The Underdogs (5 page)

The Federales had retreated. Demetrio was gathering all the horses that had been left behind, hidden in the Sierra.

All of a sudden Quail shouted from where he was marching out in front: he had just seen the missing comrades, hanging from the branches of a mesquite tree.

It was Serapio and Antonio. When they recognized them, Anastasio Montañés muttered a prayer between his teeth:

“Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

“Amen,” the others murmured, their heads bowed, their hats off, held tightly against their chests.

Afterward, they immediately set off along Juchipila canyon, heading north, without taking any rest at all, even though it was already well past nightfall.

Quail did not leave Anastasio's side for a single moment. The silhouettes of men hanging and swaying softly in the breeze—necks limp, arms drooping, legs rigid—would not fade from his memory.

The next day Demetrio began to complain heavily about his wound. He could no longer ride his horse. To be able to continue from there they had to improvise a stretcher out of oak branches and bundles of grass.

“You're still bleeding, compadre Demetrio,” Anastasio Montañés said. So he tore off one of the sleeves from his shirt, ripped a long strip from it, and tied it firmly around Demetrio's thigh, just above the bullet wound.

“Okay,” Venancio said. “That'll stop the bleeding and ease the pain.”

Venancio was a barber, and in his town he pulled molars and applied caustics and leeches. To a certain extent, the men looked up to him because he had read
The Wandering Jew
and
The Sun of May
.
²
He was a man of few words who was well satisfied with his own wisdom, and whom everyone called doctor.

They took turns carrying the stretcher, four at a time, through barren, rocky mesetas and along very steep slopes.

At noon, when the heat was stifling and a low-lying haze made sight uncertain, the only sounds to be heard were the measured, monotone complaints of the wounded man accompanied by the incessant singing of the cicadas.

They stopped and took their rest at every small hut they found along the way, always tucked into the craggy boulders of the Sierra.

“Thank God that there's always a compassionate soul waitin' with a big ol' bowl of chilies and frijoles!” Anastasio Montañés said, burping.

And very enthusiastically shaking the calloused hands of Demetrio Macías's men, the men from the Sierra would exclaim:

“God bless you! God help you and lead you along the road! Today you're heading out. Tomorrow, we'll run too, running from the draft, chased by those damned government criminals who have declared a war to the death on all us poor people. You know that they steal our pigs, our chickens, and even the little bit of corn that we have to eat. You know that they burn our houses and take our women. And then, wherever they track you down, right there and then they finish you off as if you was a rotten dog.”

As the sun set in a sudden blaze that imbued the sky with bright, vivid colors, they saw up ahead a handful of small, drab houses huddled together in a clearing between the bluish mountains. Demetrio had his men take him there.

They found a few very poor straw huts at the river's edge, surrounded by newly sprouted corn and frijole seedlings.

They set the stretcher down on the ground; Demetrio called out in a weak voice, asking for a drink of water.

Faded skirts, bony chests, and disheveled heads gathered in the dark mouths of the humble dwellings, while bright eyes and ruddy cheeks stayed congregated inside.

A chubby little boy with shiny dark skin went up to see the man on the stretcher. He was followed by an old woman, and then everyone else came out and surrounded Demetrio.

A very friendly girl brought a jícara
³
filled with blue water. Demetrio grabbed the gourd with his trembling hands and drank avidly.

“Want any more?”

Demetrio raised his eyes: the young woman had a very ordinary face, but her voice was filled with much sweetness.

He wiped the sweat spotting his forehead with the back of his fist, turned over to one side, and uttered weakly:

“May God bless you for this!”

Then he began to shiver so strongly that the grass bed and the legs of the stretcher started to shake as well. The fever finally made him lethargic.

“It's gettin' damp out and tha's bad for the fever,” said Señora Remigia, a barefoot, hunched-over old woman wearing a coarse cotton rag across her chest as a shirt. She invited the men to bring Demetrio into her hut.

