Nice Shot Hombre
Oct 14, 2001
Nice Shot Hombre/Shadow of a Man
A Tale from the Trails of Mexico.
Aleman, "German" in Spanish, was my partner in a gold mine in Agalia, Michoacan Mexico. From Agalia to our gold mine was an eight hour ride by mule. We owned four pack mules and two more for riding. The Cabrona was the best, sure of foot on the trail and strong enough to carry a hulk like Aleman. 
Flying over Mexico’s Sierra Madre del Sur at eight thousand feet, the peaks of the tallest mountains are less than five hundred feet below the plane. At that range you can't help but notice the trails winding up one side of a mountain then snaking down the other. These trails are those of time, as old as the mountains, and they are still there and in use to this day.
I've flown over those mountains a thousand times and I always avoid flying too low over the peaks, with their barren temples of stone. There could be unforeseen downdrafts that can get a pilot in trouble, big time. The peaks fall off to gullies that lead to streams running through canyons to the valleys below where there is life, hidden in the tropical green, that feeds from the river that now flows by.
My partner Aleman, Spanish for German, and I had staked our claim on a gold mine in the mountains near the village of Agalia in the state of Michoacan Mexico. For about a year we used the air strip, if you could call it that, in Agalia, as our home base. The strip could be unforgiving if you misjudged it, which wasn't hard to do. The fact that it was built near the cemetery and the Federale’s army outpost, was a bit unsettling at times. We paid the young Lieutenant in charge of the 50 troops to keep an eye on our plane when we weren't around. The mule ride to the mine from the air strip was eight hours, or all day. A good walker can make it in six hours or less. Aleman and I had six mules. Four carried cargo, and two were for riding, which Aleman and I hated. The only thing we hated more was walking. Though Aleman and the mules had a lot in common, he held a true distaste for them, and I can tell you for a fact that the mules didn't care for Aleman either.
It was the day after what has come to be referred to as 'De Execution De Cabrona,' that it was decided that we would build an air strip in the mountains less than a one hour walk from the mine. We had all the comforts of home at the mine, but going to town and back for supplies was just too much. Some of the people that live in the mountains only make that trip once or twice a year. Aleman and I had hired a man, native born from the area, known as Bravlio, and his family, to work for us. When you say family in Mexico you're really saying a lot. Although the country looked to be barren of human life, with pine trees next to palm trees, any day it was called for Bravlio would have twenty to thirty men, mostly family, ready for work.
Building the air strip was not a problem. Keeping it hidden was the problem, because it is totally illegal in Mexico, and they will throw you in prison so fast you'll think it happened yesterday and when you ask when you're getting out they always say "Manana." Prison in Mexico is a land where manana never comes -- if they catch you that is. Now, if the federales think you are a narcotraficante, a.k.a. drug trafficker, you will be invited to an ass-kicking contest as the guest of honor. If, by misfortune’s chance, you are a suspect in any form of revolutionary activity, try not to imagine what your last ass-kicking contest might look like.
On the day of the execution of the Cabrona, a.k.a. the Bitch, Aleman and Fermin, one of Bravlio’s cousins and our trail-guide wrangler, had gone to Agalia for supplies and were due back that day. The Cabrona was our best mule, sure footed on dangerous mountain trails and strong enough to carry a hulk like Aleman, but the Cabrona was stubborn as a mule and could be hard to manage at times. I had been tossed head first into a cactus patch, and Fermin was kicked, so near where a man doesn't want to be kicked, that I hate to think about 'what if?' Thus the Bitch Cabrona got her name.
On their way back to the mine that day, about five miles from camp, Aleman got off the Cabrona to relieve himself while Fermin and the pack mules kept plodding along the trail ahead. The Cabrona stood by grazing as Aleman attended nature’s call, and took a little stretch, then when Aleman tried to remount, the Cabrona trotted off a ways down the trail and commenced grazing.
Aleman, speaking in a soft voice and walking slowly so as not to spook the Cabrona, tried to reach out and take hold of the reins. The Cabrona was grazing with one eye on Aleman so that just before he could take hold of the Cabrona, she pulled away, moving on down the trail where there was another patch of grass to feed on. As Aleman drew near this time, his infamous German temper was beginning to show. "You Bitch Cabrona, you bitter stop fuckin' vith me." The Cabrona stopped feeding, looked Aleman in the eyes, and let out a whinny that could only be interpreted as a horse laugh, then took off down the trail tossing a kick in the air, horse laughing, all the way out of sight. Aleman called out for Fermin, but he was by now out of range chewing bubble gum, smoking a cigarette then blowing smoke bubbles until they popped a cloud of smoke, while listing to his walkman.
