The following night Don Felix walked into the lean-to where the workers ate their meals. Six tree trunks held up a thatched roof, and that was all. When it rained, the men had to huddle as closely as possible together in the center of the lean-to to avoid getting wet. Of course there were neither tables nor benches: the eating men squatted on the ground with the pots and tortillas within reach. The bosses had never stopped to consider whether their workers might have wanted a little comfort for eating.
Don Felix penetrated a few steps inside, looked at the men, and spoke: “You Cándido, you Tomás, you Cástolo, and you,” he said, pointing to a number of the men, “get your packs ready immediately to go across the river. From now on, you will work in the new camps about four leagues from here. Get a move on, quick now! Finish eating and get on the way. The boatmen can’t wait all night.”
The men who had been picked hurriedly finished their supper and ran to their huts to get ready.
Cándido sent his two boys to look for the little pigs, which wandered freely about the camp, feeding on whatever they could find. Don Felix had often said that he would have them killed and then would eat one after another because, seeing that they had grown fat on his property, he had a perfect right to them.
Modesta helped her brother to tie up his bundles.
Don Felix made his way to the hut where Cándido and Modesta were.
“Hey, girl,” he called out, “why don’t you stay here in the main camp? Down there in the new camps there’s nothing but jungle. You won’t find anything but jaguars and snakes there, not one cabin built. Today and tomorrow they’ll have to sleep in the open, unless they set about making lean-tos when they arrive in the middle of the night. And as it’s going to rain, that won’t be any fun. I know what I’m saying. Better remain here, little one.”
“Many thanks, little chief, but I prefer to go along with my brother.”
“Just as you like, girl. What I’m telling you is for your own good. If you change your mind tomorrow, you know that you can come back. I’ll wait for you until tomorrow, but no longer.”
Returning to his own hut, Don Felix passed the cook. “When a man wants to help these pigs, they refuse. They prefer to live in their pigsties. That’s all they know.”
“That’s true,” replied the cook approvingly.
He had learned that it is always better to agree with the powerful ones in this world. That way one runs no risk of making a mistake, and one’s daily bread is assured. The cook had never been beaten or hanged. From time to time Don Felix would give him a few slaps, but these he accepted as if they were friendly gestures.
When Celso returned to the camp from work, he went to the eating lean-to. Seeing no sign of Cándido, he went to the latter’s hut to look for him. “Then the boss is sending you to the other side of the river?”
“Yes,” replied Cándido wearily. “What can we do?”
“It’s real jungle there. You’ll have to start by cleaning out underbrush. The first night you’ll have to sleep in the thickets. At least wrap yourselves up well in the mosquito nets. Wait, Modesta, I’m going to help you.”
Just then the youngsters returned with the little pigs, which were squealing desperately, thinking that the day had come on which they must be converted into hams and sausages.
“I’ll come over there and help you both,” said Celso.
“That’ll put you way behind with your own work,” replied Cándido, pleased, in spite of everything, by this promise.
“Perhaps I’ll be sent there too after the logs have been launched on the water. It would be nice for all of us to get together every night as we do here.”
“Sure, I’d feel very happy. And you, little sister—what do you think?”
Modesta did not reply.
Celso, taking courage said: “Would you be glad if I should join you there, Modesta?”
“Yes, very glad.”
“I like to hear you say that,” replied Celso, laughing happily.
The first convoy of workers had been put off on the other bank. The two canoes that had carried them across were returning. The trip downstream was child’s play by comparison with the upstream return, for the river was turbulent and its current extremely violent.
The canoes were nothing more than simple dugouts, long, hollowed-out tree trunks. Only the canoeman stood up during the crossings. All the others huddled in the bottom. The canoe constantly rocked back and forth dangerously, leaning far to each side. A canoeman had to be well trained and very skillful to guide such a skiff over those tumultuous waters without upsetting it and tossing all his passengers into the water.
Cándido, Modesta, the two little boys, and Celso were waiting on the shore for the return of the canoe that would take them. Their bundles and packs were on the ground beside them. The boys had the pigs firmly tied up.
