The Underdogs — Part 1, chapters 7-9

VII

Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand through his ruffled hair, which hung over his moist forehead, pushed it back over his ears, and opened his eyes.

Distinctly he heard the woman's melodious voice which he had already sensed in his dream.

He walked toward the door.

It was broad daylight; the rays of sunlight filtered through the thatch of the hut.

The girl who had offered him water the day before, the girl of whom he had dreamed all night long, now came forward, kindly and eager as ever.

This time she carried a pitcher of milk brimming over with foam.

"It's goat's milk, but fine just the same.

Come on now: taste it."

Demetrio smiled gratefully, straightened up, grasped the clay pitcher, and proceeded to drink the milk in little gulps, without removing his eyes from the girl.

She grew self-conscious, lowered her eyes.

"What's your name?"

he asked.

"Camilla."

"Ah, there's a lovely name!

And the girl that bears it, lovelier still!"

Camilla blushed.

As he sought to seize her wrist, she grew frightened, and Picking up the empty pitcher, flew out the door.

"No, Demetrio," Anastasio Montanez commented gravely, "you've got to break them in first.

Hmm!

It's a hell of a lot of scars the women have left on my body.

Yes, my friend, I've a heap of experience along that line."

"I feel all right now, Compadre."

Demetrio pretended he had not heard him.

"I had fever, and I sweated like a horse all night, but I feel quite fresh today.

The thing that's irking me hellishly is that Goddamn wound.

Can Venancio to look after me."

"What are we going to do with the tenderfoot we caught last night?"

Pancracio asked.

"That's right: I was forgetting all about him."

As usual, Demetrio hesitated a while before he reached a decision.

"Here, Quail, come here.

Listen: you go and find out where's the nearest church around here.

I know there's one about six miles away.

Go and steal a priest's robe and bring it back."

"What's the idea?"

asked Pancracio in surprise.

"Well, I'll soon find out if this tenderfoot came here to murder me.

I'll tell him he's to be shot, see, and Quail will put on the priest's robes, say that he's a priest and hear his confession.

If he's got anything up his sleeve, he'll come out with it, and then I'll shoot him.

Otherwise I'll let him go."

"God, there's a roundabout way to tackle the question.

If I were you, I'd just shoot him and let it go at that," said Pancracio contemptuously.

That night Quail returned with the priest's robes; Demetrio ordered the prisoner to be led in.

Luis Cervantes had not eaten or slept for two days, there were deep black circles under his eyes; his face was deathly pale, his lips dry and colorless.

He spoke awkwardly, slowly: "You can do as you please with me....

I am convinced I was wrong to come looking for you."

There was a prolonged silence.

Then: "I thought that you would welcome a man who comes to offer his help, with open arms, even though his help was quite worthless.

After all, you might perhaps have found some use for it.

What, in heaven's name, do I stand to gain, whether the revolution wins or loses?"

Little by little he grew more animated; at times the languor in his eyes disappeared.

"The revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant, all those who have been slaves all their lives, all the unhappy people who do not even suspect they are poor because the rich who stand above them, the rich who rule them, change their sweat and blood and tears into gold..."

"Well, what the hell is the gist of all this palaver?

I'll be damned if I can stomach a sermon," Pancracio broke in.

"I wanted to fight for the sacred cause of the oppressed, but you don't understand ...

you cast me aside....

Very well, then, you can do as you please with me!"

"All I'm going to do now is to put this rope around your neck.

Look what a pretty white neck you've got."

"Yes, I know what brought you here," Demetrio interrupted dryly, scratching his head.

"I'm going to have you shot!"

Then, looking at Anastasio he said: "Take him away.

And ...

if he wants to confess, bring the priest to him."

Impassive as ever, Anastasio took the prisoner gently by the arm.

"Come along this way, Tenderfoot."

They all laughed uproariously, when a few minutes later, Quail appeared in priestly robes.

"By God, this tenderfoot certainly talks his head off," Quail said.

"You know, I've a notion he was having a bit of a laugh on me when I started asking him questions."

