Last Train from Cuernavaca (28 page)

Rico bore little resemblance to the cavalry officer he once had been. He was dirty and bearded. His clothes were torn and filthy. He wore his cartridge belt slung bandolier-style across his chest like any rebel or bandit. The brilliant light of the full moon didn't improve Rico's appearance, but it made Grullo's silver-gray coat glow until he looked supernatural.

The direct route to Ayala took Rico dangerously close to Tres Marías, but he was in no mood to waste time with a detour. With the moon this bright he could travel the winding sometimes-cobblestone road at night. Once he was south of Cuernavaca he would be in Zapata's home district. Running into Rubio's troops there would be even less likely than meeting a night patrol here. The
federales
conscripted so many
indios
as cannon fodder that they gave Rico at least one advantage. The
indios
firmly believed that witches, ghosts, shape-takers, and demons held dominion over the night, even one as brightly lit as this one.

At first Rico thought the distant explosions were thunder, but the moon still shimmered in a clear sky. Rico had heard many explosions in his year of patrolling the rails, but this was bigger than any of them. He assumed the blasts came from the train tracks. Nothing else in these mountains merited blowing up.

He headed for a vantage point where he could see the tracks. Soon he could follow the glow in the sky. By the time he found an overlook, soldiers from the barracks were searching for survivors in the wreckage of the last freight car that had advanced only halfway out onto the trestle. Judging from the blanket-shrouded bodies laid out in a line in the moonlight, they weren't recovering many. Rico figured most of the casualties were conscripts. The dead among them all would be dumped into a hastily dug trench. The Army did not consider rank-and-file corpses worth the bother of identifying.

The
indios
probably had been transported from the northern states. Their faraway loved ones might never know what had become of them. Rico took off his hat and prayed for their souls.

From this height he could see the extent of the damage. The trestle ended in splinters about a third of the way across the canyon. What remained was on fire. The engine and wood tender had run off into the abyss and lay on their sides among the boulders in the river eight hundred feet down. The passenger and freight cars were stove in, burning, and hanging cantilevered out into thin air. The wind carried the smell of charred wood, blood, and cordite.

Rico wondered if Hanibal, the engineer, had been in the engine's cab tonight. If so, he almost certainly lay at the bottom of the canyon with his beloved
elefante,
the locomotive.

The rebels' homemade explosives could not have caused this much destruction. They must have used dynamite. He wondered who had done it. The usual suspects would include Lieutenant Angel's men, but Mother Merced said they were on their way to Ayala. With Grace.

Rico wanted to help the wounded, but if he went down there the soldiers would open fire. All of them would want to collect the five-hundred-
peso
reward that Rubio had offered. Hell, any wounded survivors able to pick up a gun would try to shoot him.

His reasoning eased the conscience that knew the truth. He was relieved to have an excuse to continue on toward Ayala.

 

Rico had a long way to ride, but at dawn he could not pass up the hot spring bubbling up in a natural pool among the rocks. He didn't know if he would have another chance to make himself a bit more presentable for his reunion with Grace.

He turned Grullo loose to graze on the grass, lush and hip-high from the summer's rains. He leaned his rifle against the trunk of a nearby cedar and laid his gun belt and Colts on the rock rim of the spring. He undressed and climbed into the hot water.

He rinsed out his shirt, socks, and underwear and spread them to dry on the rocks. He laid his head against the rim, closed his eyes, and let the sun warm his face. It glowed behind the translucent lids of his eyes and filled his head with light. The warmth of the water took him back to Grace's rooms and the times they had shared the big bathtub there.

The clatter and slam of a rifle bolt jerked him out of his revery. He grabbed his Colts, but saw more than one muzzle glinting among the boulders above him. All of them pointed in his direction.

“Do not be stupid, friend.” A woman sat astride a big mule. The butt of her Remington rested on her thigh. The rifle barrels withdrew and a few minutes later twenty-three more women rode up behind her.

