“‘Your part will be most simple,’ I explained. ‘You have only to make a brave show as valiant men do. You must throw out your chest, smoke a cigarette, toss off your sombrero and look fearlessly at the rifles. When my men fire—you fall.
‘“Above all, fall realistically. Unless you do this, all my trouble will be for nothing. You have seen men shot since you were a child. Fall as you have seen them fall. Tonight, in this cell, practice falling so it will be convincing.
‘“Wait!’ I said. ‘Do you remember how Pasquale Aguilar of Guerrero died? Good! Then act as Pasquale Aguilar acted—as a brave man. And the fall in particular. Remember that.
“‘When you have fallen,’ I told him. ‘I will march my squad away. When my men are gone you will be free to escape. I will take upon myself the risk of reporting that you have been executed.’
“Enrique was grateful, amigo. He was almost as tearful about it as he had been in his cowardice. He embraced me and he pawed me. You know how a dog will jump on you at a kind word and wipe his dirty paws on you. Thus Enrique pawed me. See, here is where one of his hands, foul with the dirt of the cell floor, clutched me.”
There was a soily smudge across Lastro’s canary yellow sash.
“And so it was all decided,” continued Lastro. “As I left Enrique he was singing one of those little songs of his. Think you, amigo, I did wrong to plot against the orders of my general? Recall then that I had always to think of Enrique as the husband of my white-souled sister, Inez.”
He called to the Keeper of the Spring of Golden Dreams, who scuffed swiftly in his rawhide sandals to attend the capitan. Lastro again complimented him on the rare quality of the aguardiente, inquired too casually of the amount in store and mentioned pesos to be paid tomorrow.
“Do you remember how beautifully the sun rose this morning, amigo?” he asked by way of taking up his tale. “Never have I seen a dawn so wild with color. It was the sort of morning I would like to have were I to face, Dios forbid, the firing squad. It would have inspired any one. I was glad on such a morning that I was able to do such a good deed. Thus exalted, I made my way with the picked men of my firing squad to the penitentiary to get Enrique.
“‘He is of the bravest!’ the governor of the penitentiary told me. ‘Never have I seen such a stout heart. Since he wakened he has been singing.’
“Enrique was brave indeed. Ai, he did justice to the beauty of the morning. He was all that I could ask. Even the men of my firing squad were impressed with the haughty ease of his manner. And they have seen many courageous men die along the sights of their rifles.
“We began the march to the cemetery. Enrique walked with his head erect and high. His shirt was open at the throat. It was a noble picture. Enrique like a conquering prince. I in front with my sword. And my six men marching like real soldiers.
“It was so that we marched by the little house, painted blue as a friendly sky, where lives my sainted sister, Inez. With her two little ones she stood behind the bars of the window, watching. In her arms she held the precious guitar on which he played to her the songs of love.
“She waved her hand and spoke to the children. They waved their little hands, too. Enrique waved back and smiled. Was that not a picture for wife and children to remember of a brave husband and father? Amigo, already I felt repaid for all the bother and risk I had undertaken in plotting for Enrique.
“I smiled at him to show my approval but he did not seem to notice me. He was playing the brave man. He didn’t see me any more than he would if he had been full of mescal instead of being full of our plot.
“At the cemetery he stepped out firmly from among my men. He placed his back to the wall. He threw his sombrero aside and folded his arms majestically.
‘“I am ready, Don Jesus!’ he said, quietly.
“Ai, it was a splendid sight, amigo! What an actor that boy might have been on the stage—with the right men to direct him. He gave no sign as I read the decreto of death. He was haughty as a king when I offered him the cigarette and asked to roll it for him.
‘“My hands have not yet been robbed of their power,’ he said, and his voice was even and cold.
“The men of my firing squad shook their heads in admiration. And I admired, too. Also it made my heart swell to think that the family was being saved from disgrace.
“Enrique’s hands were steady as he took the cigarette. Those slim fingers of his—built for the strumming of a guitar or fondling the tresses of his señorita—did not quiver as he unrolled the husk, measured the tobacco, and rolled it again. It was the memory of this that reminded me of him just a little while ago at the alameda.
