Chapter 2
The early morning was unmercifully uncomfortable. The humidity was choking, suffocating. Formidable black clouds covered the Mexican sky. Between heaven and earth the sound of war, the roar of cannons, the unrelentless beat of drums, penetrated the hot, windless air.
It was a moment of tension, one moment before death.
Down there, on the trembling earth, a man on a white stallion stood before his troops.
Emiliano Zapata, leader of the people, brandished his rifle high into the air. From his dry, weary lips came the battle cry. "Por tierra y libertad!"
From the left rushed a thousand men to outflank the enemy's right wing. Men with rifles, some with knives. Men with machetes, some with stones. Angry men, all filled with hate.
"Viva La Revolution! Muerte a los Pelones!"
The man on the white stallion moved forward and behind him another thousand men flooded into the enemy's entrenchment.
The sound of thunder, the distorted sound of pain; no other sound was there to be heard.
Wet rain, hot tears, cold steel, intolerable burning sensations; nothing else could be felt.
Brown mud and red blood, scared faces and dead faces; nothing else was there to see.
And the smell of death was brought in with each lungful of air. And it didn't make any difference because hate, above all, was there. Each man had his own hate and it was bigger that he and it was all that really mattered.
To hell with life. Kill! Kill! And kill some more! Smash the enemy! Tear him to pieces!
He has raped our women, stolen our lands and crops, reduced us to pigs. No more! God, not ever again!
The place is here, the time is now. Feel his throat. Press on the Adam's apple. Harder! Oh, much harder! See how the pig chokes. See how his greedy eyes plead for mercy. Harder! Harder! Ahhh...
But don't despair. There's another one. Hit him! Hit him again! And again and again! See how his filthy brain is splattered over the ground. Pay, you dirty bastards, pay!
There's one already wounded. Shove your rifle into his mouth. Shove! Pull the trigger! Dirty, filthy leeches!
"Viva La Revolution! Muerte a los Pelones!"
The battle was like a tide, like a moment of passion. It reached a peak and then it subsided abruptly leaving the survivors completely exhausted. Here, there and everywhere men fell to the ground-some to cry, others to laugh, some to rest.
Pablo Vargas, aged seventeen, did not cry. His hate was too monstrous. This had been his first battle and he had killed three men. His blood was still boiling and his muscles were tense.
Urgently and with purpose he walked throughout the battlefield, observing, studying, searching the dead bodies of the enemy. He was looking for one particular body, dead or alive.
The man with the long ugly scar on his right cheek who had a harelip. This was the man Pablo had to find and kill a thousand times. To kill this man but once would never be enough.
Disappointed, he fell under a tree and closed his eyes and wept.
Las soldaderas, the camp-followers, were now throughout the battlefield looking for their men. With them they brought water, food, and their bodies. And they gave their men what comfort they could.
The man on the white stallion and two of his Capitanes rode throughout the camp, evaluating the losses of their peasant army. The leathery face of El Caudillo was hard and sober. His people wanted land and liberty. The price was revolution and death and tears.
They rode by Pablo and saw him weeping. And they understood. Tears were the only thing the endless centuries had given generously to the descendants of the ancient Aztecs.
The tears stopped as suddenly as they had come and when Pablo opened his eyes he saw a young woman digging a grave with a knife' and her bare hands.
A mild rain was falling now and a weak wind was blowing. Her uncombed hair was over her face her senses were concentrated on the ground. Pablo helped her with the grave and with the body. And when it was all done she looked at Pablo for the first time.
"You have a woman?" she asked, studying his face carefully.
He blushed and shook his head. He had never kissed a woman, much less anything else.
Her brown eyes were half-dead, half-alive, and she forced a smile.
"I am yours now," she said simply, taking his shy hand.
They walked away from the rain, under a tree and threw a blanket around themselves. She took some beef jerky from a pouch hanging from her shoulder and offered him some.
"I am Patricia Diaz," she said. "And that was my man."
She stared at the grave for a long time. "And you?"
"Pablo Vargas," he said, feeling warm and comfortable with this woman, this stranger.
"How old are you?" he asked, and then felt foolish for having asked.
"Twenty," she said, chewing hungrily on the jerky. "You?! "
Embarrassed and feeling very stupid he felt himself blushing. "What's the difference," he mumbled, "I am a man."
She looked at him and smiled warmly, revealing an even set of white teeth. "Yes, you are a man," she agreed.
They ate the rest of the jerky in silence and by then the rain had stopped. She threw the blanket to one side and took some dry papers from her pouch and started a fire. "Be back in a few minutes," she said.
She came back with a mule loaded with provisions and pots and pans. She placed the coffee pot over the fire and she motioned to Pablo to come and sit with her.