The little animals had become so fat that Cándido could no longer carry them easily on his back. He did not know what to do with them, but he kept them, thinking of them as friends, because for him they were the only links to the home for which he had bought them.
He had recently had a conversation about the pigs with the camp cook, who wanted to buy them. The cook had assured him that with the money he would get for them he could pay up his debt and go free. But a workman whom Cándido had consulted had said that the thing wasn’t that easy: even if he cleared up the debt he would not be free, because his contract was for a certain period of time. If, at the end of that period he had paid up all his obligations, he would certainly be able to go home with some money in his pack. That could happen. But for the immediate future Cándido would not consider getting rid of the animals. His one fear was that Don Félix would simply take them without deducting more than a few miserable pesos from his debt account.
Cándido and Celso were waiting right at the water’s edge with lanterns in their hands to show the canoeman the exact spot where he should come in. The lanterns were full of moisture and gave very little light. The moon was full, but its beams were hidden behind thick clouds. A fine rain had begun to fall, and it was impossible to see even two yards into the darkness.
Suddenly, as unexpected as a ghost, the first canoeman emerged from the mist and rain. Cándido jumped into the canoe and called to Celso and the boys to pass him the packs and bundles. But the canoeman said: “You’re not going in my canoe. You’re going with Felipe, who’ll be along in a minute. He’s just a few yards behind me. He’s soused, that’s sure, and can barely stand up. But even when he’s asleep or has both eyes blindfolded he can manage the canoe better than I can. I have to take some of the other men over and also carry a load of tools, axes, whetstones, and God knows what else, besides El Faldón. Here comes Felipe now.”
Felipe was even more drunk than Celso had supposed from the words of the first canoeman. He reeled about in his canoe, which he had not even succeeded in bringing to rest on the sand.
“God Almighty!” the canoeman shouted, “what stinking weather! Wet from head to feet, without a dry hair!”
He was accompanied by a small boy, who he took along to help him and whose job it was to jump out and haul the prow of the canoe up the sand.
“Run up there and get me the bottle,” he ordered. “I need to throw a little fuel into my body.”
“You can’t take us to the other side in your drunken state,” Celso protested. “You can’t even stay on your feet.”
“Who’s drunk? Me? And it’s you, you greasy Chamula, who’s daring to tell an old canoeman that he’s drunk? Me—drunk? Tell me just this: who’s running this boat—you or I?”
“You,” replied Celso.
“Exactly! So you shut your trap. Do you people want to get into this canoe or not?”
Cándido collected all his courage and said to Celso: “Wait for me here. I’m going to look for the boss and ask him to let us go in another canoe.”
“You’ll go in the canoe that you’ve been assigned to,” decreed Don Félix in reply to the request of the wretched man, who stood in the doorway of the hut and explained that Felipe was in such a state of drunkenness that his legs would not support him. “Who gives orders here, Chamula?”
“You do, little chief.”
“In that case you have nothing to fear. Felipe can be as drunk as he likes, but that doesn’t prevent him from being the best canoeman in the camps. Pablo drinks less, but when it comes to knowing the river he can’t touch the points of Felipe’s shoes.”
“Little chief, if you’d like, we could cross the river very early tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t even think about that. We’d lose half a day. You’re crossing the river right now—and you’re leaving me in peace this instant. Pablo has to transport the tools, the axes, and the other men. Besides, with all the stuff you carry around, to transport you and your drove takes a whole canoe. Now then, get going! Tomorrow very early I’ll come over to see how things are going. Here, have a drink.”
Cándido accepted the cup and at one gulp swallowed its contents, which cheered him up a little. He said: “Thanks,” and left after a courteous “With your permission.”
He went back to the riverbank where Celso was waiting.
“Nothing doing.”
“I knew that beforehand, and I’ve loaded everything into the canoe. Sit in the back. Up front everything is soaked. The kids have been bailing it out, but with this rain there’s no way of keeping anything dry.”
Celso had arranged the bundles in the canoe. Modesta was seated in the middle with the children on either side of her. They kept the pigs in place by holding fast to the lasso with which they were tied. On her knees Modesta had the bundle containing her things.
