Chapter 1
Pancho Contreras tipped the bottle of tequila carefully, enough to moisten the piece of dirty cotton in his hand.
His face was grim and it flinched with pain as he rubbed the alcoholic beverage from about the middle of his forehead, down his right cheek, to about half an inch below his lower lip.
It was a hideous cut the Vargas boy had given him.
He should have killed the boy! His face had been ugly even without the cut. But now! Now his face was truly a nightmare.
He forced a smile. His revenge had been better than just simply killing him. To reassure himself he looked at the woman again.
She was naked. Her legs were flat on the mattress but spread out wide so each leg came to the side of the bed. Each of her ankles was secured with a rope that went under the bed in a tight knot, the rope continuing the length of the bed, coming up again at the front of the bed and there forming a tight hold on the woman's extended arms.
Biting his inner, lower lip, he reproached himself. The boy had escaped during the night. He should have been more careful. A boy like him could mean trouble.
The woman let out a moan, shaking her head.
"Ah, Bonita," he said, bringing the bottle up to his distorted lips and swallowing a long, hard drink. "Beautiful, you're awake again. That's good."
The woman saw him approach her again and she closed her eyes tightly.
He knelt right in front of her between her legs. Leisurely he placed both his hands under her buttocks securing a tight grasp.
Slowly he brought her forward against himself and at the same time himself moving forward against her.
He started a slow, unrelenting movement, his hands rotating under her buttocks easily and smoothly.
He felt the woman's muscles down there. Involuntary muscles, contracting and expanding. Contracting and expanding. And he moved faster and faster and faster.
Enjoying his immense satisfaction he moved back and rested the upper part of his body on top of the woman, his head lying softly between her breasts.
Petting the woman's hips, he said, "You know I am not so terrible. I am only a soldier, a poor soldier who has to follow orders."
The woman said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling of her small hut.
"I wouldn't have been sent here," he continued apologetically. "It was your husband's fault, you know. He should have been an obedient peasant. Nobody-likes disobedient peasants, least of all the government."
The woman's head suddenly sprang up, like a coiled snake, and spat in his face. "Monstruo!", she screamed. "You ugly, ugly monster ! "
Enraged he jumped up and slapped her hard in the face.
Monstruo! Ever since he could remember, he had been called a monster.
"Estupida," he hissed, running his hand over his face. "My troops will rip you apart!"
Quickly he got into his tan uniform, the uniform of the Mexican soldier.
He opened the door and for a moment stared at the dead man's face. A pitchfork was deeply embedded across his forehead.
He stepped over the dead man's chest and called out at the top of his lungs, motioning with his hands. "Muchachos!"
The twenty men under his command reacted immediately, and came running towards the hut.
"She's all yours," said the Captain, pointing to the open door.
With the slow, easy movements of a contented man, he strolled towards the campfire. He smiled when he heard the woman's screams.
He picked up a tin cup of steaming coffee, left by one of his men, and drank it down leisurely. The screams had stopped and only the lusty laughter of his men remained.
An uncanny feeling came over him and moving slowly towards the hut he pretended an indifference which he did not feel.
Someone, some person or beast, was observing his every movement. And he had been a soldier too long. His life was in danger. His senses never betrayed him.
"Bueno!" he barked, his animal eyes going over every tree and bush. "Basta. That's enough. Put the bitch out of her ecstasy, and vamanos!"
He heard the woman groan faintly but urgently. And as his men came out of the hut, one by one, their faces flushed and their eyes sparkling like stars, he knew the woman was dead.
They saddled their horses in silence, each man cherishing his memories. Capitan Contreras, ex-priest, soldier, dedicated animal, mounted his black stallion and frowned. It was time to return to the garrison, it was time to report to their idiot Colonel.
Colonel Sanchez was a fat, bald, pompous gentleman who pretended considerable powers of concentration though by inclination he was neither an intellectual nor a soldier. He rather loved the easy, soft life and liked to think himself an unfortunate man caught in unfortunate times. Being a Colonel these days wasn't exactly his cup of tea. But life could always offer worse situations. The life of a Colonel wasn't as good as the life of a General but it was certainly easier than the life of a Captain. And being a Captain was much better than being a common private. Even a common private was a hundred times better off than a civilian was in the burning oven of the times.