Feeling warm and drowsy he could almost forget the revolution, but not quite. The ugly face of the man with the scar and the harelip was always in his mind.
"How long have you been una soldadera?" he asked, holding her hand and feeling its warmth and smoothness.
"Eight months." She decided against telling him she had outlived three men.
When the coffee was boiling hot she poured some into two tin cups and then she searched the mule until she found a bottle of mescal and poured some of it into the coffee.
It was delicious. Before long Pablo had drunk three cups of coffee and mescal and felt dizzy enough to tell Patricia she was beautiful.
Sitting there, next to her, he could hardly ignore the fact that her dress had moved up her legs and bronze, soft thighs seemed to be inviting him.
She smiled. "Tonight," she whispered.
He blushed. He had been looking out of the corner of his eyes and didn't think she had noticed it.
"How long have you been with us?" she asked, struggling with herself not to laugh at his innocent shyness. "I haven't seen you before."
"Two weeks," he answered, looking into the fire. For a moment he saw the ugly face with the hideous scar and monstrous harelip. And the face was laughing, mocking him.
Por Dios! God, how he wished that monster was in the fire burning!
She squeezed his hand and lay back on the ground. "Better sleep while you can," she suggested.
He made himself comfortable and she snuggled herself close to him. "Tonight," she promised again.
She was asleep almost immediately. But Pablo remained awake for a long time. His whole being was geared to hating one man.
The ugly man who had raped his mother. The ugly beast with the ugly scar and ugly harelip.
He thought of the many tortures he would apply on the monster and finally he slept.
The day wore on lazily and very late in the afternoon one of the capitanes had the drummer boy beat the drums.
The martial beat penetrated Pablo's sleep and when his senses reacted to the drums he hated to answer its summons. Patricia was resting her head on his shoulder and her left arm lay on his chest. With her left leg she had an iron grip on the lower part of his body.
He could feel her every curve straining against him.
He managed to get up without waking her and headed towards the center of the camp.
The Captain was pulling at his heavy black mustache as he talked. "Today," he said. "We captured forty-three pelones. We have tried them and sentenced them to death. We need five volunteers to form a firing squad."
Immediately Pablo stepped forward and was soon followed by four other men.
El Capitan marched the five men about a mile north of the camp where the forty-three prisoners had been herded together like cattle. The whole camp followed. The spectacle of killing Pelones was not one to be missed.
All the prisoners wore the tan-colored uniform of the federal government and the hair on each man was very closely cut, which is why they were called Pelones.
The Pelones were to be shot five at a time, except the last group to be shot.
A sergeant marched the first group directly below a tree. He offered to bind their eyes. They all refused.
"Atencion!" ordered the Captain, standing erect both out of hate and respect.
"Apunten!"
Pablo aimed his rifle directly at the man's face. How he hated the bastards!
"Fuego!"
Pablo pressed the trigger and smiled when he saw the blood shoot out like water from a fountain.
Thirty-five men were dead in less than ten minutes time. Pablo had shot seven men in the face. How he wished the harelipped Pelon had been one of them! His turn would soon come. Some day, somewhere.
When the eighth group was marched out below the tree an old peasant from the crowd came running, screaming, pointing an accusing finger at one of the Pelones about to be shot.
"Malvado!" cursed the old man. "Villain, now you are going to pay!"
The young Pelon was amused and as the old man came near him, he spat on him.
"Mi Capitan," choked the old man with anger. "Do not shoot this man. Let me kill him."
"What is your case against this Pelon, old man?" asked the Captain.
"Three years ago," shouted the old man, visibly shaken. "I went to see this Pelon's father, Don Ramon. Don Ramon was my patron, my landlord, and he had taken all the maiz I had harvested that year. My family was starving. I went to plead with Don Ramon to let me have part of what was rightfully mine. But his son, this Pelon here, kicked me out of his house even before I could talk with his father. My youngest daughter died that year. She died because she was starved."
"Very well," said the Captain. "He's yours. We'll help you kill him in whatever way you think just."
When the rest of the Pelones had been shot, the Captain asked the old man. "Well, have you decided how he's to be killed?"
"Si, mi Capitan," replied the old man, hate glittering in his eyes. "I will need ten pounds of salt, a knife and eight strong hands."
The salt was brought to him and he asked that it be spread out on the ground in a straight line measuring half a meter wide. This was done. He then asked that a sharp knife be placed over a hot flame for at least twenty minutes. And so it was done.
The old man then asked each of the four men at his disposal to hold the Pelon down. He then proceeded by taking the Pelon's boots off. And then his socks. The Pelon was sweating and his eyes wide with fear.
"The knife," demanded the old man, hardly containing the joy in his voice.
Meticulously and with great skill the old man went to work on the flesh of the soles and heels of the Pelon's bare feet.
