Friendly Betrayal Page 6

  “We had a contest. I bested them in all challenges they threw at me. I am stronger and jumped higher and farther. I ran the fastest, too. That is why I carry the staff of power”, she said, showing José Manuel her pointed stick.

  “See? Even at a distance, other indios will know that I have the power of this group, since I am carrying this nasty-looking weapon. They will find out that I am just and fair. However, I will never let my guard down, because around here, you never know whom to trust.”

  Without waiting for a response, Miranda offered the pregnant young girl her arm and helped her mount double on her horse. Jose Manuel realized one thing. Not only had Miranda picked up a few Indian words during her excursion, she had picked up a whole clan.

  “You are sure you can’t take me to Zacatecas, then?”

  “Yes, I am positive.”

  “Well, one day. I shall do it myself. I will go confront my devious uncle. Meanwhile, I need to train and recruit more people. I intend to take back what’s mine from that evil man.”

  There was something about Miranda’s demeanor as she spoke that convinced Jose Manuel that she meant what she said. No one was ever going to tell her what to do.

  Chapter 6

  “Miners die young, but vaqueros live long lives”

  oOo

  A Proverb

  (Some Native American tribes believe in some form of the following concept.) The show of an open hand is a universal symbol when meeting strangers. In the words of a tribal elder,

  “First, we mean to show we come in friendship. Offering an open hand shows we are not holding a weapon. Second, the five fingers in our hand represents all that we need to get along in the world.

  “The first finger represents Love. The second, Joy. The third, Faith.

  The fourth, Hope. The fifth represents Peace.

  “These are powerful, yet simple one-syllable words, whose energy works only if known what they mean and if you use them in everything you do.

  Love is the most important, because without it our tribe would not exist, and neither would grandmothers, grandfathers, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles. Joy is the feeling you get when you’re with your family. We face the unknown armed with the protection of Faith, our shield. Hope acts as our spear leading and probing ahead of us.

  Last, but equally important, Peace is the universal word for Love.

  Then, strangers unite their hands in a friendly handshake, they both pledge to face present and future dangers together.”

  oOo

  Rayo, a young Coahuilteca brave in his teens, found himself gawking around him. He was now a member of the outer circle of his first tribal meeting of elders. It had all happened so fast. As he and his uncle returned to camp from a successful hunting and fishing trip, they were hastily led to the chief’s ample open air shelter. Before entering, his uncle placed a simple, distinctive leather headdress on the eighteen-year old’s head and cautioned him.

  “Sit here. All I can tell you right now is that there is greatness in store for you. I’ll explain later. Listen and observe. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

  Five subordinate leaders, including Rayo’s uncle, served as the clan’s main elders. Besides the chief, they were the only ones who could speak during the sessions. Each leader led a family of between ten to twenty members. United by blood and extended family, each small clan had a stake in the large expanse of brush country near the town of Zacatecas. The inner group was encircled by two or three members of each family. Rayo and another member of his group were sitting behind his uncle. Rayo and the other men in the outer group were selected to serve as advisors, not unlike a Cabildo, or white man’s town council.

  The Chief, walked in last. He brought a guest. The Chief glanced once at Rayo and kept walking. He suddenly stopped and turned around. Facing the young warrior, he asked, “Well, young Rayo, what have you brought your people this time?”

  Rayo was startled at first but gained his composure and quickly responded, “Several rabbits, sir.”

  “You should have seen him, he felled a buck with one arrow, just as you did when you and I hunted when we were both his age”, his uncle added.

  “Yes, so we brought some deer meat, too. There’s enough food to share with others in the clan for the next few days.”

  “Good answer. Always thinking of your people. That is why your uncle thinks so much of you.”

