Chapter VIII The Five Musketeers
The Casa Grande of La Cadena had been sacked, of course, by Che Che Campa the year before. In the patio were corraled the officers’ horses. We slept on the tiled floors of the rooms surrounding it. In the sala of the owner, once barbarically decorated, pegs were driven into the walls to hang saddles and bridles on, rifles and sabers were stacked against the wall, and dirty blanket-rolls lay flung into the corner. At night a fire of corn-cobs was built in the middle of the floor, and we squatted around it, while Apolinario and fourteen-year-old Gil Tomas, who was once a colorado, told stories of the Bloody Three Years.
“At the taking of Durango,” said Apolinario, “I was of the gente of Captain Borunda; he that they call the Matador, because he always shoots his prisoners. But when Urbina took Durango there weren’t many prisoners. So Borunda, thirsty for blood, made the rounds of all the saloons. And in every one he would pick out some unarmed man and ask him if he were a Federal. ‘No, señor,’ the man would say. ‘You deserve death because you have not told the truth!’ yelled Borunda, pulling his gun. Bang!”
We all laughed heartily at this.
“That reminds me,” broke in Gil, “of the time I fought with Rojas in Orozco’s—(cursed be his mother!)—Revolucion. An old Porfirista officer deserted to our side, and Orozco sent him out to teach the colorados (animals!) how to drill. There was one droll fellow in our company. Oh! he had a fine sense of humor. He pretended he was too stupid to learn the manual of arms. So this cursed old Huertista—(may he fry in hell!)—made him drill alone.
“‘Shoulder arms!’ The companero did it all right.
“‘Present arms!’ Perfectly.
“‘Port arms!’ He acted like he didn’t know how, so the old fool went around and took hold of the rifle.
“‘This way!’ says he, pulling on it.
“‘Oh!’ says the fellow, ‘that way!’ And he let him have the bayonet right in the chest....”
After that Fernando Silveyra, the paymaster, recounted a few anecdotes of the curas, or priests, that sounded exactly like Touraine in the thirteenth century, or the feudal rights of landlords over their women tenants before the French Revolution. Fernando ought to have known, too, for he was brought up for the Church. There must have been about twenty of us sitting around that fire, all the way from the most miserably poor peon in the Tropa up to First Captain Longinos Güereca. There wasn’t one of these men who had any religion at all, although once they had all been strict Catholics. But three years of war have taught the Mexican people many things. There will never be another Porfirio Diaz; there will never be another Orozco Revolution; and the Catholic Church in Mexico will never again be the voice of God.
Then Juan Santillanes, a twenty-two-year-old subteniente, who seriously informed me that he was descended from the great Spanish hero, Gil Blas, piped up the ancient disreputable ditty, which begins:
“I am Count Oliveros
Of the Spanish artillery....”
Juan proudly displayed four bullet wounds. He had killed a few defenseless prisoners with his own gun, he said; giving promise of growing up to be muy matador (a great killer) some day. He boasted of being the strongest and bravest man in the army. His idea of humor seemed to be breaking eggs into the pocket of my coat. Juan was very young for his years, but very likable.
But the best friend I had beside ‘Gino Güereca was Subteniente Luis Martinez. They called him “Gachupine”—the contemptuous name for Spaniards—because he might have stepped out of a portrait of some noble Spanish youth by Greco. Luis was pure race—sensitive, gay and high-spirited. He was only twenty, and had never been in battle. Around the contour of his face was a faint black beard.
He fingered it, grinning. “Nicanor and I made a bet that we wouldn’t shave until we took Torreon....”
Luis and I slept in different rooms. But at night, when the fire had gone out and the rest of the fellows were snoring, we sat at each other’s blankets—one night in his cuartel, the one next to mine—talking about the world, our girls, and what we were going to be and to do when we really got at it. When the war was over, Luis was coming to the United States to visit me; and then we were both coming back to Durango City to visit the Martinez family. He showed me the photograph of a little baby, proudly boasting that he was an uncle already. “What will you do when the bullets begin to fly?” I asked him.
“Quien sabe?” he laughed. “I guess I’ll run!”
It was late. The sentinel at the door had long since gone to sleep. “Don’t go,” said Luis, grabbing my coat. “Let’s gossip a little longer....”
‘Gino, Juan Santillanes, Silveyra, Luis, Juan Vallejo and I rode up the arroyo to bathe in a pool that was rumored to be there. It was a scorched river bed filled with white-hot sand, rimmed with dense mesquite and cactus. Every kilometer the hidden river showed itself for a little space, only to disappear at a crackling white rim of alkali. First came the horse pool, the troopers and their wretched ponies gathered around it; one or two squatting on the rim, scooping water up against the animals’ sides with calabashes.... Above them kneeled the women at their eternal laundry on the stones. Beyond that the ancient path from the hacienda cut across, where the never-ending line of black-shawled women moved with water-jars on their heads. Still farther up were women bathers, wrapped round and round with yards of pale blue or white cotton, and naked brown babies splashing in the shallows. And, last of all, naked brown men, with sombreros on and bright-colored serapes draped over their shoulders, smoked their hojas, squatting on the rocks. We flushed a coyote up there, and scrambled steeply up to the desert, pulling at our revolvers. There he went! We spurred into the chaparral on the dead run, shooting and yelling. But of course he got away. And later, much later, we found the mythical pool—a cool, deep basin worn in the solid rock, with green weeds growing on the bottom.
