The coyote yip-yipped again. The sentry went on singing. He tried variations and minor effects that a man will practice only when he is alone. Or with liquor. Chico Renterias smiled and pulled his sarape higher over his face. The night breeze was cold, especially when one waited motionless. The thin air stung the nostrils with the sweetness of alkali.
Still the sentry’s song.
Voy á partir á lejanas regiones,
Do nunca más, nunca más volvere!
“Not all men may sing their own requiems,” Chico chuckled.
The sentry achieved a quavering marvel of a high note. In the midst of a trill the voice stopped. A second’s pulsing hush. Then a startled:
“Quien vive?”
The listeners in the dark heard the voice break and end in a gargling, wet sound. There came a sound, too, of agonized legs and arms beating on the ground. Then the dead, pulsing hush again.
Through the maze of cactus came the man who had dismounted. He whispered to Chico Renterias and mounted. The riders and the cactus legions started forward again.
The cactus army thinned out. The town was within range. The moon began to emerge from the curtain of the sky that hung in low, soft folds. The little square buildings of the town looked like little blocks of dull silver. There were wide gaps between them through which riders could pour.
“If only they haven’t laid barbed wire,” prayed Chico. “It must be any moment now.”
The riders knew. Their dark forms came closer to their leader. It seemed impossible that those in the town could not sense this approach. At one window a man’s figure swiftly silhouetted against a yellow strip of light and was gone. A dog howled mournfully.
“Quien vive?”
The voice came from the roof of a building on the edge of the town. Directly in front. The sentinel was inspired. As he challenged he fired.
“Viva Mexico ! Viva Don Pancho !”
They all answered. Rifles and revolvers made deafening punctuation to their defiant cries. A quick thudding of hoofs. Shrill cries and oaths. The charge.
El Humoristo swept forward with Chico Renterias. The jerk of his horse flipped his sombrero from his head. The chin strap held and thereafter the sombrero flopped on his shoulders.
“If only there isn’t barbed wire!” muttered Chico. His voice melted into liquid curses. Stray, excited stabs of yellow and orange sparks from in front and to the right marked where the federalistas were returning the fire.
El Humoristo saw a man run wildly out of one silvered building. His hands flew into the air in a cartoonist’s symbol of amazement. He grunted as a bullet struck his middle. An exaggerated grunt in which there was surprise. He fell, first to his knees and then sideways, slowly sagging, to the ground.
The man who had stooped cautiously going into the cactus lashed his horse abreast of El Humoristo as the riders broke into the plaza. The windows of the houses looked like hollow sockets in skulls. Silver and ebony marionettes ran crazily before them in the moonlight. The man who had gone into the cactus was firing his revolver. His gun was still extended when his left hand went curiously to his throat. He gasped, leaned far forward and swayed out of the saddle. El Humoristo heard his head hit the cobbled pavement.
The plaza was a delirium of struggling shapes. A nightmare of men and horses and fury. A tossing kaleidoscope of black and white. Shadows clashed and fell apart in desperate designs. The plaza became a pit in which giant rats and terriers bit and squealed.
Renterias and his riders galloped through, leaning from their saddles to shoot down at the unmounted enemy. Out of the tangle of figures one man suddenly became solitary to El Humoristo. The man fired point-blank at him. Very deliberately. El Humoristo heard the bullet scream close to his head.
If there are a hundred men in camp and a single bullet cracks over them, each man will swear that it passed but a few inches from his head. There were fifty bullets at a time shrieking across the plaza. El Humoristo was convinced that he could select the bullet addressed to him.
He was enraged that a man should make this a personal affair. He rode at the man and fired. Once. Twice. In a rage. Then more coolly. The man slumped into an indefinite, ragged blot on the pavement. El Humoristo jerked his horse sharply aside to avoid trampling on this personal enemy.
Another man bobbed across the plaza, stumbling on the sarape in which he was wrapped. He looked like a ludicrous figure in a potato sack race.
