The Underdogs (17 page)

Then the soldiers dispersed, as usual, in search of “advances, ” under the pretext of gathering weapons and horses.

In the afternoon, several from Demetrio's escort were lying about in the church atrium, scratching their bellies. A bare-chested Venancio was very seriously dedicating himself to delousing his shirt.

A man approached and peered over the wall, asking for permission to speak with the leader.

The soldiers looked up, but no one answered him.

“I'm a widower, señores. I have nine children and work all day to survive. Don't be mean with the poor!”

“If ya're lookin' for a woman, don't worry, ol' man,” the Indian said, tallowing his feet with the end of a candle. “There's War Paint over there, we'll let ya have 'er for nothin' at all.”

The man smiled bitterly.

“She's only got one fault, though,” Pancracio added, lying on his back, looking up at the sky. “The moment she sees her man, she goes all crazy.”

Everyone burst out laughing. But Venancio very seriously pointed toward the sacristy door for the townsman.

The man walked in, timidly, and told Demetrio his complaint. The soldiers had just “cleaned him out.” They had taken everything, leaving him without a single grain of corn.

“Well, why'd ya let 'em?” Demetrio replied, lazily.

The man continued to insist, moaning and whining. Luis Cervantes got up, insolently, prepared to throw him out. But Camila intervened:

“Come on, Don Demetrio, don't ya be so mean too. Give 'em an order to give the man his corn back!”

Luis Cervantes had to obey. He jotted down a few sentences, and Demetrio added his scribble at the bottom.

“May God repay you for this, my girl! God will bless ya in his holy glory. Ten bushels of corn, just 'nough to eat this year,” the man exclaimed, crying as he thanked them. And he took the paper and kissed all their hands.

XII

As they were getting closer to Cuquío, Anastasio Montañés approached Demetrio and said:

“Listen, compadre, I haven't even told ya yet . . . That Towhead Margarito is really somethin'! Do ya know what he did yesterday with that man who came to complain that we had taken all his corn for our horses? Well, the man took the order that ya gave 'im to the quarters. ‘Yes, my friend,' Towhead said to 'im. ‘Come on in, over here. It's only fair that you get your share back. Come in, come in. How many bushels did we steal? Yes, that's it, about fifteen, more or less . . . Or maybe twenty? Try to remember . . . You're a very poor man, you have lots of children to feed. Yes, that's what I said, about twenty, that must be it, over there . . . Come over here. I'm not going to give you fifteen, nor twenty. You just start counting. One, two, three . . . And when you've had enough, you just let me know, okay?' And he takes out his sword and starts beating 'im until the man's beggin' for mercy.”

War Paint was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her horse.

And Camila, unable to hold back, said:

“Damn that old man, he's a bastard! No wonder I can't stand 'im!”

War Paint's expression changed at once.

“So ya're gonna go get all huffy about that?”

Camila, frightened, urged her mare forward.

War Paint stirruped hers at once and shot forward. Overtaking Camila, she grabbed the girl by the hair and undid her braid.

The pull made Camila's mare rear back, and the girl released the reins to get her hair out of her face. This made her lose her balance and fall off the horse, hitting her forehead against the stones.

Laughing uncontrollably, War Paint galloped off very agilely to catch the runaway mare.

“There ya go,
curro,
ya got yourself a new patient!” Pancracio said, when he saw Camila sitting on Demetrio's saddle along with Macías, her face covered in blood.

Luis Cervantes went forward presumptuously with his healing supplies. But Camila stopped crying, wiped her eyes, and said in a hushed voice:

“From you? Not even on my deathbed! I wouldn't take a drop of water from ya!”

In Cuquío, Demetrio received another order via courier.

“It says to head back to Tepatitlán again, General,” Luis Cervantes said, scanning the communication quickly. “You will have to leave your people there, and head to Lagos,
¹
to take the train to Aguascalientes.”

There were heated complaints. Amid much grumbling, grunting, and whining, some from the Sierra swore that they would break off from the troops.

Camila cried all night long. The next day, in the morning, she asked Demetrio to give her license to return home.

“If ya don't like it no more!” Demetrio replied, gruffly.

“It's not that, Don Demetrio. I like ya, I like you plenty . . . But ya've seen what's going on . . . it's that woman!”

“Don't worry, I'll get rid of her this very day . . . I've already thought it all out.”

Camila stopped crying.

Everyone was already saddling their horses when Demetrio approached War Paint and whispered softly to her:

“You're not goin' any farther with us.”

“What're ya sayin'?” she asked, not understanding him.

“That you're stayin' here, or you're goin' off to wherever ya want, but you're not comin' with us.”

“What're ya sayin'?” She gasped. “Ya mean ya're gettin' rid of me? Ha, ha, ha! What the . . . ? I suppose ya believe everythin' that girl says!”

Then War Paint proceeded to insult Camila, Demetrio, Luis Cervantes—and everyone else she could think of—with such energy and originality that the troops ended up hearing obscenities and insolences they had not even suspected might exist.

Demetrio waited patiently for quite a while. But since she showed no sign of stopping whatsoever, he said very calmly to a soldier:

“Throw this drunk woman outta here.”

“Margarito! My dear towhead! Come defend me from these . . . ! Come on, dear towhead of my heart! Come show 'em that ya're a real man, and that they're nothin' but a bunch of sons of . . . !”

And she kicked and screamed and made obscene gestures as she yelled all this.

Towhead Margarito came forward. He had recently awoken. His blue eyes could barely be seen behind his swollen eyelids, and his voice was hoarse. When he found out what had happened, he approached War Paint and said very seriously to her:

“Yes, I think it is a good idea, it is more than time for you to go! We have all had it up to here with you!”

