El Coyote, the Rebel Read online

  My first night in the Cananea jail was one of the most horrible nights that I had ever gone through. I was confined in solitude by order of my two captors, who, with a very ornamental scrawl, wrote on the county jail’s gigantic ledger the following inscription: “We, the duly appointed officers of the Contreras Rebel Army, state in this civil document that we have apprehended a man—rather a boy—otherwise known to his battalion and his comrades as Luis Pérez, alias El Coyote. He is a deserter! a fugitive! a criminal! He should be guarded by a special sentry day and night, and he should be punished according to Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution. Written and signed by Captains Pedro Romero and Tomás Techos.” This statement was read to me the next morning by a court judge.

  The day I was taken to jail, after a few court formalities at the sergeant’s desk, the jailer took me by the arm and pulled me to my cell. As he was leading me, he asked, “Son, what else did you do, besides deserting the rebels?”

  “That is all, jailer.”

  “Why do they say that you are a criminal?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  “Are you sure you have not been making love to the general’s daughters?”

  “Oh, no! I do not make love yet. I am still too young to make love.”

  “Hmm-m-m, the young ones are the most dangerous,” he murmured. “Just the other day, some officers brought in three fellows who were fooling around with the general’s wife and daughters. One of them is doomed to be shot at sunrise tomorrow morning.” Then the jailer, after looking around, placed his thick, greasy finger up to his lips, and said, “Sh-h-h-sh! The general caught the criminal climbing up to the window with a guitar on his back. The prisoner claims that he was going to sing La Golondrina to Doña Manuela.”

  “And who is Doña Manuela, señor jailer?”

  “Why, muchacho, Doña Manuela is the general’s wife. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “Yes, and she is a beauty. Just the other day—well—about three months ago, while I was on my way to see a lady friend of mine and my sister Maria, I saw Doña Manuela out in the yard playing with the dogs. And what do you think?” Again putting his soiled finger up to his lips, he said, “Sh-h-h-sh!” Finally he came closer to me and whispered in my ear. “She was barelegged that day! And, young fellow, she surely has the most beautiful legs you ever expect to see on any female! They are perfect!”

  “Where was the—”

  Suddenly he seemed to remember something and hurriedly interrupted me, saying, “Well, son, for you I feel sorry, but duty is duty and I must obey. This is going to be your new home until the commander will send you to the gallows.” Then pointing to the cell in which he was ordered to lock me, he continued, “This is a good calaboose. We have had several prominent criminals in here. We had one fellow here for three weeks, but he was decapitated this morning. Before he died he told me that he had a trained mouse in this cell. He told me that the mouse’s name was Pepino. Have you ever heard of a little rat being named Cucumber?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t,” I answered.

  “Don’t kill him if you see him running up and down the dungeon.”

  “No, señor jailer, I shall not kill Pepino,” I said, as the jailer locked the cell and left me there alone.

  The cell in which I was confined was a smelly one. The only light available was a dim ray that penetrated through the foot-square peephole, which was reinforced with cross bars. The guards walked continuously, and silently, from end to end of the building until ten o’clock at night, when they began to shout a military password. The cry continued every half hour from the time the lights were put out until sunrise.

  Once the special sentinel who was guarding me passed by my cell and loudly shouted, “Twelve o’clock—and all is well here!” The other guards answered the call in a similar manner, to let each other know that they were on duty.

  At a later hour the same guard went by my cell, and again shouted the password. Then I walked to the peephole and exclaimed, “Yes, sentinel! Everything might be well there with you, but nothing is right here with me.”

  “What is the matter with you, muchacho? Are you not happy in your new home?” he asked, resting the muzzle of his carbine in the peephole.

  “Of course not! How do you expect me to be happy when—”

  “And why are you not happy, may I ask?” he abruptly interrupted.

  Immediately I answered, “I am not happy here because I am cold, hungry, and sleepy.”

  “Why don’t you go to bed?”

