The Underdogs (14 page)

“Muchachos,” Towhead Margarito shouted in a sharp, guttural voice, standing and making himself heard over the din, “I am tired of living, I feel like killing myself now. I am sick and tired of War Paint already . . . And this little cherub from heaven will not even deign to look at me . . .”

Luis Cervantes noticed that the last few words were directed at his girlfriend, and with much surprise he realized that the foot he felt between those of the girl's was not Demetrio's but Towhead Margarito's. Indignation burned in his chest.

“Look here, muchachos,” Towhead continued, holding up his revolver. “I am going to shoot myself right in the middle of my forehead!”

And he aimed at the large mirror at the end of the room, where he could see his entire body reflected.

“Do not budge, War Paint!”

The mirror shattered in long, sharp pieces. The bullet had whizzed past War Paint's head, but she had not even flinched.

IV

In the afternoon, Luis Cervantes awoke, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He had been lying on the hard ground, among the flowerpots of the orchard. Near him Anastasio Montañés, Pancracio, and Quail breathed loudly, deep asleep.

He felt his lips cracked and his nose swollen and dried out, saw that he had blood on his hands and on his shirt, and all of a sudden recalled what had happened. He quickly got up and walked toward a room, pushed at the door several times, but was unable to open it. He stood indecisively for a few moments, uncertain what to do.

Because it was all true; he was certain that he had not dreamed it. He had gotten up from the dining room table with his girl and had led her to the room. But before they closed the door behind them, Demetrio had hurried after them, staggering drunk. Then War Paint had followed Demetrio, and they started to struggle. Demetrio—his eyes burning like red-hot coals, with clear threads of spittle on his coarse lips—had avidly sought out the girl, while War Paint forcefully shoved him, trying to hold him back.

“What're ya doing? What d'ya think ya're doin'?” Demetrio was howling, exasperated.

War Paint stuck one of her legs between his, took leverage, and threw Demetrio lengthwise, outside the room.

He got up, furious.

“Help! Help! She's tryin' to kill me!”

War Paint vigorously grabbed Demetrio's wrist and redirected the barrel of his pistol.

The bullet shot into the bricks. War Paint continued to bellow. Anastasio Montañés came up behind Demetrio and disarmed him.

Macías turned around, his eyes wild like those of a bull in the middle of the plaza. Luis Cervantes, Anastasio, Lard, and many others surrounded him.

“Damn ya! You've taken my gun! As if I needed a weapon to deal with the likes of ya!”

And swinging his arms, he began to throw quick, vigorous punches, knocking anyone he could reach to the brick floor.

And then? Luis Cervantes could not recall what had happened next. Everyone must have ended up receiving quite a beating and passing out. And his girlfriend, afraid of so many animals, must have taken the wise prevention of locking herself up somewhere.

“Perhaps that room over there connects with the hall and I can get in that way,” he thought.

His footsteps woke up War Paint, who was sleeping near Demetrio on the carpet, at the feet of a love seat piled with alfalfa and corn, which the black mare was calmly eating.

“What d'ya want?” the young woman asked. “Oh, yeah. I know what ya want, ya lowlife! Listen, I locked up your girlfriend 'cause I couldn't hold back this dog Demetrio no more. Grab the key, it's over there on the table.”

Luis Cervantes searched throughout the house in vain.

“Let's see,
curro,
tell me what the story is with that girl of yours.”

A very nervous Luis Cervantes continued looking for the key.

“Don't get all anxious, man, I'll give it ya. But tell me . . . I really like all those kind of stories. That little
curra
is just like ya . . . She's not country folk like us.”

“I have nothing to tell . . . She is my girlfriend and that is that.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Your girlfriend and tha's . . . no! Listen,
curro
. I'm way ahead of ya. I have hard fangs where ya have baby teeth. Lard and the Indian grabbed her outta her house; that much I know already . . . But ya must'a given 'em somethin' for her . . . some gold-plated cuff links . . . Some miraculous little stamp of Our Lord of la Villita . . . Am I right,
curro
? I know these people exist, I just know it! The thing is to find one of 'em! Isn't that right?”

