El Coyote, the Rebel

by Luis Pérez

  By this time Borrachín was almost drunk, but he went on, “Yes, Coyote, he married her—and many, many days later, a very good-looking son was born to the emperor and Xochitl—and they called him Meconetzin, which means ‘The son of the century plant.’ Believe it or not, Coyote, but from that day on the clear sap of the maguey became the famous drink of the Mexican people—yes, Coyote, the drink of the people.”

  Then he gulped what pulque was in his jug and said, “Coyote, the people call me Borrachín, because I like pulque. I think I—hic—hic. I think I am drunk—hic. Yes, Coyote, hic, hic; I think—hic!”

  “I think you are,” I said. Then I called a carriage and took him home, where we had our fiesta.

  That night Borrachín invited some of his friends to join us, and he related to them how we had killed several rattlesnakes, and how his industrious wife had cooked them to enrich our Mexican meals while we were placer mining. Our little social gathering was a very happy one. After the tamale dinner we sang and drank and I played the guitar.

  The next morning I put on my black suit, took the train to Guaymas, Sonora, and left Borrachín and his wife in Moreno to enjoy their frijoles.

  30

  One day while I was walking along the piers in Guaymas, trying to make up my mind about whether I should stay there, I met my old friend the captain, who had taken me back to the caboose the time we burned the bridges when we were running away from the enemy. He was working in one of the warehouses, and as he saw me, he exclaimed, “Hey, Coyote, you little bastard! How are you? What are you doing here, and how is the army?” While shaking hands, he went on speaking, “Coyote, you look prosperous—how do you do it?”

  “Well—fortune has been very kind to me, Captain.”

  “Don’t call me captain, Coyote; call me Felipe—that is my name. Carambas, young fellow—I’m sure glad to see you. What are you doing?”

  “I am looking for work.”

  “Are you broke?”

  “No, not quite, but I have to work.”

  “Well, let me see. Can you come back at noon? I will take you then to meet Mr. Romero. He is the boss of Pier Four. He usually hires stevedores.”

  “Felipe, I am not strong enough to be a stevedore. I don’t think I will be able to—”

  “Don’t worry, Coyote. He works for the Red Crown Gasoline Company, and he has lots of easy jobs. Yesterday he told me that he is expecting a shipment of gasoline, crude oil, and kerosene from Mazatlan. If you come a las doce, I’ll take you to see him.”

  “Muy bien, I will come at twelve. Good-by, Felipe.”

  “Hasta la vista, Coyote,” he shouted, as I went away.

  At noon when I went back, Felipe was at Pier Four talking with Mr. Romero. At the warehouse, Felipe said to Romero, “This boy of whom I spoke to you—in the army we used to call him El Coyote, but his real name is Luis.”

  “How do you do, Luis?” asked Romero, shaking hands with me. “Do you want to work?”

  “Yes, señor, I do.”

  “Fine. Come tomorrow at about seven-thirty and we will see what we can do for you.”

  I thanked Mr. Romero for his kindness; then Felipe and I went back to Pier Nine where he worked. On our way Felipe said, “I knew he would give you a job. He is a good man. You see, he is running around with my sister, and of course I think he is going to marry her. At least I hope so, because she likes him a lot.” As he was telling me about Mr. Romero and his sister, the one o’clock whistle blew. Then he said, “Well, Coyote, I’ll see you tonight.” All of a sudden he asked, “Where are you staying, Coyotito?”

  “I’m staying at Don Mariano’s rooming house, and I like it there very much.”

  “That is fine—I’ll see you tonight. Good-by, Luis.”

  “Hasta la vista, Felipe.”

  The next morning at seven-thirty I was at the warehouse waiting for Mr. Romero. On his arrival, he said, “Hello, Luis, how are you?”

  “Very well, thanks, and how are you?”

  “Oh, I have a beastly headache. I think I drank too much tequila last night.” Then he asked, “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Oh, yes, I have.”

  “It is terrible to be in love, because you never know whether the woman you love is in love with you,” he said, sorrowfully.