  “Because there is no bed here, and the floor of this room is wet and cold. Moreover, the bedbugs are eating me alive.”

  “Ha-ha-ha!” Loudly he laughed; then he said, “Bedbugs in that room and there is not even a bed in the place—he-he-he!”

  “Well, whether they are bedbugs or other vermin, they are eating me alive.”

  Changing his manner to one more serious, he said, “Don’t worry about the bedbugs, boy; you probably will be shot at sunrise.”

  “Shot at sunrise!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, shot at sunrise! You are a war deserter, and the army has no use for deserters.” Then, shouldering his rifle, he resumed his pacing from one end of the building to the other.

  After I heard that I was going to be executed at sunrise, I could not be quite sure whether I was trembling because I was cold, or because I was frightened almost to death. I felt worse that moment than I did the night when my Mauser kicked me over, while I was fighting the last Mexican Federal Troops in Guaymas.

  As soon as I was able to realize that things were worse than I had thought, I went away from where I was standing to a corner of the dingy room, and knelt to pray. I parroted my repertoire of prayers to my collection of saints, even though I did not have much faith in them, asking them to forgive my faults, to guide me and to give me courage and strength to face the firing squad in the morning.

  The time seemed to drag, but while I was still invoking the host of heaven to come to my rescue, I heard the faint beating of a muffled drum, marking time to an eight-man squad which was approaching the main gate. Immediately I left my place of prayer and went to look out through the barred peephole.

  The squad was commanded by a young lieutenant, and as the marching men slowly arrived at the entrance the commanding officer shouted, “Squad—halt! Order—arms!”

  After these maneuvers were clumsily performed, the young officer, with sword in hand, saluted the guard and asked him for the prisoner. The overzealous sentry instead of answering the commander’s question, shouted “Corporal of the guard! Corporal of the guard!” Then he continued his pacing.

  The corporal of the guard came running, rubbing his eyes and making a salute at the same time. Then he said, “On duty my General—I mean—my Lieutenant.”

  Again the commanding officer raised his shiny sword to the level of his cap visor, saluted the corporal, and asked for the prisoner.

  “Ah—the prisoner!” smilingly exclaimed the corporal.

  “Yes, the prisoner,” repeated the lieutenant.

  “Yes, Commandante. If you march your men this way, I will deliver the culprit to you,” said the corporal.

  The officer then shouted, “Squad—attention! Right—face! Forward—march!”

  Seven of the men turned to the right and one to the left, then marched. Immediately the lieutenant halted the squad and said, “Pancho, you stupid ass! Don’t you know your right from your left? Instead of the prisoner, you should be the man to be shot today!”

  At this comment Pancho turned to the right and joined his comrades, who were laughing at him, and the squad was ordered to follow the corporal. The corporal and the officer were at the head of the squad, and when they came close to the door of my cell the corporal said, “Señor lieutenant, the prisoner is in cell number three.”

  Heretofore I had thought that I was the only prisoner in the Cananea jail, and when I heard the corporal tell the commanding offi
cer that the man who was going to be shot that morning was in cell number three, I tried to see if three was the number on my cell door.

  The corporal went past my cell to door number three, and holding a bunch of keys, he said, “This is the place, Señor Commandante.”

  The officer commanded the squad to halt. Then the corporal went and opened the door next to mine. As he opened it he exclaimed, “My God! The prisoner has hanged himself!”

  As I heard the corporal’s exclamation my legs gave way, and I fell into a dead faint.

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  I do not know how long I was unconscious, but upon recovering I found myself in the guard’s quarters, surrounded by several curious soldiers.

  As soon as I opened my eyes, the sergeant in charge said to me, “Muchacho, we are not going to kill you yet—we haven’t any orders to do so; but we have orders to keep you in jail until further notice. You may stay here with us until ten o’clock, when your case is to be tried.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I replied. Then I took a gold ring which I had in my watch pocket and handed it to him.

  “Why are you giving me this ring?” he asked. “I cannot save you from the firing squad.”