In the meantime the Cabrona played her stop and go routine, and it’s really too bad the Cabrona didn't understand Germans, or maybe know a little history. Yes sir, I guess you could say that the Cabrona was just a poor judge of character.
Fermin rode into camp, dismounted then loosened the girth on the saddle as the pack mules came strolling in behind him, coming to a stop awaiting their turn to be unloaded. Bravlio, and his son Jose, took charge from there. Fermin sat down with me on the porch of our palapa hut handing me the bolsa containing two bottles of Tequila for my inspection. As I poured a drink, to make sure it hadn't spoiled on the trail, I thought I heard someone yelling from down the trail. Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen. Nothing, so I poured me a good one, and sure enough the tequila hadn't spoiled, yet, and I wasn't going to give it a chance to, not on my watch. Everyone stopped to listen again as an echo reverberated off the trees into camp.
Bravlio took a step toward the trail, "Donde esta Aleman?" About that time the Cabrona came into view casually walking along stopping now and again to graze. Bravlio walked farther down the trail, stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, "Aleman." We waited, straining our ears to hear something, then Aleman came into view. He had his shirt off and was using it to mop his brow. At a distance you could see sweat glisten as he walked, then stumbled, as he approached the Cabrona, who skirted away just as Aleman reached out to take the reins. Aleman threw his shirt down and leaned against a tree, saying things in German that needed no interpretation.
After catching his breath, Aleman pushed off from the tree, leaving his shirt behind, and began stalking the Cabrona as she walked just out of reach into camp where she stopped along side the others. What she did next -- maybe I should say didn't do next -- sealed her fate. Bravlio’s son, thirteen year old Jose, walked right up to the Cabrona, who didn't move a hair now. He reached under her, releasing the girth, then slid the saddle off as easy as you please. Only then did the Cabrona begin to eat the feed laid out on the ground, like a good little mule.
Aleman’s face was flush red, the veins on his nick were pumped up like ropes, not from the heat of day either. Then he did something I've rarely seen him do. Aleman walked over to where I sat, bottle in hand. He grabbed the bottle from me, took a German sized slug of the fire water that left a dribble running down his chin, and wiped it off with the back of his hand, all the time he never took his eyes off of the Cabrona. I remember thinking, 'God, I hope he never looks at me like that.'
Aleman shoved the bottle back at me, then went into our palapa and was instantly back out with his 9mm German luger in hand. Things got really quiet in camp.
About that time, the Cabrona looked up at Aleman from a good 26 paces (Jose measured it later). Aleman raised his hand and fired off a round so quick the poor son of a bitch Cabrona didn't have a chance to duck and run The slug hit its mark right between the eyes and she dropped like a bag of iron ore in the dirt. I knew whose side to be on and said so, "Nice shot hombre, sit down an' have uh drink on me." Aleman snatched the bottle from my hand took a drink, then walked over to where the Cabrona lay dying, and made damned sure she did so, forthwith, with four more rounds to the head. Don Bravlio said it for us all, "Bueno su pinchi Cabrona, ju have dat comin' long time ahora."
I had never until then seen Aleman drink anything stronger than beer. He did smoke a lot of pot but never cared for strong drink. "Set down here mi amigo Aleman an' tell me all about it." He took another pull from the bottle as he sat down thrusting the bottle at me and breathing fire. "Dat fuckin' Bitch Cabrona, I'm shot dat bitch's muder if I knew vitch von she vas, fadar too." Fermin got up and helped attend to the livestock, out of sight, out of mind. I took a keen interest in the direction of the barrel on Aleman’s gun as he waved it around while we talked, an I listened. It seemed to me that there was considerable merit to justifiable homicide the way Aleman told it. After a few more drinks and more listening, mixed heavily with patronizing on my part, we drank a toast to 'DE EXECUTION DE CABRONA,' as a pack of dogs started a fight, gangland style, over who got the blood while the Bitch Cabrona was drug off for what I hoped would be a descent, deep, burial. I didn't eat meat for a week just to be on the safe side.
This is where one 'True Tails From The Trails Of Mexico' ends and another begins. Please put another fifty cents in the jukebox to continue.
Same story next chapter:
'SHADOW OF A MAN'
(Our secret airstrip, with its camouflaged hanger, was ready to use. We had some trouble finding it from the air because of heavy smoke from a forest fire near by. Two days later we had to abandon the airstrip because of the heat, and I don't mean from the forest fire.)
