The Underdogs — Part 2, chapters 10-12
X
The men camped in a meadow, near three small lone houses standing in a row, their white walls cutting the purple fringe of the horizon.
Demetrio and Camilla rode toward them.
Inside the corral a man, clad in shirt and trousers of cheap white cloth, sat greedily puffing at a cornhusk cigarette.
Another man sitting beside him on a flat cut stone was shelling corn.
Kicking the air with one dry, withered leg, the extremity of which was like a goat's hoof, he frightened the chickens away.
"Hurry up, 'Pifanio," said the man who was smoking, "the sun has gone down already and you haven't taken the animals to water."
A horse neighed outside the corral; both men glanced up in amazement.
Demetrio and Camilla were looking over the corral wall at them.
"I just want a place to sleep for my woman and me," Demetrio said reassuringly.
As he explained that he was the chief of a small army which was to camp nearby that night, the man smoking, who owned the place, bid them enter with great deference.
He ran to fetch a broom and a pail of water to dust and wash the best corner of the hut as decent lodging for his distinguished guests.
"Here, 'Pifanio, go out there and unsaddle the horses."
The man who was shelling corn stood up with an effort.
He was clad in a tattered shirt and vest.
His torn trousers, split at the seam, looked like the wings of a cold, stricken bird; two strings of cloth dangled from his waist.
As he walked, he described grotesque circles.
"Surely you're not fit to do any work!"
Demetrio said, refusing to allow him to touch the saddles.
"Poor man," the owner cried from within the hut, "he's lost all his strength....
But he surely works for his pay....
He starts working the minute God Almighty himself gets up, and it's after sundown now but he's working still!"
Demetrio went out with Camilla for a stroll about the encampment.
The meadow, golden, furrowed, stripped even of the smallest bushes, extended limitless in its immense desolation.
The three tall ash trees which stood in front of the small house, with dark green crests, round and waving, with rich foliage and branches drooping to the very ground, seemed a veritable miracle.
"I don't know why but I feel there's a lot of sadness around here," said Demetrio.
"Yes," Camilla answered, "I feel that way too."
On the bank of a small stream, 'Pifanio was strenuously tugging at a rope with a large can tied to the end of it.
He poured a stream of water over a heap of fresh, cool grass; in the twilight, the water glimmered like crystal.
A thin cow, a scrawny nag, and a burro drank noisily together.
Demetrio recognized the limping servant and asked him: "How much do you get a day?"
"Eight cents a day, boss."
He was an insignificant, scrofulous wraith of a man with green eyes and straight, fair hair.
He whined complaint of his boss, the ranch, his bad luck, his dog's life.
"You certainly earn your pay all right, my lad," Demetrio interrupted kindly.
"You complain and complain, but you aren't no loafer, you work and work."
Then, aside to Camilla: "There's always more damned fools in the valley than among us folk in the sierra, don't you think?"
"Of course!"
she replied.
They went on.
The valley was lost in darkness; stars came out.
Demetrio put his arm around Camilla's waist amorously and whispered in her ear.
"Yes," she answered in a faint voice.
She was indeed beginning to "fall for him" as she had expressed it.
Demetrio slept badly.
He flung out of the house very early.
"Something is going to happen to me," he thought.
It was a silent dawn, with faint murmurs of joy.
A thrush sang timidly in one of the ash trees.
The animals in the corral trampled on the refuse.
The pig grunted its somnolence.
The orange tints of the sun streaked the sky; the last star flickered out.
Demetrio walked slowly to the encampment.
He was thinking of his plow, his two black oxen--young beasts they were, who had worked in the fields only two years--of his two acres of well-fertilized corn.
The face of his young wife came to his mind, clear and true as life: he saw her strong, soft features, so gracious when she smiled on her husband, so proudly fierce toward strangers.
But when he tried to conjure up the image of his son, his efforts were vain; he had forgotten....
He reached the camp.
Lying among the farrows, the soldiers slept with the horses, heads bowed, eyes closed.
"Our horses are pretty tired, Anastasio.
I think we ought to stay here at least another day."
"Well, Compadre Demetrio, I'm hankering for the sierra....
If you only knew....
You may not believe me but nothing strikes me right here.
I
don't know what I miss but I know I miss something.
I feel sad ...
lost...."
"How many hours' ride from here to Limon?"
"It's no matter of hours; it's three days' hard riding, Demetrio."
"You know," Demetrio said softly, "I feel as though I'd like to see my wife again!"
Shortly after, War Paint sought out Camilla.
"That's one on you, my dear....
Demetrio's going to leave you flat!
He told me so himself; 'I'm going to get my real woman,' he says, and he says, 'Her skin is white and tender ...
and her rosy cheeks....
How beautiful she is!'
But you don't have to leave him, you know; if you're set on staying, well--they've got a child, you know, and I suppose you could drag it around...."
When Demetrio returned, Camilla, weeping, told him everything.
"Don't pay no attention to that crazy baggage.
It's all lies, lies!"