  “I know that, Sergeant. I know that you are not able to save me from the firing squad, but you have given me news that you are not shooting me this morning. Your news may not save my life, but at least it has saved my nerves.”

  At this remark one of the soldiers near us turned to another and said, “Carambas, the boy has brains!”

  “Muchacho,” said the sergeant, “you better keep your ring. Wear it yourself.”

  “No, Sergeant,” I replied, “it is a token of friendship from me to you—besides, I have no use for the ring any more. I have lost my ring finger, and I cannot wear it on any other.”

  Reluctantly he took the ring and put it on his little finger; then he gave me a cup of coffee and said, “My boy, I will do all that I possibly can to help you, and promise that I will feed you as long as you remain in this jail.”

  I thanked the sergeant for his kindness, and as I was doing so, one of the rebels shouted, “Long live the sergeant! Long live the boy! Vivan todos los hombres valientes!”

  “Long live Mexico! And long live all the brave men,” repeated another soldier, as an answer to the cheers.

  It was a joyful moment for the sergeant, and as soon as he heard the first shout, he held his chest up high and saluted the men present.

  At ten o’clock I was taken to a court room, and when the judge arrived, he asked, “Where is the prisoner?”

  The bailiff took me by the arm and said, “Your Honor, here he is.” Then the bailiff took me closer to the judge’s bench and continued, “This is the prisoner, Your Honor.”

  At this the judge looked at me and said, “Good morning, young man.” Then he paused for a while to fix his glasses on his nose, and picked up the civil document. After he had opened the ledger he said, “Here we are.” Then he read: “‘We, the duly appointed officers of the Contreras Rebel Army, state in this civil document that we have apprehended a man—rather a boy—otherwise known to his battalion and comrades as Luis Pérez, alias El Coyote. He is a deserter! a fugitive! a criminal! He should be guarded by a special sentry day and night, and he should be punished according to Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution. Written and signed by Captains Pedro Ramos and Tomás Techos.’ Hmmmm-m, Article 13, Section C of the Rebel Constitution—” he mumbled between his teeth. Then he stood, and in a very majestic tone addressed the listeners: “Gentlemen, this Civil Court has no jurisdiction whatsoever to enter verdict against a war deserter. However, this Court has the right to sentence an army prisoner to jail until he, or the party in question, is tried or set free by orders of a court-martial. Therefore, I, the appointed judge of this Civil Court of the town of Cananea, sentence this prisoner of war—” pointing to me, “known to his battalion and his comrades as Luis Pérez, alias El Coyote, to serve time in jail until further notice. The court is now adjourned.”’

  Immediately I was taken back to my cell by the jailer, and when he was opening the door he asked, “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “No, señor, I did not sleep at all.”

  “Didn’t you? Did you see Pepino?”

  “No, señor, but I heard him.”

  “You heard Pepino, boy? He is just a baby rat.”

  “Yes, but just the same, I heard him gnawing something.”

  “Maybe he was hungry, do you think, eh? I am going to bring some old tortillas for him to eat.” Then, closing the cell door, he left.

  A few minutes later the jailer came back to the cell bringing two blankets, a crate, and a plate of beans with three corn tortillas. After he opened the gate he said, “Little man, I brought you something to eat, and these blankets for you to sleep on.”

  I took the food and the blankets, and after I had thanked him, he put down the crate and said, “Little one, I like you. My name is Pancho Moreno de Leon, but you can call me Pancho.”

  While I was eating my beans, there came trailing into the cell the most forlorn mastiff I had ever seen. He looked more like a consumptive mountain lion than a watchdog. When the jailer saw him, he said to me, “This dog is our pet.”

  “Is he a high-class dog?” I asked.

  “Carambas, no—he is a mixture. He is crossed between a Saint Bernard and a Mexican coyote. The commandante brought him here when he was still a baby pup. He calls him Fatima, on account of the Egyptian wiggle he displays when he trots.”

  As I was eating the beans, the dog sniffed my back; then the jailkeeper said, “Fatima likes you too. And I think he feels sorry for you.”

