The Underdogs — Part 1, chapters 2-4

II

Everything was still swathed in shadows as Demetrio Macias began his descent to the bottom of the ravine.

Between rocks striped with huge eroded cracks, and a squarely cut wall, with the river flowing below, a narrow ledge along the steep incline served as a mountain trail.

"They'll surely find me now and track us down like dogs," he mused.

"It's a good thing they know nothing about the trails and paths up here....

But if they got someone from Moyahua to guide them ..."

He left the sinister thought unfinished.

"All the men from Limon or Santa Rosa or the other nearby ranches are on our side: they wouldn't try to trail us.

That cacique who's chased and run me ragged over these hills, is at Mohayua now; he'd give his eyeteeth to see me dangling from a telegraph pole with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, purple and swollen...."

At dawn, he approached the pit of the canyon.

Here, he lay on the rocks and fell asleep.

The river crept along, murmuring as the waters rose and fell in small cascades.

Birds sang lyrically from their hiding among the pitaya trees.

The monotonous, eternal drone of insects filled the rocky solitude with mystery.

Demetrio awoke with a start.

He waded the river, following its course which ran counter to the canyon; he climbed the crags laboriously as an ant, gripping root and rock with his hands, clutching every stone in the trail with his bare feet.

When he reached the summit, he glanced down to see the sun steeping the valley in a lake of gold.

Near the canyon, enormous rocks loomed protrudent, like fantastic Negro skulls.

The pitaya trees rose tenuous, tall, like the tapering, gnarled fingers of a giant; other trees of all sorts bowed their crests toward the pit of the abyss.

Amid the stark rocks and dry branches, roses bloomed like a white offering to the sun as smoothly, suavely, it unraveled its golden threads, one by one, from rock to rock.

Demetrio stopped at the summit.

Reaching backward, with his right arm he drew his horn which hung at his back, held it up to his thick lips, and, swelling his cheeks out, blew three loud blasts.

From across the hill close by, three sharp whistles answered his signal.

In the distance, from a conical heap of reeds and dry straws, man after man emerged, one after the other, their legs and chests naked, lambent and dark as old bronze.

They rushed forward to greet Demetrio, and stopped before him, askance.

"They've burnt my house," he said.

A murmur of oaths, imprecations, and threats rose among them.

Demetrio let their anger run its course.

Then he drew a bottle from under his shirt and took a deep swig; then he wiped the neck of the bottle with the back of his hand and passed it around.

It passed from mouth to mouth; not a drop was left.

The men passed their tongues greedily over their lips to recapture the tang of the liquor.

"Glory be to God and by His Will," said Demetrio, "tonight or tomorrow at the latest we'll meet the Federals.

What do you say, boys, shall we let them find their way about these trails?"

The ragged crew jumped to their feet, uttering shrill cries of joy;

then their jubilation turned sinister and they gave vent to threats, oaths and imprecations.

"Of course, we can't tell how strong they are," said Demetrio as his glance traveled over their faces in scrutiny.

"Do you remember Medina?

Out there at Hostotipaquillo, he only had a half a dozen men with knives that they sharpened on a grindstone.

Well, he held back the soldiers and the police, didn't he?

And he beat them, too."

"We're every bit as good as Medina's crowd!"

said a tall, broad-shouldered man with a black beard and bushy eyebrows.

"By God, if I don't own a Mauser and a lot of cartridges, if I can't get a pair of trousers and shoes, then my name's not Anastasio Montanez!

Look here, Quail, you don't believe it, do you?

You ask my partner Demetrio if I haven't half a dozen bullets in me already.

Christ!

Bullets are marbles to me!

And I dare you to contradict me!"

"Viva Anastasio Montanez," shouted Manteca.

"All right, all right!"

said Montanez.

"Viva Demetrio Macias, our chief, and long life to God in His heaven and to the Virgin Mary."

"Viva Demetrio Macias," they all shouted.

They gathered dry brush and wood, built a fire and placed chunks of fresh meat upon the burning coals.

As the blaze rose, they collected about the fire, sat down Indian-fashion and inhaled the odor of the meat as it twisted on the crackling fire.

The rays of the sun, falling about them, cast a golden radiance over the bloody hide of a calf, lying on the ground nearby.

The meat dangled from a rope fastened to a huizache tree, to dry in the sun and wind.

"Well, men," Demetrio said, "you know we've only twenty rifles, besides my thirty-thirty.

If there are just a few of them, we'll shoot until there's not a live man left.

If there's a lot of 'em, we can give 'em a good scare, anyhow."

He undid a rag belt about his waist, loosened a knot in it and offered the contents to his companions.

Salt.

