March to the Monteria

by B. TRAVEN

  31

  That day, the troop got as far as the paraje called Busija.

  The Busija River was wider than the Santo Domingo, but could be forded so easily that it seemed like a Sunday afternoon game. The bottom was stone and coarse gravel. The animals only had to be careful not to stumble over the big stones or to catch their hoofs between them. But since the water was as clear as the air, the horses and mules could see where they stepped.

  On the opposite bank there was an ample open space for camping.

  It was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful camp sites on the march. But during the night a torrential rain fell, which forced the peons, in the middle of the night, to rapidly build a few emergency roofs. These roofs were not much good, but for a while at least they gave the impression that, without any roofs, the men would have gotten soaked even more. By the first glimmer of dawn, however, they realized that their point of view had been rather optimistic. They could not have been wetter had they spent the entire night sleeping in the river.

  On that evening Celso did not leave for a tepescuintle hunt. He claimed that it was no use wasting energy on it because none of the little animals were in the neighborhood. But like all the others, he went into the jungle in search of sticks, branches, twigs and leaves to build a roof.

  As it was the time of the new moon, the evenings were lighter and they seemed more friendly, because the dim light gave the jungle a different tint and made it look less frightening, less threatening after nightfall.

  While the boys were squatting around, busy with their evening meal, Celso said: “Close by, there used to be a montería. Now it’s dead. It did not have much breath anyway. Of course it was not a real, fully grown montería. It was the kind of montería that you give children to play with, so they won’t cry.”

  Andrés looked around. “But one doesn’t see anything of a montería.”

  Paulino laughed. “There one can see that you’re green. You never see much of a montería. You can be in the middle of one and you don’t even know it.”

  “And I don’t even see any caoba around,” Santiago said.

  “As there used, I repeat used, to be a montería around here, how the hell do you expect to see a caoba tree?” replied Celso. “All the mahogany trees have been cut, and that’s the reason you don’t see them any more. The companies get all their concessions under the condition that for each caoba felled, they have to plant three new caoba seedlings as replacements. They’re obliged to do that by their contract or the concession is taken away from them, and on top of that they have to pay a heavy fine. Do you see any young mahogany trees around here? Count them. Not a single one! The companies cut everything and when there is not a single dry stick of caoba left they go on their way. That’s what they do.”

  “During the whole goddamn march I’ve heard talk of nothing but caoba—caoba morning, caoba noon, caoba night. Caoba and nothing but caoba!” said Andrés. “And by now I’d really like to see real, genuine caoba with my own eyes.”

  “You should have kept your eyes open, brother,” said Paulino. “In the last settlement, all the doors of the huts, all the benches, all the crude chairs which you saw were of pure, heavy caoba. You’ve got to look around in this world if you want to learn something.”

  “I could go in search of a good tree for you here,” said Celso. “Back in there a few skinny saplings might still be left. But you’ll see enough. You’ll see so damned many that you’ll be spitting blood front and rear and from every hole and gill when you hear the shouting: ‘A donde quedó hoy tu jornal, cabrón? Where is your day’s quota, you whoring bastard?’ Now don’t be in such a hurry. The caoba is not going to run away from you.”

  Paulino who, like Celso, also was an experienced lumberjack, said: “Right beyond the Santa Clara Lake, the vast caoba empire begins. Here where we are now is just a little left-over morsel. Old, experienced hands, like us two, wouldn’t think of grabbing a machete, much less an ax. What about it, Celso?”

  “Quite right. But I guess we’ll have to grab our machetes to build us a casita. The sky looks so dark I’m sure it’ll be a cloudburst of six hours at least. That tiny sickle of a moon we had is already completely wrapped up. Anyway, I figure I’ll get down on my petate and wait until it really breaks loose. If the wind turns we may remain dry.”

  “Tomorrow night we’ll be at the Santa Clara Lake,” said Paulino. “There it generally rains quite heavily most of the time.”