No, he was determined to remain in the army with the rank of Colonel as long as possible. But how? He didn't have any friends left in Mexico City. His boyhood friend and comrade-at-arms, Victoriano Huerta, had been forced to resign from the presidency back in July. And now, at the beginning of the new year, his poor friend was living somewhere in Jamaica.
Colonel Sanchez looked at the several military-directives lying on his desk. And the realization that Obregon and Carranza were now running the whole show, militarily and politically, made him swear. "Poor friend, my ass!" he whispered savagely. "I pleaded with the damn marijuano. I begged him not to fool with the gringos."
But no, not Huerta, not that power-crazy marijuano. Why should he act with prudence, he had said. Had he not beaten the Maya and Yaqui Indians in combat? Hadn't Don Porfirio Diaz congratulated him personally scores of times for his personal bravery? Hadn't he out-maneuvered Madero, the mouse, out of the presidency itself?
Why then should he, Victoriano Huerta, bow down to the wishes of President Wilson? Who did that gringo think he was ordering him, Huerta, to hold general elections and not to include himself as a candidate. It was ridiculous.
The Veracruz incident flashed through the Colonel's mind. What a disaster that had been. That day in April had been the beginning of the end. Huerta had been worried and angry because the armies of the Constitutionalists, headed by Carranza, Obregon, Villa, and Zapata, were fast approaching Mexico City from all directions. Huerta's army, the federal army, needed weapons and it needed them badly. And like an answer to a prayer, a German submarine loaded with weapons arrived in Veracruz. But the American Navy, appearing from nowhere, was suddenly there. And the Americans were threatening to blow the German submarine to hell, if so much as one rifle was unloaded.
While this confrontation was going on, several American sailors came ashore to obtain oil supplies. When Huerta was given this communication, he was outraged. He ordered that the fairy-looking bastards be arrested. By God, he was going to humiliate the blonde son-of-a-bitches from the north.
Admiral Henry Mayo demanded the immediate release of his sailors. He also deemed this whole affair an insult and demanded an apology and a twenty-one gun salute to the American flag.
Huerta farted and told him to go to hell.
Colonel Sanchez smiled as he remembered that fart. That damn fart, he thought, changed my entire future.
Huerta had beaten the Maya and Yaqui Indians. But savage as those Indians were, they didn't have naval and artillery power.
Veracruz was bombarded by American warships and after considerable bloodshed the town was taken by an American landing party.
This was too much for Mexican pride. Huerta immediately lost what little support he had had in Mexico City. And the armies of the Constitutionalists were getting nearer and nearer. It reached the point where Huerta was smelling his enemies everywhere, and when the day came he wasn't even enjoying his marijuana cigarettes anymore, he decided to go into exile. He had invited Colonel Sanchez to go with him. "We have been together since we graduated from Chapultepec," Huerta reminded him.
"Si, cierto," the Colonel had replied, "but I am growing old, I am going on sixty, too old to be playing games."
"I am going on sixty, too," Huerta answered, inhaling marijuana smoke. "But this marijuana keeps me going."
The Colonel had remembered his new eighteen-year-old bride, and he knew what kept him going. "No, mi general," he told Huerta. "I had better stay here and keep you informed about the political situation." Besides, he had been a professional soldier all his life. Now that he was approaching retirement age, it would be imprudent to join a man going into exile.
"My enemies may kill you or destroy you," Huerta had pointed out. "After all, you have been closely connected with me."
"Si," Colonel Sanchez had agreed, "officially I was connected to you in a military function and not assigned to perform political tasks. Did I not serve Don Porfirio Diaz for thirty-five years, and then did I not also serve Madero for a year and a half?"
"My friend, you are naive and stupid," Huerta had laughed. "They will not kill you right out but they will assign you to some post where you are sure to be killed."
The Colonel felt a cold chill run up and down his spine. He looked at the wall map and then at the several directives on top of his desk, and he knew this was the place where death awaited.
