TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border (22 page)

Behind him, the second shadowy figure hesitated, then vaulted over the fence into the plain. A howl went up from the troops in the second pen—half a cheer, half a shout of rage at being so cheated. They fired their rifles into the darkness where the man sprinted toward the first hills. But the mounds of dead took the impact of most of the bullets, and the others whistled off into the evening.

The fleeing man became only a faint shape, running low to the scrub, then indistinguishable from the cactus. He vanished.

So one had escaped. One had survived. One among more than two hundred.

Fierro’s arms dropped heavily to his sides. He let the pistol slide from his grasp. It bounced once before it settled on the blanket. He raised his right hand, the trigger finger purple and swollen, then rubbed it tenderly, wincing as he felt pain.

He frowned down at me. “If you hadn’t been so slow at the end, Tomás, even that one wouldn’t have got away. Still, it wasn’t bad shooting … I could have done worse. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” I said hoarsely, “you could have done worse.”

“And so could you.”

He meant that I would have been shot if I had failed to help him. Dozal would have seen to that. But the one gesture I had made at the end—the hesitation with the last pistol—had given one man back his life. Poor comfort, but all I had.

Fierro ordered the bodies burned, and we walked back to the car. Hipólito and the chauffeur were asleep, the empty whiskey bottle between them on the front seat. The soldiers, gathering firewood and trotting to keep warm, began to sing softly in the gathering darkness

“And if words will not,

then our weapons shall.”

In order for me to tell my story properly, another man must tell his own. He wrote in a journal which I have translated from the Spanish. The journal is a ledger, a long, thin, hardbound green volume normally used for keeping accounts of debits and credits in a business—perhaps a small grocery shop.

I came upon the ledger three years after the killing at Torreón, in the saddlebags of a dead man’s horse. That was no accident. But that part of my tale comes later … in the ghost town of Las Palomas, where Miguel Bosques, Rodolfo Fierro, Lieutenant Patton and I faced our final reckoning and paid all our debts.

from THE SCHOOLTEACHER’S JOURNAL

Fort Bliss

El Paso, Texas

December 20, 1913

One of my great regrets is that I could not begin this journal at an earlier date, but for the past two months my right hand, with which I normally write, has been bandaged and partially paralyzed. On that awful October evening, just as my brother Isidoro and I reached the fence in the Torreón stockyards, a bullet from Colonel Fierro’s pistol struck me in the wrist, shattering the bone.

Thanks to Lieutenant Patton, I am receiving treatment from the post surgeon, and there is excellent hope of full recovery. Today the bandages came off.

In the event that these pages should ever fall into other hands:

I, Miguel Bosques Barragán, thirty years of age, was born in the city of Goméz Palacio on January 27, 1883, the oldest son of Antonio Bosques Triano, a carpenter, and Encarnación Barragán, a saint. My parents are dead. My wife, Carmen Bosques Copeda, died in childbirth in 1910. The baby did not survive. I did not remarry.

Both my younger brothers, Roberto and Isidoro, were killed in October 1913 by the revolutionary forces of General Francisco Villa, in Torreón. I dedicate this journal and my life to their memory, for they were pure young men with not a drop of malice in their souls, and I write this account of my recent life because it has lost nearly all meaning for me. Educated as an idealist, I now find myself opposed to every form of idealism. I believe only in facts, and even there I am wary, for what one man swears to another will surely contradict; and I view history as a compilation of the self-serving statements of men who have much to justify and even more to hide, hardening over the years into a literature of lies. I live for only one thing, that most soul-destroying of all human motives: vengeance. This shames me but does not deter me from my purpose.

My escape from Torreón was surely miraculous, as if the hand of God had singled me out not merely for salvation, but to carry out His will, however dreadful it might be. My brothers and I had been unwilling conscripts in the volunteer army of General Pascual Orozco, the former revolutionist who had offered the services of his army to Victoriano Huerta, now President of Mexico. My brother Roberto was killed by an exploding shell in the battle for Gómez Palacio. In that same battle, neither I nor my brother Isidoro fired our rifles.

