Paradise Valley

by Dale Cramer

  At six thousand feet the mornings were chilly, even in late summer. Miriam and Rachel wrapped themselves in blankets, waiting for the day to warm. The sun was just cracking the eastern horizon when they stopped to pick up Domingo, who waited for them by the road outside the village of San Rafael.

  The girls climbed into the back and sat on the food box in front of the pile of corn to let Domingo sit up front with Caleb. A short while later, as they rumbled slowly past the farm of Ernst Schulman, Domingo kept his eyes straight ahead. He never even glanced to the left.

  A mile or two down the road, with Schulman’s farm gone from sight, Caleb turned to Domingo and asked, in High German, “Why do you hate that man?”

  Domingo didn’t say anything for a long time, and Caleb waited. Finally, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Domingo said quietly, “Ich hasse ihn nicht.” I don’t hate him. “Hate, among the Nahua people, is reserved for a respected enemy. Herr Schulman I do not respect.”

  Caleb pondered this. “Why? He seems like a decent man to me.”

  “He is a fool,” Domingo said. “Herr Schulman knows everything about a man by his clothes, or the color of his skin. It’s easy. A European like himself is best. An American like you is only a little lower, and a haciendado, with all his land and money, is a little lower than an American because a haciendado is still, after all, only a Mexican. But even the half-breed mestizo is better than a Chichimeca. To him, we are cattle, not men.” He glanced at Caleb. “He told you about the whip?”

  “Jah,” Caleb said, his eyes on the road. “He told me you took it away and threatened him with it.”

  Domingo nodded. “Es ist wahr.” It is true. “The man Schulman found sleeping and beat with the whip had walked all night to another village to get medicine for a sick child, then went to Schulman’s farm to work. He fell asleep when he stopped to eat at midday, and I let him lay for a few minutes.”

  “Maybe Herr Schulman didn’t know about this.”

  Domingo shook his head bitterly. “It would make no difference. To him, this was not a man, it was a burro. If a peon doesn’t do what you want, you run him off and get another. Peons are cheap.”

  An old man passed them as he spoke, going the other way in a tiny wooden-wheeled cart pulled by an ox. The Mexican lifted his hat and flashed a toothless grin as he passed. Caleb nodded. “Buenos días.”

  “The man who just passed us,” Domingo said, “his name is Pablo Garcia. He has raised five children on tortillas and beans. He owns nothing, though he has worked hard all his life. His three grown sons all died fighting in the revolution.”

  Caleb nodded, waiting, assuming this was leading someplace.

  “Pablo Garcia has worked for Schulman longer than I have, yet Schulman does not know about the five children, the lost sons. Schulman does not even know his last name. He only calls him Pablo, even though the man is old enough to be his father.”

  “Why are you telling me these things, Domingo?”

  “Because you asked me about Schulman.”

  “Yes, but why are you telling me? You wouldn’t even speak to Schulman. Why me?”

  Domingo looked Caleb in the eye and said, “Because you are not arrogant. Schulman came here to escape the storm he knew was coming in his own ‘civilized’ country, but he’s just another rich European, like the haciendados. My people lived here for thousands of years before the Spaniards came and took everything. Now they call a man a thief if he steals a chicken to feed his children. Schulman scoffs at men like Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata, calls them petty thieves, but he forgets that at the same time, in the Great War in his own ‘civilized’ country, people slaughtered each other by the millions in the trenches. To someone whose family has known nothing but hunger for generations, these petty thieves were heroes who rose up against the tyranny of the haciendados.”

  Caleb was a little surprised at the vehemence of Domingo’s tirade. He had never heard the young man speak this way before.

  Miriam and Rachel were apparently listening as well, because they had turned and stood up on the box behind Caleb. Now Miriam asked a question.

  “So you think Pancho Villa is a hero?”

