Just then, there came a thunderous explosion from one of the hills. Startled, Juan took the telescope from one of his sons, and peered through it. The explosions were getting closer towards them down the road. Taking several new horses from a nearby farm and getting them to pull the stagecoach down the road, leaving the rich naked javelinas behind them, the Mirandas went down to investigate. They reached a rocky pass in the mountains, where the explosions seemed to get closer and closer to them. An explosion went off about fifty feet ahead of them, causing them to have to stop the stagecoach.
Juan's gang leapt off the carriage, including Juan himself who clambered out from inside. They ran for cover by a crevice, and waited for the cause of all this noise to finally appear.
The dust cleared. Down the road came a figure on a motorcycle. He was wearing large goggles, an aviator cap, and a red scarf as a mask for his nose and mouth.
The gang watched the man go by. Then Juan drew his pistol and punctured one of the tires on the man's motorcycle. Everyone laughed as the bike came to a halt.
The mysterious figure sighed heavily. Really? he thought. Of all the days, of all the god damned fucking days. And it had to be here. God damn it, why here?
He got off the bike, put a brake down on the back wheel, lifting the bike to replace the tire.
The bandits walked curiously over to him, to get a good enough view to observe him. They stood and watched like a herd of cats.
The man was investigating the damage. He drew another sigh of frustration, then took off his hat, which underneath it was a full head of ash blonde hair. He looked over at the curious bandits through his goggles, and with one sweep lowered them and his mask. A gringo. Golden-skinned, with deeply set, soulful looking, beady blue eyes and a nicotine stained mustache that you could shelter under.
He casually sauntered towards the bandits. Oh, these bastards were going to get what they deserved.
He rolled up a cigarette, and spoke to Juan, who was standing there, slightly stunned.
"Have ye a light?" the gringo asked Juan.
What did he need a light for?
He took the bandit's cigar from his hand and kept walking. Then he threw them both into the carriage and took the hand of one of the boys, leading him away from it. He walked back over to Juan, and uttered the very words that Juan would come to know him by, before strolling off past him.
"Duck, ye sucker."
Before anyone had time to react, a fiery explosion came through the roof.
"There is a hole in the roof!" explained one of Juan's sons.
Juan looked back at the strange foreigner. Jesus, was he fucking crazy? This man who dared to confront Juan Miranda, ah? Whoever he was, he was not going to let him get away with it!
"Hey!" barked Juan. Who did this son of a bitch think he was?
The man stopped and turned to look at him. The bandits drew their guns.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you", said the gringo, an Irishman by birth.
"Why?" asked Juan.
The Irishman unbuttoned his long coat to reveal what was inside. Dynamite, all along the inside pockets. Every inch of the inside of that duster was lined with explosives.
"You pull out that trigger and shoot me, I fall," he said, taking from a small pouch a bottle of clear liquid, out of which he pulled a couple of test tubes. "And if I fall," he continued, taking the tubes over to the side of the road, "They'll have to alter the maps." He dropped a small amount of liquid onto the ground, causing a small explosion.
"D'ya see, when I go, half this bloody country goes with me", continued the firecracker, "Includin' yourself".
Juan really should have been scared of him. But all he could see of the man, was his ticket to big money. He could just see the words, "Banco Nacional de Mesa Verde" right above the Irishman's head, in green letters, no less. It was the luck of the Irish, indeed.
It was so simple. He could distract everyone with an explosion in the back, maybe blow up a few guys, while the rest of them go in front while they were sure it was empty and take all the money. This man was perfect. Oh, they would make such a great team together. They would be unstoppable. They would be the greatest criminal duo in all of Mexico!
Juan began to laugh.
"You understand now?", said the Irishman.
"Si, si, si, si, si", said Juan heartily, "I understand. It's like a miracle of God! You! You are a great magician, ah? I stop your motorcycle and you do the magic with my coach and now we're even."
"Even?"
"Si!" replied Juan, self-assured.
"No, we're not even." drawled the Irishman. "If you fix my motorcycle, we'll be even. I'll be inside." He started up the steps inside the Mirandas' carriage. Juan started after him, but Chulo had something to say to his papa.
"We kill him now, papa?"
"No", whispered Juan, striking the boy's face. "First we fix the motorcycle. Shhh."
Sending the gang over to the motorcycle, Juan saw the Irishman inside, drinking something. More lighter fuel, perhaps?
"It's whiskey."
"Oh!" laughed Juan nervously. "Thank God for that, huh?"
"Where you goin' in this contraption?", inquired the Irishman softly.
