El Coyote, the Rebel Page 9

  “Where is my Pedro? What did you do to him? Take me home, you murderer!”

  “Señorita, I will take you home right away,” said the officer, helping her to mount my horse. “You will ride the pinto.” Then he asked, “What happened to you, señorita?”

  “I don’t know. I was with Pedro under a tree when something hit my head, and that is all I can remember.”

  After she was on my horse and the captain on his, he said to me, “Coyote, I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Hasta la vista, Captain,” I replied as he led Conchita on my pinto, leaving me to have to walk across the cemetery on my way back to camp.

  The next morning, when I saw Felipe Espinosa, I asked, “Captain, what did you do with Conchita?”

  “Don’t talk to me about her,” he replied.

  “Why not, Captain?”

  “She preferred that coward of a Pedro rather than a brave captain; so I left her to him. I shouldn’t have bothered with her at all.”

  “Are we going to get the crown tonight, Captain?”

  “That can wait, Coyote. We got other things to do at present,” replied the officer as he walked away.

  Three days after I was nicknamed El Coyote, the whole army was ordered to board a freight train back to Hermosillo, Sonora, a town between Guaymas and Nogales.

  While the rebel army was recuperating in Hermosillo from the first battle, two self-appointed generals, Contreras and Morales, started quarreling as to who should become the governor of the state of Sonora. These men, who were fighting for one common cause, divided the army in half, thus creating two revolutionary parties, one called the Contreristas; the other, the Moralistas.

  I was with Contreras, and I felt very proud of being one of his soldiers. I was ready to fight for the truth, for right, and for the deliverance of the State. I also was eager to fight for the protection of the charming señoritas, the old people, the widows, and the children.

  One night a week after we came to Hermosillo, when we were getting ready to retire, a soldier exclaimed as he took off his sandals, “Madre Santísima, my feet are killing me! That sandy road we crossed today ruined them.”

  “That is nothing, my friend,” replied another soldier, nicknamed Tecolote.

  “What do you mean, Tecolote?” asked the man, rubbing his sore feet with his two hands.

  “My friend, when I was living on the farm with my wife, my uncle sent me a pair of shoes from Mexico City. They were beautiful, and I was very proud of them. Once, however, when we were having a dry season, my wife said to me, ‘Tecolote, if it doesn’t rain very soon we will lose our corn and bean crop.’ ‘I know, my little one, but what can we do?’ Then the little lady said, ‘Tecolote, pray to the Virgin of Guadalupe for rain. Promise her that if she sends us rain to save our corn and beans you will walk five kilometers with chick-peas in your shoes. One for every day and every night it would rain.’ I did not want to do that, but on seeing my food burning up I did what the little woman asked me to do.”

  “Did it rain, Tecolote?” I asked.

  “Did it rain?” he repeated. “Coyote, it rained six days and seven nights. That meant that I had to put thirteen chick-peas in each shoe. However, that saved our corn and bean crop.”

  “Did you walk with the chick-peas in your shoes?” I asked again.

  “Yes, Coyote, I walked five kilometers with thirteen chick-peas in each shoe, and I didn’t even get a blister.”

  “Tecolote, you are the biggest liar I have ever heard,” said the soldier, who was still rubbing his sore feet. “We should call you mentiroso instead of tecolote.”

  “That is what my wife called me when I told her that I had fulfilled my promise,” replied Tecolote. “But you see, in my prayer I didn’t tell the Virgin of Guadalupe how I was going to put the chick-peas in my shoes. So, after my wife insisted that I should fulfill my promise, I went to the kitchen, cooked the peas, put them in my shoes, and walked five kilometers without getting a blister on my feet.” Then, wrapping himself in his sarape, he concluded,” Good night, little Coyote. Tomorrow I will tell you another story.”

  “Good night, Tecolote,” I replied, wrapping myself in my own sarape, and then I went to sleep.

  While we were peacefully sleeping on the cold floor of our headquarters, the guard on duty at the main gate of the armory woke us with a shout, “Cabo de cuarto, General Contreras comes!”