War Paint got up to give him the key and was very surprised when she did not find it either.

She stood for a long while, thinking.

All of a sudden she ran at full speed toward the door of the next room and looked through the keyhole. She remained still until her eyesight became accustomed to the dark. Directly, and without looking away, she muttered:

“Oh, Towhead . . . Son of a ... ! Step right up,
curro
!”

And she moved out of the way, laughing loudly.

“Like I said, never in my life have I seen a smoother man than that one in there!”

The next morning, War Paint waited to feed her horse until she spotted Towhead coming out of the room.

“You young thing, you! Go on, go on home! These men are liable to kill ya! Go on, run!”

And she draped Lard's louse-ridden blanket over the girl with the large blue eyes and the virgin expression on her face, as she was wearing only stockings and a nightgown. Then she took her by the hand, led her out to the street, and exclaimed:

“Good Lord! Now, I really . . . Oh, how I love that Towhead! ”

V

Demetrio's men cross the Sierra like the colts that neigh and frolic at the first thunders of May.

“To Moyahua, muchachos!”

“To the land of Demetrio Macías.”

“To the land of the cacique Don Mónico!”

The landscape clears, the sun peeks out from behind a scarlet girdle over the diaphanous sky.

Gradually the cordilleras emerge like variegated monsters with sharply angled vertebrae: hills like the heads of colossal Aztec idols—with giant faces, grimacing frightfully and grotesquely—which alternately make one smile or leave one with a vague sense of terror, something akin to a mysterious foreboding.

At the head of the troop rides Demetrio Macías with his general staff: Colonel Anastasio Montañés, Lieutenant Colonel Pancracio, and Majors Luis Cervantes and Towhead Margarito.

They are followed, in the second row, by War Paint and Venancio, who is wooing her in a very refined manner, reciting the despairing verses of Antonio Plaza.
¹

Four abreast, they began to enter Moyahua, blowing their clarions as the rays of the sun skirted the low outlying walls surrounding the houses of the town.

The roosters crowed a deafening sound, and the dogs barked loudly, in warning. But there was no sign of human life anywhere.

War Paint snapped her black mare with her whip and in one leap was riding next to Demetrio. She wore a silk dress and long gold earrings with pride and joy; the pale blue of the fabric accentuated the olive tint of her face and the coppery stains of the damage. With open legs, she had her skirt pulled up to her knees to reveal her worn-out stockings, full of holes. She carried a revolver at her chest and a cartridge belt crossed over the front of her saddle.

Demetrio was also in full dress: a gallooned hat, suede pants with silver buckles, and a sheepskin jacket embroidered with gold thread.

The forcing open of doors began. The soldiers, already spread out through the town, were gathering weapons and mounts from everywhere in the surrounding area.

“We're gonna stop by Don Mónico's house today,” Demetrio announced in a serious tone, as he dismounted and handed his horse's reins to a soldier. “We're gonna have lunch with Don Mónico . . . an old friend who really cares for me . . .”

His general staff smile a sinister smile.

Dragging their spurs loudly along the sidewalks, they head toward a large, pretentious house, which could only be the residence of the cacique.

“It's shut tight,” Anastasio Montañés said, pushing at the door with all his might.

“But it's about to open right up,” Pancracio replied, quickly bringing his rifle to the mouth of the lock.

“No, no,” Demetrio said. “Knock first.”

Three blows with the butt of the rifle, and another three, but no one answers. Pancracio curses and no longer follows his orders. He fires, the lock snaps, and the door opens.

They see the bottoms of skirts and the legs of children, all scattering to hide inside the house.

“Wine, I want wine! Bring me wine right here!” Demetrio demands with an imperious voice, pounding his fist hard and repeatedly on the table.

“Have a seat, friends.”