Since Demetrio did not go to Limon or remember his wife again, Camilla grew very happy.
War Paint had merely stung herself, like a scorpion.
XI
Before dawn, they left for Tepatitlan.
Their silhouettes wavered indistinctly over the road and the fields that bordered it, rising and falling with the monotonous, rhythmical gait of their horses, then faded away in the nacreous light of the swooning moon that bathed the valley.
Dogs barked in the distance.
"By noon we'll reach Tepatitlan, Cuquio tomorrow, and then ...
on to the sierra!"
Demetrio said.
"Don't you think it advisable to go to Aguascalientes first, General?"
Luis Cervantes asked.
"What for?"
"Our funds are melting slowly."
"Nonsense ...
forty thousand pesos in eight days!"
"Well, you see, just this week we recruited over five hundred new men;
all the money's gone in advance loans and gratuities," Luis Cervantes answered in a low voice.
"No!
We'll go straight to the sierra.
We'll see later on."
"Yes, to the sierra!"
many of the men shouted.
"To the sierra!
To the sierra!
Hurrah for the mountains!"
The plains seemed to torture them; they spoke with enthusiasm, almost with delirium, of the sierra.
They thought of the mountains as of a most desirable mistress long since unvisited.
Dawn broke behind a cloud of fine reddish dust; the sun rose an immense curtain of fiery purple.
Luis Cervantes pulled his reins and waited for Quail.
"What's the last word on our deal, Quail?"
"I told you, Tenderfoot: two hundred for the watch alone."
"No!
I'll buy the lot: watches, rings, everything else.
How much?"
Quail hesitated, turned slightly pale; then he cried spiritedly: "Two thousand in bills, for the whole business!"
Luis Cervantes gave himself away.
His eyes shone with such an obvious greed that Quail recanted and said: "Oh, I was just fooling you.
I won't sell nothing!
Just the watch, see?
And that's only because I owe Pancracio two hundred.
He beat me at cards last night!"
Luis Cervantes pulled out four crisp "double-face" bills of Villa's issue and placed them in Quail's hands.
"I'd like to buy the lot....
Besides, nobody will offer you more than that!"
As the sun began to beat down upon them, Manteca suddenly shouted: "Ho, Blondie, your orderly says he doesn't care to go on living.
He says he's too damned tired to walk."
The prisoner had fallen in the middle of the road, utterly exhausted.
"Well, well!"
Blondie shouted, retracing his steps.
"So little mama's boy is tired, eh?
Poor little fellow.
I'll buy a glass case and keep you in a corner of my house just as if you were the Virgin Mary's own little son.
You've got to reach home first, see?
So I'll help you a little, sonny!"
He drew his sword out and struck the prisoner several times.
"Let's have a look at your rope, Pancracio," he said.
There was a strange gleam in his eyes.
Quail observed that the prisoner no longer moved arm or leg.
Blondie burst into a loud guffaw: "The Goddamned fool.
Just as I was learning him to do without food, too!"
"Well, mate, we're almost to Guadalajara," Venancio said, glancing over the smiling row of houses in Tepatitlan nestling against the hillside.
They entered joyously.
From every window rosy cheeks, dark luminous eyes observed them.
The schools were quickly converted into barracks;
Demetrio found lodging in the chapel of an abandoned church.
The soldiers scattered about as usual pretending to seek arms and horses, but in reality for the sole purpose of looting.
In the afternoon some of Demetrio's men lay stretched out on the church steps, scratching their bellies.
Venancio, his chest and shoulders bare, was gravely occupied in killing the fleas in his shirt.
A man drew near the wall and sought permission to speak to the commander.
The soldiers raised their heads; but no one answered.
"I'm a widower, gentlemen.
I've got nine children and I barely make a living with the sweat of my brow.
Don't be hard on a poor widower!"
"Don't you worry about women, Uncle," said Meco, who was rubbing his feet with tallow, "we've got War Paint here with us; you can have her for nothing."
The man smiled bitterly.
"She's only got one fault," Pancracio observed, stretched out on the ground, staring at the blue sky, "she goes mad over any man she sees."
They laughed loudly; but Venancio with utmost gravity pointed to the chapel door.
The stranger entered timidly and confided his troubles to Demetrio.
The soldiers had cleaned him out; they had not left a single grain of corn.
"Why did you let them?"
Demetrio asked indolently.
The man persisted, lamenting and weeping.
Luis Cervantes was about to throw him out with an insult.
But Camilla intervened.
"Come on, Demetrio, don't be harsh, give him an order to get his corn back."
Luis Cervantes was obliged to obey; he scrawled a few lines to which Demetrio appended an illegible scratch.
"May God repay you, my child!
God will lead you to heaven that you may enjoy his glory.
Ten bushels of corn are barely enough for this year's food!"
the man cried, weeping for gratitude.
Then he took the paper, kissed everybody's hand, and withdrew.
XII
They had almost reached Cuquio, when Anastasio Montanez rode up to Demetrio: "Listen, Compadre, I almost forgot to tell you....
