by John Horst
“Alonzo, I need to learn about your weaponry.”
He looked up at her, regarding her and the question. “For what purpose?”
“The revolution. I’m going to fight in the revolution, on the side of Zapata, of course. I need to know about your weaponry. You might, we might, I’m an American as well as a Mexican, we might be sending weaponry down from the north and it might be used against the revolutionaries, and I need to know what we’re up against.”
“Do you think I’d look better in prison stripes?” He once again glanced down and regarded his great chevrons.
“You’re already in prison,” she moved her eyes over his desk full of paperwork, “what would be the difference?”
“There would be, trust me, there would be.”
“Do you think our rifles, the Springfields are better than the Mausers?”
“No, neither better nor worse. The same.” He stood up and Marta thought that she’d gone too far. She thought that he was going to grab her by the arm and throw her out. Instead, he put on one of those ridiculous hats Pedro wore in Nassau. It looked better on Alonzo. “Come with me.”
They rode in a little truck for a half hour and were soon at a firing range. Here and there men moped around, trying their best to look busy enough to avoid being assigned work. Several of them saw the top sergeant and began to move away. It was an interesting little dance and Marta enjoyed it. Alonzo was too wise to them, halted them and spouted orders. They jumped, just enough, not too much. Jumping to attention was only for the officers and Alonzo was the top, but he wasn’t an officer. They took heed of what he was telling them and ran away, not so much out of reverence for the man, but more in hopes of getting away from him before he could come up with more tasks for them to perform.
In short order Marta had a dozen weapons laid at her feet, from hand guns to machine guns and everything in between. She smiled when she considered the shotgun. It was just like hers and she was pleased that her mother knew so much, that her mother chose one of the guns of the US Marines.
Top Sergeant Alonzo showed them all to her in detail, taught her how they operated, what ammunition they used, each weapon’s effective range and specific purpose. He gave her particular instruction on the machinegun. She could tell it was his favorite and she almost asked him about his time in battle, wanted to know how many men he’d killed, but somehow, it didn’t seem right, appropriate, and she kept quiet on this subject.
When she thought the little lesson complete, he surprised her by scooping up the machinegun, placing it in her arms and now she cradled it like a newborn babe. He grabbed some ammunition and the gun’s tripod and instructed her to follow.
With great precision and purpose, he assembled the gun in a field. Off in a distance some targets could be seen, lined up, shoulder to shoulder, white pasteboard representations of human beings, a couple of feet apart from each other. He checked the gun out and was satisfied that he’d assembled it properly, handed her cotton for her ears and beckoned her to sit beside him.
“Now, the trick with this weapon is to not shoot too fast. The barrel will burn up, and then it won’t do you any good.
She paid attention, nodded and comprehended. She leaned close and put a hand on one of his chevron covered biceps. “I see, Alonzo.”
He racked the first round in the chamber by pulling the swinging arm down under the barrel and checked the range. “Point blank up to one hundred fifty yard, then you fix the sights according to the range of your target here. Make sure there’s nothing under the barrel when you set up, or the operating arm will dig into the ground. That’s why they call it a potato digger.”
“I see.”
“Don’t just hold the trigger down. Like I said, you’ll burn up the barrel. And besides, you’ll miss much more than you’ll hit.” He pointed down to the targets. “See ‘em? First mistake is to press on the trigger and roll along from left to right. The gun’ll rise. You might hit the first one, but the rest’ll get away, you’ll just be sending rounds over their heads. “Little bursts. That’s what’s wanted. And always, focus on the front sight.”
He demonstrated to her, bap, bap, bap, he moved to the second target, bap, bap, bap, moved to the third and so on. He showed her his work and all targets were hit, as he planned, three rounds in each, all fatal. “If you’re loaded with Dum Dum’s, they’ll need a spoon to carry what remains away.”
He was testing her a little. Wanted to see how she’d react and he was impressed.
“May I give it a try, Alonzo?”
