The Wolves of El Diablo. Eric Red
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last five years. Once in the town of Rio Muerta, the sixty troops under his command would collect their precious cargo and depart for the two-day return trip to Mexico City, where the trip originated. Then next month they would do the commute all over again. Such was the mission he had been assigned. His current duty did not sit well with the proud Colonel. It was the job of a bagman, not a soldier. But orders were orders. He obeyed without hesitation and did his duty without complaint.
Taking his last drag of tobacco, the Federale exhaled smoke and pitched the cigarette butt off the railing just as his Sergeant Raul Gomez stepped through the door onto the rear platform, his appearance a signal for the Colonel to return to duty. The short junior officer cut an intimidating figure, squat and homely with a battle scar that cut from his brow to the cleft of his jaw, but his eyes were filled with respect and loyalty to his superior. Colonel Higuerra saluted and Sergeant Gomez returned the gesture, following on his superior’s heel off the platform back into the arsenal coach.
The comandante’s direct gaze fixed on his subordinate as they strode in brisk lockstep through the central aisle past the stockpiled weapons and ammunition of the armory wagon. Fifty Remington and Winchester repeater rifles were racked in rows. Stacks of pistols hung opposite. Kegs of gunpowder and oiled wooden cases of different caliber cartridges were piled generously against the walls. The wagon stank with the smells of gun oil and steel. There was ample firepower to protect their cargo from any attack. “We pull into Rio Muerta in ten minutes,” Higuerra snapped. “The train is on schedule so the crates will be on the platform ready to be loaded,” he barked as they stepped carefully around large boxes of ammunition stacked floor-to-ceiling.
The two soldiers passed a massive Gatling gun sitting on its tripod mount. It was big as a small artillery cannon, which it partially resembled. Behind the huge twelve-barrel rotating cylinder on the firing end were draped .50 caliber cartridge belts flopping out of the breech near the rear hand trigger crank. Many crates of replacement ammo belts were stacked beside it. This latest modern weapon was capable of bringing down a full cavalry detail of men and horses. Fully loaded, the Gatling gun was ready to fire. The Colonel had triple checked this before the train pulled out. The valuable cargo they were about to transport was securely protected with weapons such as these the train was armed with to defend it. “Get the troops ready and in position to guard the shipment for the trip back,” Higuerra continued. “I want the train underway at twelve ten sharp.”
“Yes, sir!” Sergeant Gomez responded. The soldiers pushed through the door at the other end of the car out onto the forward platform of the arsenal wagon, assaulted by the deafening din of steel wheels on iron rails and surging wind in their faces. They held onto their hats. The army train was eleven cars long from locomotive to caboose and the officers were headed towards the front of the train where the two empty cargo wagons were. Crossing the clanking hitches, Higuerra stepped onto the rear platform of the next coach and shouldered through the door into the mess wagon, which served as galley and also the brig. Beside the stove and sink where the pots and pans and provisions were kept, sat a barred cage of an iron jail cell heavily bolted to the floor and ceiling. The cell was presently empty. The cook, a Federale private, was busy chopping vegetables and tossing them in several large copper cauldrons but took time to salute the Colonel as the officer strode past.
The next car was the horse wagon. The Colonel and Sergeant crossed the knuckle onto the rear platform of the coach, entering the door into the unmanned car. The officers walked across the straw and dung-strewn floor past the stable stalls where twenty magnificent cavalry stallions were saddled, tacked and tethered. The horses were watered and provisioned. Nearly all the animals were standing, most chewing on the hay from the managers bolted to the side of the wagon. The coach swayed and shook as the train rounded a bend in the line and the men grabbed a stall to keep their balance. The standard-issue quarter horses stood proudly, unfazed by the bumpy train ride, for they were trained for combat. Higuerra patted his own horse on the rump as he walked past. The powerful black steed was the largest of the quarter horses and the Colonel’s pride and joy. As the Federales passed to the other end of the coach, the few other horses who bothered to acknowledge their presence looked at them in disinterest, then idly turned their heads away.