  “Battalion! Attention!” shouted the corporal of the guard.

  When General Contreras came into our cuartel, he addressed the battalion: “Men, I have urgent orders to carry out. We must move out of this town immediately. We have a lot of traitors here and they are plotting against us. We must leave this enemy town by tomorrow morning if we want to remain a battalion of free soldiers! We will have to fight for our flag—for our country—and for the deliverance of the state of Sonora!” After a short pause, he added, “Men, are you with me?”

  “Long live General Contreras!” shouted one of the soldiers.

  “Hurrah for the chief!” shouted the corporal of the guard.

  “Long live Mexico!” answered the sergeant on duty, and immediately after that, the packing started.

  By sunrise we were ready to board a freight train to a safer town. Horses, mules, burros, goats, pigs, dogs, cannons, machine guns, children, women, generals, and the willingly kidnapped señoritas were all entrained inside of the boxcars, while the common soldiers had to climb to the roof of the cars.

  My captain was detailed to choose six men to burn the wooden railroad bridges after our train had passed them, to delay the enemy trains in case the Moralistas should decide to follow us. In the morning, while the captain was choosing his men, he stood near the depot platform and shouted, “Coyote! Coyote!”

  “Yes, my Captain,” I answered.

  “Where in the hell are you?”

  “Here, my Captain, here on top of the boxcar,” I replied, waving my hand.

  “Damn you! Why don’t you stay around me? What the hell are you doing up there?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Come down in a hurry—we have work to do. Bring your Mauser, your cooking utensils, and your blankets to the caboose. It is going to be our private car.”

  “Good, my Captain, good,” I said while scaling down the car. When I faced him, I added, “I thought you were going to leave me to sleep my siesta on top of that shaky boxcar.”

  “Coyote, you are always thinking, aren’t you? You know damn well that wherever I go, you will go.”

  “I know that, my Captain, and I am willing to follow you most any place but al infierno.”

  “What is wrong with Hell? It might be a better place to live than here. There we might be able to find hotter señoritas than the ones we are taking away with us.”

  “Yes, my Captain, we might, but—”

  “But what?” he interrupted.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t talk back to your superior officers.”

  “Yes, my Captain.”

  “Damn you! You get ready and come with me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, as I swung my Mauser, utensils and blankets over my shoulders, and followed him.

  In the caboose we found three newly appointed generals, perhaps self-appointed, five men chosen by the captain to help to burn the bridges, and ten five-gallon cans of kerosene. Our captain stood in the front end of the caboose and said, “Men, there are two large bridges we have to burn after our train passes over them. One of the bridges is about sixty kilometers from here. The other is at the foot of the steep climb near Rio Verde, the water tank town. From Rio Verde, if everything goes well, we shall go to Cananea where we shall wait for further orders.” He paused for a minute, then continued, “José, Pedro, Jesús, Antonio, and Manuel, each of you take a can of kerosene to the rear platform of the caboose, and leave them there until I tell you what to do with them. I want you to study the problem now, and as the train is crossing the bridge, you will pour the oil slowly on t
he ties.” He paused again, then shouted, “Coyote, your job is to light these oil-soaked torches and throw them so as to land on the ties and start the fire.”

  The men took the cans of kerosene to the rear platform, and I took the torches; then simultaneously we chanted, “Yes, my Captain, we shall burn the bridges.”

  Finally, after a long, unavoidable delay, the heavy train, which consisted of two water tanks, three gondolas loaded with coal, one passenger coach, about twenty boxcars of all descriptions, and a caboose, was slowly pulled from Hermosillo by two regular-sized locomotives toward the first bridge which we were ordered to burn.

  11

  Our train soon steamed its way through the town of Hermosillo toward Rio Verde. The soldiers who were on top of the boxcars were lazily swinging their sun-baked feet over the edges of the roofs. Others who were less daring sat in the center on the walking boards, playing cards, singing, and drinking.