  “But sometimes it can be very beautiful around there. Wonderful clear nights.” While saying that Celso rolled himself into his serape to sleep.

  Before dawn the rain ceased. But heavy clouds were being driven by a strong wind across the sky and it was so dark that it took the arrieros twice the usual time to get the animals loaded in spite of most of the fires being fully ablaze and a few cheap kerosene lanterns lighted.

  The packs with merchandise were safely wrapped in petates made of tough coarse fiber and they did not easily let water seep through. But these packs had been lying in deep mud all night. Ropes and girths were wet and could not be tightened smoothly. On the march, once the sun came out, the fastenings would change, the packs would slip down, and they would have to be put back into place and tightened again. Valuable time would be lost and the next paraje might not be reached on schedule.

  Celso sipped his hot coffee and stirred his beans in the pan. The others squatting at the fire were busy wringing out their pants and their blankets, then holding them against the fire to dry them. Close to the fire there stood cans, pots and cups in which breakfast was being prepared.

  From the island where the caballeros camped Don Gabriel’s voice was heard: “Aah-hooooo-ahoo! Camarón! Be damned, where are you whoring around this time? Come here and fast, you miserable worm. Hey, Camarón! Camarooooon! Come here, I say!”

  “El Camarón went in search of his caballito, patroncito,” said one of the boys, roasting rice for the gentlemen in a frying pan.

  “That’s right, jefecito,” another boy shouted. “Almost every morning El Camarón has to go after his horse. His horse never sticks close to camp. It won’t.”

  “Well, if the goddamn scum can’t train it properly, why doesn’t he fetter or hobble it?” Don Gabriel grumbled, while at the same time he washed his hands and cleaned his eyes.

  Half an hour later Don Gabriel shouted again, this time getting really wild. “By all the devils in hell, donde está este golfo apestoso?—Hey you, Chicharrón,” he called one of the boys who was close. “On your way, hurry, go look for that son of a whore and don’t dare come back and tell me you couldn’t find him.”

  The slowly reddening sky announced the reborn sun.

  The caravan was ready to march.

  “What do you want El Camarón for?” asked Don Ramón. “He’ll be limping after us. He damn well knows that he’s in charge of the rear. Don’t worry, a rascal like that won’t get lost. And that’s really a pity. He hasn’t done anything to me but every time he shows up my stomach turns just seeing that bastard.”

  “I’m not worried about him, not a bit, to hell with him,” said Don Gabriel. “But he has the marching list for counting.”

  Don Ramón had no taste for unnecessary excitement. So he suggested: “Well, Don Gabriel, then you’d better take the rear and count them as best as you can. I don’t think any of the men will be missing. Those who have come along this far won’t run away now. The road back is too long now and their rations are nearly gone. Let’s move on, I say.”

  “Bueno,” replied Don Gabriel. “Entonces yo me encargo de la cola. Though I rather prefer to ride in front or in the middle. But, bueno, someone must take charge of the rear guard.” Don Ramón signaled with his whistle to start.

  While whips were cracking and the arrieros swearing, El Chicharrón, whom Don Gabriel had sent in search of El Camarón, came running as if all the flames of hell were after him. When quite close, he was unable to say a single word. He swallowed and gurgled and pointed wit
h his arm in the direction from which he had come.

  “Bueno, por el diablo, will you talk,” yelled Don Ramón at him, “or must I help you with the whip?”

  “El Camarón is dead, over there, in the thicket by the slope. He is impaled.”

  “Impaled?” The caballeros exclaimed in unison from where they sat on their horses.

  “Yes, impaled,” El Chicharrón repeated. “Virgen Purísima, Madre Santísima, help me, ayúdame and save my immortal soul!” He crossed himself violently, kissing his thumb nervously a dozen times.

  “Shut up with your whining,” said Don Gabriel. “Let’s see what happened. You must be crazy. Impaled? Never heard of it in all my miserable life. Vamos, señores. Let’s go and have a look.”

