The Rebellion of the Hanged Read online

  Urbano was still hesitating. He thought that ten minutes later that dry trunk would be spattered with his blood. He shut his lips tightly and half closed his eyes.

  He was only ten paces from the tree. Don Acacio, leaning against it, was rolling another cigarette. On the ground, two meters from the trunk, Urbano saw a big stone, as big as a man’s head. He stared at it for a long time and remembered that his friend Pascasio had armed himself with a stone like that to smash La Mecha’s skull. But almost at the same time there came back into his mind the thoughts that had obsessed him half an hour before when he had daydreamed of peaceful places toward which the current must be flowing. His hands shut convulsively as if wanting to weaken his determination. He bent to pick up the stone, thinking to tie it to one of his feet, run toward the river, and wade in until it swallowed him.

  “I must do this. Now,” he told himself, “at this very moment.” He was gasping with excitement. Slowly he approached the shore. Yes, it was necessary to act immediately, because a moment later he would not be able to act. If he decided, the sad tree trunk would not be spattered with his blood.

  He let his pent-up breath escape and said: “Yes, now!”

  “What are you muttering about there?” asked Don Acacio. “So you’ve returned with the rope at last. Come on! Stand there with your face to the tree and put your hands up.”

  Don Acacio was trying to light the cigarette he had just finished rolling. The wind had begun to blow sharply. It blew along the river bank with growing violence. Don Acacio had burned up three matches without being able to light the cigarette. He let out an oath. He tried again. He took two steps back as if to make space for Urbano to pass. In so doing he covered part of his face with his left hand, the rest with the right, in which he held the match he had just struck. His eyes were fixed on the cigarette and on the wavering flame, which seemed to enjoy being buffeted by the wind before fulfilling its mission.

  Urbano held out the lasso to Don Acacio. At that instant he saw the whip hanging from his torturer’s wrist. With an instinctive reflex movement he struck violently at his enemy’s arm and knocked him against the tree. Don Acacio’s head slammed against the trunk.

  For a fraction of a second Urbano stood stupefied. But immediately he came to and realized that now he could not retreat. He had just rebelled, and he would expiate that involuntary blow with death after terrible sufferings.

  He was guided more by terror than by his reflections and his dreams. Terror drove him to carry out to its end what he had begun.

  Don Acacio still held his two hands before his face. At last he had been able to light his cigarette. He did not immediately realize that the Indian had struck him; his impression was that Urbano had stumbled in a hole and had caught his arm to prevent himself from falling. If he had realized the truth, perhaps he could have saved himself, but Urbano acted with the swiftness of which only an Indian is capable, his hands and arms being trained from infancy to fight against nature’s traps in the jungle and to demolish them with one sure blow.

  The day before, Urbano had learned from personal experience how it is possible to secure a man to a tree without the victim’s being able to put up the slightest resistance—provided a good lasso is available.

  Don Acacio had neither time nor intention to lower his hands when his head struck the tree. In a flash they were made fast to the trunk. Only then did Don Acacio have a clear notion of what was happening. He kicked out at Urbano’s legs, but Urbano had foreseen such an attempt, the only form of attack of which Don Acacio Was now capable. Rapidly, with catlike agility, Urbano ran round the tree, passing the rope around Don Acacio’s thighs, pulling hard on it to make the knots tight and passing another piece of rope around the prisoner’s neck, so as to make it impossible for him to move his head.

  Then Don Acacio realized that he was lost. Even if he had promised to give Urbano all the camps in exchange for his life, the Indian would not have turned from his purpose. He had had too much experience to believe in a white man’s word. In other countries a workman could still trust a policeman’s word if the policeman promised to leave him in peace; but the Indian workers had had too bitter experiences with policemen and dictators to have faith in their words or in those of bosses and their agents.

  Don Acacio knew well that the Indian would proceed right to the end. Because even in the unlikely event that a foreman were to think of coming to this place, Urbano would have bashed in his skull or strangled him before a foreman could rescue him.