The political situation was running true to form. It was clear as mud. And as usual, everybody was seeking a military solution.
One month after Huerta went into exile Carranza entered Mexico City. The people cheered him; he had done something truly magnificent. Carranza had actually united all the different and ambitious and rebellious generals from across the land to smash Huerta into submission.
The people went home to dream and to wait. The verdict was not long in coming. The revolution was not over. Villa and Zapata split the coalition Carranza had so patiently formed.
Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata called together a convention of generals to meet at Aguascalientes, and during this convention they proclaimed Eulatio Gutierrez as president.
Carranza retired to Veracruz and made it his temporary capital and headquarters, while Obregon agreed to stay on as commander of the federal forces and defend Mexico City.
Meanwhile, Villa and Zapata were in the process of enforcing their resolutions. Zapata and his peasant army was fast-approaching Mexico City, coming from the southeast in a northwesternly flood.
The impact of what was coming made Colonel Sanchez sweat big drops of stinking salt. His garrison was right in the path of the angry, killing flood, and what were Obregon's directives? He was to dispatch all available troops to the garrison bordering the states of Puebla and Morelos and to defend his own garrison to the last man!
He had already dispatched some two thousand troops, leaving him with some thirty troops to defend the garrison. But no, absolutely not, he was not willing to defend it to the last man. He would have to think more like his friend Huerta, if he was going to find a solution to this predicament. Yes, that Huerta was a real weasel. Why, if he had been placed between two enraged bulls, he would have...
"Mi Coronel," the Corporal of the guard interrupted. "Captain Contreras wishes to report."
Contreras followed the Corporal and stood at attention. He clicked his heels Prussian style and faced the Colonel's contempt without flinching a muscle. The Colonel made no effort to twitch his nose, but it was twitching violently. Every time this ugly Captain came before him, his sense of esthetics became chaotic. He was so repulsed by the Captain's harelip that, at first, he failed to notice the hideous cut. But even on the Captain's gorilla-like face the cut was clear and prominent.
"Did you have trouble?" the Colonel finally asked.
"No, sir," Contreras lied softly and clearly. "The Vargas family are in no position to give further trouble."
"Good, muy bien hecho," the Colonel allowed himself to say, but without any enthusiasm. He wrote down a notation to remind himself he must let Don Rivera know that his rebellious peasant had been straightened out.
"Do you wish to hear the details?" Contreras asked hopefully. Nothing would give him greater pleasure now than to see the Colonel squirm.
"No," the Colonel almost screamed. He controlled himself. "No," he said, "that will be all, Cantain."
Captain Contreras clicked his heels again, made a turn-about face, and walked out. He was followed by the Corporal.
Colonel Sanchez suddenly felt mentally and emotionally exhausted, and he knew it was time for his daily siesta. He moved his enormous bulk into the back room where he and his young bride, Marina, lived. Marina was already lying on their bed, her very prominent and beautiful behind sticking out in the air. The Colonel smiled and took his boots off.
He stretched out next to her and placed his hand on her buttocks. Her soft, bulging, flesh felt nice. Very nice, but she didn't respond, and soon he was thinking that if only he thought more like Huerta, he would find a solution to his problems.
He remembered how Huerta had once turned his darkest defeat into his most brilliant victory. Madero had assumed the office of president in October, 1911. But he soon proved unable to fulfill the many different desires which were boiling to be satisfied. Within three months the regime was plagued with uprisings. The most serious rebellion, however, was being led by General Pascual Orozco and Pancho Villa. They had the whole state of Chihuahua in turmoil.
The military establishment chose Huerta to suppress the uprising. But after six months of a very costly and indecisive campaign, Huerta was recalled to the Capitol and temporarily suspended from duty.
Not long after, perhaps a day or two after Huerta had arrived in the Capitol, Colonel Sanchez saw his friend in a very rare mood. Huerta was feeling sorry for himself. "I wasn't even bending over," he had raved at his friend Sanchez, "and I have been fucked, my friend, I was fucked but good!" Huerta was convinced his military career was finished.