  One of the arrieros shouted: “Perdóneme, jefe, what are we going to do? The mules won’t stand here any longer. They’re restless. They’ll run away. All loaded. We can’t unload them again.”

  “On your way, then. Go ahead with the animals. We’ll follow.” Don Ramón whistled once more and the troop started on its march.

  “Bueno, jefe,” said the arriero in charge. “Hasta luego, until later.” He dealt the closest animal a whack on the rump, and they quickly moved on to catch up with those already marching far ahead.

  Don Alban called to a group of muchachos: “Hey, you, over there! You better come along! There may be some work.”

  The moment El Chicharrón had arrived, running and shouting, Celso had said calmly to Paulino and Andrés: “Don’t get near. Means extra work. Don’t push. There’ll be plenty of work for all of us later on.” With this he hurried to catch up with his group marching immediately back of the first animals.

  “But I’d like to see what happened to El Camarón,” said Paulino.

  “And what business of yours is it to know what happened to that vinegar pisser?” Celso demanded. “Let him go to hell where he belongs. Or does he happen to be your bed fellow?”

  “I’d much rather be the devil’s great granduncle than that,” replied Paulino.

  “Then on your way, and whistle yourself a song,” said Celso, falling into his regular marching gait. “If that slotsucker has kicked off, so much the better for you. It means one whip less.”

  They fell in with their marching group.

  Meanwhile the caballeros dismounted and El Chicharrón led them some three hundred yards deep into the thicket.

  They found El Camarón stretched out on his back, impaled.

  El Chicharrón had seen rightly. The capataz was dead. In one hand he held the rope by which he had caught his horse. The rope was wound tightly around his wrist, so that it would not come loose, no matter how hard the horse pulled.

  His eyes were open and glazed. His face wore an expression of horrible fright, as if during his last moment he had seen a ghost approaching.

  Don Ramón ordered the boys to free the horse first and then lift the body.

  They had to pull the body and move it this way and that way to free it from the stake.

  The caballeros examined the stake.

  “A rare accident,” Don Ramón said. “But things like that do happen. I remember, when I was a kid I saw something like this.”

  The stake was the thin trunk of a young tree of iron-hard wood. The peons, in their search for saplings to build the protecting roofs with, cut such stems off with a single blow of their machetes. This blow was never dealt at right angles to the side, but at a slant from top to bottom. So there remained a long slanted cut of some fifteen inches along the trunk above the ground. This cut was as sharp as the end of a spear. Anybody trying to find his way in the darkness of night, who stumbled and fell heavily on a stump of hard timber cut this way, would be helplessly impaled. If he had just roped a horse that shied away, pulling hard the very moment it felt the rope around its neck, it would drag the man at the other end of the rope deeper onto the stake.

  Don Albán spat, crossed himself and said: “This spectacle is just as repulsive and gruesome as the one of that other rascal, what was his name, oh, yes, El Zorro. Well, señores, you’ll pardon me but I can’t hang around here doing nothing. It’s late. Excuse me, I’ll get my horse and be on my way.”

  Don Ramón hesitated for a moment. Then he said: “No use standing around here like old hags. We can’t revive him. He’s ice-cold already. Must have got speared early in the night. Horrible death. And how he stares! Judging from the way he stares at us, I would swear that by this time he’s already cooking in hell. Anyway, I’m feeling kind of lousy around my belly. And right on top of my breakfast, too.”

  Don Gabriel lit a cigarette. “We’d better bury him, I think.”

  “Of course,” said Don Gervasio, another of the traders. “Of course we’ll have to bury him. Of course. What else is there to do? We can’t very well take him along. In two hours, he’ll be stinking. Well, I’m off, señores. Got to stick to my merchandise. I can’t afford to lose it.”

  By now it was full day.