Cándido jumped into the boat, stepped over the pigs and bundles, and huddled himself down in the bottom holding up a lantern. Near him Felipe stood with a long paddle in his hands. He was in a rage—first because his small assistant had stumbled and spilled half a bottle of aguardiente, and second because his passengers were so slow in getting settled. This was his last trip across the river for the night, and he was in a hurry to get to sleep.
Celso handed the lantern to the boy assistant. “Get into the canoe. With this load it would be too much for you.”
Celso put his shoulders to the prow, lifted the canoe a little, and made it slide along the sand until it floated. Felipe began to paddle. Celso climbed into the primitive craft, which began to move out into the enveloping darkness.
Felipe gave two vigorous strokes with the paddle, which carried the canoe to the middle of the river and into the foam. He straightened it out quickly to avoid getting caught in the current, working with such skill that Celso and Cándido recognized that their fear of the water had been foolish.
The canoe sped like an arrow. From time to time Felipe pushed the long paddle into the river’s bed to steer the canoe toward a spot where it would move more swiftly. He wanted to finish his task as quickly as possible. Generally, when the current was as strong as it was now, the canoemen did exactly the opposite of what Felipe was doing, keeping away from midstream so as to avoid the risk of being swept away by the current. In fact, if a pilot were to lose control of his craft even for a second, it would be swept off its course, and the current, catching it broadside, would capsize it, throwing all it held, men and things, into the water. For this reason the canoemen preferred to keep well in toward the banks, searching out calmer spots. But the calm areas were not always on the same side. Sometimes they were near the right bank, sometimes toward the left, depending on the course of the current. Therefore a canoeman’s real work consisted in steering his craft from one bank to the other, looking for the least rough surfaces. Crossing the river demanded not only consummate skill but also a thorough knowledge of its course, of the whirlpools, sandbanks, and rapids. The canoemen began their careers in childhood, accompanying older canoemen who served as their teachers.
The trip was difficult by day; at night the difficulties doubled. The old hands knew the stream so well that by merely touching the bottom with their paddles they could tell on which side they were. And even when completely intoxicated they maneuvered to perfection. Nevertheless, drunkenness not being a normal state, it was difficult to say beforehand how a drunken man would react to an unforeseen occurrence.
In his alcoholic cloud Felipe felt daring in the extreme. Moreover, he was a mestizo and felt an unbounded contempt for the Indians. He was as dark as Cándido. His hair was as black, thick, and straight as Celso’s. But he regarded himself as the equal of the white men. They never beat him, and his skill as an experienced canoeman, his merits as a builder and owner of two canoes, made him an independent workman who had the right to get drunk as often as he wished or when he had the money for liquor. The whinings of the cowardly Cándido, who had dared to ask Don Felix to delay the trip so they wouldn’t have to cross by night, made him even more reckless. He was going to demonstrate to that lousy Chamula what a real canoeman was capable of, and how he could guide his craft at full speed in the middle of the night even on a river broken loose.
So he continued to keep the canoe in the heart of the current. They shot forward as though they were in a motorboat. About fifteen minutes were required for the crossing, but Felipe wanted to show that he could make it in ten. Unfortunately the canoe moved so fast that he could not keep it in the full current with a few paddle strokes. That crazy speed lasted only two or three minutes, at the end of which the prow struck the stones at the edge of a rapid so violently that it became lodged among them. With a marvelously skillful stroke of the paddle Felipe swung the stern about. But his second stroke went wrong. The craft veered too far to the left and was out of control.
Felipe took in the situation instantly, knew what was inevitably going to happen. Nevertheless, he made a tremendous effort with his paddle, but stuck it into the bed of the stream a fraction of a second too late. The current struck the canoe broadside, swamping it. Felipe, unsteady on his legs, stumbled and fell over the right side into the water. The craft was dashed against a gigantic tree trunk. It sank.
“Make for the bank!” was all that Felipe shouted.
