El Coyote, the Rebel Read online

  “Nothing, Captain.”

  “Nothing!” he repeated, as he started to laugh heartily. Then he added, “You looked so funny in the hands of the madame that I could not help but laugh and let her have a good time with you. You certainly were killing.”

  “She was killing me!”

  “Ha-ha-ha! Coyote, you looked like a scared chicken in the claws of a hawk.”

  “Captain,” I said, “La Casa del Amor is not ‘The House of Love’ for sane people, but a crazy house for persons who have no brains.”

  “Yes, Coyote,” he concluded; then in a mocking way he quoted, “‘Captain, I am your orderly, and I am here to obey orders. I am just like putty, and I can be molded any way to fit the plans of the day.’” At this he burst out laughing.

  When I heard his sneering chuckle I took my blankets, wrapped myself in them, and said to him, “Captain, tomorrow I am resigning my post as an orderly to resume the rank of a common soldier. Good night, señor Capitán.”

  25

  Soon after we had returned to our cuartel in Agua Prieta, I proceeded, through the regular army routine, to try to get my honorable discharge from the Contreras rebel troops. I tried persistently and, after three failures, I took other measures.

  One day during the month of August 1917 at siesta time I walked toward General Contreras’ headquarters. As I was approaching the place, the guard on duty shouted, “Halt there! What is your name, rank, and regiment?”

  “Private Pérez, Seventh Battalion of Infantry of the Mexican Army; the protectors of the State of Sonora,” I replied.

  “Corporal of the Guard!” shouted the sentinel. Then turning to me, he added, “Private Pérez, advance to be recognized.”

  I marched toward him, and the corporal of the guard, who had been disturbed from his siesta, asked, “What can we do for you, Private Pérez?”

  “Corporal, I would like to speak to General Contreras.”

  “State your business to us,” said a sergeant who had come from within the building.

  “My business is with the general and not with you.”

  As soon as I had stated that my business was with the general, the corporal seized me and started searching through my clothing. When he had finished, the sergeant asked, “Is he armed?”

  “No! He is not armed,” replied the corporal in a surprised manner.

  “Hold him here until I find out what to do with him,” said the sergeant. Then he went into the headquarters, and within five minutes’ time he came back and ordered me to follow him. I obeyed, and the corporal came behind me.

  As we were going through the wide halls of the building, I saw on one side several fat generals reading the news of the day, playing cards, and chatting. On the other side I saw petty officers gossiping among themselves. When we came to the door of the chamber where General Contreras was conducting his business, an officer opened the door and, after a military salute, he stated, “General Contreras, Private Pérez, to—”

  “Let him in—let him in,” interrupted General Contreras.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the officer, and then commanded me to come in.

  When Generalissimo Contreras saw me, he asked, “What can I do for you, young man?” squinting, as he spoke.

  To his question I answered, “My General,” clicking my heels and putting my right hand up to my forehead, “I wish to obtain an honorable discharge from your army.”

  “This is very irregular. Why don’t you follow the specified form stated in the army Book of Rules and Regulations?” he asked.

  “I have, my General.”

  “When?”

  “Three months ago I sent the first one; a month after that I sent the second one, and last month I sent the third application. Since I have not received an answer to any of my three petitions, I decided to come and see you in person.”

  “And why do you want to leave the army? Don’t you like it? Don’t we feed you well?”

  “Yes, my General. I am quite pleased with the way I am treated in the army, but—”

  “But what?” he interrupted.

  “My General, I wish to go somewhere—some place where I may be able to go to a school and educate myself.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “To the United States, my General.”

  “Why the United States? Isn’t Mexico good enough for you? Mexico is for the Mexican people.”

  “Oh, yes, my General, but my uncle lives in the United States.”

  “What part?”

  “In Douglas, Arizona, sir.”

  Changing his form of questioning he continued, “Of which regiment are you a member?”

  “I am a member of the Seventh Battalion of Infantry, my General.”

  “Very well. Wait a few minutes over there,” pointing to a chair. Then he rang a bell. An officer appeared and General Contreras ordered him to bring the records of the Seventh Battalion of Infantry.

  When the archives were brought to him, the general called me and asked, “You said that your name was Lucas-s-s?”

  “No, señor, my name is Luis Pérez—otherwise known as El Coyote.”

  “Oh, yes, Luis Pérez. When and where were you enlisted?”

  “I was enlisted in Cananea, but I do not remember the date.”

  “Hmm-m-m-m,” he hummed, then opened one of the books, and with a finger on the page, he mumbled, “K, L, M, N, O, P, P, P, Pérez, Julian, Pérez, Luis— Luis Pérez-z-z—here we are.” Then he read: “‘Luis Pérez, was enlisted in Cananea in 1914, and deserted the army while fighting in the battle of Rio Verde.”’

  Right away I said, “Oh, no, my General. I did not desert the army. I was wounded in the battle of Rio Verde, and I was sent to the hospital in Cananea.”

  “Hmm-m-m-m, very interesting,” he said. Then he asked, “In what part of the body were you wounded?” Immediately I held up my right hand and said, pointing to my third finger, “This is the finger I lost in the battle of Rio Verde.”