The Pelon screamed bloody, panicky sounds which were no longer human.
When the flesh on each foot had been completely peeled off, the old man asked the four men to force the Pelon to walk over the salt.
The Pelon cried and wept and pleaded for mercy and the old man was king.
The sun was well on its way under the horizon. And the inhuman screams of the Pelon blended with the twilight.
Soon it was dark and the old man had been cleansed of his diabolical hate and asked that the Pelon be shot.
Pablo came forward and pointed his rifle down at the Pelon's face that was a distorted mask of pain.
Pablo waited. He waited until the Pelon opened his eyes and saw clearly what was pointed at him. And then Pablo shot him through the nostrils.
He envied the old man. But he swore by the Devil that his revenge would be no less diabolical.
Patricia had been waiting patiently under the tree. She had made beans, tortillas and more coffee.
They ate slowly and in silence. Now and then they looked at each other and smiled. The night would be long and exciting.
Guitar music pervaded the night air and they sat next to each other and listened and felt the warmth of each other's body.
"Come," she said, offering him her hand.
"I know a place where we will not be disturbed."
He stood up and, followed her, wondering, how it would feel to hold a woman's naked body.
He made an effort to forget the monster. The monster who had raped his mother. The monster who had made him watch.
The monster.
"Leave me alone," the woman was screaming deep from within her lungs. "Monstruo, don't you understand! I can't stand the touch of you!"
The woman was struggling with all her strength against the tight grasp of the ugly man's hands. He had one arm around her waist and the other one around her bulging breasts.
"My money is as good as anybody else's," he pleaded.
Pancho turned her around in the circle of his gorilla-like arms and attempted to kiss her. But the woman brought her right knee up to his groin.
Releasing his hold on the woman he doubled up in pain. Some of the men in the cantina laughed. The others who knew him did not dare.
"Even for money, you're too ugly," screamed the frightened woman, moving away from him and running up the stairs.
The pain moved slowly from Pancho's groin to his stomach and up his barrel chest. Manfully he contained the urge to scream. like everything else in this world, the pain would pass.
Groping around, his back still bent, he found an empty chair. With bitter resentment in his heart, he looked angrily at those who were laughing.
Bastards! All of them, bastards! What did they know? Was it his fault he was born ugly? Had he created that terrible harelip that distorted his whole face?
Running his hand over the fresh scar which formed half a circle around his face, he ordered a bottle of tequila.
Bitterly he thought of the boy who had cut his face. He should have killed him for making him even uglier.
Enviously he glanced across the cantina, to the couple who were making love in the dark corner of the room.
The man's chair was tilted against the corner, his back leaning against the wall and his legs resting on the table. The woman was on top him, her crotch and thighs firmly entrenched below his waist.
She was riding him like a man on a bouncing horse.
Pancho swallowed a long, hard drink of tequila. And he wondered. He became fascinated by his idea as he had done so many other times. What was it like? What was it really like?
It must be wonderful to make love to a woman who was really willing.
He didn't know. Never but never had a woman willingly made love to him. Neither for love nor for money.
He had raped them all. Any woman who knew the touch of his hand had been forced into submission.
But it was part of his job. All the same, he was sick of it. Often he had dreamed of a woman who would love him, harelip and ugliness and all.
Slowly he shook his head. Even his own mother, his very own mother, had been repulsed by his ugliness.
He hated the bitches! They only loved the beautiful, the attractive things in life. And it wasn't fair. God, it just wasn't fair!
Well, to hell with them! He'll keep on raping the bitches. Even that was better than no way at all.
Colonel Sanchez had not called on him lately. It bothered him. It had been more than two weeks since his last assignment. And he needed a woman badly.
He glanced across the room again and thought of the Vargas woman. She had been nice, really nice.
Her stupid husband had argued with his landlord. An idiotic argument, really. Colonel Sanchez had told him the nature of the argument but he had forgotten what it was.
The landlord, Don Rivera, had complained to the authorities and Colonel Sanchez had called on him as he usually did in such cases.
"Make an example of this disobedient peasant," ordered the Colonel. "These people must constantly be shown their place or else they will soon be at our throats."
And by God, it was all right with him! These missions were his salvation.
He always killed the accused victim. And then he raped his woman, by now his widow. After that sometimes he killed the widow, sometimes not.
It all depended on how they reacted to him, his face, his ugliness.
A fist fight broke out between two privates who but a few minutes before had been playing a game of cards with each other.
Captain Contreras noted with special delight that one of the privates had laughed at him when the prostitute had kicked him in the groin.
The bartender was about to vault over the bar and put a halt to the fighting. He was responsible for the whole establishment, and the two men would surely destroy government property.