  “He has taught me everything I know. I owe him my life. I would give my life for him”

  Rayo was indeed different than his peers. Most everyone in the tribe acknowledged that he was remarkably gifted and that he was destined for greatness. The chief proceeded to the front of the gathering. He sat on a small wooden deer skin-covered bench. With a friendly nod, he acknowledged the presence of a visitor to the camp, a white man. Rayo recognized him instantly. He was Don José Maria Gutiérrez, or Don Chema, Rayo’s godfather.

  Most in his village resented the fact that white people had come to their land. Now well established they were the ones in charge and made no excuses. Who had put them in charge, Rayo had asked his uncle. Did not these white people have their own country with their own herds and hunting lands? Why had they come here? While his sage uncle knew many things, he could never answer these important questions. Regardless, this white man was not like that at all.

  He talked to them and treated them as friends – as equals. The white man was dressed very comfortably for the weather; wearing a large Mexican sombrero (hat), a well-worn blue shirt, leather tunic, pants, and boots. A red bandana was securely tied around his neck. In his hands, he was holding a beautifully crafted hemp rope, a gift for the chief. There was another neatly-wrapped bundle lying on the floor beside him. The chief spoke.

  “Don José Maria, the friend to our people, is here. He brings important news.” Addressing his guest, he continued, “Our guest honors us twice. First by his presence and second by the respect he holds for our culture. He and his family have shown us the utmost esteem.

  Turning to face his guest, the chief continued, “Your ways are different than our own. Our cultures are different. But, out of our differences our fathers achieved an alliance. For that, our group and yours have mutual respect for each other. That is the way it should be.”

  Don Chema, as he was known by all, presented his gift to the chief. He also handed one of the elders a wooden display case containing five identical large hunting knives. The inner circle members sitting in ascending order of importance chose a knife based on his seniority, and passed the display case to the next person. The distinctive knives, popularly known as “Don Chema” cuchillas (knives) were prized in the surrounding area.

  Way before they referred to them as Bowie knives, such utensils were well known to the Spanish Mexican pioneer settlers as simply Mexican cuchillas. Don Chema was a master! His knives were the best. It was the ultimate tool in the South Texas brush country. The knife was ten inches long from the top of the handle to the tip of the blade. It was one-quarter inch thick and nearly two inches wide at its broadest part nearest the handle. It functioned as the ultimate utility tool; used for hunting, camping, and when necessary, as a formidable weapon.

  The elders were well pleased with their gifts. The chief had been the recipient of such a knife during Don Chema’s previous visits. It was he who had asked Don Chema to make the knives for the members of his council. Don Chema was sure that as soon as the Chief tried out his new riata, he would likewise want his men to have one too. Don Chema would oblige if called upon.

  “Why don’t you come back with me? I am putting all my affairs in Zacatecas in order and then I intend to go north to the Rio Bravo to my family. That is where I will settle permanently. When I return to your village, come with me. Bring your people.”

  Don Chema went on to explain that several sister communities existed all along the lower Rio Grande. Emplo
yment awaited the chief’s people, he said, under the sun, not underground. One thing is for certain he assured him; they will never go hungry again. Indeed, some of the chief’s kin were already there. Sadly, work at the local mines was dangerous and workers’ lives were short. Many men had died there.

  Don Chema ended by repeating a phrase he had used before, “Miners die young in the mines, my good friend. Vaqueros live long lives working in the open skies.”

  Don Chema’s closing comments caught the Chief’s ears, but he said nothing. He just nodded in agreement. His clan had been decimated by disease, slaving in the nearby ore mines, and marauding bands of encroaching hostile tribes. There was little food to eat. His children were hungry. He agreed.

  “Yes, I know. I had prayed that you would make such an offer. In my dreams, I saw us together in a hunt as long ago. But, rather than killing and butchering our prey, we were mounted; both you and I and were leading a great herd of horses into wooden enclosures. The most important part of my dream is that we were happy; very happy. I agree with you, my dear friend. It is time to go and find a better life. That seems as natural a thing to do as anything else to ensure our survival.” He grabbed Don Chema’s hand and squeezed it with both of his hands in appreciation.