  “How?”

  “A wild bullet hit it, I think.”

  “Hmm-m-m-m, how old are you?”

  “I was about eleven when I—”

  “When were you born?” he interrupted.

  “I was born the twenty-fifth day of August, 1904, in San Luis Potosí.”

  As I answered, he took a pencil and paper and said, “Well—let me see—1904, and this is 1917. Four from seven, three—zero from one is one—that makes you thirteen years old.” Lifting his eyes from the paper he asked, “Do you have a mother and father?”

  “No, my General, soy huérfano.”

  “You are an orphan boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well—you have been in the army long enough. I am going to write a note next to this entry of desertion, saying that you are free to go wherever you like.”

  “Thank you, my General,” I said.

  After he had finished writing, he stood up, and taking his wallet from his hip pocket, he said, “Here, my young man—take this.” He handed me a twenty-dollar bill of United States money. Then he continued, “Buy yourself a suit of civilian clothes. Good-by and God bless you.”

  I took the money with my left hand, performed a military salute, thanked the general, and went out into the street. Immediately I went to the nearest drygoods store and bought “civvies,” including shoes.

  From Agua Prieta I went to visit Don Juan, the man who loaned my uncle the three dollars to buy a pair of shoes and overalls for me during my first visit to Douglas.

  While I was on my way, I decided that General Contreras was not such a bad hombre after all. I considered him a gentleman in many ways, and particularly because he had given me twenty dollars. The only thing that worried me was that I did not become a general of the Mexican army. Later on I thought perhaps the reason was that I had refused to become Captain Mondragón’s orderly.

  When I arrived at Don Juan’s place, he said, “Luis, I have sad news for you.”

  “What news, Don J
uan?”

  “Well,” he said, bowing his head and making the sign of the cross, “your aunt died a month ago, and when she was about to close her eyes, she said to your uncle, ‘Miguel, if you see Luis again, ask him to forgive me.’ Then she closed her eyes forever. A week after the funeral your uncle went back to Mexico.”

  “To what part of Mexico—do you know?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Don Juan, it is sad to know of all these things, but Dios da y Dios quita,” I commented.

  “Yes, Luis, that is life—God gives and God takes away,” he repeated. Then he asked, “And what do you intend to do now?”

  “I do not know, Don Juan. I would like to get a job somewhere, save money, and go to school.”

  “That is a very admirable ambition, but I think you are still too young to be able to get a job. However, you can go to the ore smelters every morning and stand by the gate to see if they will employ you. If they will hire you—for Christ sake tell them that you are eighteen years old. They need workers because the American Government is recruiting all the able-bodied young men for the army. The ore smelters are also going full blast. Think of it, Luis—in full force—three shifts—one from seven in the morning till three; the next from three to eleven at night; and the other from eleven to seven in the morning. They need workers badly, and besides that, the company is paying seven American pesos and forty-nine centavos for eight hours’ work. Think of it! It is unbelievable. Seven dollars and forty-nine cents is good money for us poor devils.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Luis, you can stay with us until you get a job, and after that you may do whatever you please.”

  “Thank you, Don Juan, you are very kind. Tomorrow I shall go and look for a job.”

  “That is right—you might just as well start at once,” he stated. Then he called his wife and told her that I was going to stay with them for a while.

  “Fine,” said she; “he can sleep in the kitchen with the cat.”

  “Yes, Luis, you can sleep there with the cat. We will put a mattress on the kitchen floor for you,” added Don Juan.

  I thanked both of them for their generosity, and that evening I went to the main business section of town. Here I saw that there was a great deal of excitement about something. People were marching up and down the street, singing patriotic songs and carrying banners. Military bands were playing and the saloons were wide open. One of the Mexicans was reading aloud to another some signs which stated: “Do your bit for America!” “Save the world for democracy!” “Buy Liberty Bonds today, tomorrow will be too late!” “Do your part today—don’t wait until tomorrow.” Some of the people shouted, “Beat the Kaiser.” “Down with Germany!”

  I asked a Mexican fellow, who was standing by my side, “Amigo, what is the occasion for this big celebration?”

  “This is not a celebration, muchacho.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Muchacho—Woodrow Wilson, the President of the United States, declared war against Germany the sixth of April of this year, and ever since that day the people have been very excited over it,” he explained.

  “Ah, war here too, eh, señor?”

  “Yes, war here too,” he answered, and walked away

  So after I had learned about the war situation I went to Don Juan’s home to sleep in the kitchen with the cat. After making a very comfortable bed on the floor I undressed and lay down. As I was putting my head on my coat, which I had rolled to serve as a pillow, I whispered to myself, “Tomorrow will be another day.”

  26

  The next morning, which was Friday, I went to look for work. I stood at the smelter gate for about an hour, but no one hired me. I went again and stood at the gate the second, the third, and the fourth day; still no one was interested in my services.