Rico didn't have to be introduced to know who she was. People in this district called her
La Gata,
The Cat. When fighters in the rebel forces were killed, their women usually set up house keeping with other men. Some widows, however, chose to become combatants themselves.
La Gata
and her followers had decided to avenge their men.

Their definition of revenge included stealing from the rich whenever they had the chance. For the most part they dressed in the same khaki pants and shirts as the men, but each one accessorized in her own way. A few of them carried parasols. Others wore skimmers, boaters, and merry widow hats adorned with plumes and enough flowers for an arboretum.

They had on an assortment of army boots and patent-leather shoes, silk scarves, and at least one feather boa. All of that was topped with bandoliers and cartridge belts. The variety of their weapons went from
La Gata
's rolling block rifle with a pistol grip stock to a flintlock pistol that must have belonged to someone's great-great-grandfather.

Still sitting in the water, Rico reached for his trousers. A bullet from
La Gata
's Remington richocheted off the pool's rim.

“We like you better as God created you.” She stood in the stirrups to assess his equipment.

The women debated whether to shoot him or make a slave of him, but all of them agreed that they would take his money.

“I have no money,” he said.

“You have a fine horse,
cabrón
.”

“You can't take him.”

La Gata
laughed so hard her breasts jounced on either side of her bandoliers like children at piñata party. “And who will stop me?”

“I will.” The voice was accompanied by a breech bolt slamming home.

The young man sat on a ledge with his legs dangling, his sombrero pushed back on his head. His Winchester rested on his thigh as though he knew he could shoot
La Gata
without the effort of lifting it.

“He belongs to us, Angel,” shouted
La Gata
.

“General Zapata would not approve of wasting a healthy young fellow hauling wood and servicing a flock of whores.”

More men appeared and stood on the outcrops around Angel.

La Gata
hadn't survived this long by giving in easily. “Maybe Zapata prefers to have us beauties fight alongside him than a gang of smelly
pendejos
like you.”

“We will take him.”

“And may he bring you bad luck.”
La Gata
also knew when she was bested. “We've no use for his little thing anyway. It's the size of a rooster's.”

Rico opened his mouth to dispute that, thought better of it, and closed it again.

La Gata
spat in Rico's direction, then reined her horse around and rode away with her women following.

Rico's shirt was only damp now. He used it to dry off before he pulled on his leather trousers.

“I would say his thing is bigger than a rooster's,” Angel observed to his men. “It's at least as big as a goose's.”

Rico put on his shirt and vest and picked up his weapons. Nothing Angel said could bother him. He was a happy man.

He had found Lieutenant Angel, or to be exact, Lieutenant Angel had found him. Grace must be camped with the women of the band somewhere close by.

Rico held on to Grullo's reins and waited for the rebels to converge on him in a shower of gravel. Angel hooked a khaki-clad leg over the saddle's pommel and pointed the Winchester in his general direction.

“I recognize you,” Angel said. “You're one of Fatso's bastards.”

“Fatso would rather hang me than you.”

“That's right,” Angel said. “I hear Fatso is offering a reward.”

Rico wasn't worried much. He doubted that Angel would ride to Rubio's headquarters and demand the five hundred
pesos.

“I'm looking for an Englishwoman,” he said. “Her name is Grace Knight. People say she rides with you.”

“We know nothing of an Englishwoman.” Angel turned to his partners in crime. “Shall we hang him or let him go free to search for his
gringa
?”

They gathered for a conference. The jury did not deliberate long.

Angel turned back to Rico. “They vote to hang you.”

Grace worried too much about José to sleep much. She heard the bell on the front door jangle just after dawn. Whoever wanted in was insistent.

Tradesmen went to the back door and the hour was too early for train arrivals. Grace herself wouldn't leave for the station for two hours to go to Mexico City to see President Huerta. She dressed quickly and hurried downstairs.

