El Coyote, the Rebel Read online

  In the army headquarters the rebels and their women went in and out at will. From one of the rooms along the large hall the beating of drums and the sound of bugles could be heard. In the open patio of the cuartel groups of soldiers were cleaning their rifles and mending their antiquated equipment. Near the stables there were women and a few men cooking beans, roasting jerked meat, and making tortillas. Some of the women were washing clothes and others were combing their hair. Next to a hitching post an old señora squatted on the ground, delousing her daughter’s head. Some of the, stable orderlies were caring for the stolen horses, mules and burros, while the gunners were oiling their old-fashioned cannons. Other men were repairing the ammunition coffers and field wagons.

  Just outside of the room in which I was confined a group of rebels was surrounding a cock fight between a red and a black rooster. The men shouted, whistled and applauded. In a few minutes the red fowl was flapping desperately and spreading blood all over the place. Soon he was dead, and the owner of the winning rooster shouted, “Viva mi gallo! I have the biggest and the best fighting cock of any man in the Mexican army and if you don’t believe me, bring on yours. My rooster will fight any and all of them.” Then, holding his rooster under his arm, the man shouted again, “Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe, and viva my black cock too!”

  After the fight some of the men started card games and I was ordered by my guard to get away from the window and go to sleep.

  The next day, while I was worrying about my misfortune, a young, well-dressed officer came to see me, and upon entering he said, “Good morning, muchacho.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Muchacho—the Mexican rebel army needs men to fight the Yaqui Indians and those who oppose our Government’s Reformation.” He paused for a while, then continued, “We need men. We want you to come with us.”

  “But, sir, I am not a man. I am just a boy, and I do not know how to fight. Neither have I knowledge of the use of firearms.”

  “Ah! Muchacho!” With a big smile on his face, he put his hands on my shoulders and said, “We, the Law—we, the Rebels—we, the Government, need young blood in our army! We will teach you how to fight. We will teach you how to handle firearms and how to make love to the beautiful señoritas! You will also wear a uniform like mine.”

  Then taking his hands from my shoulders he stood at attention, and looking at his uniform admiringly, continued, “Well, muchacho, the uniform that you will wear will not be exactly like mine, but I will assure you that it will be a uniform.”

  Under such promises no boy of my caliber would have thought of missing the opportunity of joining the rebels to learn the secret of shooting a rifle, and to master the art of making love to the beautiful señoritas.

  That same day, while I was in the recruiting office waiting to be taken to the supply department, there came a countryman and said to the officer in charge, “Señor Captain, I want to join the rebel army.”

  “Good, good,” muttered the officer, taking out of his desk some papers. “Your name?”

  “Jose Maria Dolores del Bosque—the people call me Alacrán.”

  “Good, good. Your age?”

  “I will be twenty-five next week.”

  “Good, good. Married?” continued the officer.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good, good. Sex?”

  “Every night, Captain.”

  “No, no—are you a man?” smiled the officer.

  “Yes, Captain, I have—I wear the pants.”

  “Muy bien, we need men who wear the pants to fight the Yaqui Indians and those who oppose our Government’s Reformation,” he replied; then calling an orderly, he said to him, “Take Jose Maria del Bosque and Luis Pérez to the supply department to get their uniforms and rifles.”

  The orderly stood at attention, clicked his heels, performed a military salute, and then he led us to the supply room.

  7

  I was almost eleven years old when I was persuaded to join the Mexican rebel army. When I reported on the field for my first army training, I was attired in an ill-fitting khaki uniform. Around my waist and across my shoulders were strapped three double cartridge belts, each filled with two hundred cartridges. My army cap was a little large for my head, but it looked very pretty to me. It had a large brass eagle just over the visor, and above the eagle a small shiny number seven, which denoted that I belonged to the Seventh Battalion. My guaraches were the only thing that really fitted me, and that was because I had made them myself. My rifle was an oversized old-fashioned Mauser. I looked more like a comic character in a burlesque show than a real regimental soldier. When a group of rebels saw me coming along the street, swaying from side to side, carrying the Mauser on one shoulder and dressed in the badly fitted uniform, they laughed aloud and one of them remarked, “Look at that boy; the rifle is bigger than he is.”