A woman slowly emerges, then another, and another. From between their black skirts the heads of frightened children peek out. One of the women, trembling, walks toward a cupboard, takes out glasses and bottles, and serves wine.

“What weapons do you have here?” Demetrio asks, harshly.

“Weapons?” the woman answers, her tongue thick as a rag. “What weapons do you want us to have? We are but a handful of decent women, by ourselves.”

“Ah, by yourselves, huh? And Don Mónico?”

“He is not here, señores . . . We just rent his house . . . We only know Don Mónico by name.”

Demetrio orders that the place be sacked.

“No señores, please . . . We will give you everything we have, and we will bring it to you ourselves. But, for the love of God, do not harm us. We are decent girls, all on our own!”

“And the little urchins?” Pancracio asks, brutally. “Did they sprout like vegetables out in the garden?”

The women quickly disappear and at once return with a cracked rifle, covered with dust and spiderwebs, and a pistol with rusty, broken springs.

Demetrio smiles.

“Okay, let's see the money then . . .”

“Money? What money do you expect us to have? We are but a few poor girls living by ourselves.”

They turn their imploring eyes toward the soldiers closest to them; but then they shut their eyes, horrified. For they have seen the executioner crucifying Our Lord Jesus Christ along the Way of the Cross at the parish church! They have seen Pancracio!

Demetrio gives the order for the sacking to begin.

The women all rush off again and return immediately, this time with a moth-eaten purse and a few bills, of the kind issued by Huerta.
²

Demetrio smiles. And now, without further ado, he has his people enter the house.

The mob rushes in like hungry dogs that can smell their prey, running over the women who had sought to block the entrance with their own bodies. Some faint and fall, others flee; the children scream.

Pancracio begins to break the lock of a large dresser. But before he can do so, the doors open and a man jumps out with a rifle in his hands.

“Don Mónico!” they exclaim, surprised.

“Dear sir, Demetrio! Do not hurt me! Do not harm me! I am your friend, Don Demetrio!”

Demetrio Macías laughs sarcastically and asks him if he always welcomes his friends with a rifle in his hands.

Don Mónico, confused and stunned, throws himself at Macías's feet, hugs his knees, kisses his feet: “My wife! My children! My dear friend Don Demetrio!”

With his hand shaking, Demetrio puts his revolver back into its holster at his waist.

A painful silhouette has flashed across his memory. A woman with a child in her arms, climbing over the boulders of the Sierra at midnight, by moonlight . . . A burning house . . .

“Let's go! Everyone, outside!” he shouts, somberly.

His general staff obeys him. Don Mónico and the women kiss his hands and cry gratefully.

Out in the street, a happy and loud mob is waiting for the general's permission to plunder the house of the cacique.

“I know exactly where the money's hidden, but I'm not tellin',” a young man says, holding a basket under his arm.

“H'm, I know, I know!” replies an old woman, carrying a hirsute sack to gather “what God wishes her to have.” “It's in the attic. There's a bunch of things in there, and among all the things there's a small trunk with shells painted on it. Tha's where all the good stuff is!”

“Tha's not true,” a man says. “They're not so stupid that they're gonna store their money like that. The way I see it, they've hidden it in a dry well, buried in a leather knapsack. ”

The people in the crowd stir about, some with ropes to carry their bundles, others with washtubs. The women stretch out their aprons or the ends of their shawls, figuring out how much they will be able to carry. Everyone, giving thanks to His Divine Majesty, waits for their good portion of the plundering.

When Demetrio announces that he will not allow anything to happen and orders that everyone retire, the towns-people obey him, their heads hanging low as they slowly disperse. But among the soldiers there is a muffled rumbling of disapproval, and none of them leave their places.

An irritated Demetrio repeats that they are to retire.

A young fellow, from among the last to have been recruited—his head clouded by a few drinks—laughs and advances toward the door, altogether ignoring the order.

But before he can cross the threshold, a gunshot makes him instantly collapse, like a bull stabbed by the matador's dagger.