He moved the gun and tripod a little further down range, identified three fresh targets and set her up, ready to fire. She was as a good a student as the top sergeant was an instructor, and she was soon firing with deadly effect. It was a hellish machine and Marta loved it dearly. She was very happy with the outcome. She kissed him on the cheek and he did not mind.
On the ride back she decided to ask him. “What do you think of Del Calle?”
“He’s an officer.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s an officer. I don’t mix with officers and they don’t mix with me.”
“You like him?” She cut the tip of a new Cuban for him and lit it, stuck it in his mouth as they drove. She had a cigarette. He smoked and regarded her question. She was a strange young woman sure enough. He found himself speaking without thinking.
“He’s the best officer I’ve ever known. He’s a good man.”
“Were you with him in battle?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And he did well?”
“He did well.” He looked at her. She would be good enough for him. “He’s not been himself, though.”
Marta became a little concerned. “Oh?”
“He’s been distracted.” Alonzo drew in a deep lungful of cigar smoke and blew it out, off to his left.
“Oh?”
“He’s been distracted by you.”
She got a good room in the Hotel Vera Cruz and had a bath. She smoked three Cubans while she soaked and thought about Top Sergeant Alonzo Ramirez and Captain Pedro del Calle. She was now back to square one. All the talk and worry over Curtin and the thoughts, the dreams of spinsterhood with Rebecca melted away. It was too much. She felt tingly again when she thought of Pedro. Now she had discovered for sure that he wasn’t a brush salesman, he wasn’t a phony like Curtin. She already knew really that he wasn’t. But now she learned what a good man he was, for certain, verified by Top Sergeant Alonzo. Old Alonzo wouldn’t lie. He couldn’t lie. He was a machine, a machine of the Marines, he was hard-wired to work, not lie, not let his emotions rule him and he told her, in so many words, that Del Calle was in love with her.
Now what was she to do? Would it be she who left Rebecca? Would Rebecca be the solitary creature, living out her days, caring for her bastard baby and Marta the one to live the dream, the wonderful fairytale story with her knight in shining armor? The knight wearing the big silly campaign hat? Would she become a soldier’s wife?
The military base was horrible, ugly. Everything so poor looking. The military was a terrible place to raise a family, and if the wife wasn’t in the hellish places with her husband, they’d be apart for months and months, perhaps years. She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She was so confused now. Doomed. And then another thought. How could she run the ranch and have babies and run all over the God forsaken hellish places that marines were sent? She couldn’t. What then, could she do? Women did not tell men where to live, what to do. It was the wrong way around. A woman followed her husband, helped advance her husband’s career.
Now she felt completely miserable. The ranch was where she belonged, Zapata saw and knew it, Adulio told her as much, everyone saw it. She was vital to the place, it was her home and it was what she would do, her destiny, and now the thought of having a man, any man, not just Del Calle, was likely an impossibility. Could she perhaps find one of the men on the ranch? That seemed unlikely. There were many good men there,
and Marta was no snob, but they were not educated men, they were not worldly men, not men who would match her, not remotely, intellectually, and she knew well enough she’d absolutely have to have that for a marriage to endure. She’d need an intelligent, learned man.
Her mind drifted to the night before. She regarded the scratches from the glass all over her body. She thought about what it must be like to die. To get a bullet through the brain while sleeping. What would happen? It seemed like a pretty good way to go, much less painful, likely, than most deaths, and in bed, while asleep, dreaming.
She remembered she was having a good dream when the shot awoke her. She was having a dream of being intimate with Pedro. Would she just go on dreaming when she died? Would that be heaven? Would heaven be like the best dream she ever had, and just go on and on? Would she live the dream? Would it all come together, all the hopes and wishes all be fulfilled? That would be a nice heaven to live for all eternity.
Or would she just be dead? No more dreaming, worrying, having fun, having sadness. Just a deep black void of nothingness. That didn’t seem so bad either. Maybe, like the old saying goes, all your troubles truly would be over. She didn’t know, but neither end seemed so terrible to her, and she realized now that she was not afraid to die. Bring it on, bring the worst on possible, because she was ready for it and she’d handle it, defeat it. She would endure and survive.
She felt like crying again, so often felt like crying these days, but she didn’t. The water was cold now and she was cold. She snuffed out her cigar and got moving, dried off, got dressed. She wanted to go home.
XI Rebecca’s Ride
Marta awoke and Rebecca was not in bed. It was nearly five. She looked over at her nightstand, another telegram, it read:
31° 6'N, 107° 58' 48"W
Z
She found Rebecca out by the stables, looking off into the desert, not really looking, her mind was on Curtin. She hated to disturb Rebecca but the message was just too compelling. “What do you make of this?”
Rebecca looked at it, handed it back. “Don’t know. We don’t even know who Z is. Could be Curtin, could be a trap.” She looked at Marta and then into her cup. “I’m so tired of all this, Marta. Why’s it happening, why us?” She looked tired, haggard, even old. “We’re good people, Marta. You’re the best hacendado ever. We’re moral, kind, we look out for people, why is this happening to us?”
“Because of money, darling. It’s always because of money, the greed, the expectation that money will bring a person happiness and power. This ranch is literally sitting on a gold mine. It’s black gold and gas and crops and yellow gold, probably silver too. It’s too much for an Indian to own.” She smiled and pulled back a strand of Rebecca’s hair. “I don’t know anymore, Rebecca. I don’t know if this is all worthwhile. This country, maybe it’s doomed. God played a bad trick on Mexico by putting all these riches under it. It’s all just so much fuel, fuel for the devil’s own hell fires. Perhaps all of Mexico is doomed, from back before Cortez, back when the Aztecs were so greedy and the gold had hold of them too. I just don’t think any peace and justice and freedom is ever in store for our Mexico.” She smiled but was not happy. “You know, we could go back home, go to college and live well, like a couple of princesses all our lives. We could go to Europe, leave all of North America to the scoundrels and greedy bastards. Mamma and Daddy have been in Europe for more than a year and are so happy there. We could spend a lifetime there and not experience it all. We could have such fun. We could go to Italy or Spain, anywhere south. We’d be accepted there. Some of those people are as dark as me!” She gave Rebecca a little smile. “We could not bother to ever step foot in Mexico again. I wonder.” She turned and left her sister, went back, wanted to do something, could not decide what, she’d had such a headache these last days.
Rebecca watched as Marta walked away. It was not Marta’s walk. It was a defeated walk and she didn’t like it at all. She turned and called on the groom to get her best mount ready. She went to Uncle Alejandro’s library and pulled out the most recent atlas, found the coordinates, got her guns, got a compass, and off she went.
She rode north for most of the morning, up to the far reaches of her sister’s land. It was mountainous up there and no one ever went there except to hunt late in the season. Uncle Alejandro had done some mining there many years ago, but the gold was thinly dispersed in the rock and he had no interest in using mercury or other poisons to extract it. His men had a couple of shafts dug and this is where the coordinates took Rebecca.
It was an eerie place, desolate, dusty, dry. The shaft’s entrance was foreboding, as if entering it would be like walking down into one’s own tomb, into the devil’s lair. Her keen eye discovered some recent activity as there was an abundance of fresh footprints all around. She took her shotgun and also a small flashlight which she soon discovered was not needed. There were fresh ones at the entrance. She chose one and moved ahead. At fifty feet an iron grate blocked her way. The old mine shaft was being used as a dungeon.
“Hallo?” She called down and waited, listened intently and was startled by a voice behind her. She turned to see a young man, fit and dirty and wearing a six shooter, standing at the entrance to the mine. It was his footprints, his flashlights that she had only just discovered.
“Oh, hello.”
“Miss, Walsh?” He smiled. “Sorry, ma’am didn’t expect anyone, especially you out here.”