  My comrades’ ridicule did not bother me in the least. I was very well pleased with the way things had turned out. I was especially thankful because my uncle no longer had charge of me. I was also happy because I had a real rifle, a uniform, plenty to eat, a charming girl friend, and a place to sleep.

  For the first two weeks everything went on rather smoothly. At night the army band played in the park. The soldiers carelessly strolled through the narrow walks arm in arm with their wives, sweethearts, or perhaps their mistresses. On Sunday afternoon there were bullfights, and all through the week we, the soldiers, had bull’s meat for dinner. The bullfights usually started at about two in the afternoon and lasted until five-thirty or six.

  The first bullfight that I saw was held in the Plaza de Toros, which was a great circular building constructed with heavy planks and two-by-fours. The interior was an immense amphitheater, with seats rising in tiers to the top, where the private boxes were located. Half of the seats were shaded by awnings and large palm leaves. The private boxes were in the shadow and very well located, enabling the spectators to see in every direction. The ring, an arena about a hundred and fifty feet in diameter, was encircled by a high fence with several lower barriers on the sides. These barriers served as a means of protection to the men who took part in the show when they were chased by the enraged bulls.

  About two o’clock, an hour before the fight, I sneaked in the Plaza de Toros following a group of army officers and soldiers who were detailed to keep order while the bullfight was on. By this time the plaza was becoming filled, and the crew of bullfighters were getting ready to perform their act. And while the hustle and bustle of the people went on, I managed to get a seat near the bullfight committee’s box. The committee was composed of several prominent citizens and army generals.

  About a quarter to three a bugle corps flourished a resounding fanfare, and right after that a richly dressed caballero, mounted on a spirited white horse, entered through a gate which was directly in front of the box where the committee was seated. The caballero rode straight toward the committee’s box; then, removing his big sombrero and giving a slight salute, he asked the chairman of the committee for the permission to kill the bulls.

  The chairman politely bowed, granting the request; then he tossed to the caballero the ribbon-decorated key to the bull pen. Unfortunately, the horseman failed to catch the key in his big sombrero, and because of his clumsiness, the crowd roared and hissed him. As he was being hissed, he rode a little distance away, then spurred his white charge, and, coming toward the key in great speed, he swooped down in a very gallant manner and grabbed the attached ribbon. As he performed this unexpected act the hisses were changed to cheers and bravos. While the caballero was riding to one side of the ring, a bugle blast brought in thirty marching bandsmen, dressed in colorful uniforms, playing the Toreador’s Song from the opera Carmen. The band was followed by two gaily dressed matadors. Behind these were eight bullfighters arrayed in costumes of red, yellow, green, and blue silks, satins, and velvets, glittering with beads, jewels, and gold braid. Behind the bullfighters came four men known as the banderilleros
or dart stickers. Each of the banderilleros carried a pair of barbed darts about two feet long with coverings of fancy colored paper, and with ribbon streamers hanging from the handle end. The banderilleros were followed by the picadors, who were mounted on old horses. After the picadors came the bull ring assistants, some driving mule teams and others pushing wheelbarrows. Finally, when the procession had marched around the arena once, the band stopped in front of the committee’s box and played the Mexican National Anthem, and everybody there sang the words. As the band finished playing, a great “Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe!” “Viva México!” “Viva la Revolución!” resounded through the huge wooden amphitheater. After the noise had died away, the band continued the march and went out through the same gate by which they had entered. The Plaza de Toros was full to capacity. The bullfighters took their places and the picturesque setting was ready for the much-advertised performance.