"But didn't he have anything to say?"

"Nothing, save what he said last night."

"I've a hunch he didn't come here to shoot you at all, Compadre," said Anastasio.

"Give him something to eat and guard him."

VIII

On the morrow, Luis Cervantes was barely able to get up.

His injured leg trailing behind him, he shuffled from hut to hut in search of a little alcohol, a kettle of boiled water and some rags.

With unfailing kindness, Camilla provided him with all that he wanted.

As he began washing his foot, she sat beside him, and, with typical mountaineer's curiosity, inquired: "Tell me, who learned you how to cure people?

Why did you boil that water?

Why did you boil the rags?

Look, look, how careful you are about everything!

And what did you put on your hands?

Really....

And why did you pour on alcohol?

I just knew alcohol was good to rub on when you had a bellyache, but ...

Oh, I see!

So you was going to be a doctor, huh?

Ha, ha, that's a good one!

Why don't you mix it with cold water?

Well, there's a funny sort of a trick.

Oh, stop fooling me ...

the idea: little animals alive in the water unless you boil it!

Ugh!

Well, I can't see nothing in it myself."

Camilla continued to cross-question him with such familiarity that she suddenly found herself addressing him intimately, in the singular tu.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Luis Cervantes had ceased listening to her.

He thought: Where are those men on Pancho Villa's payroll, so admirably equipped and mounted, who only get paid in those pure silver pieces Villa coins at the Chihuahua mint?

Bah!

Barely two dozen half-naked mangy men, some of them riding decrepit mares with the coat nibbled off from neck to withers.

Can the accounts given by the Government newspapers and by myself be really true and are these so-called revolutionists simply bandits grouped together, using the revolution as a wonderful pretext to glut their thirst for gold and blood?

Is it all a lie, then?

Were their sympathizers talking a lot of exalted nonsense?

If on one hand the Government newspapers vied with each other in noisy proclamation of Federal victory after victory, why then had a paymaster on his way from Guadalajara started the rumor that President Huerta's friends and relatives were abandoning the capital and scuttling away to the nearest port?

Was Huerta's, "I shall have peace, at no matter what cost," a meaningless growl?

Well, it looked as though the revolutionists or bandits, call them what you will, were going to depose the Government.

Tomorrow would therefore belong wholly to them.

A man must consequently be on their side, only on their side.

"No," he said to himself almost aloud, "I don't think I've made a mistake this time."

"What did you say?"

Camilla asked.

"I thought you'd lost your tongue....

I thought the mice had eaten it up!"

Luis Cervantes frowned and cast a hostile glance at this little plump monkey with her bronzed complexion, her ivory teeth, and her thick square toes.

"Look here, Tenderfoot, you know how to tell fairy stories, don't you?"

For all answer, Luis made an impatient gesture and moved off, the girl's ecstatic glance following his retreating figure until it was lost on the river path.

So profound was her absorption that she shuddered in nervous surprise as she heard the voice of her neighbor, one-eyed Maria Antonia, who had been spying from her hut, shouting: "Hey, you there: give him some love powder.

Then he might fall for you."

"That's what you'd do, all right!"

"Oh, you think so, do you?

Well, you're quite wrong!

Faugh!

I despise a tenderfoot, and don't forget it!

IX

Ho there, Remigia, lend me some eggs, will you?

My chicken has been hatching since morning.

There's some gentlemen here, come to eat."

Her neighbor's eyes blinked as the bright sunlight poured into the shadowy hut, darker than usual, even, as dense clouds of smoke rose from the stove.

After a few minutes, she began to make out the contour of the various objects inside, and recognized the wounded man's stretcher, which lay in one corner, close to the ashy-gray galvanized iron roof.

She sat down beside Remigia Indian-fashion, and, glancing furtively toward where Demetrio rested, asked in a low voice: "How's the patient, better?

That's fine.

Oh, how young he is!

But he's still pale, don't you think?

So the wound's not closed up yet.

Well, Remigia, don't you think we'd better try and do something about it?"

