Gunslingers Don't Sing or Dance by Mike Marino (any book recommendations txt) 📕

Personal Journal Entry - August 10, 1867
The cacophony of the tools of the prospector jangled as the pack mules made steady stride  behind our horses. Pans clanging a cadence in a confused concerto of tin pans and picks and shovels announcing our arrival to anyone a half mile away as we passed through a canyon just south of Campeche in the Yucatan Peninsula. Our target, the Chichen Itza pyramid where the rivers run underground in the arid landscape of this Mayan land where sacrifice to the rain god Chaac was routine ritual where a virgin didn’t lose her virginity...she lost her life, and Mayan warriors were one bride-to-be short of a full deck at all times.

“Monty would be chasing his tail about now looking for Aztec gold,” I whispered to Jean-Paul who in his solid, stoic way nodded in agreement. He was a rock of granite and I would hate to play poker against him in a game of five card draw. He’d win the pot hands down until all you had left was your boots and long underwear!

It was downright clever of Mr. Lavolier to produce an upside down map leading in the wrong direction to Aztec gold, when all along it was Mayan gold we were seeking by merely turning the map upside down pointing out the X marks the spot location where the real quest would lead.

As we were about to emerge from the canyon rifle shots were raining bullets from the bluffs above while horsemen rode up at a furious pace from behind. We had no choice but to stand and fight or be cut down one by one.

We took to some rocks that would suffice as a fortress until our ammo ran out or were victorious against who, we weren’t sure until the firing stopped momentarily and voice in Spanish broke the tension in the air. “Senors, you are trespassing. There is a toll to be paid. All we want is your money. You will be unharmed. The odds are against you, so put down your weapons, we can do this peacefully.”

Bandits! Terrific! A few peso’s is all we had left. If they took the horses we were sunk. All our efforts would be for nothing. “Come down. We know we’re outnumbered and out guned so let’s do this peacefully. We mean no harm either,” I blurted out on behalf of our small band of what must appear to be a strange foursome of fearless interlopers.

The bandit chief came down from the cliffs on a trail astride a beautiful paint stallion with his grizzled bunch of pistoleros following his lead. Those who were firing from behind also came forward on foot.

You could tell who the leader was, he still had a full set of teeth as white as an Italianate alabaster statue of some holy divinity. He also had the largest sombrero and wore two belts of bullets criss crossing his chest. He could probably hold off Bloody Bill Anderson in his prime during the Civil War.

He went so far as to introduce himself which I felt was a civilized touch not readily found among the outlaw breed. “I am known as El Diablo, my friends. Sorry for this inconvenience but it is necessary you see.” Isadora waved a retreat hand signal to Jean-Paul who was coiled like an Oklahoma rattlesnake, even though the odds were clearly against him, and us. Never take a machete to a gun fight! It also struck me that every third bandit in Mexico was called El Diablo or El Lobo in an obvious attempt to strike fear in the hearts of the peasants and Federales.

“We’re just passing through. We heard there is gold in the mountains so wish to try our luck,” Isadora broke in.  The bandits broke out in laughter “Gold? In these mountains? I think you would do better up north near Mexico City. Not here. We have never heard of anyone finding one tiny nugget, but of course is your choice. Now hand over your money and any jewelry and we will be on our way.” He was a man of his word I could tell.

Gallegos said something in Spanish that irritated El Diablo. “Your Mexican friend is protesting on your behalf. A worthy trait. Loyalty I respect, so I won’t kill him for his insolence!” How gracious of him!

Just then we heard the thunder of hundreds of hoofs riding hard through the canyon. We soon learned they were members of the French Expeditionary Forces sent to bolster the regime of Emperor Napoleon III who was the real bandit in Mexico having seized power thanks to a treaty between France, Spain and the UK. His government was under attack by Mexican rebels and government forces everywhere using force to squash the uprising. It turns out that our new “host” el Diablo was not merely a bandito, but was the leader of a rebel faction in the Yucatan region keeping government forces occupied far from the capital while other rebels assailed  Mexico City and tried to gain victory in securing the forts and ports on the eastern coast.

