Last Train from Cuernavaca (6 page)

As she headed for the stairs, she did not hear Leobardo, the night watchman, let Captain Martín in through the small door in the front gate. She did not see Rico standing still as a statue in the shadows of the banana trees in the courtyard. He watched her stride silently through the high white arches of the moonlit corridor, the pale kimono floating out in a nimbus around her.

Antonio's thirteen-year-old sister, Socorro, called softly at the cave entrance. She toted an old rectangular Standard Oil can with the top cut off and a rope handle attached. It held beans cooked with chilis and a stack of tortillas wrapped in banana leaves. Tied on her back was a blue cotton shawl containing twelve small pots made of the local red clay.

The pots all had arrived intact, which was remarkable, considering that she had had to descend a sheer cliff wall to reach her brother's hideout. A thread of a trail led from the village above down to the river, but if the dense growth of bushes hadn't provided handholds, Socorro wouldn't have been able to keep to it.

The cave's wide, low opening in the cliff face was twenty-five feet above the river tumbling along the bottom of the
barranca,
a deep, narrow canyon. The canyon began abruptly not too far upstream, which meant the river made a sudden drop over the edge of it, landing a hundred feet below in a cloud of mist. Dozens of swallows darted in and out of the spray. The cascade filled the cave with a low roar.

Angela divided the clay pots among them so they could practice making grenades. She did not want to arrive at General Zapata's headquarters looking unprepared for war. She had spent a fourth of her father's
pesos
to buy ingredients for the grenades—a mix of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur, plus cotton fuses, and ground-up dried beans for filler. She used a battered wooden kitchen ladle to scoop the gunpowder out of one small sack and the dried beans out of another. The potters of San Miguel supplied the vessels.

Plinio, to Angela's surprise, admitted that he had made grenades before. He knew what quantity of beans to add to make the powder stretch further, and still go “Boom!” Antonio was melting paraffin in a small tin can to seal the pots' mouths. The fuses protruded like tongues from the wax.

Socorro looked at yesterday's finished grenades stacked on a mat at the back of the cave. They had a rollicking, roly-poly look to them, like children waiting for school recess.

“
Papi
wants to know if you need more pots.”

Angela hefted the half-empty sack. “Give your father our thanks, but we have only enough powder to fill these.”

Antonio studied his sister through narrowed eyes. “Do you weigh more than when I saw you last?”

“No.”

He lifted the hem of her skirt to expose another one underneath.

“Why are you wearing two sets of clothes?”

“I'm going with you.”

“No, you're not.”

“
Señorita
Angela rides with you. Why can't I?”

“Because I said so. Now go. And tell
Papá
to meet us at the old field with the mare and the mules.”

Socorro glared at him before she went, but Angela knew what Antonio was thinking. His sister was very pretty. Some officer in the rebel army would try to recruit her as his concubine, and Antonio would have to kill him.

The men went outside with the rations Socorro had brought. They ate sitting along the narrow ledge by the cave's entrance. From here they had a bird's-eye view of the river and the swallows darting.

After they had eaten, the men unrolled their mats in the cave and took a siesta. When the wax had hardened, sealing the gunpowder in the pots, Angela prodded her troops with her foot.

“Gather your things. Pick up every piece of trash. We do not want to leave anything that might cause
el gobierno
to suspect Antonio's people of hiding us.” She handed a bundle of brush to Ambrozio Nuñez, the last young man to join the group. She chose him because he looked the most likely to object. “When we've gone outside, sweep away all the footprints.”

“That's woman's work,” he said.

“Do you see women here?”

“I see one.”

Plinio chuckled. The other men were familiar with Angela's temper. They swallowed their laughter so as not to attract her wrath. They all had seen her throw rocks with unerring accuracy and hit crows scavenging corn in a field. They could imagine the damage she might inflict at this close range.

“If you do not want to take orders from a woman, why did you join us?”

“I didn't know you were female.” He used the word
hembra
. It described not a woman but a female animal.

The men backed away from him. When Angela whacked him with what ever came to hand they didn't want to get in the way.

Instead she said, “I understand,
pendejocito.
You have lost your courage. You want an excuse not to ride with us and fight for your countrymen.”

He started to object, but she raised a hand and smiled. “Go in peace,
coño
. We will deliver your regrets to General Zapata. We will tell him that Ambrozio Nuñez of pueblo Azcatl went home with his tail between his legs. We will tell him that Ambrozio Nuñez is content to let the women fight for his people's land.”

“I will fight alongside men, but not women.” He picked up his bedroll, machete, and satchel and stalked out of the cave.

“May snakes and toads crawl out of your mouth,” Angela called after him. “May your insignificant penis shrivel up like a chili pepper.”