  Nevertheless, in spite of his desperate situation Don Acacio did not lose his head. He did not ask for mercy any more than the men did when they were flayed or hanged. Personally he had never struck this man Urbano or kicked him as he usually kicked his inferiors. He had not even noticed the existence of Urbano before this, for the Indian belonged to his brother Severo’s camp. It was the first time that Don Acacio had seen him or had anything to do with him, and this merely because the Indian had tried to escape and it was necessary to give him a salutary warning. But he knew that, of the three brothers and the foremen, it was he, Don Acacio, who was hated with most rancor. It would not have surprised Don Acacio if one of his own men, with the hatred felt for him by the Chamula Celso, the driver Santiago, or Fidel, or Andres (the most intelligent of them all), had waited for him in the jungle and traitorously struck him down. But the fact that this unhappy, scared worm of an Urbano should have him in his power and be about to kill him—that was something he could not bear. His rage was such that, forgetting the situation in which he was, and taking advantage of the circumstance that his mouth was still free, he made use of that freedom, though not to shout for help, for to ask for help against a lousy Indian would have been to lower himself. It would have ended forever his prestige in the camps. The workmen and the foremen would have had a laugh at his expense. The latter especially, and particularly when drunk, would not have hesitated to call him a fairy. In the camps there were only men. Fairies scared of punishments and blows did not exist there.

  Don Acacio gave vent to his rage, shouting: “You mangy cur, you son of a whore! What are you going to do? Do you imagine that because you have me tied up I’m going to stay here without giving you what you have coming? Wait a minute, then you’ll see how I’ll get out of this! … But, by the devil, I swear that afterwards you’ll pray to the Virgin and all your saints! Now, you idiot, untie me!”

  Urbano began to tremble with fear. He knew perfectly well that Don Acacio was tied up firmly, but nevertheless Urbano wondered whether he could not free himself by means of some magic formula or with the Devil’s help. Facing him, Urbano felt like a hunter facing a jaguar fallen into a trap and chained, safe, but fearing that by some effort in a desperate rage the animal will break its bonds and spring on him.

  For a second Urbano stood there perplexed, his eyes fixed on the river, which flowed a few steps from the sandy bank.

  Again Don Acacio shouted: “Are you going to release me, cur? Yes or no?”

  Suddenly Urbano moved toward him and took the revolver from his belt. He had never possessed a firearm, and he did not know how to use it. He held it with both his hands and pressed it against Don Acacio’s body, but he did not know with which hand or which finger to press the trigger. Finally he pressed it, but no shot resulted because the gun had a safety catch.

  “And it’s an imbecile like you who’s trying to kill me!” exclaimed Don Acacio. And the smile that followed his exclamation was bitter because he was fully conscious of the vanity of his efforts to free himself.

  Urbano flung the revolver from him. It described a wide arc before falling on the sand.

  The two foremen and Don Acacio’s favorite girl were sitting in the office.

  The sound of some of Don Acacio’s shouts reached them, but indistinctly and muffled.

  El Faldón said to El Pechero: “Something must be happening. By my mother, I wouldn’t like to be in Urbano’s skin. Just listen to Cacho’s roars!”

  “For t
he fun of it I’d go down a little closer to see something,” the girl said.

  “Better not do it, señorita,” advised El Faldón, “because if Don Cacho should find out, he wouldn’t like it. We don’t like to have people looking on. Don Cacho must have told you.”

  “Then there’s no way of having the least bit of fun here?”

  “No, señorita, and believe me, for us it’s not fun! Damn it all! Now I remember that tomorrow we’ll have to get up at three in the morning… . I always ask myself why I came to this desert where there’s nothing but rats’ shit and sometimes a little alcohol and flesh.”

  He rose and made toward the hut where the foremen slept.

  At that moment a sharp cry was heard coming from the riverbank. But it attracted the attention of nobody except Martín Trinidad (one of the ragged men recruited by Don Gabriel on the road), who was just then on his way to the office to exchange his ax for a new one.