Bravlio and his son Jose had found the perfect spot for the airstrip. It sat high on a mountain top and didn't look like it was long enough to land and take off on. The landing was tricky; you had to come in over rocks then drop fast and plop the plane down and stick to the ground. At the end of the runway, less than a football field away, there was an abrupt drop-off of 500 feet. Taking off was the best part because all you had to do was build up a little speed and shoot off the end of the runway, then nose over a bit until the wind caught the wings and you were flying. I wouldn't try this in a big plane but I had a PA 18 Super-Cub 200 hp. One seat up front, one in back, with a small cargo space behind where my dog Mapachi liked to ride. I could just about land on a ping pong table and take off on a tennis court when the winds were right.
Aleman and I couldn't spot the strip from the air at first because of all the heavy smoke from a forest fire nearby. I had to make three passes before I made my final approach. I floated over the last V in the jagged rocks, pulled the power back, dropped the flaps at the same time the stall indicator buzzed its warning. Then we bounced to the ground like a marshmallow rolling off a picnic table. I powered the plane over to our camouflaged hanger, then cut the power and dropped the door open.
Few, if any, of the mountain people had ever seen an airplane up close and personal before, and they were not going to miss this chance of a life time. The population had walked from miles around to be there on this momentous occasion. Dressed in their colorful Sunday best they came at us from all sides now: the curious, the fearful, the skeptics, and the “Can I ride in it too?” Aleman crawled out first, and bumped his head on the wing when he stood up, drawing laughter from the crowd. But when my dog Mapachi jumped out the laughter stopped. There was a gasp as the crowd fell back a step, and a baby cried.
There are dogs in the mountains but none that weighed 110 pounds and feared not man nor beast, but at all times faithful to his master, sometimes to a fault on my part.
Mapachi means raccoon in Spanish, and the name came from the look of his eyes that did indeed have the circled rings around them similar to those of a raccoon. Mapachi's night vision was every bit as good as his namesake. Mapachi was a dog lover’s dog. You can teach a dog tricks, but when they teach you tricks you know you have a dog that can think for himself and out-smart you at anytime. If anyone was carrying a gun, Mapachi would let me know with a low growl, and at my command would attack. No one could walk up on me from behind, as Mapachi kept guard over me day and night. If I left him in one spot on guard Mapachi would stay there until hunger would force him to find food, but then he would return to his duty, my will be done. (Of course if a bitch in heat came by he would go AWOL for how ever long it took. His only competition were scrounge ass old Mexican dogs, so Mapachi had the pick of the litters so to speak.)
Aleman and I began to push the plane into the hanger and a rush of men came forward to lend a hand, all moving to the left side of the plane because Mapachi was on the right side. The plane went full circle befor we managed to get the damd thing in the hanger.
Mexicans over all mistreat the dog population something terrible. Dogs are starved, hit, kicked, beaten, and stoned into submission from birth to an early grave. However, when the perpetrators are confronted with an animal such as Mapachi, the fear of their past transgressions catch up to them and they live in fear as long as he's around. They will often show kindness to their own animals hoping that Mapachi will notice. I can't tell you why but I have seen men with guns run from Mapachi. The other animals were very much aware of his presence too.
Once a lawyer friend came to visit me and Mapachi wouldn't leave him alone. When I asked if he was carrying a gun he said no. Finally I put Mapachi outside, but then he came around to the window and continued to growl and bark at the lawyer. Again I asked if he had a gun? "No, I left my gun in the car." The smell of a gun was still on him and to Mapachi, for my safety, he was a marked man.
We had candy for the kids and everyone got a handful: young and old alike. Sodas, beers, a big block of ice (a rarity in those parts), and other goodies for the fiesta were loaded on the mules for the short trip to camp. Mapachi led the way, which made the partygoers feel better, as they marched along behind laughing, singing, joking, munching on candy, for what looked like a mile back up the trail.
At the camp everything was ready for a day of fiesta. A large copper pot sat atop the fire being stoked with firewood as the grease bubbled and boiled, cooking pieces of choice cuts of pork, 'chicharones.' Fermin stood guard with a large wooden paddle stirring the meat treat being cooked to perfection. Refreshments were put on ice and a soccer game was set up for the young and young of heart. Aleman and I had built a paddle wheel, months ago, that was set in a nearby stream. The wheel pulled a belt that turned an old car generator that ran electricity into camp, so now the cassette player was turned on to the max and ranchero music echoed with the laughter and cheers around our mountain homestead. Life doesn’t get much better than this, I thought as Aleman and I opened a beer and made a toast. "Vonderbar to la buena vida an no more fukink mule rides."