“It was a great scene. I almost forgot that we were playing out a plot, Enrique and I. That, after all, he and I were only actors. I wanted to embrace him. I went very close to him to give him the light from my cigarette. And I said in a low voice:
“‘So far you have been wonderful! But do not forget about falling—remember Pasquale Aguilar of Guerrero!’
“He hardly nodded, so intent was he on acting the scene ahead of him. As I stepped back he tossed aside his cigarette. I noticed he did not toss it far. As if he thought he might want it when the farce was over and I had marched my men away.
“I ordered the squad to make ready.
“‘I will show you how a true Mexican dies!’ Enrique called to them. ‘No Mexican fears death. I am sorry I have offended the valiant Don Pancho. But if he will I must die, I shall die bravely. This is as he would wish. My last words will be the last words of all true patriots.”
“‘Aim!’ I cried to my men. For a moment, so excellently was Enrique acting, I was afraid that they would throw down their rifles and begin cheering. They levelled their guns. Enrique looked at them calmly.
“‘Viva Mexico!’ he shouted.
“‘Fire!’ I ordered.
“Amigo, it is hard to believe. But even at the end of our little scene, the most important part of all, that ungrateful husband of my flower-eyed sister, Inez, failed me. After all that acting of his, I had hoped foolishly for something better. I had told him over and over to fall realistically and dramatically. I had cautioned him to remember Pasquale Aguilar of Guerrero and how he had died.
“But did he obey? No! His mouth fell open stupidly, as a man’s mouth falls open when too much liquor had passed through it. His arms jerked out awkwardly, as if he were feeling his way in the dark. He tumbled backward like a clumsy sack of onions. His head hit the wall and was bent forward on his chest when he fell. Then his feet kicked out like those of a fretful baby.”
Lastro shook his head hopelessly and glanced about for the keeper of the cantina. The host was engaged in a bitter, one-sided argument with a bewildered cochero.
“But you charge twice too much for such sour pulque,” the cochero said.
“Pelado! Skinned one!” stormed the keeper. “Do you think you are in some low pulqueria? Know that you are in a cantina of excellence. You say I charge double? Even so, it would be worth double, to such leperos as you to be allowed in the same room with such company. Here are entertained the bravest of Don Pancho’s officers; the finest——”
Lastro called to the keeper. He waved apologies aside graciously when excuse was made for such wretches as the cochero. On that customer Lastro turned such a frown that the cochero retreated into the street.
Lastro faced El Humoristo again.
“Tell me, amigo,” he said. “Do you think I did wrong in plotting with Enrique?”
“But the firing squad,” suggested El Humoristo. “Is there no danger that one of your men will suspect? For instance, how did you explain about not searching Enrique’s clothes or not allowing the squad to take his shoes or other parts of his clothing? And certainly, your men noticed that you did not fire the mercy shot into his head.”
Lastro listened and nodded his head. His face was a mournful mask. Then his mouth cracked open in a grin that exposed his large, even teeth.
“Amigo, you are
less easy to deceive than Enrique,” he said. “But did you really believe that my squad used blank cartridges?”
For the first time, El Humoristo recognized the sarape with stripes of violet and vermillion and yellow over gray. He remembered having seen Enrique wearing it.
Capitan Jesus Lastro was killed near El Valle just after the death of Fierro the Butcher. At the time, he wore in his neckerchief a diamond almost as large as the one Fierro had worn. It must be recorded that this creative artist perished through one of the most ancient of tricks. It is sometimes considered diverting to inform a prisoner that he will be given a chance to escape. As he runs, the guards shoot him down. A Mexican president died this way.
Jesus Lastro probably refused to believe that they would try such an old trick on him. A sense of humor is a dangerous thing. At any rate, Lastro ran—and died at a range of fifteen yards.