Colonel Sanchez was at the time commander of the Tacubaya garrison and he knew from first-hand experience that most of the officers there were extremely dissatisfied with the Madero regime. He mentioned this to Huerta once or twice. Huerta just listened, but Sanchez thought he could feel the Huerta mind grinding. Months passed and nothing was mentioned again. Huerta seemed to be enjoying his forced vacation.
Then in the beginning of February Colonel Sanchez was on leave in Mexico City, and he stopped to visit his friend Huerta. At the end of that meeting, Huerta asked the Colonel if it would be all right if he, Huerta, went to the Tacubaya garrison, that he had some friends there he wanted to visit. Colonel Sanchez produced a visitor's card, signed it, and gave it to Huerta. "But don't start any rebellions," he had told Huerta jokingly.
Sanchez could never prove it, even to himself, but a rebellion was just what Huerta started.
A few days after their first visit, Huerta came to the Hotel Regis where Sanchez was impatiently waiting for his young bride-to-be. Marina had already landed at the Veracruz harbor and she was on her way to Mexico City.
While Huerta smoked his marijuana cigarettes and Sanchez trembled with anticipation their conversation gradually revolved around the Madero regime. "Listen, my friend," Huerta had said in a moment of exhilaration. "Nobody loves that little shrimp. The army despises him. The rich are worried about him. The
Church could do without him. And the poor grow to hate him more and more every day.
"He's still the President," Sanchez had replied. It made him nervous to talk politics.
Huerta roared with crazy laughter for some ten minutes. His face became bright red for lack of oxygen. "But not for long." Huerta had said it almost like a promise before taking his leave.
Two days later, while Sanchez was enjoying his brand new wife in the big double bed, the entire Tacubaya garrison marched forth and headed to the jailhouse at Tlatelolco to release Bernardo Reyes and Felix Diaz.
General Bernardo Reyes was in jail for inciting a rebellion in Nuevo Leon. And General Felix Diaz, nephew of the recently exiled old dictator, had unsuccessfully carried out a rebellion in Veracruz.
Under the leadership of these two men, the troops entered Mexico City and approached the National Palace.
General Villar, commander of the government palace, refused to surrender the building. Then all hell broke loose.
Artillery fire was exchanged by both sides and soldiers and civilians were slaughtered wholesale.
While this inferno was going on in the streets, Madero called for Huerta. Huerta would save him. Hadn't Huerta told him a thousand times he was loyal to him, to call on him any time he was desperate for an ally?
Huerta was immediately there, before Madero, and he accepted command of the federal troops. He must have smiled, that old marijuano. Everything was going his way.
Within the next few days, Huerta smashed the rebellion, and was ready for the next step. He ordered the Palace Guard to surround Madero and Pino Suarez, the vice-president, and then instructed the guards to beat the hell out of them. This was done, and by February 18, Huerta had forced the resignation of both men.
When Sanchez saw Huerta again, the old marijuano had maneuvered himself into the post of provisional president. Huerta had invited him to the National Palace to "see the mouse squirming."
Sanchez managed to take a peek at the two former executives. They were being held in a prison behind the palace. The Colonel was astonished to discover that neither man showed any bruises. "But I thought you had them tortured," he asked Huerta.
Huerta laughed in that astonished manner which only he knew so well. "If you were to take their pants off," he informed' Sanchez, "you would find their balls have been roasted over a fire of tizones."
Sanchez asked what was to become of them now. Huerta, pretending sincerity, sounded silly. "Why," he said, " I am going to let them go."
"Do you think that is wise?" Sanchez said stupidly.
Huerta roared with laughter again. "But, of course, mi Coronet," he said, "I am even going to provide for their transportation from here to Veracruz. From there, they are on their own.
It's a big ocean and they can go anywhere they want."
That same night Colonel Sanchez was witness to the assassination of the two former executives. The two men were being transferred from prison to the train which was to take them to Veracruz and exile when, suddenly, the guards who were presumably there for their protection turned on them and mowed them down.
What a man, that Huerta, Colonel Sanchez was thinking now. What a ninspiration! By God, he would try to think more like Huerta from now on. Somehow he would weasel out of his predicament. He would remain a soldier and find a way not to die.
