The Day the Rebels Came to Town Read online

  ROBERT HOUGH

  The Day the Rebels

  Came to Town

  Grass Roots Press

  Copyright © 2011 Robert Hough

  First published in 2011 by Grass Roots Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  The Good Reads series is funded in part by the Government of Canada’s Office of Literacy and Essential Skills.

  Grass Roots Press also gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.

  Grass Roots Press would also like to thank ABC Life Literacy Canada for their support. Good Reads® is used under licence from ABC Life Literacy Canada.

  (Good reads series)

  Print ISBN: 978-1-926583-35-8

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-926583-68-6

  Distributed to libraries and

  educational and community

  organizations by

  Grass Roots Press

  www.grassrootsbooks.net

  Distributed to retail outlets by

  HarperCollins Canada Ltd.

  www.harpercollins.ca

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The year was 1920, and Mexico was at war with itself. Rebels rode through the land in small groups, stealing money, food, and horses to help fight the army. The army did the same, often shooting those who helped the rebels. For those who only wanted peace, it was a time of great sadness and fear.

  Carlos Orozco was twenty-eight years old. He worked in the kitchen of his father’s café on the square in the centre of town. Mostly, he spent his days cooking eggs, beans, tacos, and stews. The café also served beer, as well as soups made from peppers and corn. Though Carlos’s days were long, he knew he was lucky to have any job at all.

  One day, as Carlos washed dishes, his father came into the kitchen.

  “Carlos,” he said. “A group of horsemen is riding in from the south.”

  “You can hear the drumming of hooves?” asked Carlos.

  “Yes,” said his father.

  Within an hour, about a half-dozen riders entered the town. Looking on, Carlos could tell that they were rebels. They were unwashed, wore huge moustaches, and had bands of bullets crossed over their chests. Still riding their horses, the rebels filled the town’s central plaza in front of the café. At the same time, the women of the village slipped out of their back doors. They took shelter in the hills ringing the town.

  Soon, the rebels grew hungry and went to the only place in town that served hot food. As they filed into The Orozco Café, the rest of the customers quickly finished their meals. They all left, fearing trouble. The rebels sat and started talking loudly. One man, whom the others called “Captain,” yelled for service. He was a large man, and he wore a pair of pistols, one on each side. Both guns were the size of small dogs.

  Carlos’s father went to greet the rebels.

  “Food,” ordered the captain. “Lots of it. And beer.”

  Carlos prepared plate after plate of tacos, rice, beans, and chicken with lime. No matter how hard he worked, his father kept rushing into the kitchen. “Please, Carlos,” he said. “Work faster. We can’t keep men like these waiting.”

  After an hour or so, the shouts for food died down. The rebels now shouted for tequila. Carlos’s father didn’t want to give them strong liquor after all the beer they had drunk, but he had no choice.

  Carlos left the kitchen, thinking that his father might need help with clearing the tables. The rebels were all sitting back in their chairs, hands resting on full stomachs, burping.

  “Hey,” said the captain.

  Carlos looked up and saw that the rebel leader was talking to him.

  “You the cook?”

  “Yes,” said Carlos.

  “That was good. Damn good. I like the way you cook things here in the South.”

  The room went silent.

  “Tank you,” said Carlos.

  “We could use someone like you.”

  Carlos said nothing.

  “Yes, yes. Our last cook had a bit of an... of an accident.” The men around him snickered. “So I am giving you a job in our Army of the North. You will fight for the freedom of Mexico. You will be under the supreme command of Pancho Villa himself. What do you think of that? We’re riding back north today.”

  “Please,” Carlos said. “It is an honour. But I must say no. I am needed here.”

  The rebel captain walked toward Carlos. He wore spurs, and they jangled as he came near. Dust rose from the floor. When he was less than an arm’s length away, he stopped. Carlos could smell the garlic and onion he himself had chopped early that morning. He could also smell the tequila on the man’s breath.

  “Let me put it this way,” said the captain. “If you don’t take this job, I’ll be forced to think you don’t support our cause.”

  He pulled one of his guns from its holster and grinned. “And I don’t need to tell you how we deal with them types.”

  Chapter Two

  The rebel gang travelled north, taking Carlos with them. In each town, they chose one or two more young men to come with them. Some liked the idea of carrying a large gun, in a country without laws, and were pleased to join. Others were like Carlos and wanted no part in the terror spreading across the land. None of this mattered. The captain just took the men he wanted.

  At the end of each day, when the sunset turned the sky a blaze of red, they set up camp. Carlos’s job started then. Despite having ridden all day, he had to build a fire, set up his grate and stew pot, and cook dinner. Often, Carlos was so tired by the time the meal ended that he would fall asleep on top of his bed roll. He wouldn’t even take off the clothes he’d worn all day. In less than a week, he was as bearded and dusty as the other rebels. He felt tired all the time, and his muscles ached. He smelled of horses, gun oil, and sweat. He missed his father and his little village in the hills of the South.

