El Coyote, the Rebel Read online

  “Señor Commandante, your soldiers have burned my house; they stole my horses; they killed my cattle; they trampled my corn field, and they have taken my wife,” pleaded the man in chains.

  “For you I feel very sorry, Don Ramón Mirabosque, and since you have lost everything and have nothing to live for, I—the commandante in charge of this court—sentence you to be shot at sunrise tomorrow morning,” affirmed the commandante.

  The soldiers were ordered to take the prisoner away, after which another two soldiers delivered another guilty man.

  The second culprit was the farmer who had attacked the drunken soldier the night before. When the prisoner was in front of the bench, the officer read the charge of assaulting a member of the Mexican rebel forces with a deadly weapon. The criminal pleaded guilty, and the commandante sentenced him to serve three years in prison.

  The soldiers were ordered to take the prisoner away; then the commandante dismissed the court, and I went back to the army headquarters to clean my rifle.

  9

  A week after I joined the Mexican army, my captain commander came to me and said, “My lad, I am very proud of you: As far as I know you are the youngest rebel in the Mexican army. I admire you for it.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” I replied.

  “Go and get your Mauser and put on your campaign sombrero, and come back here.”

  “Yes, my Captain,” I answered, obeying his command.

  When I had exchanged my army cap for my big straw campaign hat, I got my Mauser, and then I reported to the captain. When we were near the training field he said, “Put your Mauser against that century plant and stand in front of it. I want to take a picture of you to use in the recruiting posters.”

  I obeyed him, and after he had taken several views of me, he added, “Anyone who will see the picture of the youngest rebel in the Mexican army will be inspired, and they will join us at once.”

  “I hope so, Captain,” I replied, as I went back to the armory room to clean the dust off my rifle.

  I never knew what happened to the pictures for the posters, but what I know is that after two weeks of fiestas and daily drilling at Cananea, my regiment was ordered to mobilize at a camp near Guaymas, Sonora, with the object of fighting some of the last scattered Mexican Federal Troops. As soon as the urgent orders were given we entrained for Guaymas, and since the trains in Cananea were at our command, we had no trouble in mobilizing right away. We traveled continuously, and within four days we were near the proposed battlefield waiting for further orders. While waiting I tried to locate my uncle, but I was unable to find him. Later on I was informed that he had deserted the rebels.

  In our new camp, the troops were divided into three large companies. The division to which I was assigned was ordered to attack through the center, while the other two were ordered to protect the flanks. The afternoon of the day set for the attack, the entire army was assembled, and the general in command, with the help of the company commanders, read some rigid rules for the benefit of those who did not know the penalty for desertion. At the same time we received orders to be ready to attack the enemy at three o’clock the following morning.

  When the corpulent general commander was reading the rules from a military manual, I became so nervous that at that moment I wondered whether to take a chance and desert the rebel army, or to face the enemy fighting like a man, so that perhaps someday, if I came out alive, I might become a great commander such as my general. At the same time everything seemed like a dream, and I had the thought that only three weeks before that nerve-wracking day I had been a free muchacho. I felt very bad about the whole matter, but since I had been caught between two trying circumstances, I finally came to the conclusion that the best thing for me to do was to encounter the enemy like a brave soldier and fight for truth, liberty, romance, and—what? Yes— what? That is still a question in my mind today. In reality I never knew what I was fighting for, and I don’t believe that the other soldiers did either. While I was thinking about all those things, my captain commander came close to me and whispered, “Luis, my boy, control yourself! Don’t be afraid. Be brave like our general! And in the battlefield stick close to me so that in case you get killed, I can bury your body.”

  “Thank you, my Captain. I shall try to be close to you so that in case you get killed before I do I shall do the same for you,” I answered, clicking the heels of my flat-soled guaraches.

  “Ah! You are a brave muchacho, and I shall always remember you as the youngest rebel in the Mexican army—and one of the bravest!”