He felt much better now, even though he had not napped and he squeezed his wife's buttocks. She screamed "Ouch," and slapped his hand away.
He laughed and started to put his boots back on. Well, he resigned himself, at his age he shouldn't really expect to be doing it all the time.
He got back to his desk, and a few minutes later he ran across the notation he had made earlier. Report to Don Rivera. He felt a ride in the open air might do him good. Clarify his mind as to what he was going to do to stay alive. And besides, it was his duty to report to Don Rivera that his troublesome peasant had been corrected. He ordered the Corporal of the guard to saddle his horse.
Had Colonel Sanchez known that at this very moment Don Rivera was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, he would have probably smashed the door to his living quarters and insisted his wife perform her duties.
Don Rivera was a small man, not more than five feet, four inches tall. But he was a giant in arrogance and well engrained in the ways of power. In all Mexico there were some nine hundred men just like Don Rivera. They, along with the Church, owned most of the land and they were masters of everything on it, living and non-living and everything in-between. For thirty-five years, before the regime of Don Porfirio Diaz was overthrown by Madero, fifteen million Mexicans paid homage, willingly or unwillingly, to men such as Don Rivera.
The revolution, which meant different things to different people, had begun to change Don Rivera's status, at least in theory, for in practice Don Rivera and his peers were still very much in control of their lands. But like animals they sensed what the revolution was trying to accomplish. Fifteen million Mexicans were groping blindly; some were doing it with weapons, others were doing it with words, while still others were just taking advantage of the chaotic situation. But no matter how they were doing it. The important thing was that they were all doing the same thing. Fifteen million angry Mexicans were running away from their unbearable discontent. And sooner or later these fifteen million hating Mexicans would destroy the source of their consuming hell.
This very afternoon Don Rivera had been confronted by one all-hating peasant. And when Colonel Sanchez rode into the hacienda, Don Ramirez was still trembling with rage.
The Colonel wanted to get his duty done with, and was hoping he and Don Rivera would then settle down and have a sociable chat. Sanchez clicked his heels and with great pomposity reported, "Don Rivera, the Vargas family will give you no further trouble!"
The small man jumped from his chair and charged the Colonel. "You imbecile," he screamed, slapping Sanchez in the face back and forth, "you incompetent idiot!"
The Colonel was taken back. "I don't-I don't understand," he stammered.
"You don't understand!" the little man raged, his face red, fists flying in the air. "The Vargas boy," he said, trying hard to understand what he was saying. "He came into my own house, into my very room. And he tried to-" Don Rivera couldn't finish. He was suddenly embarrassed, and he turned away from Colonel Sanchez.
"What-what did he try?" the Colonel finally asked, terrified to really know the answer.
Don Rivera said it in a whimpering whisper. "He tried-he tried to-to castrate me."
While Colonel Sanchez was gasping for air, a man on horseback approached the hacienda at full speed. It was the local priest, Padre Perez. He dismounted and ran in a stagger towards the two men. His face was black and blue and blood was running down his nose. "Don Rivera," he cried, "Don Rivera, look, look what one of your peasants has done to me!"
"Which peasant?" Don Rivera demanded.
"The Vargas boy," Padre Perez replied, shaking from head to foot.
Don Rivera looked lividly at the Colonel and then at the priest. "You're damn lucky," he fumed, walking away from the men. "He might have castrated you!"
Suddenly a shot rang out, and Don Rivera fell. He was dead. Simultaneously, both the Colonel and the priest ran and hid behind a tree. They both heard, and then saw a man riding away on horseback.
The Colonel looked at the priest and the Padre looked at the Colonel. "Well," Padre Perez finally found the courage to say, "you're the soldier. Aren't you going to chase him?"
"Yes," Colonel Sanchez smiled faintly, "yes, of course." He walked slowly towards his horse and after what seemed an eternity mounted the stallion.
With no great urgency he followed tracks for some two hours, until it was dark. Well, I have done my duty, he thought. And he turned back, feeling a deep sense of relief. The Vargas boy wouldn't be giving anyone any trouble around here, he decided. According to the tracks the boy was heading straight east, probably to join Zapata's army.