El Coyote, the Rebel Page 10

  I did breathe, and—carambas! I almost choked to death.

  “Again,” the doctor commanded.

  This time I decided to fool him and took a very short breath, but it was just as bad as the first one. When the physician saw that I had disobeyed him, he angrily, said to me, “Take a long and deep breath. I don’t have all the day to waste with you. Don’t think that you are the only soldier in the Mexican army. There are other men waiting for my services.”

  At this rebuke I filled my lungs with chloroform fumes, and this time I really choked myself insensible. As I drew the last breath I felt my head going around and around; and as the sensation of dizziness began, I saw a wide circle composed of many colors coming from somewhere closer to the point between my eyes. When the colored revolving wheel reached the place between the eyes, everything went black, and that was the last of me.

  What the doctor and the nurses did when I was under the anesthetic is beyond my knowledge, but the thing I can well remember is that about six in the afternoon, the head nurse woke me from my long forced sleep by pulling the tip of my tongue with an oversized pair of tweezers. As soon as I opened my eyes, the nurse, casting a sigh of relief, said, “Gracias a Dios, el muchacho vive!”

  “Yes, señora s— ‘thanks be to God, the boy is alive!’” repeated Josefina, the nurse who had injected a dose of morphine in my arm the day before.

  The next thing that happened was the arrival of the one-eyed doctor, who came to my bedside and told Doña Pancha, the nurse who was taking care of me, to get me ready because I was going to be transferred to the main hospital in Cananea. Time was not wasted; so in a very short while I was carefully placed inside a boxcar with other wounded rebels to be taken to the main hospital.

  In Cananea I was placed under the care of a group of much younger and more beautiful nurses than the ones I had had before. In fact, some of the new hospital attendants were so charming and vivacious that their mere presence made me feel better right away.

  Three weeks later I was well enough to be dismissed from the main hospital, and so the chief doctor ordered me to pack my belongings and report to my battalion for duty.

  As soon as I was out of the hospital I made some inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Seventh Battalion, and I was immediately informed that my regiment was about fifty leagues south of Cananea. On hearing of the location of my company I decided to stay in Cananea and enjoy life.

  Once away from the hospital and from the drudgery of the army, I felt free. Free to do anything my heart desired. I thought that since I was eleven years old, and since I had had so many thrilling experiences fighting two major battles for the deliverance of the State of Sonora, I should do something about my freedom. I also felt that since I had lost one finger fighting for the protection of old people, defenseless children, innocent women, and the amiable señoritas, I had a right to my liberty and to call myself a self-made man! With such thoughts in mind I deserted the Mexican rebel army, and went to live with a family whom I had known while living with my uncle in the mining town of Cananea.

  14

  To desert the Mexican army was an easy thing to do, but to keep from being caught by the rebels was a hard task. A few days after I had deserted I thought I should get out of Cananea and hide where no one knew me. But I wondered and wondered, thinking, “Where am I going to hide, and how am I going to live?” As a whole, it was a gloomy prospect. I had no money, no friends, no family, nor a sure place in which to hide. I noticed that the people with whom I was staying were getting tired of me, and that worried me more than anything else. From day to day I tried to plan a way to get out of trouble, but every proposed scheme that came to my mind failed to materialize.

  One day while I was pondering over the possibilities of finding a new home, Don Federico, the man who had provided a hiding place for me the time I ran away from my uncle’s home, came to visit the man in whose house I was staying. Don Federico was very much pleased to see me. He asked me a lot of questions concerning my affairs, and when I told him that I had lost a finger in the battle of Rio Verde, he felt bad about it. And when I informed him that I had deserted the rebel army, he felt worse.

  “Luis,” he asked, “why did you do it? Why did you desert the rebels? Those horse thieves are a bunch of bad hombres! If they catch you, they will kill you—and then—what?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and then what? I never thought of that, or I might not have deserted the army. I think I should go and give myself up, for they might have a little mercy on me.” Then I reached for my sombrero, and as I was going out, my host arose and took me by the arm, saying, “Don’t be a fool! They will murder you!”