A murmur of approbation rose among them as each took a few grains between the tips of his fingers.

They ate voraciously; then, glutted, lay down on the ground, facing the sky.

They sang monotonous, sad songs, uttering a strident shout after each stanza.

III

In the brush and foliage of the sierra, Demetrio Macias and his threescore men slept until the halloo of the horn, blown by Pancracio from the crest of a peak, awakened them.

"Time, boys!

Look around and see what's what!"

Anastasio Montanez said, examining his rifle springs.

Yet he was previous; an hour or more elapsed with no sound or stir save the song of the locust in the brush or the frog stirring in his mudhole.

At last, when the ultimate faint rays of the moon were spent in the rosy dimness of the dawn, the silhouette of a soldier loomed at the end of the trail.

As they strained their eyes, they could distinguish others behind him, ten, twenty, a hundred.

...

Then, suddenly, darkness swallowed them up.

Only when the sun rose, Demetrio's band realized that the canyon was alive with men, midgets seated on miniature horses.

"Look at 'em, will you?"

said Pancracio.

"Pretty, ain't they?

Come on, boys, let's go and roll marbles with 'em."

Now the moving dwarf figures were lost in the dense chaparral, now they reappeared, stark and black against the ocher.

The voices of officers, as they gave orders, and soldiers, marching at ease, were clearly audible.

Demetrio raised his hand; the locks of rifles clicked.

"Fire!"

he cried tensely.

Twenty-one men shot as one; twenty-one soldiers fell off their horses.

Caught by surprise, the column halted, etched like bas-reliefs in stone against the rocks.

Another volley and a score of soldiers hurtled down from rock to rock.

"Come out, bandits.

Come out, you starved dogs!"

"To hell with you, you corn rustlers!"

"Kill the cattle thieves!

Kill 'em!"

The soldiers shouted defiance to their enemies; the latter, giving proof of a marksmanship which had already made them famous, were content to keep under cover, quiet, mute.

"Look, Pancracio," said Meco, completely black save for his eyes and teeth.

"This is for that man who passes that tree.

I'll get the son of a ..."

"Take that!

Right in the head.

You saw it, didn't you, mate?

Now, this is for the fellow on the roan horse.

Down you come, you shave-headed bastard!"

"I'll give that lad on the trail's edge a shower of lead.

If you don't hit the river, I'm a liar!

Now: look at him!"

"Oh, come on, Anastasio don't be cruel; lend me your rifle.

Come along, one shot, just one!"

Manteca and Quail, unarmed, begged for a gun as a boon, imploring permission to fire at least a shot apiece.

"Come out of your holes if you've got any guts!"

"Show your faces, you lousy cowards!"

From peak to peak, the shouts rang as distinctly as though uttered across a street.

Suddenly, Quail stood up, naked, holding his trousers to windward as though he were a bullfighter flaunting a red cape, and the soldiers below the bull.

A shower of shots peppered upon Demetrio's men.

"God!

That was like a hornet's nest buzzing overhead," said Anastasio Montanez, lying flat on the ground without daring to wink an eye.

"Here, Quail, you son of a bitch, you stay where I told you," roared Demetrio.

They crawled to take new positions.

The soldiers, congratulating themselves on their successes, ceased firing when another volley roused them.

"More coming!"

they shouted.

Some, panic-stricken, turned their horses back; others, abandoning their mounts, began to climb up the mountain and seek shelter behind the rocks.

The officers had to shoot at them to enforce discipline.

"Down there, down there!"

said Demetrio as he leveled his rifle at the translucent thread of the river.

A soldier fell into the water; at each shot, invariably a soldier bit the dust.

Only Demetrio was shooting in that direction; for every soldier killed, ten or twenty of them, intact, climbed afresh on the other side.

"Get those coming up from under!

Los de Abajo!

Get the underdogs!"

he screamed.

Now his fellows were exchanging rifles, laughing and making wagers on their marksmanship.

"My leather belt if I miss that head there, on the black horse!"

"Lend me your rifle, Meco."

"Twenty Mauser cartridges and a half yard of sausage if you let me spill that lad riding the bay mare.

All right!

Watch me....

There!

See him jump!

Like a bloody deer."

"Don't run, you half-breeds.

Come along with you!

Come and meet Father Demetrio!"

Now it was Demetrio's men who screamed insults.

Manteca, his smooth face swollen in exertion, yelled his lungs out.

Pancracio roared, the veins and muscles in his neck dilated, his murderous eyes narrowed to two evil slits.

Demetrio fired shot after shot, constantly warning his men of impending danger, but they took no heed until they felt the bullets spattering them from one side.

"Goddamn their souls, they've branded me!"

