A Lady Bought with Rifles (36 page)

Though Court didn't like to talk politics, Dr. Trent did; so, remote though Mina Rara was, I knew something of the pressures mounting to explosive force in spite of Díaz's iron grip. Dr. Trent had loaned me his copy of the February 1908
Imparcial
, which carried a translation of James Creelman's interview with Díaz, which had been published in
Pearson's Magazine
. Díaz had emphatically announced that he wouldn't run for office again, that he had made Mexico strong and prosperous enough for democracy, and that he would now welcome active political parties and the formation of a representative government.

Perhaps he'd never meant these sentiments to be translated into his native language, but his countrymen eagerly took him at his word and prepared for the election that would take place this year, in 1910. Even if Díaz didn't step down, he was eighty. The post of vice-president was vitally important, since the man elected to it would almost surely be the next president.

Not long after Dr. Trent lent me the Creelman translation, he let me read his copy of
La Sucesión Presidencial en 1910
by the same Francisco Madero, who was presently provoking the wrath of Sonora's political
jefes
, that same cruel and greedy lot who alternated in the governor's seat and hounded Yaquis: Luis and Lorenzo Torres, Rafael Yzábal, and Corral himself.

Madero, a gentle idealist, a typical son of a wealthy Coahuila family, had worked for years to improve conditions for workers on his family's haciendas and to educate the children. When he tried to improve the lot of his poorer countrymen beyond the family's holdings, he ran into opposition that convinced him Mexico's political system must change. In his famous book on the presidential succession he pointed to the corruptions of the Díaz regime, insisted that there be no reelection, called for effective suffrage, and kept reminding people of the constitution, for which he had a lover's ardor.

If he, or someone like him, could be elected, peace with justice might come to Mexico, there might not have to be the horrors of a revolution already foretold by the bloodily suppressed strike at the cotton mill of Río Blanco in Veracruz, where the flat cars of mangled bodies had been dumped in the harbor for sharks, and Cananea, in the north of this state of Sonora, where
rurales
, Arizona Rangers, and soldiers put down the copper strikers. The American owner of the mine had brought in a force of several hundred volunteers from Douglas and Bisbee, Arizona, who came in the belief they were defending helpless American women and children from a rampaging mob. Governor Yzábal in person had helped crush that revolt.

Bloody, turbulent times. But if Madero could be elected, if he could fulfill the promises of the constitution, the dreams of Hidalgo and Juárez might at last come true, a hundred years after Mexico declared independence from Spain. But the good, like Jesus, often do die young and I was worried about Madero.

“Is Madero being threatened?” I asked as I put Court's plate before him on a small table.

“You might say he's being made unwelcome. In Alamos his hotel refused to put him up and the
jefe político
wouldn't let him hold a meeting of more than two. He got around that by getting a follower to have a dance and invite only possible sympathizers.
Rurales
trailed him out of Alamos.”

Rurales
, many of them recruited from banditry, were known for their use of the
ley fuga
—more of their victims were “shot while trying to escape” than were ever brought to trial.

“They didn't arrest Madero?”

“No. He held a rally yesterday in Hermosillo—or that is, he tried to. The local authorities didn't refuse to let him speak, but police tried to break up the gathering crowd and hired thugs heckled the speakers and threw rotten fruit. Part of the audience was lured away with the offer of free drinks. Madero gave up and rescheduled the meeting for today, but he probably won't have any better luck.”

“Then his trip to Sonora was useless?”

“Oh, he had a chance to weep over the Yaquis and he got together with some powerful men who hate the Díaz government only a bit less than they loathe Corral.” Court yawned and stretched. “The hell with it! Madero's too starry-eyed. He'll get himself killed.”

Getting to his feet, this man who was my husband stroked my breast, laughed as I went very still. “Come, Miranda. Show me how glad you are to have me home again.”

Jon was delighted with the silver-handled whip Court had bought for him and ran outside after breakfast to crack it at Cascos Lindos, once Sewa's beloved
burra
, who stared calmly at him and went on seeking forage. He seemed to be considering really hitting her with it and I called from the dining-room window.