  In the caboose the three newly appointed generals, the captain, and the five men chosen by him were shooting dice. I was in the observation window flirting with one of the charming señoritas who was in a cattle car just ahead.

  About two hours after our train had started, the captain called us and said, “Men, you’d better get ready. We are approaching the first bridge.”

  The five appointed rebels ranged themselves on the rear platform, ready to empty the kerosene on the ties, and I was all set to throw my burning torches on the oily timbers.

  As we reached the wooden bridge, the captain shouted, “Men—are you ready?”

  “Yes, my Captain, we are ready,” the men chorused.

  “Let it go!” he commanded.

  The train slowly crossed the bridge and the soldiers poured the oil on the ties. The captain and I enjoyed throwing the burning torches, which started the fire. Some of the blazing sticks landed very nicely on the timbers, while others fell through the open spaces to the ground below.

  Our duty was so well performed that one of the newly appointed generals took from his campaign bag a bottle of tequila and handed it to the captain to compensate us for our good work. Our progress toward the water tank town was very slow because our train was a heavy one. The generals, the captain, and the five men drank the tequila and played cards. I went to sleep.

  We traveled all that day and night until about four o’clock the following evening, when the same five soldiers poured kerosene on the ties of the second wooden bridge. The captain and I cast our oil-soaked torches, and in a very short time the old wooden frame was in roaring flames.

  At this time the train was creeping uphill. The captain was praising us for our good work, saying, “Men, you have done a damn good job, and I’m proud of you. As soon as we reach our destination we will celebrate the burning of the bridges.”

  As the captain was talking to us, a clumsy soldier known in the company as El Zorrillo decided to come down from the top of the cattle car to the caboose to visit us. While El Zorrillo was happily scaling down the iron ladder, he accidentally stepped on the coupling rod, causing the caboose to be disconnected from the main train. Immediately the caboose began rolling backward. As it was gaining momentum, the captain ran to apply the brakes, but the apparatus was complicated, and the captain’s efforts were ineffective. The moving caboose was at this point about two city blocks from the burning bridge, and the generals, the captain, and all of us were getting ready to jump.

  Jesús, the smartest one of the crowd, took his rifle and wrapped it in his blanket, then ran to the back platform and threw the bundle on the tracks, causing the caboose to derail. Thus we were saved from a flaming grave, but we were badly jerked and frightened almost to death.

  The main train backed and picked up the caboose, and all was well again. The only thing we lost in that accident was one rifle, part of a blanket, and one man—El Zorrillo—who was shot at sunrise the next morning.

  In due time, Jesús, the brightest soldier, was made a captain, though a few days later he complained bitterly, saying that the rank granted him was far below his merit. He claimed that since he had saved three generals, one captain, five rebels, and one coyote (meaning me), he should have been made at least a second, if not a first, commander of the entire Contreras army.

  12

  In Rio Verde we were forced to stop for minor repairs on one of the locomotive boilers. While we were waiting, the enemy overtook us, but a soon as we heard that the Moralistas were coming, we received orders to spread over the near-by hills to fight them. The worst error that we made there was to build our trenches out of loose rocks and heavy boulders. This arrangement was bad because many of the bullets that struck on the top of the rock wall bounced off and hit our soldiers. The enemy cannon also caused us a lot of trouble by showering us with a torrent of flying rocks whenever the shells shattered our trenches. More casualties were caused by wild bullets than by actual aim.

  This scrimmage was a sad experience for me. A wild bullet hit the tip of my right third finger, leaving it dangling by only a small bit of flesh and skin. As soon as my captain commander saw my bloody hand, he sent me to the Red Cross for treatment.

  The Red Cross was in Rio Verde. In reality, what we called the Red Cross was nothing but a railroad passenger coach converted into a miniature hospital on wheels. A one-eyed doctor and six rather elderly nurses were the only hospital attendants. The seats of the coach were transformed into small beds, which looked quite clean and neat but were very uncomfortable.

  When I reached the hospital car, the head nurse came to the door and asked, “What is the matter with you, boy?”