Mapachi brushed against my leg to get my attention. then he moved in the direction of the trail where he stopped and growled low. Someone was coming. No big deal, I thought, people were coming in from far and wide so I didn't pay much attention until Mapachi did it again, this time with more urgency in his growl, never a bark lest the intruder beware. Something was wrong. How Mapachi could have known that trouble was coming is beyond my comprehension.
It was Bravlio, and he came running into camp with the look of someone that had been traveling long, fast, and hard. Bravlio waved off the beer I offered him and drank water. He smelled of smoke and sweat, with just a tint of fear. "Que paso mi amigo Bravlio?" I asked. His face was cold stone hard and his eyes were red. "Es mi hijo Jose." I turned the music off to better hear what was being said as people gathered around to listen to his story as it spilled out like a dam burst of troubled waters. Jose had been killed by the federales, gunned down on the trail like some animal in the hunt.
The news struck us all like a knife in the heart. "Por que?" was all I could ask. Bravlio, like nine out of ten of the men living in the mountains, grew a cash crop of either marijuana or amapola, opium. Two days ago the buyer had come to collect all the opium grown this year, but someone had tipped off the federales. Just as they were closing in on the place where the growers and the buyer were meeting, Jose came walking along the trail with one of the walkie-talkies we use at the mine. Jose was trying to call Bravlio and the others to warn them the federales were near. When the feds saw Jose, they cut loose with their weapons and cut him too pieces as if he were a mad rabid dog. Bravlio and the others got away. Later he doubled back alone and found his beloved Jose dead along side the trail. Bravlio took Jose's body home to the grief of his mother, he then took his 22 single-shot rifle and set out on the trail for revenge.
Twenty federales, lead by the young Lieutenant from Agalia, moved along the trail on their way back down the mountain after their failed raid. At some point along the trail they stopped for a rest. While they were at ease, a shot rang out and a 22 bullet hit the young Lieutenant square in the middle of his back. At long range the cartridge was spent by the time it reached its mark, so it didn't penetrate the flesh but it did leave a hole in his military shirt, and a nasty welt. What the bullet did do was piss off the Lieutenant as he realized that had that been a high-powered rifle he would be dead. Some damned fool was in for a killing, he thought as he swelled with rage hiding behind a boulder. One of his men called out that he saw the shadow of a man moving along the trail above them.
The Lieutenant put three men on point and moved out in hot pursuit. Their quarry moved off the trail and up the mountain to higher ground like a fox evading the hounds. When the Lieutenant stopped his troops for a breather, another shot rang out chipping the bark off the tree near his head. This man was a fool to think he could take on twenty well armed solders trained to kill. This time they all saw the shadow of a man moving along a bluff wall on the mountain above them. This time they moved out on the double, fanning out on both sides so as to run their prey to ground. The fool had boxed himself in with high canyon walls on all sides. There was no way out; now he was theirs for the killing.
The Lieutenant sat back and waited as his men searched the underbrush for the man that had tried to take on him and his men in such a foolish manner. The odds were in the Lieutenant’s favor, but his favor was nowhere to be found. For over three hours the troops tracked, then backtracked, beating the brush for the shadow of the man they had all seen. The sun was setting and there was now a warm breeze blowing up the canyon walls from the trail back below them. The warm breeze was now growing warmer, becoming filled with smoke and the smoke was getting thicker as the breeze grew warmer, then hot, hotter than hot as hell’s fire engulfed them in their tomb of a box canyon. The hunt for the shadow of a man was over, and the shadow was gone, leaving nothing behind but ashes that looked like the shadows of twenty men on the scorched earth in the box canyon of Bravlio's revenge.
Bravlio's reputation as a macho man was rapidly growing longer than his shadow. Our fiesta had now turned into a wake as we all mourned the lose of young Jose. Aleman and I had more to mourn than just the loss of a dear friend, because before we had left to get the plane, we had hidden our stash of gold -- over 9 kilos -- in a secret place that only Jose could find. Jose had found this secret place while searching for a wounded deer, and though we knew approximately where we had left the trail that day, the undergrowth was so dense that it blocked out the sun. Aleman and I would need more than luck to find that place again. We dared not ask for help in fear of setting off a treasure hunt that could end up as finders keepers.
This is where one story ends and another begins.
Did we find the gold?
What happened when the military patrol was reported missing?
To continue, just put a dollar in the old jukebox. Ass-right, the price on intrigue just went up fifty-cents folks.;=)
Next chapter.
(MAPACHI AND THE MOTHER LOAD)
Contributed by:
T.F. Shirley
©T. F. Shirley & Scott Rodich
Email: [email protected]