Some one fired from between the bars of a window. So close to El Humoristo that for a moment it blinded him. He fired his revolver madly into the window. He discovered, when his eyes cleared, that no spurt of flame jetted from the gun. His finger was clicking the trigger on empty cartridges.
He tucked the gun inside his blouse. The barrel was hot. He snatched another revolver from his belt. His horse gave a little spring upward. Then it began backing up majestically and bobbing its head in slow cadence. Like a circus horse bowing out of the arena.
El Humoristo jabbed with his spurs and cursed mightily as he jerked at the bit. Still the horse, bowing profoundly, backed up. It backed on to the flagging of the walk and through the open doorway of a house.
El Humoristo’s shoulders and head struck the top of the door. The sombrero on his shoulders saved him. He bent forward as they passed through the door. As he did there came a hot gush of blood against his face and the taste of raw salt on his lips. His horse had been hit.
A woman screamed as the horse backed into the room. Slowly he folded his tired legs under him and rolled over dead. El Humoristo struggled from the saddle. He heard himself apologizing profusely to the woman. He assured her that he had meant no harm. He realized that he must appear rude. It was unfortunate. He would make amends. He refilled his revolver as he spoke.
As he came from the door into the square again one of Chico Renterias’ men, on a rearing horse, fired at him.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” exclaimed El Humoristo wearily.
The bandstand in the center of the plaza was burning. Against the flames the fighting figures looked like boys larking around a bonfire.
There was a horse that danced and lashed with frantic heels at the body hanging by one foot from the stirrup. El Humoristo ran to the horse.
“Steady, old boy,” he said. The rifles and revolvers were smashing viciously. Then, quite wearily, he said again:
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
He disengaged the fallen rider’s foot. The body plopped to the cobbles. The horse plunged as El Humoristo mounted. Three horses galloped riderless around the plaza.
One horse was down and screaming its death cry. The scream of a wounded and dying horse stops the heart with cold hands. It is more awful than the maniac cry of a loon in the sunset woods by an inland lake. More terrifying than the sudden howl of a lynx in the hills at moon-rise. Worse than the screeching of an hysterical woman.
There was the foul, biting smell of burnt powder. Smoke from the fire rolled over the fighters. Men choked and cursed.
Some one got to the machine gun. It began the rapping of a giant, delirious woodpecker. El Humoristo recalled the experiment of machine guns sweeping a picket fence. The machine gun coughed and stopped. That was like a machine gun, too.
More method had come into the shots fired from the adobe houses with their black sockets of windows. Bullets do not penetrate adobe. This was bad for the riders in the plaza.
El Humoristo was very thirsty. His head ached.
“Viva Don Pancho!”
Chico Renterias’ voice, high and hoarse. El Humoristo swung his horse toward it.
“Viva Don Pancho ! Viva!”
The rallying cry and the signal for retreat. A final, fierce volley from the defenders. A spurting of orange and blue sparks from a dozen windows. One of the riders cursed bitterly and shook his fist at the windows. Then he doubled up over the pommel of his saddle.
The battle-cry once more. And Chico Renterias and his men galloped again through the wide gaps between
the houses that were blocks of silver.
They rode again to join their allies, the cactus legions, which moved toward them and then turned to march with them.
There were thirty-two of them in the saddle and seven of these were wounded. As they reached the edge of the hills one of the wounded, hit in the final volley, cursed volubly and fell out of his saddle. His hand clutched the reins of his mount even as he died.
There was gray and green in a smudge on the eastern sky. Far behind was a friendly glimmer of light.
El Humoristo found himself shivering and frightened. He wrapped his sarape high on his shoulders. He wondered why he had pulled his horse aside to avoid trampling on the man he had killed.
In his mouth was a dry, fetid taste. His body was tired and jumpy. He felt all the symptoms of a morning after a night of dissipation. He was very sleepy.