Cándido, Celso, Modesta, the children, the assistant, and the pigs—all were struggling in the water. The profound darkness prevented them from seeing the banks, but luckily, foreseeing the inevitable, Cándido and Celso, thanks to the lanterns, had been able, just as the accident was about to happen, to see that they were nearer the right bank than the left. They had also noticed that near the right bank the paddle had hit bottom at half its length, which made them think that they were near a sandbank and stones used as a ford.
Cándido stuck his head out of the water to call the children. The younger one, floundering near by, answered him. Cándido quickly grabbed him by the shirt.
Celso was calling Modesta and Cándido. He groped for Modesta, caught hold of her clothes, and began to pull her along.
Cándido shouted: “Make for the right bank!”
The region of which Cándido and Celso were natives offered few opportunities for learning to swim, there being neither lakes nor rivers near by. But when Indians fall into water they get out like dogs, by instinct. Moreover, they wear no shoes, and their cotton clothes are loose and light enough not to hinder them.
They managed to reach a foothold. They were separated from one another, and they called out in order to get together. Felipe and his assistant also joined in. Freed suddenly of his drunkenness, Felipe did not understand exactly what had happened.
“By the most holy Virgin!” he exclaimed, “such a thing has never happened to me. I’ve capsized once or twice, but in some rapids. It’s never happened to me here. It’s impossible! Somebody must have played a dirty trick on me. Perhaps it was one of you, you damned Chamulas!”
They were all together. Even the little pigs, tied to the lasso, were there. The dog that had followed Cándido from his village was barking contentedly and shaking himself to get dry.
The packs and bundles had all been lost. Modesta, wringing out her underskirt, turned suddenly and asked: “Celso! Is Angel with you?”
“No! He isn’t here. He must be with Cándido.”
In anguish Cándido replied: “No. Not here. I thought he was with you, Modesta, or with Celso.”
They all began to shout: “Angelito, Angelito, where are you?”
But the only reply they got was the furious shout of the water as it roared on.
When he noticed that Felipe was late in returning, Don Felix realized that something out of the ordinary had happened. Very early the next morning he sent Pablo with his canoe. Pablo discovered the shipwrecked group squatting on the shore. He took them into the canoe and to the new camp, where the other men had begun to erect their huts.
Celso returned to the main camp with Pablo. Don Félix received him abusively: “What have you been doing over there? You arrive now after losing half a day’s work! Perhaps I sent you to the new camp?”
“I wanted to help Cándido move his things, little chief. He has his family with him.”
“And meanwhile your work stays undone! Cándido is old enough now to travel alone.”
“He lost one of his children,” Celso answered.
“Through carelessness, I’m sure. He should have watched him more closely. Besides, nobody told him to take the kids. They’re not good for anything here. Now then, get along to your work and hack out your four tons as usual. If you want to have a good time again, don’t have it at my expense. I pay you for your work, and your work is to cut four tons.”
“Very well, little chief.”
Don Felix went on with his breakfast, saying to the two foremen who were with him: “You see? I was right again when I picked Pablo to transport the tools and axes. Had I ordered that drunken Felipe to take them, we’d have lost them all. That would have been at least one hundred and fifty pesos thrown in the water. Just what we needed! For two weeks there’s been no mail and not even a bunch of Turks has turned up here! But where’s that swine Felipe now?”
“He went with Pablo,” replied one of the foremen. “He wants to try to find his canoe.”
“Yes? That’ll take three weeks or more!”
Cándido went on working, eating, sleeping, getting up, going back to work, returning to eat, sleeping again, rising again, felling his trees, coming back to his hut, squatting in a corner, and looking fixedly before him. Scarcely speaking at all, he was living like an automaton. Every morning and every evening he went down to the riverbank and watched the rushing of the convulsive waters that had snatched away his Angelito. And every time he returned from work he walked around the hut and looked at Modesta in silence.
When he returned, weary and crushed, Modesta well knew what he had hoped to find.
Four identical days passed. One evening he said to his sister in a suppressed voice: “Modesta, Pablo’s canoe is tied to the riverbank. When it gets completely dark we’ll set out.”
“Where will we go, little brother?” she asked in surprise. She seemed to doubt that he was in his right mind.