Now that Juan saw everything the Irishman could do, the only way from him was glorious Mesa Verde. But he would save that confession for a special moment. Besides, he wanted to find out if the gringo was going in his direction first. "Well, where you going?"
"Shaver Mines."
"Lucanina?" exclaimed Juan. "Yeah, I know that place", he laughed, "I know the man who owns that, too. I know the fat, German son of a bitch, Aschenbach, who wrings our people dry like slaves, even his personal servants. One girl had an ass, her cheeks were so full and hard, they were like drums. When I got her pregnant, what did he do? He fired her—"
"Oh, Jesus! Will you shut up and go fix my motorcycle?!" snapped the Irishman.
Juan knew from earlier not to cross this man's path, and if he did, he would literally be a part of the countryside.
"Okay," said Juan, slowly backing out of the carriage. "O-kay! Anything you say… firecracker."
Outside, the bandits were looting the Irishman's bags. Juan had to go over there and stop them. Jesus. You take your eye off of them for one moment and suddenly everything falls into chaos with them. Who knows what Chulo might have pickpocketed?
"Take your hands off that!" he ordered.
He started to put some of the stuff back into the bags. One particular thing he found was a green banner that read, IRA, in yellow embroidered lettering. Whatever the hell that meant. Whatever. It was Latin to him for all he cared.
Casually tossing the banner aside, he found the Irishman's wallet, and started looking for some identification. Inside was a copy of United Irishman, and beneath the headline, an article of a wanted man. This must have been the firecracker, ah?
Beneath his picture read something about a reward, and a name he couldn't make out. Something beginning with "J". There was definitely a "J" in it.
Juan chuckled. "Well, good for you, firecracker."
"Not even one lousy peso!" exclaimed his second eldest son, Napoleon.
"I don't know why I named you Napoleon when you have no imagination," remarked his father, striking him. Did Juan teach him nothing about banditry? "This is a bank!"
"¡Mesa Verde!" piped in Papa.
"Si, papa. Mesa Verde, Mesa Verde. And if we can get this firecracker to come with us, then we will be rich!"
"Where does he come in?" demanded one of Juan's gang. "The dynamite's right here."
"No, no", Juan had to explain. "You need an expert for a thing like that!"
"You only need matches and balls, Juan," said the upstart, "And I got all those it takes!"
Who asked his opinion? "¿Sí?"
"¡Sí!"
Oh ho, Juan would sure show him. He handed the guy one of the sticks of dynamite from the Irishman's motorcycle.
"You see that tree over there?" said the gang member.
And that was the last thing he said. As he went up the hill to the tree and lit the dynamite, it exploded instantly, killing him with it.
Inside the carriage, the Irishman smiled as he drifted off to sleep, chuckling.
"Short fuse."
Though he hadn't heard the conversation, he'd have agreed with Juan. You did need an expert for this sort of thing.
All that was left of the foolish demolitionist was his hat, or the rim of it. Juan stared through the middle of it in horror. It was horrible. Stupid idiot had it coming anyway, though.
Hours later, the Irishman woke up to find Mirandas lazing about inside the carriage everywhere. Behind one resting in a hammock was a shrine of sorts, to the Mesa Verde bank. It even had little candles around it. One child was watching him intently.
The man went outside. He reminisced about his past in Ireland, about the revolution there… and about the life he left behind.
One name echoed in his head. One that once every while kept turning over and over in his mind ever since he came to Mexico.
Sean.
He found Juan cooking on a miniature stove. He'd slept for several hours already; it was already getting late.
Juan eagerly offered the Irishman a plate, but the man just walked past, instead focused on something else.
"Where the hell are we?", he asked.
Juan wasn't interested in that question, instead determined to press his own. "What kind of work do you do for the German?"
The gringo didn't answer.
"Listen, I asked you a question. What do you do for the German?", demanded Juan.
"I've been looking for silver."
"Silver?" repeated Juan. What was he thinking? "You know something? I don't understand you. I don't understand how you waste your time or your Holy Water looking for silver. To me, that's a sin," he remarked, pouring some wine.
"You have better ideas?"
"Si! I think gold is better than silver."
"Ah, there isn't any gold in these hills", said the Irishman. To Juan, he didn't quite seem to be getting it.
"Ho, ho! Yes there is! In Mesa Verde," Juan said, playfully saluting the Irishman's glass.
"Mesa Verde? It's a city."
"Of course it's a city! Who ever heard of having a bank in the country, ah?"
The Irishman glanced over at Juan's sons, who were sitting by the carriage, laughing at him.
"Uh-huh. A bank?" said the Irishman. He knew what Juan wanted him for. He was already branded a terrorist. He didn't need to be wanted for petty robbery as well.