“It’s wrong to kill,” I told Isidoro. “These men of Villa’s think they are fighting to free the people of Mexico from slavery. They mean us no harm beyond their duty as soldiers.”

With many others, therefore, we surrendered to a squad of Villistas, who made us lie on the floor of a grocery shop for half a day. Another prisoner told me of Roberto’s death. Isidoro and I wept. We were struck several times in the kidneys and head with rifle butts. We were hungry, but we were given no food, although it was all around us in the shop.

Then we were taken in a truck to what had been the military hospital of Torreón. During the night there was fighting among the prisoners; many men were beaten to death. Isidoro and I hid in a toilet.

The following afternoon we were taken into the stockyards to be shot.

I could not believe at first that this would happen, but the other men told me that the army of Francisco Villa showed no mercy, that they killed merely for the love of killing and became crazed by the sight of blood.

I began to realize that we would die. I could not accept this, because I valued the gift of life and believed that evil could not possibly triumph over innocence. Even in that awful hour, I was still an idealist.

Then I noticed two men standing nearby. One was a well-dressed fat fellow with the face of a wild boar. The other was slim, tall, fresh-faced and young. I realized from his features and his gait that he was an American, a volunteer with Villa’s revolutionary army, perhaps therefore an idealist like myself.

When I addressed myself to him in English, he could not hide his surprise. I told him my story and asked if he considered it just that Isidoro and I should die. My only shame is that I did not plead for the lives of all the prisoners, but I knew that was far too much to ask.

The American, Captain Mix, listened politely but refused to answer my question.

He went off to confer with another officer, Colonel Fierro. When he returned, his jaw was set, his eyes were cold. He spoke with no feeling.

He said, “You will be shot with the others.”

The killing began. It was done personally by Colonel Fierro and Captain Mix. One fired, while the other quickly reloaded the pistols. They were like a well-trained team that had rehearsed many times. We were pushed in groups of ten through a cattle chute and made to run across a yard toward a fence. We were told that if we could cross that fence we would be free. But it was soon clear that this was impossible. Colonel Fierro was too accurate a shot. Captain Mix was too swift at reloading his pistols. The men died like hogs being butchered for All Saint’s Day.

I took my brother to one side. “Let the others go first,” I said. “Perhaps they will spare the last of us.”

But these were only the words of a man postponing the dreaded inevitable. Isidoro began to cry. I thought for one insane moment that when my turn came I would rush toward the two officers and try to kill them with my bare hands. Then one of the prisoners did precisely that and was shot down by a third officer long before he reached the murderers. Clearly, there was no way.

But it was growing darker, and by the time our turn had come, the sun had set. The killing ground lay in shadow. Many bodies had piled up near the fence of the corral that led to life.

I said to Isidoro, “Run low to the ground behind the other men. He always shoots the swiftest first. Leap upon the bodies in front of the fence, if you get that far. As you run, pray.” We were a group of thirteen, three more than had ever gone before, which made me think we had a slim chance.

I ran cautiously, trying to crouch low behind the piles of dead, Isidoro at my side. Just before we reached the fence, a bullet struck my wrist. I cried aloud in pain. Isidoro and I clambered up the hill of bodies, which slipped beneath my feet like jelly. He was between me and Colonel Fierro. As he clasped the rail, he shouted terribly,
“Miguel
!’’—and I knew he had been hit. For a second I stopped; I wanted to take my beloved brother in my arms and hold him while he died, and comfort him, and die with him.

But there is an urge for life that is stronger even than love. With my one good hand I found purchase on the wooden post and shoved myself over, even as more bullets found Isidore’s body that stood between me and the colonel’s pistol.

I struck the earth on the other side of the fence and ran low into the field. Of course, Colonel Fierro had lied to us. His men fired at me as I ran, but the darkness saved me. I ran until I could not run anymore and fell face forward in the dirt, my heart pounding, my lungs seared by an almost unbearable heat, my hand soaked with blood. I lay there, unable to move, waiting for them to come. I heard nothing except the bark of a dog, the braying of a distant burro. No horses’ hoofs drummed on the plain in pursuit.

After a time I rose slowly and began to walk through the darkness toward the mountains. I was cold and hungry. I was bleeding. I saw no shelter.