But Contreras swiftly stood up and was in the middle of the room, waiting patiently, brandishing the bottle of tequila.
He swung the bottle down, hard, smashing it on top of the private's head. The private who hadn't known better, the private who had dared to laugh, fell on the dirt floor, unconscious and bleeding.
Contreras smiled. He did not feel sorry for the bleeding pig. Any man who laughed at the misfortune of others deserved to be treated like a swine.
"Throw the bleeding pig in the tank," he ordered, indicating the man on the floor.
A corporal, a friend of the man, tenderly lifted his companion and carried him out of the bar.
Not quite satisfied, Contreras called after the corporal. "And when he wakes up he is to be given twenty lashes!"
More restless than ever, Contreras ordered another bottle of tequila.
He was undecided. God, he needed a woman! Tonight he was lonely. Tonight his whole being yearned for affection, for a tender touch.
But he was afraid. God, he was afraid. If he tried again, again he would be rejected. All his miserable life he had been rejected!
If only somewhere there was a woman who would love him, if only there was, he would give anything for that woman. Anything!
Afraid, but determined, he stood up and he knew he would try again and again, and again. All his life he would search for someone to accept him.
He was about to approach another prostitute who was already giving him an expression of misgiving, when a corporal entered the cantina and with a loud, sharp voice asked for Capitan Contreras.
"Coronel Sanchez requests the immediate presence of Capitan Contreras!"
Relieved and breathing easily now, he followed the Corporal through the big, open rectangular space inside the fort.
At last! At long last! Coronel Sanchez had another mission for him!
It would have to do. Until he found that woman, that elusive creature of his dreams, that woman who would love him, until that day, he would go on raping and ravaging.
Ravaged! All day Colonel Sanchez had been in a trance. The entire Amada garrison had been destroyed by Zapata's army. like a woman it had been ravaged. And now, there was nothing between Zapata's army and his own garrison.
"Madre mia," he had prayed all day long. "What am I to do?"
The military directive from Obregon was clear and to the point. "If Zapata's army smashes through the Amada garrison, you are to hold your own to the last man."
He could resign from the army and forever be disgraced and with no pension. He could follow his orders and forever be dead. Or-
Yes, by God, he would act according to the Huerta mind. He would not follow orders and would come out a hero!
And now that Capitan Contreras was here, he would implement his plan.
The important thing was to impress upon people the idea you always knew what you were doing.
Deliberately ignoring Captain Contreras, who was standing at attention, cold and erect like a stone, he pretended great interest in the wall map directly behind his desk.
The other point to keep in mind was to keep your subordinates as uncomfortable as possible. Let them sweat it out, lest they feel fraternal and equal and the rest of all that crap that was tearing the country apart.
At great length, he finally spoke, as if to himself, but addressing Captain Contreras and conveying a great deal of concentration.
"Captain Contreras," he said, indicating the map, "these are the states of Morelos, in the center, Mexico to the left, and Puebla to the right. And here is our garrison, five miles east of the city of Cuernavaca.
"I received grievous news this morning," he continued impersonally. "This morning Zapata smashed our garrison, midpoint between Puebla and Morelos."
He expressed grave concern now and his voice became warm and personal. "Captain! Between Zapata's forces and our garrison there stands nothing in his way.
"Therefore," he said decisively, as if he had full control of the situation. "Therefore, I have decided to attack him before he can move against us." He paused, then for the first time looked directly at Contreras. "Captain, you are to take out the entire division, this very night, this very hour, and find, engage, and destroy the enemy!"
"And where will you be?" Contreras found the courage to ask.
"Why, I shall remain here," Sanchez snapped. What was Mexico coming to? Even the common dogs were catching the democratic disease, daring to question the intentions of their superiors.
He intended to be as far away from the battlefield as possible, but it was none of the Captain's business.
But the main thing to remember was to offer a reward, the type which corrupts, lest the underlings begin to feel morally superior.
"Captain," he said, radiating a warm smile, "When your mission is completed I do not at all care what becomes of the soldaderas."
Attack Zapata! With thirty men, and this idiot Colonel calls it a division! The Colonel must think me a fool, thought Captain Contreras. Certainly, he needed a woman tonight. But did the fool Colonel think he needed one that bad?
"Find, engage, and destroy the enemy," the fool Colonel had said.
"And after that is done," he mumbled to himself as he walked back to his quarters, "We'll all be dead."
"Did you say something, sir?" asked the Corporal standing at attention beside the entrance.
"Huh, oh yes," he replied. "Ask Sergeant Lopez to report to me at my headquarters immediately."
"Yes, sir," saluted the Corporal, clicking his heels together, taking off at a double step.
There were less than thirty men in the whole garrison, the rest had been marched to Mexico City. And the fool Colonel had ordered him to attack Zapata's army with thirty men, half of whom were drunk!