When we got back, ‘Gino Güereca became greatly excited, because his new tordillo horse had come from Bruquilla—a four-year-old stallion that his father had raised for him to ride at the head of his company.
“If he is dangerous,” announced Juan Santillanes, as we hurried out, “I want to ride him first. I love to subdue dangerous horses!”
A mighty cloud of yellow dust filled all the corral, rising high into the still air. Through it appeared the dim chaotic shapes of many running horses. Their hoofs made dull thunder. Men were vaguely visible, all braced legs and swinging arms, handkerchiefs bound over their faces; wide-spreading rope coils lifted, circling. The big gray felt the loop tighten on his neck. He trumpeted and plunged; the vaquero twisted the rope around his hip, lying back almost to the ground, feet plowing the dirt. Another noose gripped the horse’s hind legs—and he was down. They put a saddle on him and a rope halter.
“Want to ride him, Juanito?” grinned ‘Gino.
“After you,” answered Juan with dignity. “He’s your horse....”
But Juan Vallejo already was astride, shouting to them to loose the ropes. With a sort of squealing roar, the tordillo struggled up, and the earth trembled to his furious fight.
We dined in the ancient kitchen of the hacienda, sitting on stools around a packing box. The ceiling was a rich, greasy brown, from the smoke of generations of meals. One entire end of the room was taken up by immense adobe stoves, ovens, and fireplaces, with four or five ancient crones bending over them, stirring pots and turning tortillas. The fire was our only light, flickering strangely over the old women; lighting up the black wall, up which the smoke fled, to wreathe around the ceiling and finally pour from the window. There were Colonel Petronilo, his mistress, a strangely beautiful peasant woman with a pock-marked face, who always seemed to be laughing to herself about something; Don Tomas, Luis Martinez, Colonel Redondo, Major Salazar, Nicanor, and I. The Colonel’s mistress seemed uncomfortable at the table; for a Mexican peasant woman is a servant in her house. But Don Petronilo always treated her as if she were a great lady.
Redondo had just been telling me about the girl he was going to marry. He showed me her picture. She was even then on her way to Chihuahua to get her wedding dress. “As soon as we take Torreon,” he said.
“Oiga, señor!” Salazar touched me on the arm. “I have found out who you are. You are an agent of American business men who have vast interests in Mexico. I know all about American business. You are an agent of the trusts. You come down here to spy upon the movement of our troops, and then you will secretly send them word. Is it not true?”
“How could I secretly send anybody any word from here?” I asked. “We’re four days’ hard ride from a telegraph line.”
“Ah, I know,” he grinned cunningly, wabbling a finger at me. “I know many things; I have much in the head.” He was standing up now. The Major suffered badly from gout; his legs were wrapped in yards and yards of woolen bandages, which made them look like tamales. “I know all about business. I have studied much in my youth. These American trusts are invading Mexico to rob the Mexican people——”
“You’re mistaken, Major,” interrupted Don Petronilo sharply. “This señor is my friend and my guest.”
“Listen, mi Coronel,” Salazar burst out with unexpected violence. “This señor is a spy. All Americans are Porfiristas and Huertistas. Take this warning before it is too late. I have much in the head. I am a very smart man. Take this Gringo out and shoot him—at once. Or you will regret it.”
A clamor of voices burst out all together from the others, but it was interrupted by another sound—a shot, and then another, and men shouting.
Came a trooper running. “Mutiny in the ranks!” he cried. “They won’t obey orders!”
“Who won’t?” snapped Don Petronilo.
“The gente of Salazar!”
“Bad people!” exclaimed Nicanor as we ran. “They were colorados captured when we took Torreon. Joined us so we wouldn’t kill ’em. Ordered out tonight to guard the Puerta!”
“Till to-morrow,” said Salazar at this point, “I’m going to bed!”
The peons’ houses at La Cadena, where the troops were quartered, enclosed a great square, like a walled town. There were two gates. At one we forced our way through a mob of women and peons fighting to get out. Inside, there were dim lights from doorways, and three or four little fires in the open air. A bunch of frightened horses crowded one another in a corner. Men ran wildly in and out of their cuartels, with rifles in their hands. In the center of the open space stood a group of about fifty men, mostly armed, as if to repel an attack.
“Guard those gates!” cried the Colonel. “Don’t let anybody out without an order from me!” The running troops began to mass at the gates. Don Petronilo walked out alone into the middle of the square.
“What’s the trouble, compañeros?” he asked quietly.
“They were going to kill us all!” yelled somebody from the darkness. “They wanted to escape! They were going to betray us to the colorados!”
“It’s a lie!” cried those in the center. “We are not Don Petronilo’s gente! Our jefe is Manuel Arrieta!”
Suddenly Longinos Güereca, unarmed, flashed by us and fell upon them furiously, wrenching away their rifles and throwing them far behind. For a moment it looked as if the rebels would turn on him, but they did not resist.
“Disarm them!” ordered Don Petronilo. “And lock them up!”
They herded the prisoners into one large room, with an armed guard at the door. And long after midnight I could hear them hilariously singing.
That left Don Petronilo with a hundred effectives, some extra horses with running sores on their backs, and two thousand rounds of ammunition, more or less. Salazar took himself off in the morning, after recommending that all his gente be shot; he was evidently greatly relieved to be rid of them. Juan Santillanes was in favor of execution, too. But Don Petronilo decided to send them to General Urbina for trial.