Remigia, naked from the waist up, stretched her thin muscular arms over the corn grinder, pounding the corn with a stone bar she held in her hands.

"Oh, I don't know; they might not like it," she answered, breathing heavily as she continued her rude task.

"They've got their own doctor, you know, so--" "Hallo, there, Remigia," another neighbor said as she came in, bowing her bony back to pass through the opening, "haven't you any laurel leaves?

We want to make a potion for Maria Antonia who's not so well today, what with her bellyache."

In reality, her errand was but a pretext for asking questions and passing the time of day in gossip, so she turned her eyes to the corner where the patient lay and, winking, sought information as to his health.

Remigia lowered her eyes to indicate that Demetrio was sleeping.

"Oh, I didn't see you when I came in.

And you're here too, Panchita?

Well, how are you?"

"Good morning to you, Fortunata.

How are you?"

"All right.

But Maria Antonia's got the curse today and her belly's aching something fierce."

She sat Indian-fashion, with bent knees, huddling hip to hip against Panchita.

"I've got no laurel leaves, honey," Remigia answered, pausing a moment in her work to push a mop of hair back from over her sweaty forehead.

Then, plunging her two hands into a mass of corn, she removed a handful of it dripping with muddy yellowish water.

"I've none at all; you'd better go to Dolores, she's always got herbs, you know."

"But Dolores went to Cofradia last night.

I don't know, but they say they came to fetch her to help Uncle Matias' girl who's big with child."

"You don't say, Panchita?"

The three old women came together forming an animated group, and speaking in low tones, began to gossip with great gusto.

"Certainly, I swear it, by God up there in heaven."

"Well, well, I was the first one to say that Marcelina was big with child, wasn't I?

But of course no one would believe me."

"Poor girl.

It's going to be terrible if the kid is her uncle's, you know!"

"God forbid!"

"Of course it's not her uncle: Nazario had nothing to do with it, I know.

It was them damned soldiers, that's who done it."

"God, what a bloody mess!

Another unhappy woman!"

The cackle of the old hens finally awakened Demetrio.

They kept silent for a moment; then Panchita, taking out of the bosom of her blouse a young pigeon which opened its beak in suffocation, said: "To tell you the truth, I brought this medicine for the gentleman here, but they say he's got a doctor, so I suppose--" "That makes no difference, Panchita, that's no medicine anyhow, it's simply something to rub on his body."

"Forgive this poor gift from a poor woman, senor," said the wrinkled old woman, drawing close to Demetrio, "but there's nothing like it in the world for hemorrhages and suchlike."

Demetrio nodded hasty approval.

They had already placed a loaf of bread soaked in alcohol on his stomach; although when this was removed he began to be cooler, he felt that he was still feverish inside.

"Come on, Remigia, you do it, you certainly know how," the women said.

Out of a reed sheath, Remigia pulled a long and curved knife which served to cut cactus fruit.

She took the pigeon in one hand, turned it over, its breast upward, and with the skill of a surgeon, ripped it in two with a single thrust.

"In the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Remigia said, blessing the room and making the sign of the cross; next, with infinite dexterity, she placed the warm bleeding portions of the pigeon upon Demetrio's abdomen.

"You'll see: you'll feel much better now."

Obeying Remigia's instructions, Demetrio lay motionless, crumpled up on one side.

Then Fortunata gave vent to her sorrows.

She liked these gentlemen of the revolution, all right, that she did--for, three months ago, you know, the Government soldiers had run away with her only daughter.

This had broken her heart, Yes, and driven her all but crazy.

As she began, Anastasio Montanez and Quail lay on the floor near the stretcher, their mouths gaping, all ears to the story.

But Fortunata's wealth of detail by the time she had told half of it bored Quail and he left the hut to scratch himself out in the sun.

By the time Fortunata had at last concluded with a solemn "I pray God and the Blessed Virgin Mary that you are not sparing the life of a single one of those Federals from hell," Demetrio, face to wall, felt greatly relieved by the stomach cure, and was busy thinking of the best route by which to proceed to Durango.

Anastasio Montanez was snoring like a trombone.