Leobardo looked worried. “They say they are policemen and they have a warrant to search for contraband.”

He stood aside so Grace could peer through the barred window in the door. The five men standing outside did have on the blue jackets and khaki trousers of Cuernavaca's police force, but something about them looked amiss. The city's policemen took great pride in their appearance. Their uniforms were always starched, pressed, and tailored. Their white gloves were pristine.

These men's trousers had horizontal creases above the knees where they had hung drying over a line. The men's smiles fit them as badly as the jackets. Grace suspected they had snagged the clothes from a laundress. The police didn't hang their service pistols out to dry, which made them less accessible. These men were trying to hide their machetes behind their backs.

One of them held up a smudged paper with a red wax seal in the lower left-hand corner.

“¿Qué pasa?”
Socrates joined Grace and Leobardo.

“They say they have an order to search the Colonial.”

“Banditos.”
Socrates sized them up with a glance. “
Asesinos. Sinvergüenzas.
Assassins. Shameless ones.”

What irked Grace most was that the thieves thought her stupid enough to fall for their ruse.

When the doors didn't swing open, the leader of the gang shouted threats. Grace knew a woman's voice would carry little authority for the likes of them. She turned to ask Socrates to tell them to go away, but he had disappeared. Muttering a few expletives of her own, she started off to look for him. Halfway across the courtyard she saw him trotting toward her with her shotgun in his hand.

“You can't shoot them.” Grace did not want corpses piled up at the door and a mob of real policemen clogging the lobby. She imagined reams of official forms to fill out. “You might hit an innocent passerby.”

“Don't worry,
Mamacita.
”

When the men heard Socrates pump the shotgun they started backing away. He poked the muzzle between the window's bars, aimed slightly over their heads, and fired. The blast would have riffled their hair if it hadn't been plastered down with handfuls of grease. They skulked off shouting promises to return with the army.

“I doubt that,” Grace muttered. What was left of the federal army in Cuernavaca rarely left their barracks.

“Shall I open the doors,
Mamacita
?” Leobardo put a hand on the rope that lifted the big beam from across the massive gates.

Leobardo's first official act each morning was to open the doors wide. Masses of crimson bougainvillea framed the doorway and the splashing fountain and luxuriant greenery in the cool courtyard beyond the entryway. The open doors were more than a ploy to lure in travelers. Grace considered them her contribution to the beauty of Cuernavaca.

She had a subtler reason for wanting them open. She never lost hope that Rico would find his way back to her, in spite of all Rubio's threats. She feared if he did return and found the doors closed, he would assume she had left the city, and would turn away.

Grace looked through the barred window. The area was clear except for the men sweeping the plaza with their big push brooms. She nodded to Leobardo to raise the beam and open the doors. Lyda, Annie, and Jake McGuire were the first to walk through them.

Annie's eyes were still red from crying over José. Lyda looked ashen. Grace wondered what news could possibly be worse than Rico threatened with execution and José sent into exile.

“What's happened?”

Jake took off his Stetson, ran his long, knobby fingers through his hair. “Zapata's rabble has blown up the troop train.”

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Grace.

“I don't know. The lines are all down. I just heard it from someone who rode down from Tres Marías last night.”

“They've killed Socorro's
papi
and the other poor prisoners,” sobbed Annie. “They've blown them up.”

Lyda tried to reassure her. “We don't know that.”

“The rebels have damaged the tracks before,” said Grace.

“Not like this. I hear the main trestle's destroyed. I'm putting together a convoy to take the company's executives and their families to Em Cee. We have horses, mules, a truck, and a Gatling gun. You and Lyda and the young 'un can come with us.”

“I thank you for the offer, Mr. McGuire, but I cannot leave the Colonial.”

“Miss Grace, I'm all for loyalty and commerce. But the time has come to pack your possibles, kick out the cook fire, and decamp.”

“I won't leave my staff.”

“Hell, they'll be the ones sacking the place as soon as your heels clear the lintel.”