  The hearts of the two old friends were in tune. Their people had encountered many obstacles. It had not been easy at first. When two cultures meet head on, usually one wins and overtakes the other. However, because each side complemented the other, a new civilization was born, the Spanish Mexican culture of New Spain. To be sure, there were strong pockets in each side that would never accept the other, but those who assimilated were the glue that made additional migration into the unknown country possible.

  During the last few generations, the obstacles had grown in number and danger. First, it was the many skirmishes with marauders. Used to moving at will from one part of the country to the other, the clan’s movements were no longer possible. Tranquility had been replaced by danger. The relative comfort of simply living was replaced by incessant anxiety. There was trouble everywhere. Now, Don Chema was offering them hope. It was indeed time to move on.

  Rayo’s role at the chief’s meeting was now making sense. He and his uncle had been selected to accompany Don Chema. They would act as an advance team. Once arriving at their destination in Nuevo Santander, their main focus would be to scout the area for a suitable camp for the clan. Such a task had never been entrusted to someone as young as Rayo. His size, big for his still developing stature, his strength, but most of all, his cleverness in solving most any problem had won him the right. Most elders could see that he would one day lead the whole clan.

  “Padrino, no one told us you were coming. How blessed we are to get to see you again. I can’t wait to see my mother’s face when she sees you. She has not been well lately and needs something to cheer her. You will be like a tonic in her veins. Just wait and you will see.”

  “Rayo, you are as optimistic as your father. My, how you’ve grown. You are now as tall as I am. See?” The older man stood back to back with the young warrior.

  “I can see that you will make the perfect vaquero.”

  “Vaquero? What is that, Padrino?”

  “I will explain it to you later. As a matter of fact, you will have to see it to believe it. All I can tell you right now is that a life in the mines is not for you, my child. You are to have a new beginning.”

  Joined by Rayo’s uncle, they proceeded to greet Sofia, Rayo’s mother, and the rest of the immediate family. Don Chema related his plan to Sofia. She listened intently. As Rayo had predicted, a wider smile came to her face when she heard that Rayo would no longer be prey for the mine recruiters. Don Chema distributed gifts he had brought especially for them.

  The excitement was enough to compel Rayo’s mother to send one of her sons to the mines to inform Porfirio, her oldest son, of Rayo’s good fortune. Porfirio would be very happy about that. Since the age of nine, her oldest son had worked at the iron mines near Monclova.

  Beginning as a goat herder, he had worked himself into a number of odd jobs outside the mine until his father took him in as his apprentice. Sadly, Porfirio had seen the cave-in that had ended his father’s life at the age of twenty nine. Sadder still, lives were needlessly being lost daily by the owners’ greed and their refusal to follow safety procedures.

  Complaining or refusing to dig faster and deeper into the unsafe mine shafts meant only one thing, termination. As the man of the house, that was an option that Porfirio could not afford. So, he and his companions had no choice but to dig, pray, dig, and pray a little more. The consoling chorus of their prayers often led by the oldest foreman somewhat balanced the sound of cold iron chisels ripping into the rock.

  Sofia had not seen Porfirio for six months, but the steady lifeline of his meager wages brought to her by the priests assured her that he was well. His words to her when he had visited the last time echoed in her ears. “No other member of our family will be a miner. The mines killed my father, and so it is up to me to carry on the tradition. But, the mines are cruel and unforgiving. My brothers will have to find other fields of work.” That is precisely what Don Chema had in mind for young Rayo.

  Don Chema had a hand in naming the young warrior. At the moment of birth, a terrible rain storm had suddenly developed in the horizon, sending a loud thunder and lightning toward them. Don Chema, waiting with Rayo’s father, had exclaimed “Mira, que rayo tan fuerte.” Look, what a powerful lightning bolt.”