Juan's eyes lit up in excitement "Not a bank. The bank. The most beautiful, wonderful, fantastic, gorgeous, magnificent bank in the whole world," he gushed, "When you stand before the bank, and you see, it has the gates of gold like it was the gates of Heaven. And when you go inside, everything, everything is gold."
Christ, what a ham, thought the Irishman. Does he even ever shut up?
"Gold spittoons, gold handles, and money- money- money is everywhere. You know? I know, cause I saw it when I was eight years old. I went there with my father. He tried to rob the bank, but they caught him. But they will never catch me. Eh, papa?"
"Right.", wheezed Old Mr. Miranda.
"Listen, firecracker", said the garrulous bandit to the Irishman, "Now you listen to me." He kneeled down right in front of the Irishman, and leaned in so close to him you'd think he was going to kiss him. He spoke very softly to him. "Why don't you come with me, and we will work together, and we will be come rich." Then he realized something he'd forgot to ask him. "Hey! What the hell is your name?"
The answer came out like this:
"Sean."
"Wha?" said Juan, dumbfounded.
"John", said the Irishman.
"Funny, yours is John!" chuckled Juan. "It's Juan and John, ah?"
"So what?", said John.
"Whadda ya mean, so what? Can't you understand it? That is… that is… Oh… ah... destiny."
Destiny was a funny thing. It was always not quite what you had hoped for. John never imagined a day when he'd leave Ireland.
He remembered a day when he was driving along with his girlfriend, and his best friend Sean. He remembered how happy the three of them were together, how passionately he and his girlfriend had kissed. Whatever happened to those days?
Destiny, etymology or not, John Mallory's decision was final: "No. And I mean it."
Juan couldn't understand it. "Why? Listen, if it's money you want, I'll give you more than half. I don't care about the money. It doesn't interest me, as long as we can work together, ah?"
John wasn't listening. He was too busy loading his motorcycle. Besides, he'd have none of it. No more revolutions.
"Oh, come on!" insisted Juan. "Listen to what I'm telling you, ah? We are like two brothers! I mean, you- you make the holes with the Holy Water, and then I will go in, I will walk in and do the dirty work, ah? Listen. It takes one bandito to learn another." He held up the newspaper eagerly. John took it from him, then Juan took it back, laughing as John took it yet again.
"So you can read?", remarked John. People of Juan's class weren't necessarily known for their literacy, so this came as a surprise to him.
"Well you don't have to read, you know? I see a man's picture, I see a price on his head, so I know that man is in trouble, no?" It then occurred to Juan: "Hey… what kind of trouble are you in?"
"Oh, a wee fart of a revolution in Ireland."
"A revolution? It seems to me the revolutions are all over the world, you know?", replied Juan, "They're like the crabs! We had a revolution here. When it started, all the brave people went in it, and what it did to them was terrible. Pancho Villa, the best bandit chief in the world, you know that? This man had two balls like the bull. He went in the revolution as a great bandit. When he came out, he came out as what? Nothing. A general, huh? That, to me, is the bullshit! Wait a minute," he realized. "You come in the revolution?"
"No," said John. "No. No. One was enough for me."
He drove away on his motorcycle, hoping to get away from that annoying Juan Miranda forever. But Hell had no fury like an offer refused.
"Fuck you, you sorry son of a bitch!" called Juan, this time flattening both the tires on Juan's bike.
Once more John sighed, and appeared to raise his hands in resignation.
That's it, John thought. I'm pullin' out all the stops on this band of idiots.
Pulling a boy off the steps of the stagecoach, he went inside, and knelt down before the makeshift shrine of the bank as if offering a prayer. When he came out, he was carrying his beloved case. Everyone else was standing far off from the stagecoach.
Juan was not going to miss his chance for big money. Also, did the gringo think he could escape that easily on foot? "Hey!"
As if by deja vu, John said the words that Juan had feared hearing again.
"Duck, you sucker."
Everybody dove for cover, and with that, the entire stagecoach went up in a blaze of glory, and when they looked up from the explosion, their new home was nothing but pieces of charred wood.
But Juan was relentless, and once again stopped John from leaving by firing a shot at his feet. John turned around again to Juan, expecting that the bandito had something to say. But Juan just stood there with his pistol aimed at the Irishman, completely speechless.
"Say, which way is it to Lucanina?" asked John.
"Fuck you, you go find it yourself!" screamed Juan. John could only laugh at that. "MEXICO IS BIG, BUT FOR YOU, IT IS GOING TO BE VERY BIG!"