brutally. “Did they sprout like vegetables out in the garden?”

  The women quickly disappear and at once return with a cracked rifle, covered with dust and spiderwebs, and a pistol with rusty, broken springs.

  Demetrio smiles.

  “Okay, let’s see the money then . . .”

  “Money? What money do you expect us to have? We are but a few poor girls living by ourselves.”

  They turn their imploring eyes toward the soldiers closest to them; but then they shut their eyes, horrified. For they have seen the executioner crucifying Our Lord Jesus Christ along the Way of the Cross at the parish church! They have seen Pancracio!

  Demetrio gives the order for the sacking to begin.

  The women all rush off again and return immediately, this time with a moth-eaten purse and a few bills, of the kind issued by Huerta.2

  Demetrio smiles. And now, without further ado, he has his people enter the house.

  The mob rushes in like hungry dogs that can smell their prey, running over the women who had sought to block the entrance with their own bodies. Some faint and fall, others flee; the children scream.

  Pancracio begins to break the lock of a large dresser. But before he can do so, the doors open and a man jumps out with a rifle in his hands.

  “Don Mónico!” they exclaim, surprised.

  “Dear sir, Demetrio! Do not hurt me! Do not harm me! I am your friend, Don Demetrio!”

  Demetrio Macías laughs sarcastically and asks him if he always welcomes his friends with a rifle in his hands.

  Don Mónico, confused and stunned, throws himself at Macías’s feet, hugs his knees, kisses his feet: “My wife! My children! My dear friend Don Demetrio!”

  With his hand shaking, Demetrio puts his revolver back into its holster at his waist.

  A painful silhouette has flashed across his memory. A woman with a child in her arms, climbing over the boulders of the Sierra at midnight, by moonlight . . . A burning house . . .

  “Let’s go! Everyone, outside!” he shouts, somberly.

  His general staff obeys him. Don Mónico and the women kiss his hands and cry gratefully.

  Out in the street, a happy and loud mob is waiting for the general’s permission to plunder the house of the cacique.

  “I know exactly where the money’s hidden, but I’m not tellin’,” a young man says, holding a basket under his arm.

  “H’m, I know, I know!” replies an old woman, carrying a hirsute sack to gather “what God wishes her to have.” “It’s in the attic. There’s a bunch of things in there, and among all the things there’s a small trunk with shells painted on it. Tha’s where all the good stuff is!”

  “Tha’s not true,” a man says. “They’re not so stupid that they’re gonna store their money like that. The way I see it, they’ve hidden it in a dry well, buried in a leather knapsack. ”

  The people in the crowd stir about, some with ropes to carry their bundles, others with washtubs. The women stretch out their aprons or the ends of their shawls, figuring out how much they will be able to carry. Everyone, giving thanks to His Divine Majesty, waits for their good portion of the plundering.

  When Demetrio announces that he will not allow anything to happen and orders that everyone retire, the towns-people obey him, their heads hanging low as they slowly disperse. But among the soldiers there is a muffled rumbling of disapproval, and none of them leave their places.

  An irritated Demetrio repeats that they are to retire.

  A young fellow, from among the last to have been recruited—his head clouded by a few drinks—laughs and advances toward the door, altogether ignoring the order.

  But before he can cross the threshold, a gunshot makes him instantly collapse, like a bull stabbed by the matador’s dagger.

  His pistol smoking in his hands, Demetrio waits immobile while the soldiers retire.

  “Burn the house down,” he orders Luis Cervantes when they reach their quarters.

  Luis Cervantes, with rare solicitude and without passing the order on to anyone else, makes sure to carry it out himself.

  When a couple of hours later the small town plaza was full of black smoke, and enormous flames lapped up from Don Mónico’s house, no one understood the general’s strange behavior.

  VI

  They had taken lodgings in a large, somber house, a property that also belonged to the cacique of Moyahua.