  I thanked him for the compliment, and as I was performing another military salute, he stepped back and gave orders to his company to get ready for the proposed march to the battlefield.

  As soon as we were dismissed, we began rolling packs and filling our canteens with water. Some of the soldiers started to make tortillas and fry beans for their dinner, but the captain told them not to cook because we were going to receive two cans of sardines and a package of soda crackers as our ration for that afternoon.

  It was a cold and cloudy evening, and very depressing. In the course of our march to the battlegrounds, it started to rain. I was more frightened by the thunder and lightning that night than ever before—or since.

  At midnight the bugler blew the assembly call. At twelve-thirty the general gave the command to march to the front. From the moment the command was given until the end of our march, we heard nothing else but an undertone mumbled by two sergeants, who mingled the “One! Two! One! Two! Left! Right! Left! Right!” with the sound of thunder, rain, and the beat of a muffled drum. The thunder was so terrifying that at times I did not know whether it was cannon shots or only tempestuous explosions.

  By three o’clock of that morning we were in our small, badly dug trenches, soaked from head to foot, waiting for the zero hour. Time seemed to drag, and my impatient heart beat so fast that I was afraid it would break through my weak chest.

  I was so frightened that I even thought of killing myself, thus getting it over once and for all, but a hidden voice would always stop me, saying, “Don’t do it! If you kill yourself you will not go to heaven. If you blow the top of your head off, your comrades will brand you as a coward and not as a hero. Face the enemy! Fight! Fight!”

  Since there was nothing else to do but to fight for my country and kill or get killed, I kept on digging my trench. At last the bugler blew the call to fire. Our artillery started the shooting; then the machine guns answered the attack, and finally the soldiers started shooting aimlessly. The first three or four minutes of the fight I was shaking like a leaf. My company commander, who was beside me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Steady yourself and load your rifle.”

  “Yes, m-m-my Captain!” I stuttered.

  After I had my Mauser loaded with four bullets in the magazine and one in the barrel, I told him that I was ready.

  “Shoot!” he commanded.

  “At what, Captain?”

  “No importa, shoot!”

  I closed my eyes, pulled the trigger—and shot! Wow! What a shot! It was one that I will never forget. The kick of my enormous firearm was so terrific that it threw me out of my trench. My captain, who saw the incident, shouted, “Stupid! Get that rifle and shoot it like a man, not like a brainless muchacho. Brace the butt against your shoulder, and don’t close your eyes when you pull the trigger.”

  With a “Yes, my Captain,” I recovered my Mauser, followed directions, and shot it from time to time until about ten o’clock that morning, when the bugler blew the call to cease firing.

  Soon after we stopped firing, a messenger came running with the news that we had won the battle for freedom. All the soldiers were wild with joy, shouting, cheering and shooting at a few stray birds which were flying over their heads or at any object which served as a target.

  I felt so big and so proud after the battle that I ran back to my dugout, and smeared mud on my face and hands in order to gain recognition from the soldiers. The f
irst rebel who saw me with my mud make-up laughingly asked, “Where have you been, muchacho? Were you with the pigs, or were you fighting?”

  “What do you think, soldier? If you think that our captain is a pig, then I am forced to tell you that I was with the pigs; but if you respect him as a fighting man, then I must tell you that I was with a fighting man!”

  Other soldiers who heard the conversation started to laugh, and one of them shouted, “Long live the brave Captain!”

  “Viva el muchacho enlodado!” shouted another.

  Still another shouted “Viva México!” as he unloaded his rifle at a buzzard, which was eyeing a dead horse.

  Thus we marched toward the city, ready for another adventure. By noon we were looting the captured city, making love to the beautiful señoritas, drinking tequila, taking possession of live stock, and, in general, enjoying the spoils of war. The following morning at sunrise some prisoners were shot.

  Two days after the battle, our battalion was assembled for roll call to find out how many soldiers we had lost. There were twenty of our men missing, but we found only two dead bodies and five wounded men.