No sir! He needed a woman and somehow he was going to get one tonight. But if he followed the fool Colonel's orders he would never see another woman!
No sir! That would never do. He needed a plan and he needed one fast.
All in all, there were thirty-four people in the garrison. Twenty-eight were soldiers, one blacksmith, one bartender, three prostitutes, and the Colonel's wife.
The Colonel's wife!
The Colonel and his wife would be leaving at any moment. He was sure of it! And they would probably be leaving alone as the Colonel wouldn't want any witnesses to embarrass him.
He was, after all, running away from the field of battle.
All sorts of sordid visions flashed across the Captain's mind. Oh wouldn't it be a beautiful revenge! To rape the Colonel's wife, that pretentious and fastidious bitch!
It would be right. It would be just. After all, hadn't the Colonel sentenced him to a senseless and almost certain death ?
He would have to kill the Colonel, though. That would be an absolute must. But it would be no problem. The Colonel was old, fat, and flabby.
His wife, though, ah, she was young and beautiful! Probably young enough to be the Colonel's granddaughter. But she was no lady, that bitch. Other officers had always been welcome at the Colonel's quarters. But not he, not Captain Contreras, his harelip wasn't socially acceptable.
A plan, he thought. Must formulate a plan. First things first. Would he get away with it? Why not?
No reason against it-none at all. All the men sent out to fight Zapata would be slaughtered, that was for certain.
If the Colonel's disappearance was ever investigated it would be a reasonable assumption to believe that the Colonel had died a glorious death beside his soldiers.
What about the Colonel's wife? Hmm, that would be a problem. Or would it? If the troops sent out to attack Zapata were destroyed, as they no doubt would be, there would be nothing to stop the Zapata forces from capturing this garrison, and they would certainly do that too.
Perfect! If anyone ever bothered to question her disappearance it could easily be explained. She was kidnapped by the rebel forces.
Now the most difficult part. How would he explain himself, the only survivor?
The hideous scar on his face! Simple! Fantastically simple! Besides the Vargas boy the only other people who knew about his scar were in this garrison.
If ever questioned, and he would be, he would explain that during hand to hand combat he was bayoneted across the face and left for dead when he lost consciousness. When he came to, he would explain, all his companions were dead and his only concern from thereon was to escape from behind the enemy lines. Perfect!
The only problem which remained was how he was going to get out of leading the damn troops to their death.
Sergeant Lopez knocked and asked for permission to come in.
"Come in, Sergeant," he hollered. "Come in!"
The Sergeant came in and stood at attention, firmly fixing his eyes on Captain Contreras.
"Sergeant," Captain Contreras said decisively, without hesitation. "We have reports on a small rebel force, not more than fifteen men, operating northeast of here. You are to take every man in the garrison and find this force and destroy it. Leave at once, Sergeant, at once!"
"Si, mi Capitan," answered the Sergeant, clicking his heels, without questioning his orders.
A good soldier, thought Captain Contreras.
Too bad. The good ones always die. Or did they die because they were stupid?
Colonel Sanchez certainly didn't think of himself as being stupid. If he was going to be a hero, then everybody should know it. So before his troops rode out, he sent General Obregon the following communication:
"Following the highest dictates of our noble profession, I have decided it would be cowardly to wait for the enemy to attack. I have therefore decided to attack Zapata's army. Farewell and Viva Mexico."
And now, his every movement being observed, the unsuspecting Colonel Sanchez threw away the last batch of documents into the fireplace. Of course, later on he would have to explain why he, the commander of the noble troops who had given their all, had not been killed. But there would be ample time ahead to think about that little problem and to come up with a satisfactory answer.
He should have been pleased with himself. It hadn't been easy but he had followed Obregon's orders to the letter. Almost. But something was bothering him.
Scratching his enormous behind, his mouth opened wide in an uncontrollable yawn.
Not that he really gave a damn about any one of his soldiers, their lives, their miserable well-being. But, after all, he had come from a good Christian, Spanish family. It was always in bad taste to send men to their certain death.
But no, he wasn't to blame. It was the Revolution and he could understand that.
Unfortunate, very unfortunate. But wealth was after all much more important, much more important than a few miserable lives. He could understand that.
"Hurry, dear," he called to his wife, who was in the adjoining room packing a few of their personal things. "We should be leaving as soon as possible."
Serving himself a double shot of imported scotch, he promised himself a hot bath when this ordeal came to a happy conclusion.
Yes, he could certainly understand. The Revolution would soon come to an end. It could have come to an end for quite some time now. The secret was there, he thought. Some people were waiting for the right moment, that moment when a few people would make vast fortunes, before bringing the actual fighting to a satisfactory conclusion.