He looked back and crossed himself several times before he started up the trail to the top of the
barranca.
The perilous climb was not what worried him. His village lay not far from Miguel Sanchez's hacienda. He had heard stories about the tricks she played. No one claimed she had supernatural powers, just a long memory and a strong shoulder for carrying a grudge.

Angela slung a pouch of grenades across her shoulder. She rolled her blanket inside her mat. She buckled the almost-empty cartridge belt at her waist. She put on her sombrero and retrieved her father's 30-30 from where it leaned against the cave wall.

As the men filed out past her she laid a hand on Plinio's arm to keep him with her.

“Grandfather,” she murmured. “You should lead them.”

“No, my daughter. God has chosen you.”

“What if I can't do this?”

“God says you can. Who are we to question God?”

Angela sighed and followed her family's old
mayordomo
outside. The men waited on the ledge with their backs pressed against the cliff wall. Her band's mission now was to do what the government's soldiers couldn't. They had to find General Emiliano Zapata and the troops he called the Liberating Army of the South.

“
Adelante, mis guachos.
Forward, my foundlings,” she said. “For land and liberty.”

The first morning that Grace had found Rico sitting in the kitchen and holding a raw beef steak to his eye, she had become alarmed. “Are you badly hurt?” she had asked him. By now, she knew better.

When she saw him wearing a steak as an eye patch at seven-thirty this morning she only wondered if he had arisen early or if he hadn't gone to bed yet. She assumed the latter. He seemed alert enough, but his friend Juan looked like he'd slept in the middle of the trolley tracks while the mules pulled the
trencito,
the trolley, back and forth over him all night.

Rico leaped to his feet and gave a graceful but precise bow. He had made no mention of the serenade under her balcony a few nights ago, and Grace certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Grace could see that María had food preparations for today's excursion well in hand. Annie was helping her pack the picnic baskets. Lyda was fortifying herself with a cup of coffee almost strong enough to hold a pewter spoon upright.

“I trust you are not badly hurt, Captain,” Grace said.

“A little accident, Mrs. Knight.”

“He ran into a fist,” mumbled Juan.

When Rico returned the steak to María, Grace saw that the area around his eye was swollen and bruised a deep purple with touches of red, umber, and olive green so subtle they would have made Claude Monet proud.

“Another late-night dust up in Cantina Lobo,” said Lyda.

“There were five of them,” Annie amplified. “Juan started the fight. Rico only evened the odds.”

Evened the odds? Had these wastrels lured the child into gambling?

Lyda stood up. “Grace, would you check the ‘whoop and holler' with me? It has an odd buzz to it.”

Grace followed her toward the lobby where the telephone hung on the wall next to the front desk.

“What's wrong with the telephone?” Most people still sent telegrams, but more and more of the Colonial's business depended on the telephone line from Mexico City.

It generally worked well, but “whoop and holler” sometimes applied. In west Texas, where Lyda and Annie came from, folks strung uninsulated phone lines along the barbwire fences. Reception was uncertain at best. That was how the system came by its nickname.

They had barely rounded the corner when Lyda grabbed both Grace's arms in a blacksmith's grip and hissed, “Ask them to go with us.”

“Whom?”

“Rico and Juan.”

“They're Rico and Juan now?”

“Ask them, Gracie. The guests enjoy their company.”

“They have other duties.” Although to be honest, Grace couldn't see that those amounted to much, other than duty rotation to Tres Marías and occasional trips to Mexico City.

“Colonel Rubio will do anything you ask. Besides, it's Sunday. All Colonel Fatso plans to do is get drunk and visit the whore houses on Gutemburg Street.”

And a good thing, too, Grace thought. She had had to have only one standoff with the colonel when he tried to take a woman to his room. The outcome had never been in doubt for anyone but Rubio. Apparently he didn't want to risk another such loss of face. As for the junior officers, Grace had long ago intimidated them into gentlemanly behavior, at least as far as lady callers were concerned.

“Listen to me, Grace. Jake says there's been some trouble in the valley. We could use an escort.”

“Who's Jake?”

“Just a fella.”

“You're blushing, Lyda. Who is he?”

“Jake McGuire. A wildcatter for Standard Oil. And don't change the subject.”

“What trouble? How can there be trouble? Rubio rides out with patrols all the time on the hunt for bandits. Besides,” Grace added, “we're only taking the main highway for a picnic at the
barranca
bridge. That's not the tuley-weeds, as you call them.”

Lyda cocked her head and gave her the Look.

“Very well then. I'll ask them. But don't think I don't know what you're really about.”

 

Deciding what to wear to a picnic with Grace Knight and her hotel guests was not a trifling matter for Rico, and vanity had nothing to do with it. Well, maybe vanity had a little to do with it.