Such a death can make a man look very ridiculous. When several bullets smash into the back of a running man, more than likely he executes an absurd leap into the air. For all the world like a running rabbit hit by a charge of buckshot.
QUIEN VIVE?
“Quien vive?”
The snarl of a sullen dog. The furious spitting of a cat. Both are in the high-pitched, startling cry in the dark. Yet there is a tenor overtone of melody. It is the Mexican challenge. It is like being challenged in grand opera.
“Quien vive?”
Who lives? The voice came from that jagged clump of Spanish dagger to the right. Or maybe straight ahead, near the towering candelabra cactus. No matter. There is a pointed rifle with the voice and a nervous, impatient finger at the trigger. Also, one makes a beautiful target in the silver wash of the moon.
“Viva Mexico!”
That’s the proper answer. Mexico lives! And one lives with it if one manages to be deft at this guessing contest in the dark. The first answer is a formality, a breathing spell and a moment of grace. It gives time for one to consider the prevailing politics of the district; to weigh recent reports of battle in these parts; to review the latest dispatches from the fighting front.
It is well, if one chooses to live on, to know these things before the sentry’s next menacing cry:
“Que gente?”
Which people? What side are you on? Once there was an easy generality to answer this:
“Pacificos!”
The peaceful ones—the neutrals. But the white-whiskered presidente in Mexico City changed that. In the land he ruled there could be no peaceful ones—no neutrals. A man was either Carranzista or an enemy of Don Venustiano.
“Que gente?”
The sing-song is quite out of the voice now. There is only a tense growl. The sentry has been extraordinarily patient. The growl gives warning that an appropriate answer must be forthcoming. It demands in a word a declaration of faith and principles and a pledge of loyalty. The fingers in the dark tighten on the trigger.
It is quite incomprehensible to a country where one’s enthusiasm is limited to giving three cheers for the heavy swatter of the home team. Or applauding the nation’s chief executive when he grins on a cinema screen. They are, after all, three inexpensive cheers.
In Mexico one’s life goes into one’s slogans. It is only characteristic of the people that they will shout the battle-cry of their chief with the rifle of an enemy at their breast. They look upon temporizing at such a time as the act of a coward who lacks the courage of his convictions.
Sentry Cuartel Militar
This is especially true, of course, of the fighting man. His battle-cry may be his only mark of distinction. Military uniforms are rare. When they exist, the same uniform—supplied by the same lively merchants north of the Rio Grande—are likely to be worn by opposing factions. He could easily adapt his answer to the requirements of the man who has him covered and, theoretically, at least, helpless.
Theoretically, because marksmanship grows steadily worse. And moonlight shooting amid fantastic desert shapes is not always the best. But the desert fighter knows only one answer. He cries back the name of his chief.
It is a fitting gesture for the fighting man. It is proper, perhaps, that he perish with his voice still echoing in the night the name of the patriot he serves.
It is not so glorious and pleasant for the sincere neutral. If he is sincerely neutral he has lost track of the ebb and flow of the revolutionary tide. It is hopeless for him to follow each eddy and swirl of the combat that sweeps over the land.
He may only make a guess. He may strike it right—he may hit on an especially glittering generality. And again, he may select to viva for the patriot who held the sector last month. And die because he is out of date.
There is a favorite story in Mexico. About a Chino travelling across Chihuahua with his burro sharing his pack and his oriental philosophy. He met, the anecdote goes, a troop of horsemen. He was challenged. He surveyed them hastily and shouted a viva for Madero. His mistake. They were Huertistas. They fell upon him and stripped him of his money belt, his shoes and his sarape.
The same afternoon another band shouted a challenge. The Chino had learned his lesson. He emitted a loud viva for Huerta. Another wrong guess. They were supporters of the Felicista movement. They robbed him of his burro and the pack on the animal’s back.
It was a sadly philosophical Chino who was confronted by still another group of patriots at sundown.
“Quien vive?” they cried.
The Chino grinned affably.
“You viva first,” he invited.