His guess was that the Americans to the North, as well as the French and the English, would soon recognize the Carranza regime. Once that happened, of course, these parties would aid Carranza. In order to protect their several investments these countries would give the Carranza regime materials, weapons, loans, gifts, and what not. There was certainly going to be a great deal of money unaccounted for.
He, himself, would not benefit from any of these goings-on, but he was certainly not going to contribute his life to the dubious business, either.
He was too old to be inspired by all this crap of dying for democracy, duty, or any other bullshit which happened to come along.
He was, after all, doing what anybody with any sense was doing, and many were; he was looking out for number one.
His orders were to defend this garrison. Well, he was doing just that, and more. He was defending this garrison aggressively. He had not waited for the enemy to strike first. He had gone after the enemy. Leadership! That's what it was. It would look good on his record.
"I'm ready, dear," said his wife, coming into the room to join him. "Where are we going?" She kissed him on the forehead.
This is what he wanted. To live his remaining years in peace and quiet and to screw his young wife every time he possibly could.
"Away from here," he replied, enjoying her youth, her fresh beauty. "To Acapulco, perhaps. Soon it will be dawn," he went on, kissing her hand. "It's best if we go now."
Dreading the long trip ahead of them, he slowly got himself into his tan coat.
"I'll be back in a few minutes." he said. "The horses have to be saddled. I am so sorry, all the discomfort you will have to bear. But it can't be helped."
He thought he saw a shadow, something moving. Impossible! Must be his imagination. Outside of the prostitutes, everyone else had left an hour before.
Yes. They would go to Acapulco. His brother had an hacienda near the sea.
It would be the perfect place to rest and think and wait.
He found a horse and a donkey. Well, it would have to do, until they reached the first village or town. Then they would travel in something more comfortable.
A scream! His wife? Yes! His wife was screaming! Running as hard as his short legs would carry him, which was not very fast, he reached his quarters. His wife was crying.
"I thought I saw someone looking in," she sobbed, indicating the small window.
"Everything's ready," he said, placing his fat arm around her small shoulders. "Come on. We'll have a great deal of fun at my brother's hacienda."
The Colonel's wife had been right. Captain Contreras was lurking in the shadows outside, looking in.
He had been watching their every move, the tiniest details of their very existence.
He had been right, of course. The fat Colonel had intended to pull out all the time while ordering his own men to certain death.
Damn, this bastard Colonel! He had the patience of an old lady. For over an hour now he had been burning papers from his file, scratching his fat ass, sipping liquor from a delicate-looking glass, and yawning.
All that yawning was even making him sleepy. He wished the Colonel would get off his fat ass and start moving. The sun would be coming up soon and the farther away they were from this garrison by then, the better.
Through the small window he could barely see the Colonel's wife in the inner room, walking back and forth. Her image was blurry but just thinking about what he was going to do to the big-breasted bitch was making him horny.
Should he kill the bastard Colonel before or after? Thoughtfully he ran his hand over the semi-circular scar, his hand trembling a little.
More than ever now, he wished he had never allowed the Vargas boy to escape. The fewer enemies one had, the more comfortable life could be.
It was still beyond him, how the boy had managed to throw himself at him, the way he had been tied to that chair. But while he had been screwing the woman, the boy had landed on top of him chair and all.
He should have killed him, right there and then; instead, he had thrown the boy bodily through the door.
No. It would be best to kill the Colonel right off. It would be more fun, anyway. Without any noisy spectators the creamy-looking bitch might even respond passionately. It had happened before with other women. These women, they hated him for his ugliness, for what he was doing to them; and yet, during the act itself they responded!
At last! The Colonel was getting into his coat. But to hell with him. Look at that ass on his beautiful bitch!
Oh God, he was going to kiss that ass, bite it, run his tongue over it!
Run! Run to the corner of the building! The Colonel came out, hesitating a moment and proceeded in the direction of the stables.
Careful now. Don't let the fast bastard see you now. Slowly now, very, very slowly. Let's see what the bitch is doing now that she is alone.
She was in the other room, a little bit beyond the door separating the two rooms. She was taking her dress and slip off and putting on a pair of pants.
Oh, God! Will you look at that! Should he do it now? Should he?
Careful, you anxious idiot! Now you've done it. She saw you! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Hide! Run and hide, quickly! Maybe, she'll think she just imagined she saw someone.
Better stay hidden. Any time now, they'll be coming out. Any time now, he was going to be squeezing that gorgeous ass, sucking those unbelievable tits, enjoying her cries and moans. Anv time now!
Hurry it up, you fat bald bastard! The penis can wait only so long. And this penis is already roaring to go!