War Paint's face turned to stone. She tried to speak, but her muscles were frozen stiff.

The soldiers were all laughing, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Camila, very frightened, held her breath.

War Paint looked carefully all around her. Then everything happened in the blink of an eye: she reached down, unsheathed a sharp bright blade from inside her stockings, and jumped on Camila.

A shrill cry and a body collapses, spurting blood everywhere.

“Kill her,” Demetrio screamed, mad with rage.

Two soldiers went toward War Paint. But she wielded her knife and did not allow them to touch her.

“Not you, damned nothings! You kill me yourself, Demetrio, ” she said as she went forward, handed him her weapon, stuck out her chest, and dropped her arms to her sides.

Demetrio raised the bloodstained knife high in the air. But his eyes clouded over; he wavered and took a step back.

Then, in a choked, hoarse voice, he shouted:

“Get outta here! Outta here now!”

No one dared to stop her.

She walked away slowly, somberly.

The silence and the overall astonishment were finally broken by the sharp, guttural voice of Towhead Margarito.

“Thank goodness! I am finally rid of that pest!”

XIII

With his head drooped down and his hands resting across his saddle, Demetrio kept humming the tune softly, in a woeful tone.

Then he would grow quiet, and remain silent and dejected for long minutes.

“As soon as we get to Lagos I will help you get rid of that melancholy, you will see, General. There are many pretty girls there for us to choose from,” Towhead Margarito said to him.

“The only thing I want right now is to get drunk,” Demetrio replied.

And he took his distance from them again, spurring his horse forward, as if he wished to abandon himself entirely to his sadness.

After many hours of slow riding, he called for Luis Cervantes.

“Listen,
curro,
now that I think of it, what in the hell am I goin' to Aguascalientes for?”

“To cast your vote, General, for the provisional president of the republic.”
¹

“The provisional president? So, then, should I . . . should it be Carranza? Truth is, I don't understand nothin' about this politics business . . .”

They arrived in Lagos. Towhead bet that he could make Demetrio laugh in earnest that evening.

Dragging his spurs, with his goatskin breeches drooping below his waist, Demetrio entered El Cosmopolita with Luis Cervantes, Towhead Margarito, and his orderlies.

“Why are you running away,
curro
s? We are not going to eat you!” Towhead exclaimed.

The townsfolk, startled just as they were trying to escape, stopped dead in their tracks. Some, pretending they were simply going about their business, returned to their tables and continued drinking and talking; others hesitated and then went forward to offer their respects to the general and his staff.

“General! Such an honor to meet you! Major!”

“That is better! That is how I like my friends, decent and refined,” Towhead Margarito said.

“Let's do it, muchachos,” he added, jovially drawing his pistol. “Here go your firecrackers, let's see your best dance moves.”

A bullet ricocheted off the cement floor and whizzed through the legs of the tables and of the well-dressed young men sitting around them, making everyone jump up, as frightened as a lady who has just seen a mouse crawl under her skirts.

Pale, they smile to appropriately celebrate the major. Demetrio barely parts his lips, while the rest of the staff erupts in uncontrollable laughter.

“Towhead,” Quail observes. “Looks like that one over there who's leavin' got stung by a bee, look at the way he's limpin'.”

Towhead, completely indifferent to what Quail has just said, not even turning around to look at the wounded man, states enthusiastically that he can hit a bottle of tequila at the drop of a hat from a distance of thirty steps.

“Let's see, friend, stand up,” he says to the waiter of the cantina. Then he leads him by the hand to the front of the hotel patio and puts a full tequila bottle on his head.

The poor, frightened wretch resists and tries to escape, but Towhead draws his pistol and aims.

“Stay in your place . . . you idiot! Or I will really give you a nice little warm one.”

Towhead walks back to the opposite wall, raises his weapon, and aims.

The bottle shatters into pieces, soaking the pale-as-a-corpse youth's head with tequila.

“Now we are talking!” he exclaims, and runs to the cantina for a new bottle, which he once again places on the young man's head.

He goes back to his spot, turns suddenly in place, draws, and fires.

Except this time he has shot off an ear instead of the bottle.

And, doubled over, holding his stomach from laughing so hard, he says to the young man:

“Here you go, boy, take these bills. It is really nothing! You can cure that with a little bit of arnica and alcohol . . .”

After drinking many spirits and beers, Demetrio speaks.

“Pay up, Towhead . . . I'm leavin' now . . .”

“I do not have anything left, General. But do not worry about it . . . How much do we owe you, friend?”

“A hundred and eighty pesos, señor,” the bartender replies amiably.

Towhead quickly jumps up on the counter and swings both of his arms about, knocking over all the cups, glasses, and bottles.

“Go on and send the bill to your Papi Villa, okay?”

“Listen, friend,” he asks—staggering drunk—of a small, properly dressed subject who is closing the door of a tailor's shop. “Where can we find the girls around here?”

The man who has been asked this steps down politely from a stool to let them pass. Towhead stops and looks at him with impertinence and curiosity.

“Listen, friend, you certainly are small and pretty! What do you mean no? Are you calling me a liar, then? Okay then, that is better . . . Do you know how to do the midget dance? What do you mean you do not know? I am sure you know it! I have seen you dancing with the circus! I am sure that you know it, and that you know it really good! We will see now!”

Towhead draws his pistol and starts firing at the tailor's feet. The very fat, small man jumps with each shot.

“See, I told you that you knew how to do the midget dance!”

Throwing his arms around his friends, he has himself led to the red light district, marking each step along the way by shooting at the corner streetlights and at the doors and the houses. Demetrio lets him go and returns to the hotel, singing under his breath: