IN THE DAYS OF CARRANZA ONE FREQUENTLY SAW A BANDIT HANGING AROUND THE RAILWAY
“Why should they?” said an Old-Timer in Manzanillo. “The bandits don’t attack unless they outnumber the guard. The soldiers haven’t much chance. If the bandits win, they make a lot of money. If the soldiers win, they get nothing. So they usually cut and run.”
“I suppose that’s what they did when Zamorra held up this train?”
“No. According to reports, they pitched in and helped Zamorra rob the passengers.”
Even though our Commandante marched across the plaza each day behind his wheezy band, Manzanillo was expecting an attack, and there was considerable speculation as to what part the garrison would play. But the gunboat Guererro—one half of the Mexican navy—finally came down the coast from Guaymas, and landed a force of sailors. Under their escort a party of workmen marched out to the scene of the disaster, and we followed them.
It was a jolly little picture. Pedro Zamorra, the local bandido, had twisted the rails and removed a few ties at a point where the train came around a bend. All that remained of the cars was a mess of twisted iron and a pile of splintered boards. A thousand ashen-gray buzzards were picking and quarreling about the wreckage. A thousand more, sleek and content, roosted upon the surrounding hillsides. From the tangled débris the workmen extracted the few remaining bodies of the passengers—very nonchalantly and unconcernedly, as though this were an accustomed task—and heaped them into a gruesome pyramid. A few cans of oil—a match—a bonfire. The buzzards glared in silent indignation at this interruption of their holiday. And the workmen commenced the labor of reconstruction.
PEDRO ZAMORRA HAD REMOVED A FEW TIES WHERE THE TRAIN CAME AROUND A BEND
IV
This was a common enough spectacle in those days to the residents of Mexico.