“What are you doing out here?” She recognized him as one of the men working for the oil company. She never liked him, he was always leering at her and her sister. She absentmindedly pointed her shotgun at him and once she realized, did not change the muzzle’s angle. There was no need to be too friendly to him just now.
“Just, just checking, ah, just checking the entrance, ma’am. Been folks poking around lately, I guess trying a little prospecting.”
“There’s still gold, I understand.”
“Oh, yes ma’am. An energetic fellow might pull a few dollars a day out of it, if he worked hard enough at it, broke his back for it.” He grinned and was leering at her again. He noticed the gaping bore of the shotgun and it looked more deadly with the barrel cut down. Another gift from their mother, cut down Winchesters for their sixteenth birthday.
“That grate down there, it’s locked. Do you have a key?”
“Oh, sure, ah no.”
“Well, what is it, do you have a key or not?”
“I, err, I do, but there’s no point in you going down there, ma’am.” It was his weak attempt at forcefulness and it did not work.
“Open it.” She started heading for the grate as the man plodded along behind her. The lights from their flashlights caused shadows to dance, strangely, irregularly around them. At one point Rebecca swore she saw a man’s face on the other side. She stopped and held the light to the lock, waited for the man to catch up and turn the key. In an instant a voice cried out, from deep on the other side of the grate, a familiar voice, one with significant anxiety in its cry.
“Rebecca, watch out!” She turned in time to deflect the blow from the flashlight, pushing the man off balance. She swung her shotgun, catching him on the top of the head, dropping him as if he were pole-axed. Dan George emerged. He looked a wreck.
“Thank you, Dan.” She reached through and grabbed his hands, shook them briefly, turned and retrieved the key. She opened the lock as the man on the ground began to regain his senses. Dan George was on him, over him and in one resolute motion kicked him across the face. The bad man went limp once again.
Dan found another key in the fellow’s pocket and uncuffed himself, put the shackles on his captor and relieved the henchman of his gun and gun belt. Dan was now armed and they would not molest him again. He smiled down at Rebecca Walsh. “Darned good to see you, Rebecca, darned good to see you.” He shook her hand, then absentmindedly grabbed her up in his arms. He held her tightly and kissed her cheek.
“Is Marta alive?”
“Oh, ye
s, she’s fine, Dan. We’re all fine. We thought you were dead, but we kept getting messages that you were still alive. We worried so, Dan. We hired a detective, he lost track of you in Nuevo Casas Grandes. It was Curtin, wasn’t it?” Dan looked at her, not certain of her meaning.
“No.” He took her by the hand and brought the flashlight to bear. “Follow me.” They walked another hundred yards down the sloping corridor to an antechamber. He grabbed her by the hand and led her around a corner, held the light high, “I think this might be someone you know.”
“Robert!” She needed no prompting. He looked like hell. They beat him bloody, echoing his threat to Tolkenhorn the night before the Zapata train robbery; I’ll beat you ‘til you can’t see… and that’s what they’d done to poor Robert Curtin.
He sat up straight and leaned forward, looked at her sideways. “Hello, my darling.”
“Robert!” She hugged him gently and worried over his wounds.
“How do I look?” He grinned and his front teeth were gone. “Think it’ll leave a mark?”
“My God, what did they do to you?”
Dan interjected, “our boy up yonder, it’s a kind of pastime for him.”
“So, I guess you’re not a Jew.”
He looked up again and smiled. “What do ya have against Jews, Rebecca?”
She smiled, embarrassed, “Oh, nothing, nothing at all, got cousins who are Jews,” she blushed. “Tolkenhorn told a big story about you. Said you were a Jew, not Catholic, said you were married with two children, even showed me photos. Robert, he had one of you wearing a yarmulke.”
Curtin smiled his toothless grin. “Son of a bitch bastard. Those were my photos. Remember my friend Abe, the reporter, we called him about the turtles? He’s my friend from college. He’s a Jew, I attended his wedding. We all wore them, out of respect for his faith. And the other photos, my sister and her children. God damn that son of a bitch.”