  He approached the slope and, almost reaching the edge, threw himself to the ground and began to crawl forward, hunching himself together so as not to be seen, for he well knew how bad it was to let oneself be seen where a beating was going on. Hidden behind some bushes, Martín cautiously stretched his neck. From where he was he could see very well a large part of the riverbank.

  Urbano picked up the stone again and moved toward Don Acacio.

  “You won’t do that, you cur!” roared Don Acacio.

  “No,” replied Urbano, “no. That would be too good for you, too good for a white man without a soul.”

  He dropped the stone. Don Acacio breathed more freely. But Urbano now turned to look at the river and caught sight of something that Don Acacio could not see because he was facing the slope. He merely observed that Urbano suddenly opened his mouth wide and that a shadow of cruelty crossed his eyes.

  Urbano, shrugging his shoulders and walking on tiptoes stepped into the water as though trying to surprise an animal, perhaps a snake.

  But no, it was not a snake. It was a branch with thorns as long as a finger and as hard as steel. The branch floated forward and then back again, sometimes getting close to the bank and then moving away. Urbano sprang forward and with a swift motion caught it before the current snatched it away. Then, walking back to the tree, he held the branch before Don Acacio’s eyes.

  “See these thorns, torturer?” he said, half opening his eyes in a mock smile.

  “By the Virgin! When are you going to untie me?”

  “In less than a minute you’ll be free, torturer,” said Urbano, pulling a long thorn from the branch. Then he held it firmly between his fingers and put it so near Don Acacio’s face that the latter felt it on his cheek.

  “With this thorn I’m going to rip out your savage beast’s eyes. That way you’ll never again be able to see how they beat and hang the men. That way you’ll never see the sun shine again or your mother’s face.”

  “Have you gone crazy, you fool?” Don Acacio asked, going suddenly pale.

  “We, the men, have all gone crazy. You and your brothers have driven us crazy.”

  “You know very well that they’ll shoot you or hang you by the neck.”

  “Nobody will be able to shoot me or hang me or even beat me, because I’ll rob you even of that revenge. Because when I’ve done what I’ve got to do I’m going to jump into the river, and they can come to look for me there.”

  “But, in the name of the Virgin, boy, don’t do that. Look—you’ll go to hell. In the name of all the saints, don’t do it.”

  Don Acacio had changed his tone to one of great gentleness as he uttered these words.

  Suddenly Urbano, as though afraid he might weaken, or perhaps thinking that they might come to the rescue of Don Acacio, flung himself at his victim.

  Don Acacio uttered a sharp cry—not a cry of pain, but of horror, of mad terror. For the first time in his life he had felt fear.

  Without showing any emotion, Urbano leaped on him a second time. Blood began to gush from the sockets of Don Acacio’s eyes. He bent his head back so that the blood should not run into his mouth, muttering: “Most holy Mother! Mother of our Lord!”

  Urbano looked up the slope and saw the head of a motionless man who was watching him.

  Quickly he untied the cord that held up his torn pants, picked up the stone again, dropped it inside the pants, tied a rope around his thighs below his hips so that the stone could not slip out, and then—holding the top of the pants with both hands—stumbled into the water. The current swept him away. He appeared and disappeared several times in the midst of the stream. His head appeared once more. Then he was lost to view.

  When Martín Trinidad was sure that Urbano had disappeared, he left his hiding place, went cautiously down to the shore, and with great wariness walked up to Don Acacio and stood looking at him for a time. He discovered the revolver lying in the sand, picked it up, and concealed it in the folds of his shirt. Then he returned to Don Acacio and, always taking the greatest precautions, relieved him of his cartridge belt. Don Acacio did not make the smallest movement or utter the least word. Possibly he was unconscious of the presence of a human being near him.

  Martín Trinidad hid the cartridge belt, fastening it underneath his shirt. Then he moved off quickly, following the river’s bank until he was out of sight. When he was certain that nobody could see him, he took out the cartridge belt and buried it in the sand. He walked for fifty paces farther along, examined the place well so as to be able to recognize it later, and buried the revolver. Then he climbed the embankment, but at a good distance from the most distant hut of the group. Toward it he walked, on the way picking up the ax, which he had left leaning against a log. At the tool storehouse he asked El Faldón to give him a new ax for the used one.