  Slowly, the gang made its way toward the northern states. Every day, they rode through a world of cactus, scrubby bushes, rattlesnakes, and scorpions. Vultures often flew above them, as though waiting for them to die in the broiling heat. As the land became drier, the towns grew farther and farther apart. The men became bored and their moods turned foul. Some even began to complain to the captain. They wanted to fight, they wanted women, they wanted a night in a real bed.

  Finally, the captain had no choice but to please them. “I know a town near the border,” he told them. “It’s a little out of our way, but that means no one’s beaten us there. And who knows? Could be we might find us some army types, hiding like the dogs they are. Better make sure your pistols are oiled, boys.”

  When the men heard this, they cheered.

  After half a day of hard riding, they pulled into the town of Rosita. It was much smaller than they expected. They saw only a church, some shabby buildings around a small square, and a couple of narrow dirt streets. Some of the men groaned, and others complained again to the captain.

  “Looks aren’t everything,” said the captain. “I know for a fact there’s a decent-sized tavern, just over there. And I know one other thing that I been keeping back. As a surprise, sort of.”

  “What’s that?” someone asked.

  The captain smiled. “Rosita has one of the best brothels in all of northern Mexico. It’ll open up later. Now who’s gonna join me for a beer?”

  The men cheered and followed the captain into a small building with a sign saying “Fernando” over the door. Carlos did not join them. He had to set up his stew pot and grate in the dusty town square and simmer pinto beans for that night’s meal. There was also bread to make, cactus leaves to chop, and corn to husk. At least, thought Carlos, I’ll have lots of time to cook.

  The sun was so strong that it bleached the sky, turning it the light blue of a faded cotton shirt. The adobe buildings of the town looked faded, too. The sun had taken all the colour out of their mud bricks. As Carlos worked, he kept one eye on the tavern. At first, he could not hear the men. Soon, however, the rebels were laughing, talking loudly, and calling for more liquor. Carlos started his fire and began heating a huge pot of well water. He soon started hearing battle songs, sung loudly and off-key, drifting from the tavern’s window and open door.

  As the beans cooked, Carlos was pleased to have some time to himself. He sat in the shade of the square’s low wall and decided he might enjoy a little nap. His thoughts had just started to soften and turn strange when loud noises awoke him.

  The noises came from the tavern: yelling and foul language and the crashing of chairs. Of course, Carlos guessed the problem. The captain had no doubt told the owner that he had just helped the cause by giving the rebels free drinks. Most tavern owners accepted this, knowing the risk of saying no. Some, however, did not.

  Then Carlos heard gunfire. Rebels spilled out of the tavern, so drunk they could barely stand. They were all laughing, and a moment later Carlos saw why. Flames began licking ou
t of the window, followed by clouds of thick, black smoke. Then the owner stumbled out the door. He coughed madly while swatting at his flaming left sleeve. Carlos swallowed hard and wished only that his country was at peace.

  Just then, Carlos noticed that he was not the only person in the town square. An old, grey-haired man was walking toward the tavern. He wore denim pants and a cowboy hat, and his feet kicked up dust as he walked. A few seconds later, the rebels came into the square, still laughing and swearing and very, very drunk.

  “Hey,” the old man called in a loud, firm voice. “You.”

  The rebels went silent and looked over. The captain raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, you,” the old man said again. “You will stop this.”

  The rebels drew their pistols. The captain sneered.

  “Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “Who in the hell are you?”

  “I am Roberto Cruz. I am the mayor of Rosita. I am the mayor of this town.”

  “The mayor! So you run this piece of shit town. Well, Mr. Mayor. You got something to say to me?”

  “I do.”

  “Then say it, you old buzzard.”

  “You will leave. You will pack up your men and you will leave this place. We have nothing to do with this war of yours. This is a peaceful place. You have no reason to be here.”

  The captain narrowed his eyes and approached the old man.

  “We ain’t here for the war, old man. We’re here for the women.”

  “You won’t find any here. The brothel closed years ago, and all the other women have run away to the desert. You’re in a town of men, now.”

  The captain looked around, noticing for the first time that he had not seen a single woman in the town. His eyes flared with anger, and the rest of his face seemed to darken. He walked around the mayor in slow, tight circles. Suddenly he stopped, struck with an idea.

  The captain turned toward Carlos.

  “Cook!” he called, an evil grin crossing his face.

  Carlos walked toward the captain. His heart pounded and his legs shook, as though too weak to support his body. He could smell wood smoke and sweat coming up from his damp, dirty shirt. He stopped before the captain.

  “Yes, sir?” he said.

  “Must be a little boring, cooking beans all the time.”

  As Carlos stood there under the baking sun, he knew he had to agree. “Yes, Chief,” he said. “It’s very boring.”

  The captain moved in close. “Ah, well. I have good news for you, then,” he said. “I’m going to make you a real soldier. You’d like that? To be a soldier in our Army of the North? Under the supreme command of Pancho Villa? Of course you would. It’d make a man out of you, eh, cook?” As he spoke, he waved one of his pistols.