Pancracio, Anastasio Montañés, and Quail lay down at the foot of the stretcher like loyal dogs, attentive to anything their leader might need.

The others headed out in search of food.

Señora Remigia offered them what she had: chilies and tortillas.

“Just imagine! Not long ago I had eggs, chickens, there was even a baby goat that was born here. But these damned Federales cleaned me out.”

Later, cupping her hands around her mouth, she whispered into Anastasio's ear:

“Just imagine! They even took Señora Nieves's youngest daughter!”

V

Quail opened his eyes and sat up, startled:

“Montañés, didya hear that? A gunshot! Montañés . . . wake up!”

Quail pushed Montañés hard several times, until he got him to move and stop snoring.

“Son of a ... ! You botherin' me again? I tell ya that the dead don't come back to haunt us . . .” Anastasio muttered, half awake.

“I heard a gunshot! Montañés!”

“Go to sleep, Quail, or you're gonna get it . . .”

“No, Anastasio. I'm tellin' ya this is no nightmare. I've stopped thinkin' about those men that was hung. I really heard a gunshot. I heard it nice and clear.”

“So you're sayin' ya heard a gunshot? Let's see, hand me my Mauser.”

Anastasio Montañés rubbed his eyes, lazily stretched out his arms and legs, and stood up.

They walked out of the hut. The sky was covered with sparkling stars, and a moon was rising like a thin scythe. The confused rustling of frightened women could be heard inside the small houses, as well as the sound of men who had been sleeping outside and were also waking now and grabbing their weapons.

“You idiot! You've broken my foot!”

The voice was heard clearly and distinctly nearby.

“Who goes there?”

The sound echoed from boulder to boulder, from hill crest to hill dale, until it was lost in the distance and silence of the night.

“Who goes there?” Anastasio repeated in a louder voice, cocking the bolt of his Mauser.

“I'm with Demetrio Macías!” the answer came from close by.

“It's Pancracio!” Quail said, relieved. Then, no longer concerned, he rested the butt of his rifle on the ground.

Pancracio was leading a young fellow covered entirely in dirt, from his American felt hat down to his worn-out, clumsy shoes. He had a fresh stain of blood on one of the legs of his trousers, near his foot.

“Who's this
curro
?”
¹
Anastasio asked.

“There I am, keeping guard, when I hears a sound in the bushes, so I shout: ‘Who goes there?' And this guy answers: 'Carranzo.'
²
So I think, ‘Carranzo, I don't know no bird with no name like that.' So I say, here goes your Carranzo, and I filled one of his legs with lead.”

Pancracio smiled and looked around with his beardless face, waiting for his applause.

At that point the unknown man spoke:

“Who is the leader here?”

Anastasio raised his head proudly, facing him.

The young man lowered his voice a bit.

“Well, I too am a revolutionary. The Federales grabbed me in one of their levies, and I joined their files. But in the battle the day before yesterday I was able to desert, and I have come, on foot, looking for your group.”

“Oh, he's a Federale!” said a number of men in response, looking at him with wonder.

“Oh, he's one of those conservative mongrels!” Anastasio Montañés said. “Why didn't you pump his head full of lead instead of his foot?”

“Who knows what he's up to. Says he wants to speak to Demetrio, that he's got God knows what to tell 'im. But before he does anythin' like that, there's plenty a' time for us to be doin' whatever we wanna with 'im,” Pancracio said, raising his rifle and aiming it at the prisoner.

“What kind of animals are you?” the unknown man demanded.

But he was unable to say anything further because Anastasio slapped him across the face with the back of his hand, snapping the prisoner's now-blood-drenched head backward.

“Kill the damned mongrel!”

“Hang 'im!”

“Burn the Federale alive!”

Shouting and howling and all worked up, they started to ready their rifles.

“Hush, hush. Quiet now! I think Demetrio is talking,” Anastasio said, urging them to calm down.