“Jon! That's not for using on live things. You'll hurt them.”

He looked from his handsome whip to the
burra
, shook his head earnestly. “Don't want to hurt Lindos. But trees and rocks can't feel. Mama. It's no use whipping them.”

“Practice knocking a can off the porch,” I suggested. “This summer when the flies are bad, you can kill all of them.”

Court laughed, circling my wrist with his hand. “You're as softheaded as Madero, my sweetheart! Delightful in a woman, but such fidgets won't do for a man. Jon's a realist. Whips are made for hurting.”

I never thought of whipping without remembering how Lío had died, trying to save Trace from a beating. Though I knew it was dangerous to anger Court, I twisted free.

“I hate whips. Why couldn't you have picked something else?”

Court rose, towering over me. His tawny eyes narrowed, and a heavy pulse throbbed in his neck and temple. An almost palpable desire radiated from him, setting off in me a sort of bitter gratification that I could make him feel so powerfully.

“Maybe I should use a whip on you, Miranda,” he said softly. “Perhaps then I could pierce to the core of you, through your pain.”

I stared at him defiantly, though fear made ice of my vitals. He had used me cruelly, roughly, sometimes left my body bruised from his hands, but he had never struck or beaten me. He dragged in a ragged choking breath.

“Come!” he said thickly.

He caught me high in his arms as I tried to evade him, carried me down the hall with his mouth pressed so hungrily to my throat that I felt as if he had tapped my blood.

He never left me all day long.

Even for those of us who knew that the heavenly body glaring in the sky that spring was Halley's Comet and that it would duly pass from sight, its brillance was disturbing. The workers muttered, and though I explained it to my pupils and to Chepa and Raquel and the household, they obviously pitied my educated ignorance and went on believing that the comet meant war, famine, death, and plague.

Court traveled down to Las Coronas to reassure the people and make one of his periodic inspections. I hadn't been back since I ran away that night with Sewa. Lázaro Perez was foreman now. Soon I must start taking Jon there, acquainting him with the people and the work, for it would one day be his. But the place held unhappy memories for me, of Mother's dying, of Reina, whom I had so longed to love, and I had never asked Court to let me accompany him.

I endured Court's unpredictable cycle of remote courtesy and unleashed sensuality, ignored Ruiz's gallantries, and absorbed myself in Jon and the little school. I knew most of the mothers by now, and though our communication was mostly silent, I felt that it was warm.

Except for rare, shamefully frightening responses to Court, the woman part of me seemed dead, blighted by the bitter realization that Trace wasn't coming back. I was Jon's mother and
la señora
, but the Miranda who had fiercely desired and loved a man seemed as dead as the other people in my past.

In 1910, though, things were changing, perhaps because Jon spent more time with Caguama and his playmates, perhaps because the comet above lit up the dark recesses of hearts and minds, perhaps because of the restlessness pervading all Mexico that year of the centennial, when people remembered how ill the promises of the revolution against Spain, the dreams and laws of Juárez, had been kept.

Dr. Trent had lent me a book published in 1909 by András Molina Enríquez.
Los Grandes Problemas Nacionales
put into words the terrible inequities of life under Díaz. He had said only three occupations were open to educated mestizos: governmental employment, the professions, and revolution. To an increasing number of even these comparatively fortunate Mexicans, the last option seemed to offer their best hope.

No one, not even Madero, seriously expected Díaz to lose the election that summer. The practical question was who would be vice-president and take over when death finally claimed the Strong Man. Limantour, the Secretary of Finance, had hopes. So did handsome General Bernardo Reyes, favorite of the military, university students, jobless professionals, the remaining old Juárez liberals, and businessmen who lacked entrée to the present rulers.

Madero continued to travel and speak to enthusiastic crowds whenever he could thwart official repression. I began to hear other names from Court, Ruiz, and Dr. Trent. Alvaro Obregón, a ranchero and mechanic, was rousing people in his part of Sonora, and down in Morelos the big sugar hacendados began to feel nervous about young, surly Emiliano Zapata, who made no bones about his fury that some of his village's land had been taken over by one of the large owners.