You ought to have seen the wonderful joke that man Blondie played.
You know what he did with the old man who came to complain about the corn we'd taken away for horses?
Well, the old man took the paper and went to the barracks.
'Right you are, brother, come in,' said Blondie, 'come in, come in here; to give you back what's yours is only the right thing to do.
How many bushels did we steal?
Ten?
Sure it wasn't more than ten?
That's right, about fifteen, eh?
Or was it twenty, perhaps?
...
Try and remember, friend....
Of course you're a poor man, aren't you, and you've a lot of kids to raise....
Yes, twenty it was.
All right, now!
It's not ten or fifteen or twenty I'm going to give you.
You're going to count for yourself....
One, two, three ...
and when you've had enough you just tell me and I'll stop.'
And Blondie pulled out his sword and beat him till he cried for mercy."
War Paint rocked in her saddle, convulsed with mirth.
Camilla, unable to control herself, blurted out: "The beast!
His heart's rotten to the core!
No wonder I loathe him!"
At once War Paint's expression changed.
"What the hell is it to you!"
she scowled.
Camilla, frightened, spurred her horse forward.
War Paint did likewise and, as she trotted past Camilla, suddenly she reached out, seized the other's hair and pulled with all her might.
Camilla's horse shied; Camilla, trying to brush her hair back from over her eyes, abandoned the reins.
She hesitated, lost her balance and fell in the road, striking her forehead against the stones.
War Paint, weeping with laughter, pressed on with utmost skill and caught Camilla's horse.
"Come on, Tenderfoot; here's a job for you," Pancracio said as he saw Camilla on Demetrio's saddle, her face covered with blood.
Luis Cervantes hurried toward her with some cotton; but Camilla, choking down her sobs and wiping her eyes, said hoarsely: "Not from you!
If I was dying, I wouldn't accept anything from you ...
not even water."
In Cuquio Demetrio received a message.
"We've got to go back to Tepatitlan, General," said Luis Cervantes, scanning the dispatch rapidly.
"You've got to leave the men there while you go to Lagos and take the train over to Aguascalientes."
There was much heated protest, the men muttering to themselves or even groaning out loud.
Some of them, mountaineers, swore that they would not continue with the troop.
Camilla wept all night.
On the morrow at dawn, she begged Demetrio to let her return home.
"If you don't like me, all right," he answered sullenly.
"That's not the reason.
I care for you a lot, really.
But you know how it is.
That woman ..."
"Never mind about her.
It's all right!
I'll send her off to hell today.
I had already decided that."
Camilla dried her tears....
Every horse was saddled; the men were waiting only for orders from the Chief.
Demetrio went up to War Paint and said under his breath: "You're not coming with us."
"What!"
she gasped.
"You're going to stay here or go wherever you damn well please, but you're not coming along with us."
"What?
What's that you're saying?"
Still she could not catch Demetrio's meaning.
Then the truth dawned upon her.
"You want to send me away?
By God, I suppose you believe all the filth that bitch..."
And War Paint proceeded to insult Camilla, Luis Cervantes, Demetrio, and anyone she happened to remember at the moment, with such power and originality that the soldiers listened in wonder to vituperation that transcended their wildest dream of profanity and filth.
Demetrio waited a long time patiently.
Then, as she showed no sign of stopping, he said to a soldier quite calmly: "Throw this drunken woman out."
"Blondie, Blondie, love of my life!
Help!
Come and show them you're a real man!
Show them they're nothing but sons of bitches!
..."
She gesticulated, kicked, and shouted.
Blondie appeared; he had just got up.
His blue eyes blinked under heavy lids; his voice rang hoarse.
He asked what had occurred; someone explained.
Then he went up to War Paint, and with great seriousness, said: "Yes?
Really?
Well, if you want my opinion, I think this is just what ought to happen.
So far as I'm concerned, you can go straight to hell.
We're all fed up with you, see?"
War Paint's face turned to granite; she tried to speak but her muscles were rigid.
The soldiers laughed.
Camilla, terrified, held her breath.
War Paint stared slowly at everyone about her.
It all took no more than a few seconds.
In a trice she bent down, drew a sharp, gleaming dagger from her stocking and leapt at Camilla.
A shrill cry.
A body fell, the blood spurting from it.
"Kill her, Goddamn it," cried Demetrio, beyond himself.
"Kill her!"
Two soldiers fell upon War Paint, but she brandished her dagger, defying them to touch her: "Not the likes of you, Goddamn you!
Kill me yourself, Demetrio!"
War Paint stepped forward, surrendered her dagger and, thrusting her breast forward, let her arms fall to her side.
Demetrio picked up the dagger, red with blood, but his eyes clouded; he hesitated, took a step backward.
Then, with a heavy hoarse voice he growled, enraged: "Get out of here!
Quick!"
No one dared stop her.
She moved off slowly, mute, somber.
Blondie's shrill, guttural voice broke the silent stupor: "Thank God!
At last I'm rid of that damned louse!"