  Don Ramón pulled himself together. “Now listen here, Don Gabriel, I’m going along with the troop. I can’t leave the troop alone, you know that. If we hang around here looking at each other like idiots we’ll get only as far as el paraje Cafetera today. And there we’ve got no water. Only a putrid pool, yellow, slimy, full of tadpoles. Not even thirsty mules touch that pestiferous pool. We have to get to Santa Clara, to the lake. Good, fresh spring water. I’m on my way, Don Gabriel. You finish up this business here. Santísima Madre del Dios Poderoso, ruega por mí.” He crossed himself and stumbled off hastily back to the trail, where some boys were waiting with the horses.

  “Empty his pockets,” Don Gabriel ordered the peons who stood around to help with the burial. “Has he any letters on him or other papers?”

  “Nada de papeles, jefecito,” replied El Chicharrón.

  “Then the counting list must be in the saddlebag. You may divide up among you what he’s got,” Don Gabriel told El Chicharrón. “But first bury him and fight over the inheritance afterward.”

  “May I take the ring off, jefe?” asked El Chicharrón.

  “You can put it on.”

  El Chicharrón spit on El Camarón’s finger and, with great difficulty, managed to pull off the ring. He looked at it for a while and then put it on his own finger. It only fit his middle finger. The boys were already digging a hole for the corpse.

  “Let me see that ring, Chicharrón,” Don Gabriel said suddenly. El Chicharrón pulled the ring off again and handed it to Don Gabriel with an air of disappointment.

  “Help the boys with the burial, so we won’t lose so much time,” he ordered. “Pull off his boots and see whether he had any money or papers in them.”

  “We’ve done that already, jefe,” shouted one of the boys. “Nothing in them. The soles are full of holes, and the leather is split along one of the seams.”

  Don Gabriel looked critically at the ring, breathed on it and polished it on his shirt sleeve. He looked carefully at the inside of the large stone to see whether it had any backing or whether it was mounted free. Then he weighed the ring in his hand calculatingly. Again he rubbed it against his shirt sleeve and scratched at the stone with his pocket knife.

  Finally he shoved the ring upon his finger and looked at his hand with satisfaction, stretching the finger and turning it in every direction. He clicked his tongue and mumbled: “Who would have thought it. I’d like to know where that scoundrel picked it up. Killed someone to get it, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  He pulled the ring from his finger and put it in his pocket. After a while he fished it out again. Thoughtfully and with great care he knotted it into his bandanna.

  “Aren’t you lazy rascals ready yet?” he shouted furiously, and kicked the nearest of the men so hard in the behind that he took a dive head first into the excavation. “I’ll get some movement into you if you’ve been thinking that you came here to sleep. Vamos, rápido! The devil knows when we’ll catch up with the troop.” He stamped around, lit a fres
h cigarette, tapped the knot of his bandanna where the ring was, went a few paces to one side, came back, approached the excavation and said: “That’s deep enough. The jabalíes will scent him anyway. Also the tigers. Roll him in. But first take his bandanna off.”

  “Here it is, jefe.”

  Don Gabriel spread the bandanna, shook it, approached the grave and laid it over the man’s face. Through the bandanna he pressed on the eyes to close them. He straightened up, made the sign of the cross and said: “Virgencita Purísima, pray for us today and forever. Amen.” He made one sign of the cross over the body and three over his own face, then kissed his right thumb.

  He bent down, picked up a handful of earth, threw it on the body and said: “Cover him up. And you, Chicharrón, make a little cross.”

  “Here it is, jefecito,” replied the Indian.

  “Bueno, stick it in. Not there, you idiot. At the head end. And now, on your way and push your arses with your legs or I’ll teach you how to run.”

  Out on the trail he ordered El Chicharrón to lead El Camarón’s horse by the rope. He himself mounted his own horse, waited until all the men had slung the straps of their packs over their foreheads, let them march past him and then rode off, keeping his horse so close to the last man that the small group had to fall into a trot to avoid being pushed by the horse.

  “Well, at last I’m going to show you how to march,” he said. “Until today you had no idea what marching really means.”

  In two hours they caught up with the main troop.