  “Where’s the old one?” asked El Faldón.

  “Look at it. It’s all nicked.”

  “Damn it! As might be expected—’Made in Germany’! It’s not worth a damn and looks like tin plate. God! A German ax. Bah! Here, take this one. It’s not new, but it’s American, and it will last better. These German tools can’t cut even a piece of cheese without the edge turning. They’re worthless. They were part of the equipment of the company that was here before we came. They were poor devils who didn’t know anything about axes or machetes. They bought any sort of junk. That’s why they went broke. Say, how much have you cut today?”

  “Well, I don’t think it amounts to three tons.”

  Having made the exchange, El Faldón noted it down carefully in the inventory book. He remained a few minutes longer in the storeroom to tell the caretaker to grease the axes and rub the leathers to prevent the moisture from damaging them.

  “This place is a pigsty! What do you do with yourself all day long? Look around! Mushrooms are growing in every corner. The climbing-irons have pounds of rust. I’ve half a mind to put a pair on you and make you climb a tree with them. Then you’d see how you’d break your thick head, but at least you wouldn’t forget that they have to be greased.”

  “But, little chief, how do you expect me to prevent the mushrooms from growing when it’s always raining? Nothing can get dry, and, besides, to grease these tools I have to have grease… .”

  “Shut your mouth if you don’t want me to smash it in for you.”

  El Faldón went outside, looked at the sky, and saw that another downpour was on the way. He was quite pleased to find himself on guard in the camp that day instead of out watching the cutters. He retraced his way quickly toward the hut, but stopped halfway.

  “Christ!” he said aloud. “It seems to me that Cacho is prolonging this thing too much. It’s more than an hour and a half since he began.”

  He turned in the direction of the river and was about to go to the edge of the slope to see what was happening. But he stopped.

  “After all, it’s of no importance to me if he burns the hide of that guy a bit more or less. That’s his business. I’m happy that he didn’t give me the job of doing it. I’m worn out. I feel as i
f I can’t do anything more… .”

  Heavy drops began to fall, and then immediately it rained fiercely. Although not more than twenty paces from the hut, El Faldón reached it wet to the bone. He stood in the doorway and shook the water from his hat.

  “Serves me right for meddling in what doesn’t concern me.”

  The rain fell with increasing violence. Suddenly El Faldón felt himself gripped by a sense of uneasiness. Without leaving the doorway he faced the river and listened intently, his eyes fixed on the slope, hoping to see Don Acacio at any moment.

  “The devil!” he murmured. “I guess I’ll have to see what they’re doing.” He put on his rubber cape and pulled down his sopping hat. When he reached the edge of the slope he saw at once that it was not Urbano but Don Acacio who was tied to the tree. He recognized him by his clothes, which left no room for doubt. Don Acacio’s head had dropped forward. His chin rested on his chest, and his long black hair had fallen over his forehead. He was making futile attempts to free himself from the ropes but visibly lacked the strength to struggle.

  El Faldón heard him calling: “Pechero! Faldón! By all the devils, where is that pair of lazy mules?”

  It was evident that the distance and the noise of the rain had prevented his cries from being heard in the office.

  The foreman ran down the incline.

  “Christ! At last somebody comes! Gang of thieves! While I was in the claws of that savage you were scratching your bellies.”

  El Faldón untied the ropes and held him by the shoulders to help him straighten up. When Don Acacio lifted his head the hair that had been covering his forehead fell back and disclosed his face.

  “By our most holy Mother, chief! What happened to you?”

  Crazed with terror, El Faldón crossed himself several times.

  “Now it occurs to you to come and ask what has happened to me! The bandit ripped my two eyes out! And naturally he has escaped. But we’ll catch him, and then he’ll learn what it will cost him. Come on, now! Let all the foremen get their horses! He must not get away from us. He fixed me, finished me beyond repair!”