  “I do not know, señora—I think that I have lost my little finger,” I replied, showing her my hand.

  “Your hand is all bloody!”

  “Yes, ma’am, and it hurts very much.”

  “Come in, let me see it,” she commanded.

  Inside the wheeled-hospital, she looked closely at my hand, and after exclaiming, “Jesús, María y José!” she remarked, “It is all broken to pieces! It is not your little finger that is dangling; it is your ring finger. How did you do it?”

  “I do not know, señora. I think some Moralista cabrón shot it off.”

  “It looks very bad,” she said, then left me there, standing with my bloody hand placed on the other, while she went to the end of the car shouting, “Doctor! Doctor! Where are you?”

  “What is it, Esperanza?” answered the doctor from the observation end of the coach.

  “We have a patient. Please come over—the lad is bleeding to death!”

  While waiting for the doctor, the nurse brought a small pan with warm water and washed my hand. And when the doctor, who had a black patch over his left eye, came, he asked, “What is the matter with you, muchacho?”

  The nurse, who was carefully drying my hand, answered him before I had a chance to explain my trouble.

  “This boy had his finger shot off!”

  “Let me see it,” said the doctor, taking hold of my hand and examining my finger; then looking at my face he mumbled, “Um-m-m-hum son, it looks bad. We will have to amputate this finger.”

  “Doctor, do you mean to tell me that you have to cut off my finger?” I asked, chokingly.

  “Yes, my son, yes—we will have to amputate it,” he repeated.

  “When, doctor?”

  “Tomorrow, boy, tomorrow,” was his answer.

  “Why tomorrow, doctor? When my finger hurts very much today! Why don’t you cut it off today?” I dared to ask.

  “Ah!” Puffing up his chest proudIy, he said, “Muchacho of the Contreras’s army, my profession does not permit me to operate on you today because I have to put you under chloroform, and you must first be cleaned internally.”

  “Yes, yes,” said María.

  “Of course!” murmured Conchita.

  “Yes, indeed!” echoed Josefina.

  “By all means!” agreed Teresa.

  “You must, boy, you must!” mumbled Doña Pancha. “It is true, the profession deman
ds that you should be cleaned internally,” said the head nurse, affirming what the doctor and the other five helpers, who had gathered around me to see my mutilated finger, had said.

  After the doctor had heard the nurses’ remarks, he uttered a guttural sound commanding them to put me to bed.

  Esperanza, the head nurse, immediately ordered the other nurses to take care of me, and calling them by name, she said, “María, give him a bath. God knows he needs it!”

  “Yes, I will, señora,” said María.

  “Conchita, give him half an ounce of castor oil.”

  “Right away, señora,” answered Conchita.

  “Josefina, inject a dose of morphine in his left arm.”

  “Yes, señora, I’ll do so at once.”

  “Teresa, bring the towels, the pillowcases, and the blankets for his bed.”

  “Yes, señora, I will,” murmured Teresa.

  To the oldest and homeliest nurse of the five, she said, “Doña Pancha, you watch over him while he sleeps.”

  “Con mucho gusto, señora, thank you. I shall take his temperature every hour,” mumbled Doña Pancha, as she sat by my side and held my wounded hand.

  “Diós mío! Why so much attention all of a sudden?” I asked.

  The chief nurse, holding her hands clasped over her big stomach and her head high in the air, haughtily answered, “My little man, the Red Cross is impartial. It does not make any difference who gets wounded, hurt, or killed, the Red Cross treats everybody alike,” and then she left.

  Everything was performed as Esperanza had instructed, and within twenty minutes the injection of morphine was taking effect in such a manner that my head was feeling very strange and seemed to be going around and around, until I fell asleep.

  13

  About ten o’clock the next morning I was properly strapped and stretched across a physician’s operating table, waiting for the doctor to pour chloroform on a piece of cotton packed inside a towel folded in the shape of a cone. When the doctor finished pouring the volatile liquid on the cotton, he placed the cone over my nose and mouth, saying, “Breathe!”