  “Yes, they will murder you!” repeated the visitor.

  “Well, then you will have to give me a job on your ranch,” I said to Don Federico.

  “Ranch! Those damned bandits took every horse, mule, and cart that I owned—I have no ranch,” he answered. “I have only a few burros left.”

  The host spoke, “Don Federico, why don’t you take Luis to your place and hide him there until the other party of rebels comes to Cananea.”

  Don Federico turned to me and said, “Son, you know me. I have always liked you, and I have always wanted to help you, but this time I am afraid. However, if you would like to work with me for a short while, you are welcome to do so, but I will not be responsible for what may happen to you. Tomorrow morning I am leaving Cananea with twenty burros loaded with drygoods, sugar, and coffee to trade in the near-by mining and farming towns for cheese, furs, hides and gold. The job is yours if you want it. I will pay you fifty cents a day and your food. Only one thing I am going to ask of you, and that is that I don’t want you to take the job and then leave me stranded on the way with my caravan of burros. I intend to come back to Cananea within a month or so, and after that time you may do whatever you please.”

  “I will take the job, Don Federico,” I said, “but what if the rebels catch me?”

  “Well, that will be something that neither you nor I will be able to help,” he answered.

  Here was an opportunity; so, the next morning I found myself on the back of a saddled burro, helping my master and his son pilot a drove of stubborn beasts loaded with merchandise across the rocky hills and ravines to the first trading post.

  The trip was a pleasant one. The only thing that bothered me then was that my wounded finger was not entirely well, and at times it was very painful.

  While I was on the trip I ate a lot of green, as well as ripe, wild fruits—pomegranates, figs, crab-apples, pears, prickly-pears, and cherries. I drank plenty of clear running water and slept in the open spaces with a stone or a pack saddle under my head for a pillow, while the mosquitoes hummed me to sleep.

  At the end of five weeks we were back at Cananea with a very good cargo of furs, hides, and cheese. Don Federico carried two large pouches of silver coins and three medium-sized flasks of gold dust in his saddle bags. As soon as we arrived at Don Federico’s house, we unloaded the burros and put them in the corral, leaving the servants to attend them while we cleaned up a bit to eat the first home-cooked meal that we had had in weeks. The lady of the house called us in for dinner, and when we had finished eating the delicious roasted turkey and other tasty dishes, my master said to me, “My boy, I am quite pleased with your work. We have done very well—in fact, better than I had expected.” Then he took from the table a pile of silver coins, which he had carefully counted while we were eating, and continued, “Here are twenty pesos, and I thank you for your help. I would like to keep you here in my house, but to tell you the truth, I am afraid. You are—well— son, you are a deserter, and if the rebels catch you in my house, you might cause me and my family a lot of trouble and grief.”

  I took my twenty pesos and said to my master, “Don Federico, you have always been very kind and considerate. I will never forget you for all the kindness and favors you have bestowed upon me.”

  As I addressed him, he offered me his hand, saying,
“Good-by, my son! May God bless you, and may the Virgin of Guadalupe keep watch over you!”

  “Good-by, master!” I said, as I shook his hand and went forth to wander.

  15

  With twenty pesos in my pockets I went to visit Don Pablo, the man in whose house I had been staying when Don Federico offered me my burro-driving job. Don Pablo and his wife were very glad to see me. They told me almost everything that had happened in Cananea while I was away. Both of them asked me to stay with them for a week or two if I wished. I thanked them graciously for their kindness, and told them that I expected to leave Cananea the following morning. They insisted on my staying with them at least overnight. I did so, and that evening I had to listen to Don Pablo’s hard luck stories of how he lost his job. He said that the rebels had been destroying the railroad lines, and the company stockholders could not afford to keep the mines going in full force. His wife also told me that they were getting very short of funds, and that her son had been spending entirely too much money on the wild señoritas. My friends’ stories were so sad and pathetic that I felt quite generous and pulled from my pocket ten pesos which I gave to them.