  Their predecessors had already left their energetic mark on the estate: outside in the patio, which was transformed into a dung heap; on the walls, stripped down to the raw adobe; on the floors, cracked under the hooves of their animals; and in the orchard, turned into a pile of wilted leaves and dry branches. From the moment one entered, broken-off furniture legs and chair backs and bottoms were scattered about, and everything was covered with dirt and slop.

  At ten at night, a very bored Luis Cervantes yawned and said good night to Towhead Margarito and War Paint, who were drinking nonstop on a bench in the plaza.

  He walked back to the barracks. The only room with furniture in it was the main hall. When he came in, Demetrio— lying down on the floor, staring at the ceiling with blank eyes—stopped counting the beams up above and turned his head:

  “Is that you, curro? What’s going on? Come on in, have a seat.”

  Luis Cervantes went first to trim the candle. Then he pulled up a chair, the back of which was missing and the wicker seat of which had been replaced with burlap. The legs of the chair screeched, and War Paint’s dark mare snorted and stirred in the shadows, where its elegant curve could be seen, with its round, smooth croup.

  Luis Cervantes sank down into the seat and said:

  “General, I have come to give you an account of the commission . . . Here you have . . .”

  “But curro, man . . . that’s not what I wanted! Moyahua is almost like my own land. You might say that that’s why I’m here!” Demetrio replied, looking at the heavy bag of coins that Luis was holding out to him.

  Cervantes left his seat to come sit on his haunches next to Demetrio. He spread a serape out on the floor and emptied out the large sack of coins, which glowed like golden embers, onto it.

  “First of all, General, only you and I know about this. And furthermore, you know that when the sun is shining one must open the windows wide. Today it shines bright in our faces; but what of tomorrow? One must always think ahead. A stray bullet, a horse that suddenly bolts, even a ridiculous little cold . . . and one is left with a widow and orphans in misery! The government? Ha, ha, ha! You try going to Carranza, to Villa, or to any of the other main leaders and talking to them about your family. The best you can hope for from them is a swift kick in the you-know-what. And they do the right thing, General. We did not rise up in arms so that some Carranza or some Villa could become president of the republic. We fight on behalf of the sacred rights of the people, stomped upon by the evil cacique. And just as Villa, or Carranza, or anyone else from the government, does not come here to ask for our approval to pay themselves for the services they are rendering the motherland, neither do we need to ask anyone for license for our actions.”

  Demetrio sat halfway up, grabbed a bottle from the floor near his head, and tilted it back. Then, he puffed out his cheeks and spat out a mouthful far away from himself.

  “Man, you talk a
lot, curro!”

  Luis suddenly felt light-headed. The beer he had jugged seemed to inflame the fermentation of the trash heap where they were sitting: a tapestry of orange and banana peels, meaty watermelon rinds, stringy mango pits, and sugarcane husks, all mixed together with tamale and enchilada wrappers, and all wet with excrement.

  Demetrio’s calloused fingers went back and forth over the shining coins, counting them over and over again.

  Recovered from his dizziness, Luis Cervantes took out a small Falliéres phosphate box and poured out many pendants, rings, earrings, brooches, and other valuable jewels from it.

  “Listen, General. If this uproar is to continue, as it would appear that it will, if the revolution does not end, we already have enough to go abroad and live it up for a good while.”

  Demetrio shook his head no.

  “Wouldn’t you do that? What are we staying for, then? What cause would we be defending now?” Luis Cervantes asked.

  “That’s something that I just can’t explain, curro. I just feel that it wouldn’t be manly . . .” Demetrio replied.

  “Take your pick, General,” Luis Cervantes said, showing him all the jewels spread out before him.

  “Keep it all for yourself. Really, curro . . . You know, I really don’t care for money at all! Want me to tell you the truth? As long as I have enough to drink, and as long as I have me a little gal to keep me warm, I’m the happiest man in the world.”

  “Ha, ha ha! You crack me up, General! In that case, why do you put up with that snake War Paint, then?”