  “I like him, too,” I replied, feeding the dog a piece of tortilla with beans. Then I asked, “Señor, how long have you been a jailer?”

  “Well, let me see, boy,” mumbled Pancho to himself. “Pedro, my son, was three years old, and my sister Maria was going to have a baby.” Then speaking to me directly he said, “Now I remember. Twelve years, to be exact.”

  “That is a long time,” I remarked.

  “Yes, my little one, and in twelve years I have lost only three prisoners.” Then coming closer to me he whispered, “I lost them because I let them escape. They were not real criminals nor army deserters like you. They were only loco about women.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yes, that is why I left the gate open.”

  “Didn’t you get punished for letting them go?”

  “No, my boy, the commandante never missed them.” Then he arose, and while he was locking the cell door he said, “I’ll come and see you tonight.”

  About seven o’clock he came back again, followed by Fatima. This time he brought me more beans and tortillas, and he also brought a bottle of tequila. After he had handed me the plate with the food, he said, “I never like to drink alone. Do you want a drink?”

  “No, sir, I don’t drink, thank you.”

  He sat on the crate, and as he was putting the bottle on the floor, he looked toward one of the corners of the cell and exclaimed, “Look! I see Pepino.”

  “Where?”

  “There in his hole,” he replied, walking toward the corner. When he was near the place he squatted, and taking a hard tortilla from his shirt bosom, he called, “Here, Pepino, here, don’t be afraid. For you I brought a tortilla for your supper.” After leaving the Mexican pancake near Pepino’s hole, he came back to the crate and said, “Watch, he’ll come out.”

  A few moments later the mouse came and sniffed the tortilla, then ran back. Again he ran back, but immediately turned and came toward the dog, who was sleeping close to me. As the mouse was sniffing near the mastiff, I said to the jailer, “You had better chase Pepino back to his hole because the dog will kill him.”

  “No, Fatima won’t kill a fly,” replied the jailkeeper, picking up the bottle and taking a drink. While the man was drinking, Fatima opened one eye, and almost like an automatic monster, he raised his massive paw
and flattened Pepino to a pulp. At Pepino’s squeaks the jailer dropped the bottle and swore, “Perro cabrón! You killed Pepino!” Then he picked up the dying mouse by the tail and went out of the dungeon shouting, “Fatima killed Pepino! Fatima will pay for this!”

  While Pancho, the jailer, was away from the cell Fatima got up, scratched off a few fleas, then wobbled over to the rat hole, brought the hard tortilla to my bedding, and ate it. Soon the jailkeeper came back, without the mouse, and said, “Pepino is dead and I am going to punish that damned dog for killing my—”

  “What are you going to do to him?” I interrupted.

  “I’m going to lock him in here with you. He is a murderer and you are an army deserter.” Then he locked the dog and me in the smelly calaboose.

  The following morning the jailer came in very early. The dog was restless, and as soon as the cell door was opened he bolted out, almost knocking down the jailkeeper. As the dog whizzed out the door, Pancho shouted, “Perro cabrón! He is no good for nothing. As soon as I will get hold of him I am going to give him five lashes for killing my Pepino.” Then speaking directly to me he said, “Boy, I have good news for you.”

  “You have? Am I free?” I asked.

  “No, but the sergeant pleaded for you, and he is going to be responsible for you until you are tried by a court-martial. However, you have to stay in the guard’s quarters.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind that,” I said, as he helped me to gather my blankets and took me to the guard’s quarters. There the sergeant and I became good friends, and whenever he was on duty, he would let me go out to a show, or to visit some of my acquaintances.

  As no one came to claim me I had to remain in jail fourteen days. While there I became very friendly with the guards, and felt quite at home. It was not so bad to be in jail in Mexico because there were always a lot of interesting things that happened to the prisoners. Each man in jail was on his own honor, and after proving that he was a worthy person, he was allowed to go out at will on the condition that he would report every day until his term expired.