  “One never knows,” I replied sadly.

  “Well, Luis,” he said, yawning, “I have an easy job for you. All you have to do is to check the boxes of kerosene and gasoline as they are brought in, or taken out. Do you know how to read?”

  “No, señor, I don’t.”

  “Well, you don’t need to know. All you have to do is to put a vertical line in here for the gasoline and another here for the kerosene—like this,” he explained.

  “Very well, señor Romero, I understand.”

  “Good—here we work from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. We take one hour for lunch, and the company pays one

  American dollar for a day’s work,” concluded Mr. Romero. Then he took me to one of the doors of the warehouse, gave me paper and pencil, and again showed me how to mark the blanks.

  That was the easiest job I’d ever had, and at the end of each working day the workers were paid as they signed out. I worked at that place for about two weeks. Then, one night while I was taking a walk around the depot and thinking about my Consuelo, I saw a number of families with bundles, trunks, and baskets of food, waiting in the station. One of the men told me that they were going to work in the United States.

  “Who is taking all of you?” I asked him.

  “Those Americans over there,” pointing to three well-dressed men. “They are the bosses,” he added. “Pánfilo, the interpreter calls them ‘dee beega dee shots.’”

  “Oh,” I remarked. Then I went to see the three Americans, who were busy smoking, talking, and looking at some papers. When I came close to them I said, “Señores, ‘dee beega dee shots,’ yo quiero trabajo.”

  They looked me over, and as they were doing so, Don Pánfilo, the interpreter, came and asked, “What do you want, muchacho?”

  “I want work and to go to the United States with you.”

  As soon as I had finished my request, the interpreter turned toward the Americans, and said, “Deesa muchacho—boy wants trabajo— worka.”

  “Ask him if he has a family,” said one of the “big shots.”

  After Don Pánfilo had asked me the question, he said to the three bosses, “No—yes, hee—shee no tiene—has no familia.’’

  “Ask him if he wants to take a job for a year picking cotton in Arizona, at four cents a pound.”

  Don Pánfilo again asked me the question, and as I said “Sí,” he mumbled to the Americans, “Sí—yes,” moving his arms and pointing at me. “Deesa muchacho—boy shee could tooka dee joba— trabajo peekin’ cotton—algodón.”

  “Fine, fine. Tell him to be here tomorrow morning ready to take the eight o’clock train to Nogales,” said one of the recruiting men to Don Pánfilo, who in turn translated the message to me.

  That same night I went to Don Mariano’s rooming house and got my only blanket, my suitcase, and my black suit. From there, I went to the depot and slept in the station waiting room because I was afraid of being left behind.

  The next day, about twelve-thirty, when we were passing through Hermosillo, I wanted to get off to see my Consuelo, and tell her good-by, but of course I could not leave the train.

  31

  The twenty-fifth morning of November, 1918, the families and I were in the United States immigration office at Nogales, patiently waiting to be examined by the officials. When my turn came, the person who examined me said, “Young man, let it be known that you are entering the United States of America to pick cotton and to work as a farm hand for the term of one year. At the end of a year you shall return to Mexico. This is in accordance with the laws adopted by Congress and enforced by the Department of Labor of the United States.” Then he took a form from his desk and the regular ro
utine of questioning began. When he had finished asking questions and filling the blank spaces, he said, “Raise your right hand.”

  By mistake I raised my left hand.

  “Your right hand,” he commanded.

  When I had my arm up in the air, he said, “Repeat with me: ‘I, the undersigned, do solemnly swear that the statements made by me in answer to the foregoing questions are full and true to the best of my knowledge and belief. So help me God.’” Then he asked me to sign the documents, which I did by making a cross as a signature.

  By three in the afternoon of the same day, our fast train was speeding its way through the Arizona desert to Phoenix. We arrived at the capital of the state late that night, and our coach was uncoupled and switched onto a side track. In the morning, when we got out of the coach, the “big shots” were nervously walking about with other well-dressed men. Don Pánfilo followed them like a faithful dog after his master. At about ten in the morning a lot of farmers came to the station driving old carts, buggies, and “flivvers.” The farmers would talk with the “big shots,” and after a short conversation they would sign some papers, and would come to where we were, pointing, “I want these these—and these.” Then they would take with them three or four of the families.

