That satisfied me for one afternoon. I went over to General Rodriguez's quarters.
"I've got the guns," I reported.
"Good!" he cried. "I shall want the platoons ready for action in three weeks. Not a day later."
It was up to me to have them ready. So I got busy at once.
My first move was an abduction. There happened to be in Torreon jail at that time a firstclass bank robber named Jefferson, who was being held for the arrival of extradition papers from Texas. The day after my guns arrived Jefferson escaped, and though the authorities made diligent search they failed to find him. He knew more about machine-guns than I did. His profession had made him an excellent mechanic. Furthermore, he had Yankee ingenuity and American "git up and git." We soon had all twenty guns set up in working order.
Then came the problem of the gun crews. Our Indians, slow, thick-headed, stubborn and stolid, were no fit material for such highly specialised work. Machine-gun manipulation requires very peculiar qualifications in every man concerned. Three men compose the crew. One squats behind the shield and pulls the trigger. The second, prone, slides the clips of cartridges into the breach. The third passes up the supply of ammunition. At any moment the gun may heat and jam. Also at any moment any one of the trio may fall, yet his work must be carried on. I had seen a gunner sit on the dying body of a comrade and coolly aim and fire, the action being so hot there was not time to drag the wounded man aside. You cannot take an Indian wild from the hills and in twenty-one days fit him to do such work as that by any course of training.
My only resort was to get my gun crews ready made.
A brigade not far away from ours possessed machine-gun platoons which were the pride of its heart. I looked at them, and broke first the Tenth and then the Eighth Commandment.
To a wise old sergeant I gave a hundred pesos.
"Juan," I told him, "get the men of those machine-gun crews drunk in this quarter of Torreon. And encourage them to be noisy."
Juan obeyed instructions. Once the beer and mezcal took hold, the men I wanted became boisterous enough to justify our provost guard in running them all in. The rest was simple. The breach of discipline was condoned by General Rodriguez only on condition that the culprits were turned over to him for further discipline.
So I got my gun crews. I was beginning to have hopes. The best saddler in the city was making holsters. When I first approached him with an order he had promptly thrown up his hands. "There is not a scrap of leather left in Torreon," he said.
I instantly thought of chair backs. In Spanish countries furniture upholstered in old carved Cordovan leather is an heirloom. In time of war ruthlessness is a useful quality. I soon presented my saddler with sufficient leather for my purpose and could turn my attention to pack saddles. Not even the sawhorse frames were procurable in Torreon, but wood was plentiful. And there was a jail filled with idle prisoners. Ten days after the first sight of my guns I was able to report to General Rodriguez that the platoons were coming along.
"But I have no mules for them yet," I hinted.
He sent a hundred next day, beauties, fat, strong, in the pink of condition. But they had come straight down from the tableland. They could be trusted to kick saddles, guns, tripods, holsters and ammunition cases into nothing at the least provocation.
Torreon was celebrating its new Constitutionalism with daily bull fights. Each afternoon, .while the fight was on, the plaza before the entrance to the ring was crowded with public rigs in waiting, all drawn by sorry-looking mules, half fed and too worn out to have a single kick left in them.
With a squad of troopers I descended on the plaza one day. No cabby anywhere is markedly shy or retiring, and these were hill-bred muleteers. But we got the mules in the end.
"You are getting the best of the bargain," I assured them. "I am only swopping with you. In the corral I have a hundred fine, strong, new mules worth three times as much as these playedout beasts you are getting rid of. You can have the nice new ones to-morrow."
If General Trinidad ever guessed how thoroughly improvised his favourite outfit was the second in command a bank robber on enforced vacation, the gunners kidnapped, the equipment made by forced labour from commandeered material, and the mules snatched rudely from be- .tween the shafts of cabs he made no comment.
He did not live long to enjoy the fruits of my labours. In mid-June, during the ten days' attack which resulted in the fall of Zacatecas, he was mortally wounded.
I shall always remember that day, not only for the death of my chief, but for a personal bit of adventure.
I was temporarily away from my guns with some riflemen in a trench. The enemy fire was very hot and the men became exceedingly restive. Something had to be done to steady them, for there was no cover of any sort on the bulletswept, shrapnel-searched plain behind us. Retreat was impossible. There was plenty of horror in the situation the blazing sun, the sense of isolation, the cries and curses of the men who were being struck. And there was the cactus.
Unless you have been under fire of high-power rifles in a region where the common broad-leaved cactus grows you cannot guess its nerve-shaking possibilities. A jacketed bullet can pierce a score of leaves without much diminution of its velocity, and as it goes through the thick, juicy flesh, it lets out a sound like the spitting of some gigantic cat. Ten Mauser bullets piercing cactus can make you believe a whole battalion is concentrating its fire on your one small but precious person.
The men were getting demoralised. If they broke I was done for. If I stayed in the trench alone, the Federals would eventually get me and stand me up to the nearest wall. If I retreated, nothing was gained.
I stood up, exposing my body from mid-thigh upwards to that withering fire, and took out my cigarette case. The nearest man watched sidewise, waiting to see me fall.