“I can’t stay here. They killed my Angelito, murdered Marcelina’s firstborn son. We’re going to go back to our village, because I can’t stand it here. Modesta, I must go back there to my land, to cultivate my corn, to see how the house is that I built with my own hands. I can’t stay here. I must go back.”
“Will we take the pigs, little brother?”
“Sure we’ll take them. How could you think we’d leave them here? They can’t stand it either—nor the dog, nor you… .”
“And Celso?” she asked.
“Celso knows where we’re from and he’ll come to look for you. He told me so, only he asked me not to tell you. He said that if, as he thinks, the girl he loved has married someone else, he will ask you to be his wife. He’ll follow us, little sister, you can be sure about that.”
Modesta finished stacking the pots in a corner and said: “They’ll catch us.”
“Maybe so. What about it? I can’t stay here. I must leave, and if they catch me, I’ll leave again and keep on leaving. I can’t stay here. They killed my Angelito.”
“No, little brother, by terrible fortune he fell into the water.”
“Yes, but not by the will of our most holy Mother—by the will of that evil man, of the boss. Why didn’t he want to let us cross in the daytime? Why didn’t he let us go in Pablo’s canoe? Simply because he hated the children and wanted to kill them. I know it well. A hundred times he told me that they must work, because otherwise they had no right to be with me. He wanted to make them work, the children of my poor Marcelina, my poor woman, who was murdered too, by that doctor, murdered because I couldn’t pay in time.”
“We’ll do what you want, brother.”
“We’ll wait until the other men have fallen asleep. But you can start taking Pedrito and the little pigs down to the bank now. The others will think that you’re taking them to bathe.”
That same night Cándido, Modesta, little Pedro, the pigs, and the dog embarked in Pablo’s canoe. For two days there had been less rain. The level of the river had gone down somewhat, and the current had lost its violence.
Late that night the waning moon shone out. There were only a few clouds running, and things could be seen rather clearly.
Pablo had taken away the pole-paddle with which he maneuvered the canoe. But Cándido knew perfectly well that he himself would never have been able to handle it, because to do that required a long apprenticeship. To use in its stead he had cut three boards, one of which was long and flat, and which he intended to use as a paddle.
He did not risk the middle of the current, but kept near the banks so that he could always touch the bottom with his paddle, which was only eight feet long. Thus he could steer the canoe as he had planned.
No bundles or packs increased the weight of the load. In a piece of his only shirt they had wrapped tortillas, bean paste, and a small piece of dried meat. One of the men had lent him a flint and some tinder for making fire. Unfortunately he had lost the knife that he had always carried in his belt in a leather sheath, but he intended to make some spears to catch fish that he could roast. He would also be able to bring down a few birds with his sling. All things considered, the prospects were not entirely bad.
The canoe glided along smoothly. For some time the moon lighted up the watery road. Later the underbrush on the banks of the river began to form two impenetrable barriers. From the land the murmuring of the forest reached them, filling the night with life. From time to time the croaking of frogs or the song of some bird blanketed the jungle’s murmuring. Constantly overhead the bats and nocturnal birds crossed, beating their black wings. Pedrito had fallen asleep on Modesta’s lap with one of the little pigs resting against him and warming his body.
“Brother,” asked Modesta softly, “how long will our journey last?”
“I don’t know. Far, very far ahead we’ll come to the great rapids. Then we’ll have to take the canoe ashore. We’ll go on down the river and reach new falls, but then we won’t be able to carry the canoe overland because of the rocks. We’ll have to walk toward the sunset until we reach our village. One of the men told me that, one who knows the river well, because last year he was in the gang that kept watch over the floating of the logs.”
“There’s something I don’t understand, little brother. If it’s so easy to escape in a canoe, why do all those peons stay in the camps instead of running away?”
“Because they don’t all find canoes handy, or because they’re afraid of the water, or because they’re afraid that they couldn’t steer a boat.”
“Maybe you’re right, brother,” said Modesta. In her heart she did not believe it, but she kept silent.
On the following morning Don Felix called El Chapopote and El Guapo.
