Page 30 of Vaquero
And there it was. A challenge and a dare. Fight to live, or lie down under Zapata’s boot. Julio had never understood men or women who preferred safety over freedom. He understood it less in the face of such cruelty.
Pepe lifted his tear-stained face, his neck taut and his head tilted back as he breathed, “I will fight with you,SenhorJuarez. This I vow. To the death.”
Julio rubbed a circle of warmth over the young man’s back. “And I will fight to the death for you, Pepe. But we need an army to win this battle. We need everyone here.”
“I will fight with you,” that same feminine voice declared among the ocean of grumbles echoing throughout the crowd. When she finally cleared the masses, Julio saw that she was built like a willow, thin and diminutive, but fierce. Brown-eyed. Maybe five foot nothing. A black, curly-haired ponytail hung limp and dirty down her back. Her denim shorts were threadbare and her blouse was torn. Her face and body were covered in dust and sweaty grime, but the fire in her eyes was something else. “I will fight with you and your boy,” she told Julio with venom. “Are you the only one?”
“Yes, yes,Senhorita,” Pepe sputtered enthusiastically, patting Julio’s belly. “But he is more than enough forSenhorOz. You will see. My soldier is stronger than even my Papa.”
Julio shook his head and looked down at his faithfulcompadre. “No, I’m not, Pepe. No man will ever be stronger than your papa. He loved you with all his heart, and love is all that matters. Never forget that.”
“But he left me,” Pepe whispered, like he was ashamed. “He left me and he never came back.”
“Pepe!” a tired voice boomed from the other side of the cavern. “My son! Is that you? Pepe!”
The sure knowledge of who that voice belonged to shivered up Julio’s spine. How was a miracle like that even possible?
As if in answer, Pepe burst off the balls of his bare feet and took off running, pushing people out of his way as he yelled, “Papa? Papa! Papa!”
A skeletal gentleman dressed in nothing but rags stood far off, waving a hand over his head to be seen in this mass of disgruntled slaves. “Here! Son! I am here!”
A murmur lifted through the crowd as they gave way. At last, Pepe crashed into his father’s open arms. Sobs of both father and son echoed through the cavern.
Julio stood waiting while the enslaved workers absorbed their new reality. If they needed a miracle to convince them to fight, surely this was it. It had certainly strengthened Julio’s resolve to end Zapata tonight. But he had to hurry. He couldn’t afford to get trapped inside the cave.
Clearing his throat loudly enough to regain some of the crowd’s attention, he called out, “Pepe. I must go. It is time.”
“Papa, we have to helpSenhorJuarez,” Pepe told his father earnestly, tugging him toward Julio. “Please. Come. We must fight with my friend, not against him. He is a brave soldier, but he needs our help.”
The acoustics in this cave were unreal. Julio could’ve heard a mouse fart. Instead, a gentle wave of affirmation rolled over the weary Brazilians when Pepe and his father began the climb to the mouth of the cavern, to Julio.
“I am in,” a young voice declared.
Right on its heels, several male voices followed with, “We will fight!”
“With what?” Mauricio bellowed. “Our broken fingers and toes? Our broken bodies? Do not forget that we got no weapons.” He sing-songed that last word.
Julio lifted his short stock, sniper rifle out of his bag and brandished it over his head for all to see. “With this,” he stated evenly, “and with the picks, shovels, and hammers stacked at the cave entrance.”
“No. If Oz finds us with shovels…” Mauricio bellowed. “He said he will kill our families, remember? All of our families. He will burn them alive and make us watch. Our tools, too. Only he...” Mauricio’s rant ground to a full stop. He cocked his head as if he’d finally heard what Julio had said. “Our shovels and tools? They are still here?”
Julio stared Mauricio down. He was the wise one here. The leader. The one everyone else would follow. But he had to wake up and smell the coffee first. He had to believe.
“He was punishing us,” Mauricio continued. “We rebelled when there was no food. We fought back, but we were stupid. His men beat us, but Oz was angry. He took our tools to punish us. He demanded we dig stone with nothing but our bare fingers and hands. Said we did not deserve the right to use his tools until we learned our lesson. That we had to earn those stinking shovels back.” Mauricio stopped again, blinking as the truth assailed him now. “Revolução...” he breathed. “We attempted revolução before and we lost. But now…?”
His muttered diatribe ended on a note of hope. The best thing he could’ve said.Revolution.
“Wars have been won with less,Senhor,” Julio told his new friend earnestly. “A brave North American once said” —he raised his voice above the murmuring crowd— “‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with theblood of patriotsand tyrants.’My friends, it is time to take back what was yours. Your homes. Your children. Take back who you were. Who you are.”
“Thomas Jefferson…” Mauricio murmured. “I have read much of his works. I remember now.”
Julio looked twice at the grumpy older man. Mauricio was not who Julio’d thought he was. Not if he knew who Thomas Jefferson was.
“Whatcha gonna do? Shoot your way outta here?” a tired, weary-looking woman sniped, “while us without guns hafta fight hand-to-hand?”
“No,Senhorita,” Julio said humbly. Quietly. “I intend to put one hot round into Zapata’s fuel dump, right next to the Russian nuclear missile. Right before I put another one through his head.”
A chorus of anger gasped, “Russians? They’ve got a missile here? In our country?”