  Domingo glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “To the common people he is a legend. Pancho Villa was a peon once, working on a hacienda. When he was only a boy the master of the hacienda raped his sister, so Pancho killed the haciendado and fled to the hills, where he became a very successful bandit. In the revolution he raised an army and fought against the oppression of the rich men who own grand haciendas, drive around in automobiles and rule over their little kingdoms. He became a great general, and then, because he had learned to read and write, he became governor of a province and grew very rich. Now Pancho Villa owns a hacienda, drives an automobile and rules over his own little kingdom, but to the people he is still a hero. I only hope he has not forgotten what it was like to work fourteen hours in the sun to bring food to a fat man and then go to bed with an empty belly. Pancho Villa is a complicated man.”

  Caleb studied his young friend’s face. “Villa is not the only complicated man,” he said. “How old are you?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know. My uncle says I am twenty.”

  Chapter 22

  Their wagon crawled along over gently rolling humps and swells, generally following the dusty valley floor between and around a maze of overlapping ridges. Thin pine and oak forests covered the lower slopes but never quite reached the red-rock ridgetops. Nor were there many trees down in the dry valleys of prairie grass and sage, where the occasional stunted, wind-rustled corn patch of a mestizo farm huddled against the road, or the mangy dogs of a native village ran out to pester the horses. But even in the afternoon when the road began to climb, winding through gaps in the craggy mountains toward the town of Arteaga, Caleb noted that it was a much better and smoother road than the one from Agua Nueva.

  “That is why the railroad will come this way,” Domingo said. “The tracks are already in Arteaga, and the road down this way is much smoother than the pig trail from Agua Nueva.”

  “When do you think they will build the rail line through El Prado?” Caleb asked.

  A shrug. “This is Mexico. Who knows?” They were approaching a narrow mountain pass and Domingo tensed, watching the tree line ahead.

  “Men on horses are coming down to the pass,” he said. “On the back side. I can’t tell how many.”

  Miriam and Rachel heard, and stood up to look over their father’s shoulder.

  “Will there be trouble?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know. If they stop us, be careful what you say to them.” He caught Caleb’s eye as he said this, and jerked his head toward the girls.

  Caleb turned to his daughters. “Sit down. Don’t move and don’t talk. Don’t do anything to draw attention and maybe they will leave us alone.”

  “I didn’t see a rifle or shotgun in the wagon,” Domingo said. “If you have a pistol, hide it now.”

  “I am unarmed,” Caleb said.

  “Good.”

  As they rounded a bend in the deep notch of the mountain pass, a group of eight or ten men emerged from the woods in front of them on horseback, all heavily dressed and heavily armed. Most wore sombreros; the others wore the sweat-stained hats of cowboys or farmers. Almost every one carried a bandolier of bullets across his chest, a pistol on his side and a rifle in the saddle scabbard. Their faces were leathered from sun and wind, and most of them needed a shave. The bandits – for even Caleb knew bandits when he saw them – laughed casually, bantering among themselves as their horses fanned out in the road ahead, but their eyes were hard, and when they laughed their eyes did not laugh with them.

  The leader, a thin man with prominent cheekbones and slit eyes, held up a hand, palm out, as they neared the wagon. Caleb pulled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt. The pair of Belgians stamped nervously as the bandits slid past, reaching out to run their hands down the sleek flanks of Caleb’s draft horses. />
  Most of the men clustered around the back of the wagon, ignoring the girls at first and chattering excitedly about the pile of corn, but the leader stopped right beside Caleb. His horse was larger than the others, a fine big Appaloosa whose front half was liver colored, the back half white with leopard spots.

  “Buenos días,” the man said, a gold front tooth showing in a grin that was almost a sneer. There was nothing cordial about the look in his eyes. Up close, Caleb could see that one of his eyes was all milky. A purple crescent scar ran down across the eye from the middle of his forehead almost to the corner of his mouth.

  Caleb nodded nervously. “Buenos días.”

  The bandit rested his palms on the pommel of his saddle and leaned closer. “Señor, my men have ridden a long way today, and they are hungry. Can you spare a few ears of corn for weary soldiers, por favor?”