  When the band was out of the arena and the gates closed, the horseman who had received permission to start the bullfight appeared in the ring on foot and went to a balcony which was above the gate to the bull pen. At the sound of the trumpet he flung the gate wide open. The bull rushed out from the dark stall into the dazzling light, furious with rage, and trembling in every limb. As the animal was passing through the gate of the stall, a bull ring assistant planted on his shoulders a barbed steel hook covered with flowing ribbons. It was a tense moment for everybody, and all eyes were centered on the beast. Startled by the bright light and enraged by the pain caused by the steel hook, the bull stood for an instant pawing the earth and tossing dust over his back. Around him in the ring were bullfighters carrying red cloaks, and the picadors, who sat like statues upon their steeds, which were blindfolded to prevent them from seeing their danger. The picadors held the horses’ reins in the left hand, and in the right, a long blunt-pointed lance.

  After a moment of hesitation, the bull dashed at one of the blindfolded horses, and the rider tried to plant his spear into the bull’s shoulders, but he missed, and the enraged beast overthrew both the horse and the picador in a heap. As the feast of fury took place the crowd shouted almost simultaneously, “Save him! Save him!”

  Immediately, with red capes the bullfighters distracted the bull’s attention from the prostrated picador, whose iron armor was pinning him to the ground. Soon the bull ring helpers removed the helpless rider and his gored horse from the arena, and the show continued.

  While the fight was in full force the crowd shouted, whistled, and applauded, and drank tequila, which had been illegally brought inside the Plaza de Toros.

  After the dart stickers had performed their well perfected act of planting the decorated barbed darts on the bull’s shoulder, the bugle corps brought a handsome matador into the arena. His name was Arturo Gaona, but the people knew him as El Pirata. Arturo came in through the gate where the band had made its exit, and he walked directly to the chief’s box and said, “Señor presidente de la comisión, I will kill the bull to the honor of the Mexican Revolution, and to the beautiful señoritas, eh?” Then he threw his bullfighter’s hat to a pretty girl who was in one of the boxes. When he had finished his speech, he walked to the center of the arena in the midst of hisses, cheers, and hand-blown kisses.

  Gaona was a perfect specimen of man. His features had the appearance of being chiseled by a master sculptor. The women admired him and I envied him.

  Once in place and ready to perform his act, he waved several times a four-foot staff, which had a red flag pinned from end to end. At his waving of the staff the bull charged at him with all his might. When the beast was almost over the matador who was coaxing him, he saw that the bull was a perfect target. Then, without moving, the stouthearted fellow raised his sword and plunged it up to the hilt into the bull’s shoulders.

  At this well-performed act, everybody shouted, “Bravo! Bravo! Long live brave El Pirata!”

  In the meantime the blood gushed through the open wound of the dying bull, and slowly oozed from his mouth and nostrils, while Gaona went around the ring taking bows. The people, wild with joy, cheered, whistled, applauded, and threw hats, coats, cigars, handkerchiefs, and flowers to him. Some of the señoritas blew handfuls of kisses to the matador.

  The bull ring assistants came in with their gaily decked mule teams and hitched them to the dead bull. As the carcass was being dragged around the ring, someone in the crowd shouted, “Give the tail of the bull to El Pirata to honor him for being a good matador!”

  “Yes, give him the tail! He deserves the tail! He is a good matador, give him the tail!” echoed other voices.

  The caballero who had entered the bull ring at the beginning of the performance appeared from somewhere with a huge machete in his hand. He chopped off the bull’s tail and handed it to El Pirata, who accepted it with much reverence, kissed it, then tossed the souvenir to the girl to whom he had thrown his bullfighter’s hat.

  The crowd cheered as the well-dressed señorita was splashed with blood when the hairy token fell on her. While the mule teams continued dragging the tailless carcass around the arena, the bloody places were covered with sand to prevent slipping and in order to get the ring ready for the next bull.

  Once again the bugles sounded the call. There was perfect silence for a moment, and then the new bull came rushing out of the stall, snorting. Again the people went wild with joy on seeing the infuriated brute. The animal stopped. The bullfighters walked closer to him, waving their red cloaks, and thus the second performance began.