  “Man, curro, I am sick of her, but that’s how I am. I can’t bring myself to tell her. I’m not brave enough to send her to . . . But that’s how I am, that’s my temperament. Listen, when I like a woman, I get so tongue-tied, that if she doesn’t start things up . . . I don’t do nothin’.” And he sighed. “There’s that Camila, you know, the girl from the little rancho. The girl’s not the prettiest, but if you only knew how I dream of her . . .”

  “The day you wish it, we are off to get her for you, General. ”

  Demetrio’s eyes shimmered avidly.

  “I swear that I will do it right, General . . .”

  “Really, curro? Listen, if you do this favor for me, you can have the pocket watch with the gold chain and everything, since you like it so much.”

  Luis Cervantes’s eyes glowed. He gathered the phosphate box, filled it again, stood up, and said, smiling: “I will see you tomorrow, General. Good night to you.”

  VII

  “What do I know? I don’t know any more about it than you do. The General told me: ‘Quail, saddle up your horse and my black mare. You’re going with the curro on an errand for me.’ And tha’s what happened: we left here at noon and reached the little rancho ’round nightfall. One-eyed María Antonia put us up for the night. Says, ‘How ya doin’, Pancracio. ’ As soon as day breaks the curro wakes me up and says: ‘Quail, Quail, saddle the horses. Leave me my horse and ride the general’s mare back to Moyahua. I’ll catch up with you in a little bit.’ And the sun was already high above us when he reached me, with Camila on the seat with ’im. He helped her dismount and we put her up on the black mare.”

  “Okay, but what about her, what was the expression on her face?” one of the men asked.

  “H’m, well, she was so happy she wouldn’t stop talkin’!”

  “And what about the curro?”

  “Quiet as always. Like he always is.”

  “I believe,” Venancio opined, very seriously, “that if Camila woke up in Demetrio’s bed today, it must have just been a mistake. We drank quite a bit . . . remember! All the alcohol went to our heads and everyone lost track of what they were doing.”

  “It wasn’t no alcohol goin’ to no one’s head! This was some kind of arrangement between the curro and the general.”

  “Of course! As far as I’m concerned, that curro is nothin’ but a ...”

  “I do not like to speak about friends behind their back,” Towhead Margarito said. “But I can tell you that of the two girlfriends of his that I have met, one was for . . . me, and the other was for the general . . .”

  And everyone broke out in laughter.

  Once War Paint realized exactly what had occurred, she consoled Camila very tenderly: “Poor little thing, tell me all about it, what happened to ya?”

  Camila’s eyes were swollen from so much crying.

  “He lied to me, he lied! He came to the rancho and said: ‘Camila, I’ve come back just for you. Won’t you come with me?’ H’m, and ya tell me if I didn’t wanna go with ’im! Do I love ’im? I more than love ’im! I was so sick just thinkin’ about ’im! When the sun would come up I didn’t even wanna go grind the corn. When my mamma would call me to lunch, I’d chew the tortilla till it tasted like paste and I couldn’t swallow it at all. And now it really hurts so bad!”

  And she began to cry again, covering her mouth and nose with the end of her rebozo to drown her sobs.

  “Listen, I’m gonna get ya outta this mess. Don’t be silly, don’t cry no more. Don’t think about the curro no more. D’ya know what that curro is? Honestly! I’m tellin’ ya tha’s the only reason that the general has ’im round! What a fool! Okay, do ya wanna go back home?”

  “The Virgin of Jalpa protect me! My mamma would beat me to death!”

  “She won’t do nothin’. This is what we’ll do. The troops have to head out any moment now. When Demetrio tells ya to get ready to go, ya tell ’im that ya’re sore and achy all over, that ya feel like someone’s beaten ya, and ya stretch and yawn all the time. Then ya touch your forehead and say: ‘I’m burnin’ up.’ Then I tell Demetrio to go on ahead and leave the two of us, that I’ll stay behind to take care of ya, and that we’ll catch up once ya’re better. But what we’ll do is that I’ll take ya home, sound and safe.”