NO COUNTRY FOR A WOMAN
In Mexico it is a fair rule to believe that which is utterly unbelievable. Who would ever expect the British consul, the French consul and the German consul to look exactly like a British consul, a French consul and a German consul?
Yet there could be no mistaking them about the wicker tables on the wide, cool flagging of the Foreign Club patio. They looked as if they had been turned out by a theatrical producer of sure-fire types.
His Majesty’s representative was just a trifle too squiffed for that hour of the morning to be British according to the best tradition of the empire. Otherwise there was the drooping, ash-colored mustache, the proper monocle stare, the listless, bored attitude and—yes, he actually said : “By Jove!” He wore a gardenia button-hole.
The Frenchman had a vandyke, excited gestures, a Prince Albert and a silk hat. The German wore tropical whites, that fitted him like a uniform, and a pith helmet. His hair was clipped. There was an ugly scar across his forehead. It split the right eyebrow.
The German consul glowered villainously at the gringos who dropped in. The gringos were always making trouble. He again addressed himself to the federalista officers he had brought into the club. Bringing them in was a breach of manners.
The high, yellow-stained skylight helped the stagey illusion. To the right of the big room was a shadowy alcove, in which was set a miniature bar. To the left a long room, littered with strange journals from all over the world. The main room, with the cool, stone flagging, the soft, yellow light and the lazy, wicker chairs, was the favorite.
It was unbelievable, too, to learn that there was a bowling club in this idyllic retreat. It had been bought in by a speculative member at an auction on the border. He had worked for its installation at the Foreign Club with a vigor that could be displayed only by one who would buy a bowling alley at auction. Languid lack of energy on the part of other members finally achieved the solecism. After the first week not a bowling ball had jarred the serenity of the club atmosphere.
It was the first-drink time and a sacred hour. Nothing must be allowed to interrupt this ceremony. The excitement of the city, waiting for a rebel attack, did not penetrate the amber-flooded clubroom. Nor did the heat that stifled the town reach through the big, wooden door that opened flush on the street walk.
The Night Watch, Chihuahua
There were half a dozen Americans in the room. They were not the breezy type to be expected by a follower of adventurous fiction. They were big, lean, and lazy. All over forty except one, who had just made his way into the city. All with rambling whiskers or queer mustaches. All old-timers, mining men and cattle men.
They were marking time luxuriously. No mines were operating. Successive revolutions had wiped out the great herds. They awaited a quieter time.
It was dangerous to be an Americano just then. They made no heroism of the fact that they remained in time of danger. They were not being brave. They were merely more comfortable than they could be on the safer side of the border.
When the time came—the hour when delay meant death—they would go. Meanwhile, they were content.
They had learned the ease of life—the gentle languor of living that comes in fierce suns and shadowy, jasmina-scented patios.
They slouched in the lazy, wicker chairs. There was a soothing tinkle of glass and ice from the little bar. A Chino boy brought drinks to the tables. The British consul had brandy and soda. For the others, highballs and gin rickeys. Fresh limes brought a moment’s wave of excitement for the group. They relapsed again.
There had been some rioting in the city last night. Still a stronghold for Don Pancha, despite the federalista garrison. A fire in the market place, too. Some one had told the bell-ringer in the cathedral to sound the alarm. And had forgotten to tell him to stop. All night long that silly clanging. On that bell that had been cracked by a stray shot in the revolution of—well, whichever revolution it was in which the bell had been cracked.
Bad enough to have the sentries shooting all night at shadows. And the night watch singing weird messages. A man got used to those things. Couldn’t sleep without ‘em, as a matter of fact. But crazy bell-ringing on a cracked bell!
The border still seemed all worked up about its own lies. If those fellows would listen to the truth things might be different. Yelling for an army of occupation! Mexican treachery——
They talked calmly of the latest revolution and the value of federalista currency. Theirs was the professional talk of veterans.