  After we had given our dead military funerals, we were ordered to camp at the outskirts of the city until further notice. While we were in the new camp, my comrades gave me another name.

  10

  When the Mexican army was stationed in some large town or city, the men were provided with raw commodities, and they usually took their rations to a boarding house, where a very small amount was paid to the management to have their food cooked. However, when the regiments were in campaign, the soldiers had to prepare their own meals. While we were waiting for further orders in the open field camp where I was properly nicknamed, some of the soldiers complained that the rations which we had received only two days before were not enough for fighting men. The food issued to each soldier for one week consisted of a small bag of uncooked beans, two cups of granulated sugar, a small piece of brown sugar, a cup of pinole, a cup of raw coffee, half a cup of rice, about three pounds of flour, and a pound of jerked meat.

  One afternoon, while a discontented and hungry sergeant named Pancho was roasting a piece of jerked meat over an open fire, he called, “Muchacho! Muchacho! Wake up! I got something to tell you.”

  “What is it, Sergeant? What do you want?” I asked from beneath my sarapes.

  “Come over; I got something to tell you. I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What? I suppose you want me to lend you money again, don’t you?” I asked, joining him and some other rebels who were playing poker.

  “No, muchacho, I don’t want your money.”

  “What is it, then? You are always—”

  “The general is going to have a good dinner for himself and the officers,” he interrupted.

  “How do you know, and what has that to do with me?”

  “You shall soon know,” he said, looking around to make sure that there were no officers near. “I just came from the general’s headquarters and saw the flunkies roasting chickens, and they are making lots and lots of tortillas. A whole pig is being roasted for the feast. I dare you—in fact I command you—to go there and steal some of that good food for us.”

  “Pancho! Are you crazy? I cannot go there and steal food for you just because you send me. I will get shot.”

  “No, I am not crazy. Captain Felipe Espinosa is in charge of the general’s kitchen. He is your captain commander and your friend. If you get caught, you can make the excuse that you came to see him. After you are there—well, you can put some tortillas in the pockets of your coat, and you might even be able to stick a chicken in the bosom of your shirt,” he said.

  “Yes, muchacho, go,” agreed one of the poker players.

  “Well, Pancho, if you think the plan will work I shall go there and steal food, but if I get killed I will haunt you for the rest of your life,” I assured him.

  “No, muchacho, you will not get killed,” he shouted.

  The group of rebels laughed uproariously at what I had said to Pancho, and while they were still enjoying the joke I went forth to break the Eighth Commandment.

  When I arrived at the place where the flunkies were cooking, one of the guards on duty stopped me, but my friend, Captain Felipe Espinosa, who was in charge of the general’s kitchen, saw me coming and commanded the guard to let me pass.

  “What are you doing here, Luis, and what are you up to now?” he asked.

  “My Captain,” I answered, shamefully, “I came to steal food.”

  “To steal food?”

  “Yes, my Captain, to steal food.”

  “And why, may I ask?”

  “Because well—because those roasting chickens over there smell very good,” pointing toward the pile of delicious-looking fowls.

  “Listen, little fellow,” he said, “so long as I am in charge of our commander’s kitchen, and so long as you are a soldier in my company, I’ll be damned if you will have to steal food from anybody. Come with me.”

  I followed him to the place where the chickens were and he said, “Here, boy, take this, and this, and this,” handing me three roasted chickens and a large pile of tortillas. Politely I thanked him for his generosity and went back to my company.

  When my comrades saw me coming with the pile of tortillas on my arm, two chickens in my hand, and the third under my arm, they came running to meet me and immediately wanted to know how I managed to steal so much good food.

  “Ah, soldiers of fortune! I always manage to commit a sin, but I never tell how.”

  They laughed, and one of them took a bottle of tequila out of his pack, and we had a banquet equal to that of our general and his officers. After we had finished eating our sumptuous meal, one of the rebels loudly belched and said, “Panza llena corazón contento.”