  VIII

  The sun had already gone down, and the sad grayness of its old streets and the frightful silence of its still dwellings— closed at a very early hour—were settling over the small town, when Luis Cervantes arrived at Primitivo López’s general store and interrupted a party that showed much promise. Demetrio was getting drunk there with his old comrades. The bar was packed to the gunnels. Demetrio, War Paint, and Towhead Margarito had left their horses outside, but the other officers had forced their way in with their mounts and everything. Gallooned hats with colossal concave brims were constantly coming and going; the horses’ croups turned this way and that, as the animals ceaselessly adjusted their elegant heads, with their large black eyes, trembling nostrils, and small ears. And the horses’ snorting could be heard in the middle of the infernal din of the drunkards, as well as the rough scraping of their hooves on the floor and an occasional short, nervous neighing.

  When Luis Cervantes arrived, a trivial story was being recounted. A townsman, with a small, bloody hole in his forehead, was lying face up in the middle of the road. The various opinions, which at first had been quite divided, were now coming together under a very just observation by Towhead Margarito. That poor devil lying very much dead was the sacristan of the church. But the fool! It had all been his fault. Whoever would think, señor, of wearing a pair of trousers, a jacket, and a cap? Pancracio cannot stand seeing a city dandy like that in front of him!

  Eight musicians playing wind instruments—their faces round and red like the sun, their eyes bulging out of their orbits—who have been blowing their lungs out since dawn, stop playing at the orders of Cervantes.

  “Dear General,” Luis Cervantes said, making his way through the mounted officers. “An urgent message has just arrived. You have been ordered to leave immediately and go after the Orozquistas.”1

  All the faces, at first darkened for a moment, now shone with joy.

  “We are going to Jalisco, muchachos!” Towhead Margarito shouted, pounding his hand loudly on the counter.

  “Get ready, my dear Jalisco girls, I’m comin’ for ya!” Quail shouted, wringing his sombrero.

  Every
thing was cheer and rejoicing. In the excitement of drunkenness, Demetrio’s friends offered to join his ranks. Demetrio was so happy he could barely speak. “Ah, we’re gonna fight the Orozquistas! Finally we get to have it out with real men! We can stop killin’ Federales that are as easy to kill as rabbits and turkeys!”

  “If I could catch Pascual Orozco alive,” Towhead Margarito said, “I would scrape the bottom of his feet off and make him walk for twenty-four hours through the Sierra . . .”

  “What, is he the one who killed Señor Madero?”2the Indian asked.

  “No,” Towhead replied, solemnly. “But he slapped me once when I was a waiter at the Delmónico in Chihuahua.”

  “The black mare’s for Camila,” Demetrio ordered Pancracio, who was already saddling the horses.

  “Camila can’t go,” War Paint said quickly.

  “Who asked for your opinion?” Demetrio replied, harshly.

  “Isn’t it true, Camila, that ya woke up sore and achy all over and that ya feel all feverish now?”

  “Well I . . . well I . . . I’ll do whatever Don Demetrio says.”

  “Ah, don’t be a fool! Tell ’im ya’re not goin’, tell ’im ya’re not goin’,” War Paint whispered anxiously into her ear.

  “The thing is I’m startin’ to like ’im somewhat, can ya believe it?” Camila answered, also in a very soft voice.

  War Paint turned purple and her cheeks burned red, but she said nothing. Instead, she walked off toward her mare, which Towhead Margarito was saddling for her.

  IX

  The whirlwind of dust, extending for a good stretch down the road, was abruptly broken by a dispersed, violent mass of men and horses—as puffed-out chests, unruly manes, flaring nostrils, ovoid and impetuous eyes, flying hooves, and legs stiffened from galloping, rode briskly through. The men with bronze faces, ivory teeth, and burning eyes brandished their rifles or slung them across the front of their saddles.