  As Don Pablo’s wife was putting away the money, he said, “Luis, day after tomorrow all the people of Cananea will celebrate the sixteenth of September.” After pausing for a moment, he asked, “Luis, do you know who was the Father of the Mexican Independence?”

  “Well—I—”

  “Come closer to the light,” he interrupted me, taking a book from the bench where he was sitting.

  When his wife and I were near him, he said, “The Father of Mexican Independence was born in—let me see—” He paused again; then fingering the pages, he proceeded, “Yes, here we are. ‘The Father of the Mexican Independence was born in Guanajuato, Mexico, the 8th of May, I753.’” Closing the book, he relaxed and continued, “His name was Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla. He was educated in the church for the priesthood and became a well-known and loved Father. He was of pure Spanish blood, but he loved the Mexican Indians. Everybody admired him for his strong and lovable character. He always dreamed of schools and education for the poor. When he was in charge of the church in the Village of Dolores, he established a pottery shop within the premises of the building, and there he met a potter whose name was Pedro Jose Sotelo. One warm evening during the month of August 1810, Father Hidalgo said to his friend, ‘My good man, if I were to confide in you a plan of great secrecy, would you guard my trust?’

  “‘Yes, señor Hidalgo, I will take your secret with me to the tomb,’ said the potter.

  “‘Good, keep my secret and listen to me,’ continued the priest. ‘It is not right that we, being Mexicans, and possessors of such a beautiful and rich country, should remain any longer under the despotic government of the Spaniards. They are robbing us, keeping us under a heavy yoke which we are unable to bear. They treat us as though we were slaves; we are not even permitted to speak as we wish. We have not the right to enjoy the fruit of our own soil. They own everything. We pay tribute to them in order to live in our own country, and you married men have to pay to the Spanish crown in order to live with your own wives. We are, in reality, under a tyrannical oppression. Don’t you think that all this is an injustice?’

  “‘Yes, Father, it is an injustice,’ answered the potter.

  “‘Very well,’ continued Father Hidalgo. ‘Now, my plan is to overthrow this heavy and hideous yoke. By removing the viceroy and denying obedience to the king of Spain we could become free and independent. But in order to accomplish all this, it is necessary to unite—take up arms—run the Spaniards out of the country and never allow any other foreigner to set foot on our land. What do you think? Would you be willing to follow me and help carry out the plan? Would you die, if need be, in order to liberate your country? You are still young, you are a married man, and you will have children. Don’t you think that they should be able to enjoy liberty and have freedom to delight themselves with the products of their homeland?’

  “‘Yes, Father, I think they should be free,’ replied the potter.

  “‘Very well, guard my secret; don’t tell it—not even to your closest friends,’ said the priest.”