  Caleb looked over his shoulder. The bandits were already busy, leaning far out from their saddles, plucking ears of corn from the back of the wagon and stuffing them into pockets and saddlebags. They were also ogling his daughters and muttering between themselves, grinning.

  “Sí,” Caleb said. “I am always ready to feed the hungry.”

  The bandit leaned even closer, reaching out to steady himself by gripping the back of the wagon seat by Caleb’s shoulder. His eyes flitted over Caleb and Domingo, checking the space between them and under the seat. Caleb sat straight and stiff, trying not to recoil from that gaunt face, mere inches away, radiating pure and remorseless evil.

  “Señor, we do not wish to trouble you,” he said, his eyes cutting for a brief second to the girls in the back, “but perhaps a man as generous as yourself can spare a few pesos so we can buy feed for our horses, no?”

  Caleb opened his mouth to answer, but Domingo’s voice intruded. He spoke in an even tone to the bandit, but Caleb didn’t understand a word of what he said. The bandit’s eyes widened in surprise and he pulled up, now focusing entirely on Domingo. He made some reply to the younger man, but Caleb didn’t understand that, either. He realized suddenly that what he was hearing was not Spanish at all, but the strangely harsh language of Nahuatl, Domingo’s native tongue.

  The bandit’s eyes narrowed and his right hand crept to the butt of a pistol in a cross-draw holster on his hip. His thumb ticked against the hammer as he studied Domingo’s face.

  Caleb didn’t move, didn’t twitch. He hardly dared breathe.

  The bandit asked Domingo a question in Nahuatl, and Domingo answered him calmly, never wavering.

  Neither man raised his voice, but an electric tension crackled between them, as if at any second one of them might spring at the other without warning. A challenge of some kind had been made, and Domingo had answered it. Whatever had passed between them, Caleb felt sure that his fate, and the fate of his daughters, hung in the balance.

  A cry came from the back of the wagon – a girl’s voice. Caleb spun around and saw that one of the bandits had snatched the prayer kapp from Rachel’s head. He’d apparently grabbed a fistful of hair as well, because the pins flew out and red hair cascaded down around her shoulders. Rachel hid her face in Miriam’s lap while Miriam covered her younger sister’s head and shoulders with her arms, glaring at the bandit.

  “Leave her alone!” Miriam hissed.

  The bandit held the kapp aloft, grinning triumphantly, pointed to Rachel and shouted, “Pelo rojo! Muy bonita!” All of his cohorts were laughing.

  Caleb started to rise from the bench, but Domingo’s hand pressed on his shoulder and held him down. Domingo said a few sharp words to the leader, and that gaunt face relaxed. His hand came away from the pistol and he laughed – a harsh, dry laugh. Leaning back in his saddle and spreading his hands in feigned apology, he said in Spanish, “Never mind about the pesos, señor. A little corn will do.”

  Then he barked an order at the man with the kapp in his hand. The bandit’s grin melted. Keeping his eyes on his leader he leaned over and flung the kapp into Rachel’s lap.

  “Muchas gracias,” the leader said, but he was glaring at Domingo when he said it and he spat the words like a threat. And then, yanking his reins away, he turned the big Appaloosa around and galloped off. His men, suddenly losing interest in Caleb’s daughters, followed their leader. The gaunt, one-eyed bandit swiveled in his saddle and pointed at Domingo as he rode away, shouting something in Nahuatl. This too sounded like a threat.

  Domingo waited until the whole troop disappeared into the woods, then let the dust of the road settle before he gently took the reins from Caleb and started the horses plodding along again.

  Caleb took a deep breath and tried to steady his shaking hands. He turned to check on Rachel. She was still crying, but Miriam had already helped her pin her hair up and cover it with the kapp.

  He leaned down and laid a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Rachel looked up from her perch on the food box and shook her head. “No, Dat, I am not hurt.”

  He glanced over the pile of corn in the back of the wagon. They may have lost a bushel or two, but it could have been worse. Much worse.

  A little ways down the road, after Caleb had calmed down, he said to Domingo in High German, “I don’t understand what happened back there.”

  Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Domingo said, “These men are mercenaries who rode with the División del Norte – Pancho Villa’s army. Their leader is a very dangerous man. He is a full-blooded Nahua and a great warrior, but he is a man with no conscience. Even his own people fear him. They call him El Pantera.”

  “You know him?”

  “Jah – or at least I know about him. My father knew him well. They fought together at the battle of Zacatecas, the fiercest battle of the war. There is a rumor that my father fell because El Pantera abandoned him at the wrong time. My father, too, was a great warrior.”

  Caleb did not know quite how to answer this without offending the memory of Domingo’s warrior father, but in the end, as always with Caleb, the truth won out.

  “Our people do not fight,” Caleb said evenly. “We will not take up arms against men, and we do not honor warriors. We believe it is wrong to kill.”

  Domingo raised an eyebrow and his head backed away. “You don’t fight?”

  “No. We are Amish,” Caleb said.

  “Amish. Is that your tribe?”

  “In a way, jah. We are plain folk. We live simply, in a way that honors Gott.”

  “So, this Amish . . . it is a religion?”

  “Jah, but also a way of life.”

  “This is why the women dress the way they do?” Domingo’s forefinger circled his head, a reference to the white kapps the women wore.

  “Jah. The men, too,” Caleb added, thumbing his suspenders.

  “And you don’t believe in fighting, no matter what.”

  “No.”

  Domingo rolled his eyes. “Well then, I hope your god is very strong, because if he is not, you won’t last long in Mexico. If it weren’t for a warrior, you might be dead already.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Back there, in the pass . . . El Pantera. You have a wagonload of corn, those big fine horses, and . . .” Domingo’s eyes flitted for a second toward the girls, and Caleb understood the unspoken fear. “Anyway, everyone knows a gringo would not go so far to the market without money in his pocket.”

  Caleb shook his head sadly. “I don’t understand this. Does everyone here just take whatever they want? Is there no law in this place?”

  “Jah, there are the Federales – government soldiers – but they cannot catch a man like El Pantera in these mountains. They don’t even try anymore. He does as he pleases in the Sierra Madre. You would have been lucky to only lose your money and your horses.”

  “He would not have found my money,” Caleb said.

  Domingo laughed out loud. “Herr Bender, how long would he hold his knife to your daughters before you found it for him? He might have l
et you live if you did not resist, but who is to say? There is no telling what would have happened if I had not been there to stop him.” Domingo’s tone was not boastful. He said this matter-of-factly, and Caleb knew he spoke the truth.

  “What did you say to him?” Caleb asked.

  “I asked him if he would rob the son of Ehekatl. He did not know who I was until I said that. He answered no, he would not rob the son of Ehekatl, but he would rob a gringo if the son of Ehekatl did not mind. I told him the gringo was my friend, and to rob the gringo El Pantera would have to kill the son of Ehekatl. This he was not prepared to do.” Domingo shrugged. “So he left.”

  Caleb stared at the young native’s face for a long moment. “You risked your life for us,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Domingo. It was a brave thing you did.”

  Domingo chuckled. “Oh, he would have paid a price. If someone wishes to take my life, Herr Bender, believe me, I will put up a fight.”

  That evening they made camp in a grove of oaks overlooking Arteaga with the mountains behind them and only ten miles of flatland to go before they reached Saltillo. The girls cooked over a small campfire and then made themselves a bed on the back of the wagon. Dat took his bedroll underneath the wagon, and Domingo disappeared into the darkness to keep watch. Long after nightfall Rachel and Miriam lay awake listening to the sound of singing drifting up to them from a cantina somewhere in the town below, warbling voices mixed with trumpet, squeeze-box and guitar.

  Rachel lay on her back with her hands behind her head, staring up at the stars. She could hear her father’s soft snores from under the wagon and she spoke in a hushed voice so as not to wake him.

  “I thought we were going to die out there today,” she said.

  “Me too,” Miriam answered. “It was horrible. Those men were savages.”