  A flock of crows took flight, briefly forming a shadow above. In that moment, the captain seemed to lose his good cheer. He grabbed Carlos’s forearm and put the gun in his hand. He then pointed toward the town’s old mayor. For some reason, Carlos noticed that the mayor was wearing a clean blue denim shirt. It was a shirt that someone must have ironed for him that very morning.

  “We have arrested this man. He is against the rebel cause. Please take care of him.”

  Carlos looked into the eyes of the captain. “No, please, I’m just a cook.”

  “Oh no, you trembling little coward. You are a proud member of the Army of the North. You are under the supreme command of Pancho-god-damn-Villa! Now do your job.”

  “Please, sir. I am begging...”

  “Do it!”

  Carlos didn’t move. The captain grabbed the hand that held the pistol and raised it. Now the gun’s long barrel pointed at the old mayor’s face. Carlos began to whimper. He and his friends used to kill crows and give them to their mothers to bake into pies. Apart from those crows, he had never killed anything in his life.

  “Please,” Carlos pleaded. “Don’t force me to do this.”

  This caused the other rebels to laugh and slap their thighs. One fell to his knees and began to vomit. The captain, however, was very angry. He pulled his other pistol from its holster and put the tip of the barrel to Carlos’s head. “It’s him or you. Now decide.”

  Seconds ticked by. The old mayor spoke. “They will kill you, son. And I am an old man.”

  This statement seemed to anger the captain. He slapped Carlos in the face and yelled, “I ain’t gonna wait all day, you chicken-shit bastard. Now make up your mind!”

  Carlos looked at the mayor through wet eyes. He knew that he couldn’t harm this regal old man. And yet Carlos was only twenty-eight years of age. The last thing he wanted to do was die in a strange town so far from home. The last thing he wanted was to amuse a gang of bad men with his death.

  Then Carlos had an idea. It was an idea that would prove him to be either the most cowardly man who ever lived or the craziest. Most likely, he thought, I am both.

  He lowered the gun, took aim, and fired.

  Chapter Three

  Carlos awoke in a strange room. He looked around. There was a chair, a washbasin, a bedside table, and a wooden closet in the corner. And, of course, the bed in which he lay. He was covered with a thin cotton blanket. The room’s only other feature was a small window covered by a white gauze curtain. It glowed with sunlight, and Carlos guessed that it had to be some time in the afternoon.

  His foot throbbed with pain. He looked down and saw that the blanket had been pulled back at one corner to reveal his left foot. It was so wrapped with bandages that it was the size of a wasps’ nest. In that moment, Carlos remembered the rebels, the old mayor, the town of Rosita, a pistol shot ringing in his ears. His mouth was dry, and his face burned with shame. He could still hear the rebels, laughing and pointing and saying, “He shot his own damn self in the foot!”

  Carlos took a deep breath. His sadness lifted a bit when a second thought came to him. Now I can go home. Now I will see my father and my little town in the South. He pulled back the cotton blanket and sat up. Yet when he tried to stand, his foot throbbed as hot as the white part of a flame. He howled and fell back onto the bed, his skin now damp with sweat. Wave after wave of fresh pain flowed through his foot, reaching as far up as his knee. He tried to breathe away the torment, and failed.

  Just then, the door to his room opened. A young woman poked her head in and looked at him for a second. Carlos was still trying to breathe away his pain when she left, closing the door behind her.

  He lay back and stared sadly at the ceiling. He was still breathing hard. His hair, wet with sweat, stuck to his forehead.

  A short while later, there was a light knock on the door. Weakly, he said, “Come in.”

  Three men and a woman entered the little room. One man was the old mayor, and the second was dressed in a priest’s robe. A middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown and smoking a cigar in a long, black holder stood beside them. The fourth visitor was dressed in a blazer and riding trousers, like a rich Spanish landowner. He took a step toward the bed. The soles of his tall leather boots smacked the floor.

  “My name is Antonio Garcia,” he said. “I would like to shake your hand.”

  Carlos weakly reached out. “Carlos Orozco.”

  “I hope you have slept well. A woman in town... she gave you something to help you rest.”

  Carlos realized that his foot wasn’t the only part of him that hurt. With every breath, his ribs howled. His hands were swollen, and he felt a sting in his lower lip. The pain brought back a little more of what had happened, like a moving picture shown on a screen before his eyes. After seeing what Carlos had done, the captain had attacked him, kicking him with his pointy snakeskin boots. If Carlos had not rolled into a ball, protecting his head with his big hands, the captain might have killed him.

  “I hurt all over.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Antonio. “What you did yesterday was the noblest thing I have ever seen. They were going to kill our mayor.”

  “No,” Carlos groaned. “I acted shamefully. I shot myself in the foot.”

  “Well, it worked,” said the man dressed like a priest.

  “Oh,” said Antonio. “Let me introduce Father Alvarez. He is our priest. And this is Madame Felix. She is Rosita’s most important... er... business woman.”