Lyda had taken him aside and said she would try to persuade Grace to go to San Miguel after lunch. The vases from that village were the most popular item in the Colonial's gift shop. Grace had to talk to José Perez and the other potters about providing a steady supply. Lyda asked Rico if he would be willing to escort Grace to the village. Of course he agreed, but the prospect of leaving the city's limits in her company complicated the wardrobe decision.

He could not wear his army uniform. If it didn't draw fire from disgruntled rebels-in-waiting, it would arouse fear and hostility in San Miguel. A suit with starched collar and pressed cuffs would label him as a government functionary come to demand a bribe or announce the latest legal loophole for stealing village land and water.

Rico drew the line at appearing in the pajamalike white trousers and shirt, and leather sandals of a farmer. He would look ridiculous, and he would have as much chance of fooling the villagers as if he wore a gorilla suit. In any case, he owned neither farmer's clothes nor a gorilla suit.

The only option left was his
charro
outfit—white linen shirt, waist-length embroidered jacket, tight trousers that flared below the knees to show the white pantaloons underneath, all finished off with black leather riding boots polished to a mirrorlike surface. If vanity had been Rico's prime consideration, he would have realized this was swoon-worthy attire.

Instead, he fretted about his bruised and swollen face. He considered putting a black patch over his eye, but decided that piratical was not the look he wanted either.

Rico buckled on his cartridge belt and his late father's pair of Colt Navy revolvers, Model 1851. If he had to name his most prized possessions, the Navys would be them. He collected his Mauser, grabbed his fancy black felt sombrero covered in embroidered flowers and birds, and left his small room in a rush. He wanted to go with Socrates, the Colonial's handyman, to put petrol in the Pierce's tank. Rico's grandfather kept a motor car at his house in the capital, but it was a Model T Ford and hardly counted.

If Rico had had his choice he would have owned a Thomas Flyer, model K6-70. That car had recently won the first and only around-the-world race ever held; but at $1,250, the Old Man refused to consider adding a Flyer to his inventory. Still, a Pierce, even a seven-year-old Motorette like Grace's, would do.

Rico's spurs jingled as he walked down the narrow back hallway used by the maids. He passed through the bubble of cool air that the maids claimed was the breath of a ghost. The stairs at the end led to the rear courtyard, which in turn gave access to the stable.

The Pierce sat in a former stall. Rico's grandfather's Andalusian stallion occupied one of the two remaining stalls. Grullo had struck up a friendship with the hotel mule in the other one. The Old Man had gone to Mexico City for a lengthy stay and Rico saw no sense in returning the horse to go unridden and turn restive at the hacienda.

Rico was supposed to keep his mount in the barracks corral near the train station. Even Colonel Rubio had to use the city's hostlery several blocks away. If he learned that one of his junior officers kept a horse within rock-chunking distance of his own quarters, he would be furious. Rico paid Socrates a few extra
pesos
each week to take care of Grullo and keep quiet about his presence. Socrates was awed by Grullo and probably would have done it for free.

Mrs. Knight called Socrates her
hace-todo,
do-everything. He over-saw the gardeners and artisans. He did repairs and kept things running smoothly. Juan called him the mayor of the Colonial.

Rico found him buffing the last square inch of the Pierce's lacquered red fender. Socrates made sure the car always gleamed. That was no easy feat since only the main streets were paved with cobblestones while the rest were dirt. Of course, the Pierce rarely strayed onto side streets.

The thought occurred to Rico that Socrates probably could answer some questions about his employer. Such as: Did she have any beaus? What was her favorite food? Did she ever cry? Did she know how to dance the newest craze, the tango? Those were questions a gentleman didn't ask, and he certainly did not make such inquiries of the help.

Socrates had brushed and saddled the gray, but Rico decided not to take him out yet. He wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to enjoy even a short ride in the Pierce. He stepped onto the small running board and climbed into the passenger side of the high seat. He waited while Socrates turned the starter crank near the right front wheel.

In a cloud of smoke, with the engine percolating industriously on both cylinders, the Pierce nosed out into the street and headed for the dilapidated automobile repair shop located behind the governor's palace. Inside it stood the only petrol pump in the city.

Rico looked up at the morning sun shining in a cloudless sky. Cuernavaca deserved its nickname, the City of Eternal Spring. Grace Knight would have a perfect day for her picnic and for a ride to San Miguel.

Rico folded his arms across his chest and settled back on the tufted velvet seat. Socrates, with one white-gloved hand gripping the steering lever, looked as proud as any king in Christendom. Rico knew how he felt.

He himself was going to spend the day with Grace Knight. He must have felt this happy at some time in his life, but he couldn't remember when.