  Somewhere about three in the afternoon I noticed a tall, red-faced man driving a beautiful team of black horses hitched to a four-wheeled rack. When he had pulled the restless animals to an abrupt stop, the three bosses greeted him, and one of them said, pointing to us, “Benson, this is all we have left. You came too late.”

  Mr. Benson jumped off the cart and asked, “Do all these children belong to one family?”

  “No,” said one of the men who greeted him. “Those six over there belong to this man and this woman. This boy here is alone,” he said, touching my shoulder. Then he pointed to a young man, who was seated on his suitcase, and said, “He is single.”

  “Benson, I think you should take all of them to your ranch,” suggested one of the partners.

  “I guess so,” mumbled Mr. Benson. After he had signed the papers to own us, he came to each one of the workers, and asked, “Do you speak English?” When the person who was questioned said, “No, señor, me no espeaka dee Eengleesh,” then Mr. Benson would say, “Mucho malo, mucho malo—too bad.” When he asked me the question, I answered, “No, señor, yo no hablo inglés.” Immediately Don Pánfilo, who was standing near by, said to Mr. Benson, “Deesa muchacho—boy hee says hee no espeaka da Eengleesh.”

  “Mucho malo, mucho malo,” repeated Mr. Benson. To that I said, “Oh, no, señor, me no mucho malo—yo estrong—me wanta worka.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, and laughed.

  The reason why I was able to say “strong,” “wanta,” and other words, was because Don Pánfilo was teaching me English the way he had learned it. The first night we were on the train he had said to me, “Luis, I like you, and I am going to tell you something that is going to be for your own good. You might just as well know that the only way you can get a good job in the United States is by knowing how to speak English.” Then, holding the upper part of the lapels of his blue jumper, he continued, “Look at me, I have a good job—I espeaka da Eengleesh. There is no Mexican in the United States to espeaka da Eengleesh the way I do. I can read it, write it, and teach it. Yes, I can teach it, and because you have been such a good fellow, I am going to teach it to you in ten lessons so you can get a good job in the United States like the one I have. I got a good job.”

  While he was parading up and down the aisle like a proud peacock, telling me what a good job he had, and bragging about his good fortune, a fellow countryman, who was reading a newspaper, asked, “Say, Don Pánfilo, if hot air and gas makes balloons go up, what in the name of Jesucristo holds you down?”

  “His big belly keeps him anchored to the ground,” shouted an old man, who was eating a piece of dry bread.

  At this last remark the crowd laughed, and Don Pánfilo said to me, “Don’t pay any attention to them fellows. All they like to do is to eat and to make foul remarks. They will never amount to anything.” Then he proceeded, “The only way you can learn English in ten lessons is by reading a book like this,” and taking a small dictionary from his pocket, he pointed, “You see—you read the Spanish word and then the English. After you have learned both words you pronounce them like this: ‘Beso—kees,’ ‘Señorita—meess,’ and so on. Is it not simple? The English language is one of the easiest languages to master. I have tried all the languages—yes—all of them.” Suddenly he asked, “Can you read?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Oh, well, you have to learn to read before you can speak any language. However, you are young, and you can learn. I can teach you a few words—I am a good teacher.” In this manner he proceeded to instruct me in the art of learning to speak English in ten lessons; thus I was able to talk to Mr. Benson.

  The first afternoon at the ranch, Mr. Benson gave the family a large tent, and a small one to the single man and me. Then he issued us a ration of groceries and let us use some old cooking utensils which were stored in the barn.

  The next morning our employer took us to the cotton field and taught us the proper method of removing the wool-like material from the pod. He said, “You should be able to pick from a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds a day. The more cotton you pick, the more money you’ll get. Go to it and make a fortune.”