Any news from San Ysabel way? The man who asked the question took cover behind the long glass that held his drink. The others just looked at him. An uncomfortable question. Of course, there was no news. They didn’t have to use words to say it. It had been three weeks since the young Scot, Rattray, left to see what harm the raiders had done to the mine for which he was responsible. He should have been back a week ago. Rattray was altogether too young and impulsive. It was a shame that he had brought his young wife in—it was no country for a woman——
The eyes at the table went to the British consul and an American they called “Pop” Andrews. The consul and “Pop” drank very slowly.
Next week? Quien sabe? Who knew? They might all be elsewhere. Damn these patriots, anyway! It had all been so comfortable and pleasant before the revolutionists—
The sun, reaching its full height, made glittering topaz of the high sky-light. Its amber-filtered rays cut deep lines into the faces of the men who sat and drank and gossiped. Faces sculptured by hardship.
The siesta hour. Their senses were drowsy. Being foreigners, they would not admit that they had acquired the siesta habit. Even though each knew the other was hardly able to keep awake until he reached his couch. It was as though they had become shamed drug-users who wished to keep their vice a secret. Such was the way of national pride, rampant over an hour’s sleep at mid-day.
Empty excuses and pretense of business errands at an hour when no business was transacted. One by one they left——
In the street the drowsy warmth of the sun, a hushing lullaby of light. Sleeping figures stretched in the colored shadows of the market place. Others on benches in the plaza. Mozos drooping wearily at the doorways to fairy patios. A horse sleeping between the shafts of an ancient victoria, his driver drowsing in the customer’s cushioned seat.
A sentry at the federal building asleep on his haunches, leaning on his rifle. A porter draped over a huge crate he was delivering and which he had eased from his shoulders when the siesta hour overtook him.
A whole city asleep under the kindly spell of a pleasant wizard.
Across the street from Don Felipe’s reclaimed home a recognized spy leaned in a shadow-filled doorway. He may have been only pretending to sleep.
Inside the patio a little fountain sang a slumber song. The scented fingers of flowers softly brushed the eye-lids. One side of the patio was under a balcony. Here were reed furniture and bright cushions. Especially a couch. A fringed punkah hung over the couch. It should have been waving to the time of an attending mozo’s arm. The mozo was asleep.
The patio—the mine of the Mexican’s ha
ppiness; the always-generous mine filled with the gold of the sun or the silver of the moon. He has no word for home. But he has “patio.”
The doors opening on the patio were so contrived that the upper half could be opened alone. This made an oblong of reflected light when one was stretched on a couch inside the cool, tall rooms, always in half shadows. There was the fresh, sweet smell of the earthen water-bottle just inside the door——
The scent of jasmina—the song of the fountain—the caressing hands of the heat—a migrant, solacing breath of breeze——
At second-drink time the foreigners were back in their club. There were more white clothes. Only the German wore a helmet, though. The others had Stetsons. Except the British consul, who wore a Picadilly convention. He was not so squiffy. And the Frenchman, who still dared the sun with the official high hat.
As the Chino boy brought the ceremonial drink, eyes went again to “Pop” Andrews and the British consul. They looked at each other. They had a duty to perform. Each afternoon two of the club members made a little pilgrimage. Today it was their turn. They lingered a long time over their drinks before they left.
They walked across the plaza without words. And turned into a calle where there was a house of faded vermillion. The patio was a jungle tapestry into which had been woven the fanciful figures of tropical birds. This patio had been made into an aviary. At times it was a noisy one——
From one of the tall doors came a young woman. Her body was slight. The heat had not taken the true color from her face yet. Rather, it had heightened it with touches of hectic red under the eyes. Her gray eyes had in them the silent sorrow of brave women who suffer. They went quickly to the eyes of her visitors and read them. She read no definitely bad news, at any rate.
This was Mrs. Rattray, whose young husband had gone three weeks before to the mine at San Ysabel—whose husband should have returned a week ago. She smiled, all except her eyes.
The Little Tigress: Tales out of the Dust of Old Mexico Page 12