“Drink up your coffee quickly. Then take your horses and go to Las Champas, the new camp. Ride over it and count the trunks and mark them. Felipe will take you down.”
The overseers took what they needed and went aboard the canoe. El Guapo carried his gun with him, because, he said, he was sure they would surely find much better hunting over there, especially as it was still virgin forest. The cutters had not begun to chop or to frighten away the animals by their shouting. Thus they would be able to collect some fine prizes that it would have been a pity to let escape, especially as, since the floods had started, the meals had begun to be extremely sparse.
They were about fifty yards from the landing place of the new camp when, from a distance, they caught sight of Pablo, with his arms held skyward, who was swearing. “They’ve stolen my canoe. God damn them! Just let me get my hands on that son of a bitch!”
Felipe brought his craft in to the sandy shore and said: “You just forgot to tie the canoe up securely. You left it slack, and the water carried it away. It’s your fault.”
“My fault! Don’t talk rubbish! What do you know? I moored it there last night, see? The river is quite low, and you won’t tell me that the canoe started off by itself?” Addressing the foremen, he shouted: “And by all the devils, I know who took it! That swine of a Chamula, the one who goes about with his whole family and a drove of pigs.”
“Now you’re the one who’s talking rubbish! How could that stupid animal of a Chamula manage to steer your canoe?”
“All right! Since you know so much, look for the Chamula. Locate the bastard and his family. They’re not here. They’re not at the camp. They’ve even taken the pigs with them! Hurry after him—and when you get your hands on him, I’ll get my canoe back.”
The two foremen climbed the embankment, pulling their horses after them. They ran into El Faldón, who was waiting for them.
“It’s true,” he said. “The Chamula took the canoe. Believe it or not, but he’s cleared out, and you fell like rain from heaven to go and look for him.”
“That’s the only thing left for us to do,” El Chapopote said, nudging his companion. “What do you say, Guapo? We’ll count the trees later. But first, let’s go and toss something into our bellies. What with nothing but a swallow of coffee this morning, I’m dying of hunger. Don Felix is worse every day. How does he expect us to count tons of wood in a place where there are no trees? I don’t know the trick of making them grow. If I did, I’d make myself a millionaire, and it’d be a long time before I’d be taking care of those Chamula bastards as if I were their wet nurse.”
“Let’s begin by having a shot to lubricate our throats!”
El Faldón produced a bottle and they all had good swigs to renew their energy.
“You follow us with your other canoe, Felipe,” said El Chapopote. “El Guapo and I will go along the bank on horseback.”
“No, not like that, no,” replied Felipe. “None of that. We’ll never catch them with the canoe. Just think, they’ve got a night’s head start, and even if we caught up with them, they’d jump into the water as soon as they saw us and the canoe’d be carried away by the current, and we’d never be able to get it back. On horseback you’ll go a hundred times faster than I could go in the canoe. The river twists and turns constantly. I ought to know! You can take some short cuts without having to follow the river and you can get way ahead of the Chamula, who doesn’t know the river. You can be easy in your minds. Before five minutes are up he’ll have smashed into some rocks or run up on some sandbar. And besides, there’s no reason for me to go so far away. I must get back because Don Felix wants me to go upriver and help to get the logs into the water.”
It was true. Don Felix had ordered him to return immediately to go with him on an inspection tour of the dumps. But in a case like this, a matter of pursuing a fugitive, Felipe could have disregarded Don Felix’s orders. The real reason for his refusal was his fear of finding himself alone with Cándido before the foremen had appeared to help him. He knew that Cándido, like others who had taken flight, would not hesitate before killing him to avoid being captured.
Cándido seemed to have the gods on his side: in three days not a single drop of rain had fallen. The river was low and quiet. On turbulent water Cándido would not have been able to get far. But if the weather was favorable for him, it would also be so for his pursuers. For if the rain had been as steady and violent as during the preceding week, the jungle tracks would have been impassable, the horses would have sunk to their knees in the mud, and the foremen would often have been obliged to lead their mounts by the bridle. They would have had to make long detours to avoid the flooded places and the swamps near the banks.