Demetrio did as a matter of fact want to find out what was going on, so he had the prisoner brought to him.

“It's a disgrace, dear leader, just look. Look!” Luis Cervantes exclaimed, showing Demetrio the blood on his pants and his swollen mouth and nose.

“Enough, enough. For God's sakes then, just tell me, who are you?” Demetrio demanded.

“My name is Luis Cervantes. I am a medical student and a journalist. I was pursued, trapped, and made a prisoner— all for having said something in favor of the revolutionaries. ”

The story that he proceeded to tell of his most recent adventure, in his bombastic style, made Pancracio and Lard double over with laughter.

“I have sought to make myself understood, to convince your men here that I am truly a coreligionist.”

“A co-re a . . . what?” Demetrio inquired, perking up his ears.

“A coreligionist, dear leader, which is to say, that I am a believer of the same ideals and that I fight for the same cause as you and your men.”

Demetrio smiled.

“Well, tell me, then: what cause exactly are we fighting for?”

Disconcerted, Luis Cervantes did not know how to answer.

“Look at 'im, look at that expression on his face! Why make 'im jump through so many hurdles? Can't we go ahead and shoot 'im dead now, Demetrio?” Pancracio asked anxiously.

Demetrio brought his hand up to the tuft of hair covering one of his ears and scratched for a long while as he considered the situation. Then, unable to find a satisfactory solution, he said:

“Get outta here, everyone. My wound's startin' to hurt again. Anastasio, blow out that flame. And lock this one up in the corral. And Pancracio and Lard, you watch over 'im. We'll decide what to do with 'im tomorrow.”

VI

Still unable to discern the specific shapes of the objects around him by the dim light of the starry nights, Luis Cervantes searched about for the best place to rest. Eventually he brought his exhausted bones to a pile of wet manure and laid his long body down under the broad canopy of a huisache tree. More out of sheer fatigue than resignation, he forced himself to close his eyes, determined to sleep until his fierce guards woke him up, or until the morning sun burned his head—whichever came first. But he felt some kind of vague warmth next to him, followed by a coarse and labored breathing, and he began to tremble. He reached his shaking hand out and touched the bristling hairs of a pig. The animal, in all likelihood annoyed by the man's proximity, began to grunt.

All of Luis Cervantes's efforts to sleep after that were in vain. Not because of the pain in his wounded limb, nor that which he felt all over his battered and bruised body, but because of the vivid and clear failure he sensed within himself.

Yes. He had not realized early enough how great the distance would be between handling a verbal scalpel—between hurling factious bolts from the columns of a provincial newspaper—and coming out with a rifle in hand to hunt out the bandits in their own den. He was already beginning to suspect his mistake when he was discharged as a cavalry second lieutenant, at the end of the first day. It had been a brutal day in which they had covered fourteen leagues, leaving his hips and knees stiff as a board, as if all his bones had fused into one. He finally understood it eight days later, at the first encounter with the rebels. He could swear upon the Holy Bible itself that when the soldiers had brought their Mausers up to take aim, someone behind him had said in an extremely loud voice: “Every man for himself!” This was so clearly so that his own spirited, noble steed, which was otherwise accustomed to combat, had turned on its hind legs and galloped away, without stopping until they were at a very safe distance from where the firing of the rifles could be heard. By then the sun was already setting, the mountains filling with vague, unsettling shadows, and the darkness was quickly rising from the bottom of the ravines. Was there anything more logical for him to do, then, than to search for shelter among the boulders, and to rest his weary bones and spirit and try to sleep? But a soldier's logic is the logic of the absurd. For the following morning his colonel kicks him awake and drags him out of his hiding place, and proceeds to bash his face in. And there is more yet: the officers find this so deeply hilarious, they are so beside themselves with laughter, that all of them beg that the fugitive be pardoned. So the colonel, instead of sentencing him to be shot by firing squad, gives him a hearty kick on his behind and sends him to take care of the pots and pans as a helper in the kitchen.