The sincere pacifico does not complain beyond a shrug of the shoulders and a weary, worried lift of the eyebrows. This is war and the way the buen Dios wills such things. It is sad to be killed in the dark for saying the wrong word. But it is sad, as well, to keep on living and suffering for saying nothing.
These things may swing through the mind as the sentry growls his final challenge. At least, if one is a veteran the thought is there. And one thinks a swift prayer to one’s gods and shouts the chosen name——
And, if one has had experience, one falls on his face in the sand. It is as good a way as any to dodge the first shot. Even if one has flushed a friendly sentry, the trigger finger is impatient and nervous.
It is like being challenged in grand opera. And grand opera has a way of being violently fatal to its heroes.
NOCTURNE
Surely there is nothing in books of tactics which countenances grossly inferior numbers attacking a position held by a stronger force. And it is most explicitly written that a soldier must never rely on the enemy’s lack of vigilance——
Yet there they were, still wet under the saddles from more than thirty miles of marching, moving in to attack the town. Fifty of them, without food for twelve hours, and more than two hundred of the enemy on the defense. With machine guns, too.
Allied with the attackers was the night in its black uniform. And the legion of wildly armored cactus that marched before them and covered their movement. The ghost of a smile whispered in the dark at the shrill yip-yipping of a coyote. The coyote’s call seemed to travel in a wide circle, as if specters chattered to each other of the hour.
This was well. It would reassure whatever sentries were on guard. The coyote treacherously was calling that all was well.
Nocturne
There were other traitors in the little town whose lights glimmered cheerfully far ahead. The feeling of security and its sword-brother, carelessness. And there had been the woodcutter, captured with his burro two days before by scouts who rode from the town.
From the woodcutter they had forced news of the rebel band. There were only ten of the rebels under Chico Renterias. Chico himself was badly wounded. His men were exhausted and mutinous. They were fifty miles south and fleeing away from the town.
That afternoon the woodcutter had rejoined the riders under Chico Renterias. He kicked the astounded burro in the stomach by way of farewell to his disguise. He reported to Chico the gullibility of the federalista scouts and remounted h
is own weary nag.
It was amazing how these undersized and over-ridden Mexican horses stood up. More than thirty miles since noon. And the real work of the day still ahead.
“We will not take the town to hold it,” Chico Renterias explained quietly. “We are just to punish them and put the right fear into their hearts. A quick raid. And we are off again to join Don Pancho on the Durango line.”
“Won’t they pursue?” asked El Humoristo, to whom he spoke. “They have fresh horses.”
“They want fresh courage,” replied Chico. “Their cowardice will recruit our troops to a regiment in the dark. They will not dare to follow the riders their imagination will give us.”
The unbelievable army of cactus kept marching ahead. It seemed impossible that there were only five hundred species. The riders, roughly deployed and at a walk, passed through the ranks of cactus stragglers. Sometimes a monstrous candelabra cactus, fifty feet high. Or one carrying a huge lance. Only when they passed these loiterers did they seem to be moving forward. This and the glimmer of lights in the town, which grew slowly more bright.
Each rider was a vague shadow to his nearest compañero. They were all somber apparitions moving across a black curtain. Mounted men take huge, unreal shapes in the dark. The hoofs of the horses were muffled in the deep powder of the desert. Occasionally there came an uneasy, furtive creak of leather. Or a metallic click.
A voice ahead. The procession of ghosts halted. It was a singing voice. When the riders halted, the cactus seemed to do an about-face, and start marching toward them. The voice sang on—a mournful, slim tenor. A sentry singing at his post.
Mansión de amor! Celestial Paraíso!
Nací en tu seno y mil diches gocé—
Chico Renterias smiled and signalled the shadow riding nearest him. The shadow dwindled to the shape and size of a mounted man as he rode up. A whisper. He slid noiselessly from his horse, which sighed its relief. He gave the reins to Chico. His hands went to his sash. There came a gentle gleam of metal. The man stooped cautiously and disappeared into the cactus.
The Little Tigress: Tales out of the Dust of Old Mexico Page 11