Exiting the horse truck onto the forward platform at the front end, Colonel Higuerra and Sergeant Gomez stepped over the juddering couplings onto the rear platform of the second of the two troop wagons. Both Federales pushed through the door with a military snap to their step.
“Atencion!” the Colonel snapped as he and the Sergeant entered into the sweltering heat of the troop car. The windows were open but the hot desert blasting in did little to cool it. Twenty uniformed Federales of all shapes and sizes stood against the walls or sat on the rows of seats, at ease and talking or playing cards, awaiting orders. The men instantly jumped to their feet and snapped to attention. The garrison was hand-picked with top soldiers in ages from twenties to thirties. Perspiring tough athletic brown faces soaked with sweat from the humid triple digit heat looked back obediently at the comandante. The close, stuffy air of the car smelled of body odor, canvas, boot leather, and khaki. Colonel Higuerra clicked his boot heels together and straightened at attention, smiling at the proud sight of his crack troops and the pride mirrored in the faces of each and every man. His boys loved him, the Colonel knew, and he loved them right back. The mission they were on may be shit but he led a fine battalion.
The comandante heard the muffled steam whistle blast from the locomotive and could already feel the train was slowing. The coach lurched in deceleration. Higuerra barked orders to the men. “Fall in! All soldiers will immediately assume battle stations. Collect your weapons from the armory on the double!” He pointed at the two most able bodied soldiers. “Munoz and Garcia, you will report to the cargo wagons and help load the crates. The rest of you, move!”
Rows of dutiful Federales filed past Higuerra in tight-knit formation through the door heading back to the armory wagon as the Colonel proceeded to the next car with his three soldiers.
The routine was repeated in the forward troop car as the comandante ordered thirty more of his troops to gather their guns from the back of the train and take armed position inside the coaches and on the roof of the railroad. Colonel Higuerra walked forwards against the tide of Federales filing to the back of the train to arm themselves. His face was stern but his eyes twinkled at the men. Presently, the clump of boots on the ceiling above signaled soldiers on the roof taking up position atop the slowing steam train as it chugged into the station platform. Higuerra noted with satisfaction the highly trained Federales under his command made a good account of themselves and performed like a well-oiled machine. The air resounded with the metallic chorus of rifles being loaded, bolts engaged, and gun hammers cocked.
Through the windows, the first scattered structures on the outskirts of the sprawling mining town of Rio Muerta came into view. Colonel Higuerra, Sergeant Gomez and the two soldiers he requisitioned crossed the front platform of the forward troop wagon onto the fancy officer’s coach. The men passed through the luxurious carpeted interior of the car, bypassing the comforts of the plush leather couches and brass-railed bar as they made their way into the rear of two cargo cars, just as the military train was pulling into the station platform.
Wind and dust rushed in through the open cargo bay doors as the Colonel took his place by the opening while his three Federales waited at attention behind him. The soldiers looked out on the buildings of a populated settlement where moments before there had been nothing but badlands. The tableau spread out before them was an impressive but improbable vista, actual civilization rising like a phoenix in the farthest burning reaches of the desert wastes.
The dynamic mining boomtown of Rio Muerta bustled with industry in the baking midday heat. The place churned with aggressive, grubby activity. Miners with hard hats and tools trundled down the dirt streets, clutching picks and shovels or leading burros laden with supply packs. Horses carrying grimy vaqueros in the saddles trotted this way and that. Over thirty wooden buildings and camp town tents comprised the bulk of the town. The air smelled of cooked meat, charcoal fire smoke, oil, dust, and sweat. Workers swarmed like cattle in a slaughterhouse stockade. Every time he came to town, the Colonel was struck by the incongruity of the very existence of a vital place such as this amidst hundreds of empty miles of the barren harsh desert that led up to it. El Diablo was deadlands where