I thought of Isidoro, a nameless wreck of flesh and bone in a heap of mangled dead. I did not think I would live through the night.

January 9, 1914

This morning I gave Lieutenant Patton another Spanish lesson. Although he often makes jokes, he progresses rapidly. At our first lesson he asked me to teach him to curse in my language. I told him a few words and translated them, and he said, “Christ, Bosques—I’ve got to talk to
soldiers!
Don’t you know anything more salty than that?”

He repeated my next phrases so seriously and accurately that I blushed. To say such things to a Mexican would result in a quick death.

But I owe much to this man.

January 12, 1914

After my escape from Torreón, I spent the first night and all next day in a small abandoned farmhouse in the foothills of the mountains near the pueblo of La Fé, a railroad junction. There was water in the well, some old clothing in a bureau and some feed for cattle and chickens in the barn. I ate crushed eggshells and grain that I scooped from the dirt, forcing it down my throat with a tin cup full of water. I also found half a bottle of tequila, hidden under a pile of straw, and used it to clean the bullet hole in my wrist. Some strips of torn underwear served as a bandage. I had lost blood and felt too weak to travel yet, so I slept.

Waking at dawn, among the rags of clothing I rescued a torn shirt, a pair of filthy trousers and a serape that had been a feast for moths and smelled as well of horses. I tore my Redflagger uniform into strips, stuffing them under the straw in the barn. I tried to think carefully. To return to Torreón was out of the question, for it would be too dangerous to be a man of military age out of uniform. I thought of going south, but if Villa’s army marched in that direction I could easily be swept into its net or conscripted again by the Redflaggers.

But I could go north—I could cross the Rio Bravo to the United States. What was Mexico but a land of death and cruelty in equal proportion? All that was good would perish. Evil would triumph. I knew the revolution to be a tragedy, the government to be a macabre comedy. One way or the other, the soul of the Mexican people was doomed to a certain strangulation.

So at dusk I set out, moving south through the foothills to the small railroad junction of La Fé. But for my wound I looked like any ragged
campesino
in flight from the war. I lacked a pistol. I had only the nearly empty bottle of tequila and another of cold water from the well.

Few lights showed in La Fé, but near the junction there was a cantina for the railway workers. I heard the sounds of male laughter, the strains of a guitar floating through the gloom. Half a dozen horses were tethered outside, snorting in the cold. A bar of light shot into the street from the cantina’s swinging doors. I found shelter in the darkness behind an empty house, and there I waited, my arm throbbing.

But no train came. How could it? Torreón was now in the hands of the revolution! I had tried to think carefully, but my mind was blurred by grief, fever and pain.

The horses snorted again, blowing gusts of steam into the night air. I knew how to ride; I would have to steal one. I approached them slowly, not wanting to frighten them, but the old serape smelled of the beast it had once covered and that put them at ease. One of the horses was a big young sorrel with full saddlebags and a rifle stock protruding from a worn scabbard. I realized then that the men inside the cantina were not railway workers, but soldiers. On which side?

I pondered for a minute, then dismissed the question. What did it matter? All men under arms were my enemies.

Just as I unlooped the sorrel’s reins from the post, the cantina doors flung rudely open and a drunken man lurched out. He had already unbuttoned his pants and was peeling back his foreskin, readying himself to piss, when he saw me standing by the horses.

“Hey! Who are you?” he called. “What are you doing there?”

He was a Villista, a lean young man with a bushy mustache and tilted-back sombrero. With one hand he fumbled at his penis, trying to stuff it back into his pants. With the other he tugged at his pistol. My mouth grew dry.

“Señor,” I said, “don’t be angry, I beg you. I was just…”

“You were just going to look through my saddlebags, you piece of garbage!”

“No, señor. On the Virgin, I would not do that.”

“Scum! Wouldn’t you?”

I tried to smile crookedly. With my left hand I raised the empty tequila bottle. Spare this besotted peasant! But the soldier, unsmiling, kept tugging at his pistol. His drunken fingers were clumsy, and with the other hand he still shoved at his penis. Grumbling another curse, seeing I was unarmed, he decided to button himself properly before he shot me. He looked down.