  Finally, instead of my going to look for work in the morning or at the three o’clock shift, I went to the night one. While I was standing at the gate an elderly man came from the inside of the smelter yard and looked at the group of waiting men. Then he called one, then another, and still another; finally, pointing at me he asked, “How old are you, son?”

  “Who, me?” I asked as I pointed to myself.

  “Yes, you.”

  Immediately I answered, “I am eighteen years old—I will be nineteen next week.”

  “Good, you come with me. You want to work, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Indeed I do,” I answered, and followed him.

  After a few preliminaries at the ore smelter office, I was taken to the roasters. The roasters were large steel tanks, inlaid inside with white brick. There were twenty in all. Each tank had several flat divisions with a large hole in the center. Each tier was provided with three long steel-toothed arms attached to a perpendicular axle which extended through the center of the tank. The axle, in turn, was manipulated by means of electric motors, belts, pulleys, and gears. The crushed ore was deposited in the upper part of the tank, and when the axle revolved, the long steel-toothed arm raked the ore from the first tier to the second, and from the second to the third, and so on. As the ore dropped from tier to tier it was sprayed with burning oil in such a manner that when the raw metal reached the last tier it was red hot. From the roasters the red-hot ore was taken in four-wheeled tanks to the melting pots.

  My job was to fill the wheeled tanks with hot ore. For the first few days I thought the job was quite hard and hot, but later I became used to it. The worst part of the work was the strong copper smoke which, in spite of our homemade masks, got into our lungs.

  While working in the smelter, I met a Mexican who was an American citizen, and who spent most of his working time talking to me about Mexico. He was one of those Mexicans who had never been in Mexico, and longed very much to go there. One day he came to me and said, “Luis, I would surely love to go to romantic Mexico. Mexico— the land of dreams—romance music and beautiful señoritas!”

  “Yes, my friend,” I answered, “and don’t forget that it is also the land of generals and revolutions.”

  “Ha-ha! That reminds me of a funny story I heard this morning about the Mexican army.”

  My friend started to laugh about the joke, and the boss, who was hiding and listening to us, came out and said, “Boys, I would like for you to do more work and less talking.”

  “Yes, sir,” we answered, and started to work.

  The next day my almost constant companion came to see me, and immediately started talking again about romantic Mexico. He asked me a lot of questions about the country. One of them was, “Luis, how much will it cost to go to Mexico?”

  “It all depends—depends on the location and the time you want to spend there. Where would you like to go, and how long do you expect to remain in Mexico?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said, “not very far. Maybe as far as Hermosillo, Sonora, and stay there about three or four months.”

  “For that distance and that length of time, it will cost about two hundred dollars a person.”

  “Only two hundred dollars?”

  “Yes, about that.”

  “Would you like to go to Mexico with me?”

  “I don’t have the money to spare.”

  “I mean, if I give you the two hundred dollars, would you like to go and show me the country?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am very happy in the United States.”

  “Well, think it over,” he said, and went to his work.

  The next day he came as usual, and while I was filling one of the tanks with hot ore, he said, “Luis, here is your present.”

  “What present?” I asked.

  Handing me a roll of bills, he answered, “The two hundred bucks I promised you.” Then pausing for a moment while I looked at the money, he added, “Let us go to Mexico—what do you say?”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Next Sunday.”

  “No, that is too soon—it is Wednesday already.”

 
“Why not right away? We don’t have to wait for anything. We are getting paid in full today and we don’t have to worry about nothing.”

  “Nevertheless, I think we should wait until a week from next Sunday.”

  “I don’t think so. We can make what purchases we need within the next three days and leave Sunday.”

  “All right—have it your way,” I said, putting the roll of bills in my pockets. “I will be ready to leave when you say.”

  “That is fine, and don’t tell anybody about this,” he said, as we sealed the bargain with a handshake.

  The next day we did not come to work, and Saturday I bought a fifty-dollar black suit, a pair of shoes, several shirts, underclothes, and a black Stetson hat. The following morning about seven-thirty we were traveling on a bus to Naco, Sonora.

  27

  That Sunday, about three in the afternoon, my friend and I were at Naco, Sonora, boarding the passenger train to Hermosillo. In a little while the slow train was steaming its way to our destination While I was contemplating the panoramic view of the country, my friend took a large, official-looking envelope out of his inside coat pocket, and began tearing it to bits. As he was doing so he heaved a sigh of relief, and said, “Luis, I feel very safe, comfortable, and happy.”

  “Why, José?”

  “Luis, I don’t think you will be able to understand. You are still too young to know what this trip means to me,” and opening the coach window he scattered the torn letter to the four winds.

  “Well, José, you can at least tell me your troubles, even though I may not be able to understand them fully. Can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can. You see—I am an American citizen and once I was in the United States Regular Army. When I finished my enlistment term I received an honorable discharge, but I remained subject to be called for any emergency. Two weeks ago I received a letter from Washington demanding my services, that is, commanding me to report for duty.” Then he paused for a minute, and turning away from me, continued, “Who in the hell wants to fight Germany? I am a Mexican—I am not a fighting man.” Turning back to me, he asked, “Am I a fighting man? Answer me—am I?”