Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene thirteen

Secluded in the middle of thousands of acres of rugged wilderness, the three friends chose to live honestly and simply out of three sheepherder wagons, most of their resources tied up in the land. They had done their best to remain out of trouble at a time when trouble came calling.

Stars shone above, and a tender breeze rippled the hemp canvas of Chancho’s wagon as he slept. Having pitched camp at almost 2,000 feet, the evenings were pleasant despite days in the nineties. Stretched out stark naked on his mattress his dreams carried him unwillingly yet again to the moment the revolution died to him; Columbus, New Mexico, March 9th, 1916.

The sliver of moon shone above Chancho and Ah Puch as they approached the edge of the sleeping town.

“This is not a good idea,” Ah Puch whispered in Spanish. “Why are we attacking the gringos? They are ignorant to our cause, but they are not our enemies.”

Chancho was indignant. “Villa says they have been supporting Carranza. That makes the gringos our enemy.”

Ah Puch lagged in the single file formation until he walked beside Chancho, both of them doing their best to follow the cattle tracks by moonlight. “That’s ridiculous. There are more gringos than water in the ocean. How can they all be our enemy?” Ah Puch lowered his voice even further, so that only Chancho could hear it. “Villa is going mad. I have known him longer than you. He is blinded by anger.”

Chancho pushed Ah Puch, shushing him. “Do not say such a thing. He is a true revolutionary. We will be victorious.”

“Victorious? Listen to yourself. A week ago you argued most vehemently against this attack. Villa no longer listens to anyone, even you.”

“Maybe I started listening to him.” Chancho flicked his head over his shoulder toward a rustling. Someone in line behind them had stumbled.

“Again, you have no sense of timing, my friend. No, we are not revolutionaries tonight. Not even bandits.” Ah Puch took his place back in single file, now behind Chancho instead of ahead. “Bad things will happen tonight. We should not have come.”

After another minute the column of marching peons and boys had shifted even further to the west, bypassing the fort and heading into the town of Columbus itself. Slowly the line stopped, each revolutionary crouching down behind the rump of the man in front of him. They had not chosen exactly the right course, and were steering around a small cluster of cabins built on the outskirts of the fort grounds.

Chancho focused hard on his every step as he drew closer to the cabins. The constant pulse of the evening matched his breathing. The ignorant and lazy gringos were all sleeping, not a single light in a window. Chancho grinned. This attack would force the worthless gringo army to chase them deep into Mexico, where Villa would lead them right to Caranza’s front porch. They would fight for the revolution even if they were too stupid to see it.

He swelled with pride until he feared his feet would leave the ground. The idea had been partly his own, but he had not shared it with Ah Puch because he had known he would disapprove. But he would show him. He would show them all.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a jack rabbit lope out from under a juniper. The movement disoriented him. Instinctively he reached for the rabbit to steady himself, to reconnect with the ground upon which he tread, to keep from getting dizzy with revolutionary fervor.

Then he heard a sound that should not have been there. A sound that with sudden clarity he knew should not be part of the fabric of his native lands, despite the fact it had become as familiar as a baby’s rattle. The click lodged in his mind, a double-action trigger ready to fire. At the same moment his foot snared a root. Flailing, he fell forward. The night sky pitched all around him, the ground rushing upward.

A flash and a roar came from one of the darkened cabin windows, and the night tore violently like a womb in the teeth of a lion. All that was precious to Chancho spilled in that moment onto the desert sand. Scorching lead whistled past his ear, taking a small piece of the lobe with it. In fast forward he crashed into a prickly pear, the night air flickering and then blazing with the voices of his companions, “¡Viva Villa. Viva revolucion!”

Someone standing over him split the air in two with the unquenchable appetite of gunpowder and flame before disappearing into the night. Chancho rolled onto his back, freeing himself from the cactus. “Ah Puch.” Still standing there above him in silhouette against the starry sky, his closest friend stared back at him. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes, lurching forward as his chest surged with blood.

Chancho awoke at the same place in the nightmare as always, with the same feeling choking him from his sleep. It should have been me.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and listened to the gentle sounds of early morning. He did not often choose to rise early, but when it was thrust upon him he took it as a sign—a signal from heaven to listen. Why, he wondered, had he never liked to listen? Ah Puch’s words rattled in his head. Is it because I have no sense of time? True revolutionaries like Maximilian Robespierre, George Washington, even Jesus the Christ understood the importance of timing. He shook his head. No, I am not a revolutionary any more.

He stretched and reflected on the two years since leaving the revolution. The standoff with the rinche had been the first time he’d held a gun during that time. He had hoped the void left by violence would fill with understanding. But so far, it hadn’t. He scooted his boots out of the way. Without wasting time on clothing, he grabbed a Bible given to him by his adopted grandmother and climbed out of his wagon into the embrace of all the earth.

The stars had gone, the eastern horizon yet to blush with the colors of morning. He moved carefully in his bare feet around cacti and thorns until he reached a rock outcropping perched on the bluff. He skirted the edge until he found the best way up and scrambled to the top. He eased his bare buttocks onto the cool sandstone, crossing his legs as he sat.

In the startling stillness he wondered if his own breathing might be the beginning of a vicious wind across the globe. He rested the Bible in his lap, opening it to his favorite book of Ecclesiastes. Too dark to read, he located the book by the worn feel of the gilded pages and left the text open in his lap, breathing the same air. Staring into the muted tones of the horizon, he rubbed the missing notch of his earlobe, doing his best to listen. To listen to anything and everything that may fall down to him from the heavens or rise up to him from the earth.

But no matter how quiet he got, he never found an answer to why he’d been spared, and his best friend taken.