  Pancho rebuked him, “You should not say, ‘Full belly happy heart’; rather, we should say, ‘Long live the boy who stole food for us!’”

  Others answered him with many cheers, but the owner of the bottle of tequila, who drank the most, stood up, holding the empty bottle in the air, and shouted, “Yes, viva el coyote que se robó las gallinas!”

  “Long live the coyote who stole the chickens,” repeated Pancho, while three of the men took their guitars and began singing “La Cucaracha.”

  So, from that day on I was known to my comrades as El Coyote.

  The following afternoon, while I was going across the camp, I met my captain commander. When he saw me, he remarked, “I heard that you have a new name.”

  “Yes, Captain, they call me Coyote, because the soldiers think that I stole the chickens and the tortillas which you gave me yesterday.”

  “That is a good name for you, Coyote,” smiled the captain. Then he said, “By the way, Coyote, I saw you at church last night.”

  “Yes, Captain, I was there. Were you there too?”

  “Yes, Coyote, and did you see the crown that was on the Virgin’s head?”

  “Yes, Captain, I did see it. It is beautiful.”

  “A countryman told me that it has fifty-three diamonds and a hundred and twenty rubies imbedded in pure gold. Think, Coyote, in pure gold!”

  “Maybe that is why it is so brilliant, don’t you think, Captain?”

  “Yes, Coyote, that is the reason,” he replied. After looking around he asked, “Coyote, can I depend on you to say nothing to nobody?’

  “Yes, Captain, I can keep a secret.”

  “Good, Coyote, good; tonight we are going to steal the Virgin’s crown.”

  “But, Captain, I—I—”

  “You get the horses ready by eight tonight. You will ride the pinto and I will ride the black one,” he interrupted.

  “Very well, my Captain,” I replied, as he walked away.

  By eight-thirty that night the captain and I were outside of the adobe walls of the church orchard. When we were near a small opening in the sun-dried-brick fence, the captain said, “Coyote, you keep the horses here and be ready to h
elp me with the loot.”

  “Yes, Captain, I will be ready. I hope you will be able to steal the Virgin’s crown,” I said, backing my horse and his against the wall.

  “Coyote, I will bring you not only the crown, but the Virgin too,” he replied, as he started cautiously across the orchard.

  After a while he returned, carrying a large bundle in his arms. Seeing that the bundle he was carrying was the lifeless body of a woman, I exclaimed, “Carambas, Captain! I thought you were joking when you said that you were going to bring the Virgin too. Where is the crown?”

  “I guess this señorita is a virgin, but not the holy one,” he replied, putting the body on the ground.

  “A señorita! What happened, Captain?”

  “Coyote, help me to fan her face—I think she has fainted. Then I will tell you.”

  “Yes, Captain,” I answered, fanning the woman’s face with my army cap.

  “Coyote, I don’t want you to tell anybody about this. No one should know what happened tonight.”

  “No, Captain, no one will know. What happened?”

  “When I was near the back part of the church I heard voices near me. Immediately I climbed a fig tree, and took my pistol in hand. After a few minutes I saw some moving figures coming in my direction. When they were close to the tree a masculine voice said, ‘My dear Conchita, let us rest a little while under this shade.’ The señorita didn’t want to, but finally both of them came under the tree. When he was putting his arm around her, I lost my footing, and in my excitement to keep from falling I dropped my gun. When that happened, I saw one person run away and the other fall to the ground. Immediately I jumped down from the tree, picked up my gun, and brought the señorita here.”

  “What are you going to do with her, Captain?”

  “I’m going to—”

  “Oh, my head! It hurts!” interrupted the girl. Then she asked, “Where are you, Pedro?”

  “I am Captain Felipe Espinosa,” answered the officer.

  “Where am I?” cried the girl, becoming hysterical.

  “Compose yourself, señorita, I will take you to your home. I’m an honest captain.”