  Don Pablo was so excited when he was telling the origin of the Mexican Independence Day that he took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and kicked off his sandals. Then he stopped long enough to drink a large glass of diluted tequila, after which he went on with the story. “Yes, Luis, that talk was the beginning of the plan to break away from the Spanish oppression. The date for the uprising was set to take place the second of October, during the celebration of the fair of San Juan de los lagos, but unfortunately the plan was discovered and betrayed to the government, thus forcing Father Hidalgo and his compatriots to begin their movement before they were thoroughly prepared. In the early hours of the sixteenth of September, 1810, Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla began tolling the bell of his parish church in the Village of Dolores, and from the surrounding hills the Indians flocked to the call of their beloved pastor. Word had been spread that great events were impending. When the people had gathered in the church and courtyard, the white-haired curate entered his pulpit, and gazing over the anxious upturned faces of his flock, addressed them for the last time; ‘My children,’ he said, ‘to us this day comes a new dispensation. Are you ready to receive it? Will you be free? Will you make the effort to recover from the hated Spaniards the land stolen from your forefathers three hundred years ago?’ And when he had finished his speech he raised his voice and exclaimed, ‘Viva La America! Long live our Holy Virgin of Guadalupe! Long live the Republic of Mexico, and death to the bad government!’ The throngs answered him with many cheers after which the priest raised a sacred banner bearing the figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Immediately he organized a little army of three hundred men, armed with clubs, swords, knives, and bows and arrows. At the head of these insurgents he marched to Guanajuato, and the people of the country came flocking to his aid, bringing his army to twenty-five thousand strong. The Spanish garrison at Guanajuato was defeated and the city captured. After successful battles at Morelia and Valladolid, Father Hidalgo marched toward Mexico City, but when almost within sight of the capital he was defeated, driven back, and his army dispersed. Father Hidalgo and his officers were betrayed and captured. He was executed at Chihuahua, the thirty-first of July, 1811. And now, Luis, as you see, the big celebrations which we hold every sixteenth of September are in honor of the man who started the struggle for Mexican Independence—a struggle which lasted eleven years. During that time Mexican soil was stained with blood, but that blood spilled on the battlefield was not shed in vain!” concluded Don Pablo.

  “That is a beautiful story, sir. I wish I were a great man like Father Hidalgo,” I said, as Don Pablo’s wife went to the kitchen and brought a pot of hot coffee.

  That night when I went to bed I intended to get up early the next morning and go out to face the world. When I went to bed I felt very comfortable and full of ambition, but the next morning when I awoke, I had such an awful chill and sore throat that I decided to stay in bed all that day. The following morning my throat was worse, and my body ached all over. Immediately a doctor was summoned. He questioned me and found that the mosquito bites, the clear running water which I had drunk, and the fruits I had eaten on my trip had been the cause of my getting a severe case of tropical malaria.

  Six weeks of constant home treatments cured my tropical malaria, and I was well enough to go away from Cananea, but I had no money; so the only thing that was left for me to do was to get out and look for a job.

  One morning while I was looking for work close to the parade grounds, I passed two well-dressed army officers, who turned and addressed me by my first name. One of them shouted at me, “Luis! Luis! Halt there!”

  The other officer came and stood in front of me, pointing his finger at my face, saying, “Coyote!”

  “Yes, sirs,” I answered.

  “We have orders to arrest you,�
�� said one.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you have failed to report to your battalion,” shouted the first one to me.

  “You are a deserter. You are a criminal! You have violated Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution,” said the second officer.

  After taking a small book from his coat pocket, the first man spoke to me again in a very stern voice. “Yes, Coyote, Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution reads—let me see—” he grumbled, while clumsily turning the pages of his book of rules and regulations.

  “Ah—here it is.” Again he started, “Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution states: ‘Any commissioned or noncommissioned officer, soldier, or civilian who is connected in any form with the Contreras Rebel Army; if by his unconquerable efforts, while in the line of duty, or off the battlefield, performs an act, or fulfills a deed of bravery, shall be rewarded with medals in due—’”

  “No—Captain—no! You are reading the wrong article!” interrupted the other officer. “You are reading Article 13, Section B, which rewards heroes. El Coyote is no hero—he is a deserter, a fugitive, a criminal!”

  “Hell! I made an error,” said the captain, turning and smiling at the officer who corrected him. Then he turned back to me and started again to speak dramatically, “Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution reads: ‘Any commissioned or noncommissioned officer, soldier or otherwise, who is connected in any way with the Contreras Rebel Army, who deserts while engaged in battle shall be shot at sunrise!’”

  “Yes, Coyote—‘shall be shot at sunrise,’” affirmed the other officer.

  “But, I—I—I am not a deserter, nor a criminal,” I stammered.

  “Yes, you are!” one of them shouted, while the other took his pistol from the holster, and poking my ribs with the muzzle of it, commanded me to march ahead of them toward the local jail.