Ironically, as conditions grew unbearable for more Mexicans, the situation had improved a little for the Yaquis. In 1907 there had been orders to deport all Yaquis north of Hermosillo. Only about two thousand were left in the valley of the Eight Sacred Pueblos. There were possibly 150 rebels in the sierra. Thousands had been killed or sent to Yucatán. The rest had settled in the northern provinces or escaped into Arizona. Former Governor Yzábal ferreted out hundreds of peaceable men and women and sent them to bondage, but in 1908 a banking crisis affected business and cut the demand for henequen and slaves to harvest it. This same crisis brought competition for jobs in Arizona and the United States agreed to deport back to Mexico all illegally entered Yaquis.

During 1908 Governor Torres tried to bargain with the rebels to make peace, dealing with Luis Bule, one of the leaders. Succumbing to pressure from Sonoran hacendados and employers, Torres halted deportation except for punishment; any raid would be followed by the shipping away of five hundred Yaquis.

By 1909 Bule had made peace for the Yaquis and passports were issued. Bule's men were put in Special Forces groups in the Army to hunt out those of their comrades who still persisted in defiance, but at least indiscriminant persecution of the Yaquis had stopped for the time. As always, when the country was in turmoil, the Indians fared best.

Spring came with the Easter ceremonies performed by the Yaqui workers of Mina Rara. The processions began on Ash Wednesday and accelerated week by week as the soldiers of Pilate and masked
fariseos
with their wooden swords pursued Jesus. Tantalizing smells of stew, beans, and tortillas floated from the outdoor communal kitchen where even the Mexican soldiers were fed, for this most important of celebrations was open to all. Those giving it gained “flower” or spiritual grace.

Jon loved to go and I often attended with him and Caguama, laughing at the
pascolas
, clown dancers who kept the ceremonies moving and made ribald jokes, or admiring the flag girls and the
matachines
crowned with flowers who danced for Mary, but most of all delighting in the ancient rite of the deer dancer who embodied the primeval wild spirits.

On Saturday, after Jesus had been betrayed and killed, there was a battle between the forces of evil and good who fought swords with flowers. When the flowers won, the
fariseos'
masks and swords were burned in a great fire where an effigy of Judas also blazed, but I never stayed for that. It reminded me too much of Cruz. But I never missed Easter morning when San Juan bowed to Mary and told her that her Son was not dead, but was down there in the fiesta and Mary cried out to all her followers, “Let's go see my loving Son and meet Him in the middle of the road.”

To a people that had lost so many sons and daughters, the hope of reunion was especially poignant and I envied their faith, for I couldn't believe I'd ever see Trace again, and our meeting in some heavenly fiesta couldn't help me now. I longed for him in the flesh with my flesh, wanted him to know our son, be his father and my man. I had no other, no matter how many years I was married to Court.

Summer followed Easter and unrest grew. In Sonora, newsmen critical of the Díaz government were jailed as were the officers of the Cananea Anti-Reelectionist Club. In San Luis Potosí, Coahuila, Aguascalientes, and Nueyo León, Maderista rallies were forbidden and all anti-Díaz publicity was banned.

Hundreds of Madero supporters were in jail all over Mexico, and Court predicted that their leaders would shortly join them if he wasn't assassinated first. I prayed for the life of that small, gentle man as I had for nothing since I abandoned hope for Trace. Madero was a chance for justice with peace in Mexico—a bloodless revolution. If he died, whirlwinds would rage, destroying the oppressed with the oppressors.

Early in June, Madero was imprisoned in Monterrey. Fearing he'd be secretly murdered, his wife stayed in jail with him. At the same time there were uprisings in Yucatán, which were ruthlessly crushed. The primary election would be held June 26 and there was absolutely no doubt that Díaz intended to win.

I told Court I would like Jon to have his birthday at Las Coronas. Mexican-style, we celebrated his saint's name day rather than his actual birth date in May. The Day of San Juan was also Midsummer's Night, June 24, and the best of feasts for a boy on a ranch because there were contests of vaquero skills. I had never seen the merrymaking, but this year I wished to take my son and make him known to the leather-tough men who would greet him one day as
dueño
—if our world lasted.