A mile or two away from the garrison would do. There wasn't a house or hut for at least five miles around the garrison. And there were plenty of trees and underbrush and gullies a-round here. Any place would do.
Ahh, careful now. Here they come. Say your prayers, Colonel. Say your prayers because where you're going you won't need that fat piece of ass any more.
Yes. He would kill the Colonel quickly, as soon as possible. Only one point he insisted upon. The Colonel must know he intended to rape his wife. Then he would kill him.
The Colonel helped his wife mount the donkey, walked both his horse and the burro to the gate.
He would give the Colonel a ten minute head-start. And within twenty to thirty minutes from now he would be on top of the bitch, screwing her good. He could promise her that much. It would be the best screwing she ever got!
Slowly, quietly, the Colonel moved the huge wooden gate open. The two animals walked through the small opening, and the big gate closed behind them.
Before following the Colonel, there was something he had a sudden urge to do, to kill the no good whore who earlier in the evening had humiliated him.
No. It was best not to obey this urge. What if the two other whores woke up? They would make one hell of a racket.
No. Some other time he would get even with that no good whore, if the Zapata troops didn't tear her insides out first.
Better concentrate on the Colonel. Should he approach him directly, with some excuse, or would it be better to hide somewhere along the way and jump him?
Yes. It would be more fun to approach him directly. What excuse ?
"We met Zapata troops two hours distance from the garrison," he would tell the Colonel. "With the exception of myself, every man was wiped out. And they are coming, Colonel, in great force. I suggest we hide immediately, or else they will see us, as the sun is already coming up. We can escape later, tonight. Anywhere will do, Colonel, anywhere, preferably a gulley."
Perfect! Perfect approach. And there in the gulley he would pull a gun on him. Beautiful plan!
The ugly Captain ran across the open square of the garrison, climbed the steps to one of the guard towers and gazed in every direction.
There was very little light as yet but he immediately spotted the two shadows moving in a south-westernly direction, nearly leaving the open space behind them and approaching the forest.
He ran down the stairs, three steps at a time and mounted his black stallion which he had tied to one of the steps under the caseway. He rode up to the gate and quickly opened it.
"Coronel!" he screamed, riding his stallion as if it were part of his body. "Coronel! Don't shoot, Coronel! It's me. Captain Contreras!"
The sound of hoofs hitting dirt and rock slowly crept its way into the Colonel's brain.
Numbly, almost stupidly, he looked at his wife. Poor woman, she was frightened, her eyes enlarged with fear.
Drawing out his hip revolver, he pointed towards the forest about fifty feet away. "Hide behind those trees," he whispered, kicking the donkey's rear with his left foot.
The rebels! Had they destroyed Captain Contreras already? Were they here, so soon!
Only one man though. Who could it be? It made no difference. Shoot him down and ask questions later!
Quickly he placed the revolver back in its holster and pulled out a rifle hanging from the right side of the saddle.
Slowly he aimed the weapon at the rapidly approaching man-beast. The trigger felt cold and hard and his left eye twitched a little.
"Don't shoot!" he heard a familiar voice resounding in his eardrums. "Don't shoot, Coro-nel! It's me, Captain Contreras."
Captain Contreras! Now what in God's name was he doing here, riding like Satan himself, scaring him and his wife half to death? And where were the rest of the men!
"Run for your life!" he heard, and a chill ran up and down his spine. "The rebels are coming! Run for your life! The rebels are coming!"
Oh, God! What would they do to him, to his wife! Run! Yes, you bloody fool! Run for your life!
Momentarily stunned, his heart frozen with fear. With fumbling hands, he placed the rifle back in its holster.
"Run!" echoed the frenzied voice. "Run! Run! Run!"
With amazing agility the Colonel lifted both legs and brought them down, hard, on the animal's sides. And on top of the mad, wild, bouncing animal he hung on for dear life.
The Captain's stallion was now running side to side with the Colonel's animal. His face was a mask of drunken excitement.
"Hide as soon as possible!" screamed the Captain at the top of his lungs. "It's the only chance we have!"
Yes! Yes, of course! They must hide! Anywhere! Inside the forest there were a million different places where they could hide.
Bless his soul, the ugly Captain. Ugly but efficient. How could he ever thank him. Had he not warned them, they could easily have walked into the path of an enemy patrol. Thank God, he came along.
The Colonel's wife, badly frightened and gasping for air, was waiting a few feet inside the entrance to the forest.
"We must hide all day," Captain Contreras said, riding his horse deeper into the forest. The Colonel and his wife followed sheepishly.
"We never had a chance, Coronel," the Captain called back, riding on. "We hadn't gone four miles when we were ambushed by an overwhelming force. So far as I know," he continued, pretending to be deeply moved, "None of the other men escaped.