  The first day I picked only seventy pounds and the boss said, “Mucho malo.”

  The following day I picked a little more, and by the end of the cotton season I was able to pick ninety-five pounds per day.

  After the cotton season was over, we stayed on the ranch to cultivate the fields for the following year.

  By the middle of March of 1920, I told Mr. Benson that since I had been with him over a year I wanted to go back to Mexico. He said, “Luis, you may do as you please. Come to my office and I will go over your account.” In the office he continued, “Luis, you came to my ranch the twenty-sixth of November 1918, I paid the recruiting men thirty dollars for your train fare and the food you ate on the way. I gave them eight dollars for the immigration fees. Now you owe me seventy-five dollars for food and shelter, twenty-three dollars for clothes, and twenty dollars that I have given you in cash. Let me see.” Mumbling between his teeth, he added, “Thirty, plus eight, plus seventy-five— twenty-three and twenty is forty-three. Well, well, well—you owe me exactly one hundred and fifty-six dollars. Now we take this amount from the money you have earned, which is—let me see six from eight—two, seven and one eight, and two is—well, well, well—you have ten dollars coming to you.”

  “The whole amount of ten dollars!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, ten dollars.”

  “For a moment I thought I was going to owe you ten dollars.”

  “Oh, no! I am very honest—I don’t steal money from anybody.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Benson. And may I have my ten dollars.”

  “Yes, of course. Here they are and if you ever want to come back to work for me, you are welcome to do so.”

  I thanked Mr. Benson again and left his ranch with my ten dollars, my blanket, my suitcase, and my black suit. Later I found that Mr. Benson, the honest man, had cheated me out of the greater part of my wages.

  From the ranch I went to Phoenix, and after a few days in the capital of the state, I went to Glendale, Arizona.

  32

  In Glendale I worked one month as a shepherd, taking care of two hundred and thirty sheep. I liked that job very much, but the owner of the flock discharged me because, through my carelessness, the wolves killed some newborn lambs. After that I did odd jobs as a farm hand on different ranches.

  One hot day in the month of June 1920, while I was dozing on the steps of the cabin where I was staying, suddenly I heard a voice that asked in Spanish, “Young man, have you found the Lord?”

  When I raised my head I saw a pretty lady about thirty years of age. “When did he disappear?�
�� I asked. “I didn’t know that he was lost again.”

  “Oh, excuse me—are you a Christian?”

  “I—I guess so. I am not an animal. You see we Mexicans believe that since we are born of humans, we are born Christians.”

  “Yes, young man, but do you know the Lord Jesus Christ, Who died for us? Has He come to your heart? Have you found Him?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, señorita. For a moment I thought you meant whether I had found the landlord. You see, he got lost the other day, and I thought he had disappeared again.”

  “No, the Lord I’m talking about is the Savior. The Omnipotent Son of God Who died on the cross to save us sinners.”

  “Who is us, may I ask?”

  “All of us. You, I—we are all sinners by nature, but the Lamb of God cleanses us from all sin.”

  “I don’t think I am a sinner. I don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t steal. I haven’t killed anybody—I lie, but my lies don’t hurt anyone. I love the beautiful señoritas, but I don’t think that is a sin, is it?”

  “Do you go to church?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t believe what the priest says.”

  “Do you belong to any church?”

  “Well, ye–ye–e–no, I don’t.”

  “Why don’t you come to the mission tonight? We sing, pray, and drink hot coffee. Come tonight, will you? The Lord will be waiting for you there.” Then she gave me a personal card, and added, “You will find me here. This is the mission’s address. I live there also—my name is Magdalene Smith. Come to the mission tonight.”

  As she was leaving, I said, “I will be there, Miss Smith, since you and the Lord will be waiting for me.”

  At about eight by the clock that night, I was listening to some testimonials, and later enjoyed the hymn that the congregation sang. When the service was over, Miss Smith came to me and said, “Señor Pérez, I’m glad you came. Did you like the singing?—do you sing? I know all the Mexican people like to sing and most of them have good voices.”