Instead, the surface of the ground was dry enough to permit fairly rapid progress on horseback. The waters had gone down and for many miles it was possible to gallop along the sand or even on the uncovered stony bed of the river. In some places, as is usual with rivers running through tropical forests, this one widened out for a mile or more, becoming shallow except for short stretches that were usually possible to jump. The more twists and turns in the river, the more his pursuers gained on the Chamula, especially as the peaceful current bore him forward slowly, and for mile after mile the horsemen progressed three times as fast as the fleeing man.
If Cándido had not been given advice by his comrades, he would have been dashed to pieces with his family at the first cataract. It was not so easy an operation as he had imagined to haul the heavy canoe out of the water by himself and transport it across steep rocks in order to get round the rapids. He would have been able to cut down branches and work at them until he could use them as rollers—but he had no machete.
On the other hand, he could not abandon the canoe and go on through the jungle, because his pursuers knew the trail he would have to follow so as to avoid the swamps. The foremen would merely have had to wait patiently for him at some open place. Cándido did not know any of this, and it was precisely his ignorance that made his escape from the camps difficult. Celso, who, with all his heart, wished that Cándido and Modesta would get away to freedom, would have done everything possible to dissuade them from this expedition. He had had enough experience to know that such an attempt at flight could not succeed.
The day was well advanced. In about two hours more the sun would have set. El Guapo said to his companion: “Look. There’s a little arroyo and we can take shelter under that tree with the thick foliage. It’s up high enough so that we can watch the river. Let’s sit down here for half an hour, eat a bite, and smoke a cigarette.”
“Besides, the horses must have a rest,” replied El Chapopote. “They must have a breather.”
El Chapopote (“Tarface”) had been given his nickname because his dark skin was nearly covered with black spots that betrayed his racial background. He had been born on the Pacific coast.
They were carefully wrapping beans in tortillas when El Chapopote, who was scanning the horizon, uttered a cry of joy: “Hurrah! Look! The Holy Family sailing along in their transatlantic liner!”
It was, in fact, the canoe approaching them, moving slowly. Clumsily managed, the prow was turning to right and left as if the pilot were in a state of hesitation about the direction he ought to take.
Cándido, Modesta, and the boy were seated in the bottom of the canoe, above the edge of which only their heads and necks could be seen. El Chapopote and El Guapo put down their tortillas carefully so as not to spill any of the beans. Then El Guapo unfastened the shotgun from his saddle.
While El Chapopote was taking out his revolver to load it, one of the horses for some unknown reason let out a neigh. Immediately the occupants of the canoe became aware of the presence of the two foremen. Cándido tried vainly to steer his canoe toward the opposite bank, but the current bore it irresistibly toward where the two foremen were. Before it had come up to them, El Guapo shouted: “Bring the boat in close, Chamula, or I’ll shoot.”
The foremen could not judge whether Cándido had any intention of disobeying or whether he simply could not steer the canoe, which, instead of coming nearer, was continuing on its way. So El Guapo fired. His intention was simply to scare the Indians, but the whole load of shot sprayed the canoe. Pedrito groaned and screamed, shouting that he had been hurt. Then he stood up in the canoe, pressing one hand against the other little arm. El Chapopote fired his revolver while El Guapo reloaded his shotgun and, aiming toward the canoe, shouted: “Come on in here, Chamula, or by our holy Mother today you’ll die!”
El Guapo went down the embankment and with his feet in the water pointed his revolver at the canoe, ready to shoot.
On seeing his son’s bleeding arm, Cándido lost all his courage. He no longer even thought of escape. He realized the seriousness of the foremen’s threat. They were surely going to fire again and to go on shooting until all of them were wounded or killed—his son, Modesta, and himself. He shouted: “I’m coming, little chiefs! By the most holy Virgin, don’t shoot any more!”
By desperate efforts he succeeded in getting the canoe to a sandbank, on which it grounded. He got out of the canoe, picked the child up in his arms, and went toward the bank followed by Modesta, the water reaching their waists. The little pigs followed excitedly after him, grunting. When they reached the bank they began to root about. The dog shook himself and leaped about happily in front of the group.