“They will not!”

Jake was a good fellow at heart and a droll one, but he had that pernicious American sense of superiority over Mexicans, and everyone else for that matter.

Grace had to admit that she didn't have complete confidence in the people of her adopted country either. She assumed that if she abandoned the Colonial, the local folk would swarm in. They would smash what they could not steal and set fire to the rest. The fact that her staff believed the same thing didn't make her feel any less hypocritical.

Grace didn't expect Jake to understand her reluctance to leave. He was a wildcatter for the oil company. He moved from place to place and felt beholden to nowhere. His job was to destroy the landscape, and he did it with matter-of-fact efficiency. But Grace tried to explain herself anyway.

“We have guests staying here,” she said. “And army officers.”

“If the guests are smart they'll come with us. The soldiers can fend for themselves.”

“My mind is made up, Mr. McGuire. Thank you all the same.”

“Well then, Lyda May, pack your things and Annie's. I'll meet you at the house in an hour. You two can ride Duke.”

Annie crossed her arms and planted her feet. “I won't leave without Aunt Grace.”

Lyda tucked her wild blond hair behind her ears, stood behind her daughter, and put her arms around her. “We'll stay here a while longer.”

Jake blew out his breath in exasperation. “I have to get those starched collars to Em Cee. As soon as they're safely stowed, I'll come back and help you circle the wagons and hold off the hostiles.”

Grace smiled at him. He was gallant in his own thorny, Texas way.

“What do you ladies have in the way of firepower?” he asked.

Grace retrieved the Winchester Ninety-Seven pump shotgun and boxes of ammunition. She had had the gunsmith cut the barrel down to her specifications. Antonio Perez had told her that if she didn't mind ruining the plaster on the wall, this was the best weapon to keep under the bed. “Just point it in the general direction and squeeze the trigger.”

Jake hefted it, inspected it, then nodded and gave it back. “Will you use this should the occasion arise, Mrs. Knight?”

“I will.”

Jake gave Lyda a quick kiss on the forehead and patted Annie on the head.

His bashfulness about kissing in public amused Grace. For all his bravado, she suspected Jake McGuire had a streak of shyness where women were concerned. Lyda agreed. She once had observed to Grace that cowboys only feared two things: being set afoot, and a good woman.

Jake put three fingertips to the brim of his Stetson and gave them a flick that was part salute, part wave. He swiveled on the tall heels of his cowboy boots and left. Grace and Lyda stood in the doorway and watched him walk across the zócalo. They both liked to watch long, lanky Jake walk. Annie said he looked like he had a pair of stilts in the legs of his dungarees.

Annie headed for the kitchen to see what María had prepared for breakfast.

When she was out of hearing, Grace said, “You and Annie should go with him, Lyda.”

“The Colonial weathered the 1910 uprising. We can wait this one out.”

“This is different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Zapata has vowed to keep on fighting, no matter what.”

“Maybe Zapata could be president.”

Grace shook her head. “Too many men with ambition and no conscience are arrayed against him. He will always be an ignorant
indio
to those in power.”

Annie returned peeling a banana and Grace changed the subject.

“Jake does have a point,” Grace said. “Maybe the time has come to circle the wagons, as they say in the moving pictures. You and Annie should stay here. Goodness knows, we have room.”

“What about Duke?”

“Bring your horse, too. He can keep the hotel mule company.”

Annie and Lyda exchanged looks.

“He'll be safe,” said Grace. “Socrates sleeps in the stable.”

“Duke won't come down,” said Annie.

“Down from where?”

“My bedroom.” Annie rushed to assure Grace that they hadn't put Duke in solitary confinement. “The landlady loaned us her goat to keep him company.”

“We think they're in love,” said Lyda.

“Annie, your bedroom is on the second floor. What's he doing up there?”

“We didn't want anyone to eat him. We don't want anyone to eat the goat either.”