  The proud father took that as an omen and so named his son “Rayo” (Lightning Bolt). Feeling the power of the lightning strike, Rayo’s father envisioned his son would rise to greatness. Unfortunately, Rayo’s father had met his untimely death at the mine and would not witness the results of his prediction.

  Rayo and his uncle made preparations for their trip to the Rio Grande. As customary in preparing for long trips, they would take only the most important necessities. The trip would take at least ten days. If required, they would find whatever they needed on the trail. Plus, they had a pistol, a rife and the complete array of Don Chema’s weapons.

  Don Chema’s prowess as a hand-to-hand combatant was well known. His wagon, painted with white wheels to distinguish it among all others, served as a warning to bandits to stay away. Rayo felt comfortable with the thought. Also, he had decided that he would get to know his godfather a little better during this trip. Little did he know that his life was about to change forever.

  Chapter 7

  “The Problem with the Mines is the Mines”

  Porfirio and his crew were nearly done with their second twelve hour shift. The men had conditioned themselves to greet the anticipated sound of the foreman’s whistle with their own. So, anticipating the end of their shift, the crews nervously whistled under their breath a few minutes before the foreman’s whistle blew. It was a communal sign of relief. It was better to whistle than to display pent-up anxiety. That was a quick way of getting fired.

  Other than two half hour meal breaks, a miner’s shift at Nombre de Dios Mine was brutal. Once a worker took his place on the line, his every move was devoted entirely on loading the ore onto the squeaky wooden carts. Their bodies totally spent on their difficult task, Porfirio’s crew was ready for a break.

  The foreman’s whistle blew twice. Once, twenty minutes before the end of the shift. That was to alert the men to finish loading the ore wagons and send them on their way to be unloaded. To ensure maximum production from each crew, wagons were always to be full at the end of a shift. Foremen were not to waste digging time on shift changes.

  The last whistle served two purposes. First, it was the signal for the current shift to stop working. Second, it alerted the fresh crews to load their picks and shovels onto the empty carts, get behind the mule team, and enter the mine. No one dared to jump on the wagon for a free ride. As the foreman reminded them often, mine mules were there to pul
l the ore, not for the men’s pleasure.

  The only ones who had it easy inside the mine were those lucky or sometimes unlucky to be part of the blasting crew. Their job was to inject gunpowder into pre-drilled holes in the rock and blast large hunks of rock for the digging crews to break down into smaller chunks.

  There were three crews at all times. Two were always inside the mine. The digging crew was referred to as the main or primary crew. The other group was on standby inside the mine. After serving their second shift, the third crew was allowed to visit family in the nearby village. Those with no family were forced to stay in the only company-owned hotel in the village.

  The break period lasted for three days. Regardless of their level of bravery, each miner dearly welcomed the breaks from work since that was the only way to heal from aches, pains, and numerous kinds of lacerations on their bodies. Experienced miners tried to protect their most vulnerable organs – ears, nose, mouth, and eyes. Plugs of wax and cotton protected their ears. They learned to breathe through scraps of cotton or wool.

  The eyes were harder to protect. The most common approach was to learn to close their eyes when chiseling and to open them only slightly. That method kept bits of rock from injuring their eyes, but it didn’t keep the heavy dust from getting in, resulting in some degree of pain throughout their shift. As a result, most of the locals could instantly tell if a man was a miner because they had a tendency to nearly shut their eyes when out of the mine.

  Because the village was isolated and the mine owners controlled the only roads, escape was difficult. If by chance, miners decided not to return, mine officials were prepared by having a pool of willing and unwilling workers close to the mine’s entrance. Since the local supply of indigenous able men had long been depleted, mine owners often sent raiding parties in the surrounding area to “recruit” workers.

  When promises of good pay and steady work did not produce the needed manpower, outright abduction of innocent men was the order of the day. Such had been the plight of most of the area’s working men and women. Porfirio was a practical man and took his responsibilities as the oldest son seriously. The pay was good and steady and he knew he had to work to provide his mother and siblings with the resources needed for survival.