  After a few rounds with the bullfighters, the picadors, mounted on their blindfolded steeds, came and performed their act to perfection. These men were followed by the dart stickers, who skillfully planted their decorated barbed darts in the bull’s shoulders. By this time the beast was enraged and ready for the matador. Arturo Gaona came out. The crowd cheered him. He took a bow, then walked to the center of the arena. The bull charged at him with all his might. The matador performed a graceful move, spreading his red cloak as the animal went by. The crowd cheered at the act. The bull stopped and then charged again, this time goring the man in the ribs and throwing him down into a heap. The crowd became hysterical. The bullfighters came from behind the barriers to coax the bull away from the matador. A man with a medical kit rushed to the wounded man. Then followed two men dressed in white and bearing a stretcher. In the meantime the bull was furiously charging at the bullfighters, but suddenly the beast turned aside and butted a wooden barrier which had a red cloak hanging over it. The thrust was so terrific that it snapped off his two horns. The brute fell to the ground and remained there for some time. Then an army officer came, gun in hand, and shot the suffering animal. As that was done the crowd shouted, “Shame! Shame! Shame!”

  The teamsters brought their mules and dragged out the bull. Then the president of the bullfight committee stood in the middle of the arena and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, it grieves me to the heart to announce that our brave Arturo Gaona—El Pirata—is dead!”

  As the people heard the word “dead,” the buzzing of voices started again, and all around me I could see men and women making the sign of the cross. Again the president of the committee shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, the bullfight is over for the day!”

  The crowd rushed out of the Plaza de Toros, crying and praying for Gaona’s soul. The body of the matador was removed on the stretcher while the band played a slow sad march. Then I went to my cuartel making a vow to myself that I wasn’t going to see another bullfight as long as I lived.

  8

  That same Sunday, after eating supper, I went to the park to hear the band play. Across from the bandstand, on the lake, there were several boatmen singing to their customers while they paddled their flower-decorated flat-bottomed boats. I enjoyed the music and the sight of the gondoliers under the moonlight, and temporarily forgot the unfortunate result of the bullfight.

  During a band intermission I wandered among the crowd, and I overheard a group of men talking about a girl, who, it
seemed, had been the toast of the town, before entering a convent. A farmer who was carrying a big machete said to a soldier who showed signs of having had too much tequila, “Friend, Cananea is not what it used to be. It’s gone to the dogs since Rosita Gonzales entered the convent.”

  “Rosita Gonzales too went to the dogs when she met that young padre who came from Mexico City,” replied the drunken soldier.

  “Careful, señor, don’t speak bad of Rosita Gonzales; she is a good señorita,” retorted the farmer.

  “She is not a good señorita—she went to the dogs too,” continued the intoxicated soldier.

  “I am telling you, señor, not to speak bad of her, because I will use my machete on you and cut your tongue right out!”

  “I don’t care, but Rosita Gonzales went to that convent in order to be near that—”

  Whack! The large knife sliced off the soldier’s ear, and also made a gash in his neck.

  Immediately some of the soldiers and policemen took charge of the man with the sharp steel. While they were handcuffing him, he said to the wounded soldier, “Excuse me, friend; I am sorry I missed you. I meant to cut off your head so you won’t be able to speak bad about young ladies—especially Rosita Gonzales.”

  Soon the wounded man was carried to the hospital; his assailant was dragged to jail, and the band concert continued.

  The following day, which was Monday, I was present at a court-martial trial. When the tribunal was ready, two armed soldiers delivered a man in chains. As the prisoner stood near a provisional bench, the officer in charge stated, “Don Ramón Mirabosque, you were caught after ten o’clock last night spying in our headquarters among our soldiers. You are accused of wearing a stolen uniform, and for that you are going to be punished. Do you have anything to say before you are sentenced?”

  “Yes, my Commandante, I do. I want justice!”

  “Justice for what?” shouted the officer.