"I was lucky," he explained. "I was about a hundred feet behind the rest of the troops, when the attack came. We had just crossed a stream," he said with great apology, "and my horse. Thank God, but my horse was still thirsty!"
The sun was now beginning its eternal route, its rays visible like giant spears forming an enormous crown.
"The sooner we find a place, the better," Captain Contreras lamented. "That damn sun could very well cost us our lives."
"I know an excellent place which will conceal us," suggested the Colonel's wife, a little more color in her face now that her terrible fright had passed, "There's a cave about half a mile from here. I found it one day when we came on a picnic."
"Yes, by all means lead us to it," ordered the Colonel. "But hurry, dear! Hurry!"
"Yes, by all means lead us to it," repeated the ugly Captain, his monstrous face melting in an amused grin.
They followed her to the bottom of a small hill, which was surrounded by great trees, almost concealed by them. "It's on the other side," she said, frowning when she looked at Captain Contreras. "I'm afraid the animals won't be able to get through all that." She pointed out the heavy underbrush and very rocky terrain.
"Well, this looks like a good place," sighed the Colonel. "Captain, take care of the animals ! "
"Come on, dear," he said, dismounting his enormous weight and then helping his wife off the dumb-looking burro. "Let's see what this cave of yours is like."
With great difficulty the Colonel and his wife made their way through the underbrush, slowly making their way over the sharp rocks, around the side of the gray green colored hill.
"There it is," called his wife, pointing to the bottom of the hill, where it appeared as though part of the hill had been eaten away by some giant rodent.
They made their way down, the jagged rocks trying to cut through the soles of their footwear. When they reached the side of the inward dent the Colonel slipped and slid on his behind over a considerable distance of small sharp rocks.
"Ay!" he screamed in agony. "Ay! Ay! Ay!" Reaching the bottom of what now appeared to be a small dead-end valley, he jumped to his feet and started to hop back and forth, both hands rubbing his bleeding behind.
His wife made her way down considerably easier than he and was trying to calm him down when a harsh voice sounded over them.
"All right!" menaced the Captain, a rifle in his hands standing tall over them. "The god damn clowning is over!"
What? Had he heard correctly! The Colonel turned purple with rage. How dare the ugly bastard talk to him in that tone and manner! Was he crazy as well as ugly?
The Captain made his way down the slope, easily, solidly. "All right!" His voice was cold and cruel. "You don't have much time to live, you fat bastard. Before I make love to your big-assed bitch here, I want you to see her naked one last time. Take her clothes off!"
"You're crazy!" The Colonel's voice trembled with rage. "I'll have you hung by your tongue!"
Contreras replied with a blast from the rifle. The bullet dug into the ground inches from the Colonel's foot.
"Take her clothes off!" Contreras ordered again.
like hell he would! Who the hell did he think he was talking to!
"He'll kill us!" his wife broke down crying. "Do as he says."
"Do as he says!" The Colonel was shocked. "Are you crazy, too!"
"I don't want to die!" she cried hysterically. "I don't want to die!"
Die! To die here, in the middle of nowhere! No! He didn't want to die either.
But this was his wife; his young, beautiful wife. Undress her? No! Never! This woman was his. It was his ass, his breasts, everything his.
"Anything else," he pleaded. "Anything you want. But not this. You want money? Land? Name what you want!"
"I want your big-assed bitch! Now take her clothes off!"
The Colonel looked at his wife. She was crying like a child. Was there nothing he could do? Something? Anything!
He looked at the man in front of him. Cold, brutal, determined eyes.
"No," he said defeated, crying. "I can't. I can't do what you ask."
He tried hard, harder than he had ever tried anything, to draw his revolver at his side.
Contreras pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the Colonel's neck. He swayed upright for a moment, then toppled over.
"I didn't think the bastard cared about anything." Contreras smiled triumphantly. "Off with your clothes!"
Shocked out of her senses, she obeyed automatically. Sobbing, shaking, her eyes shut tight, she removed her coat, climbed out of her pants, and took off her blouse.
He put the rifle down and stripped off his uniform and underwear.
"Everything," he said, not so harshly now. But she just stood there, sobbing, her eyes shut, a magnificent body of a woman.
He walked up to her and placed his gorilla-like hands on her small waist. Slowly his hands moved outward, down her curvaceous hips, inward down her beautiful legs, her panties rolling down with the weight of his hands.
He stood up and walked around her, his eyes filled with lust, his mind appreciating every inch of her. He stopped behind her, his penis poking her pear-shaped rear. Leisurely he unhooked the brassiere, and allowed it to fall down by her panties.
He placed both hands around her breasts and squeezed them for a while.
He moved backward, his mind now insane with the feel of the young woman's flesh and lifted her gently into his arms, slowly resting her trembling body on the ground.