Demetrio cried, his teeth flashing.

Then, very swiftly, he slid down a gully and was lost....

IV

Two men were missing, Serapio the candymaker, and Antonio, who played the cymbals in the Juchipila band.

"Maybe they'll join us further on," said Demetrio.

The return journey proved moody.

Anastasio Montanez alone preserved his equanimity, a kindly expression playing in his sleepy eyes and on his bearded face.

Pancracio's harsh, gorillalike profile retained its repulsive immutability.

The soldiers had retreated; Demetrio began the search for the soldiers' horses which had been hidden in the sierra.

Suddenly Quail, who had been walking ahead, shrieked.

He had caught sight of his companions swinging from the branches of a mesquite.

There could be no doubt of their identity; Serapio and Antonio they certainly were.

Anastasio Montanez prayed brokenly.

"Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

Thy kingdom come..."

"Amen," his men answered in low tones, their heads bowed, their hats upon their breasts....

Then, hurriedly, they took the Juchipila canyon northward, without halting to rest until nightfall.

Quail kept walking close to Anastasio unable to banish from his mind the two who were hanged, their dislocated limp necks, their dangling legs, their arms pendulous, and their bodies moving slowly in the wind.

On the morrow, Demetrio complained bitterly of his wound; he could no longer ride on horseback.

They were forced to carry him the rest of the way on a makeshift stretcher of leaves and branches.

"He's bleeding frightfully," said Anastasio Montanez, tearing off one of his shirt-sleeves and tying it tightly about Demetrio's thigh, a little above the wound.

"That's good," said Venancio.

"It'll keep him from bleeding and stop the pain."

Venancio was a barber.

In his native town, he pulled teeth and fulfilled the office of medicine man.

He was accorded an unimpeachable authority because he had read The Wandering Jew and one or two other books.

They called him "Doctor"; and since he was conceited about his knowledge, he employed very few words.

They took turns, carrying the stretcher in relays of four over the bare stony mesa and up the steep passes.

At high noon, when the reflection of the sun on the calcareous soil burned their shoulders and made the landscape dimly waver before their eyes, the monotonous, rhythmical moan of the wounded rose in unison with the ceaseless cry of the locusts.

They stopped to rest at every small hut they found hidden between the steep, jagged rocks.

"Thank God, a kind soul and tortillas full of beans and chili are never lacking," Anastasio Montanez said with a triumphant belch.

The mountaineers would shake calloused hands with the travelers, saying: "God's blessing on you!

He will find a way to help you all, never fear.

We're going ourselves, starting tomorrow morning.

We're dodging the draft, with those damned Government people who've declared war to the death on us, on all the poor.

They come and steal our pigs, our chickens and corn, they burn our homes and carry our women off, and if they ever get hold of us they'll kill us like mad dogs, and we die right there on the spot and that's the end of the story!"

At sunset, amid the flames dyeing the sky with vivid, variegated colors, they descried a group of houses up in the heart of the blue mountains.

Demetrio ordered them to carry him there.

These proved to be a few wretched straw huts, dispersed all over the river slopes, between rows of young sprouting corn and beans.

They lowered the stretcher and Demetrio, in a weak voice, asked for a glass of water.

Groups of squalid Indians sat in the dark pits of the huts, men with bony chests, disheveled, matted hair, and ruddy cheeks; behind them, eyes shone up from floors of fresh reeds.

A child with a large belly and glossy dark skin came close to the stretcher to inspect the wounded man.

An old woman followed, and soon all of them drew about Demetrio in a circle.

A girl sympathizing with him in his plight brought a jicara of bluish water.

With hands shaking, Demetrio took it up and drank greedily.

"Will you have some more?"

He raised his eyes and glanced at the girl, whose features were common but whose voice had a note of kindness in it.

Wiping his sweating brow with the back of his palm and turning on one side, he gasped: "May God reward you."

Then his whole body shook, making the leaves of the stretcher rustle.

Fever possessed him; he fainted.

"It's a damp night and that's terrible for the fever," said Remigia, an old wrinkled barefooted woman, wearing a cloth rag for a blouse.

She invited them to move Demetrio into her hut.

Pancracio, Anastasio Montanez, and Quail lay down beside the stretcher like faithful dogs, watchful of their master's wishes.

The rest scattered about in search of food.

Remigia offered them all she had, chili and tortillas.

"Imagine!

I had eggs, chickens, even a goat and her kid, but those damn soldiers wiped me out clean."

Then, making a trumpet of her hands, she drew near Anastasio and murmured in his ear: "Imagine, they even carried away Senora Nieves' little girl!"

V

Suddenly awakening, Quail opened his eyes and stood up.