El Diablos men joined us in our makeshift rock fortress as we all exchanged gunfire in the battle of our lives. French tabatiere rifles versus Springfield’s and Henry’s were no match and we were achieving success at holding our own against the might of France.

“El Diablo,” I yelled. “Cover me!” He and his men laid down a blanket of fire that was deafening. As the French dug in deeper to avoid certain death, I made a mad dash to the saddlebags on my horse extracting what I wanted and dashed ducking low back to our shelter. I was smiling as I held up 5 sticks of dynamite I had sandbagged for the trip. Mainly to clear any obstructions that may hinder our obtaining access to our pyramid of dreams.

I handed one to El Diablo and both lit one each and lobbed them into to French forces who were stacked in formation as neat as a pile of cordwood in snow country. The explosions did the trick. Our group took advantage of the confusion of the French going on the offensive as the French panicked at the thought of being beheaded or worse so far from Bordeaux and its wine and the amore found in the  arms of a French mademoiselle in Marseille.  

We attacked, they fled.  Battle won. We were all silent at first. Fear replaced by victory. El Diablo looked at me and burst into a laugh that echoed through the canyons. “Senor, I have to hand it to you. You are a rogue! That was magnifico!!!”

I smiled, bowed as though I were an actor on the stage. “I was saving those, but I felt the time was right to use a fuse or two!”

We exchanged pleasantries and the Mexicans provided some tequila from their saddlebags. “Here, we don’t need your money or jewelry. We will find other means to finance our cause.” As they began to return it I looked at the others and in silence we all agreed. “No, please. Keep it. You need it and we are happy to help.”

That night in the canyon we started a cooking fire and shared our food while they shared what food they had and of course more tequila. The stars were brilliant that night. Gallegos who had been quiet as a mission mouse broke out his guitar and we sat placid under the heavens to the strains and songs of Mexico.

Isadora was sitting next to me. Maybe it was the stars….perhaps the music….or could have been the tequila. She gave me kiss on the cheek and allowed me to put my arm around her as she rested her head on my chest.

I quickly looked at Jean-Paul. Instead of impersonating a statue, he smiled and raised his tin cup of tequila as a toast to me. I was relieved. I didn’t want my drunken head rolling in the desert dust after it was severed by meeting his protective machete!

Isadora I swear could read my mind! “Hush. Enjoy the moment. The spirits are happy.” Good I thought. If the spirits were happy, then I was happy!

Campeche was larger than we thought,  alive with colorful ristras framing adobe doorways with a rich,  deep sangria red. Guitars were celebrating in the cantinas with folk songs expressing  hope for the future as well as plaintive melodies of lost loves. These were a diverse native people composed of many layers of culture over the ages giving them a certain uniqueness not found in your average American cowtown of anglo wranglers.

On the trail, we first spotted Campeche in the distant. A brilliant bright mirage ascending the hillsides that nestled this wonderful coastal city. We were hot and thirsty after hours on the hoof and the cool waters of the Gulf of Mexico was a welcome sight.
We were startled suddenly by one of the strangest sights that seemed out of place. A gas filled balloon floating just over head, descending fast to bounce to earth a half mile outside Campeche. Most of our group had never seen a balloon floating silently in the sky. I had.

During the war. Our side and the Confederates had observation balloons involved in many battles to direct cannon fire and to report on enemy positions so the commanders could more effectively devise strategy for victory. This balloon was strangely out of place. The war had ended two years prior and this was Mexico, not Richmond, but it clearly was marked in large letters C.S.A.!

We rushed over to where it had landed and bounced, finally settling with the basket lying on it’s side and it’s pilot some 6 feet away having been thrown by the impact.

As we approached the tangled mess, a man wearing a faded and torn Confederate uniform rose to his feet and in the best example of Southern pride, dusted himself off as if nothing was out of the ordinary and introduced himself. “Greetings gentlemen,” and noticing Isadora among our number, “and dear lady, I am Thaddeus Beauregard, formerly of the Balloon Corps of President Jefferson Davis.”

El Diablo began laughing, which was the cue for his men to join in the jocularity of the moment. “We are pleased to meet you Senor.