Even now, after all this time, I have only to close my eyes and I find myself there once again, standing in the Plaza beneath the burning sun. I was very small then, smaller even than you are now my little Moncho, so I held tightly to my Papa’s hand. Mama stood beside us, carrying your Great Uncle Diego upon her hip. All your other Great Aunts and Uncles, little Moncho, were back then not even a glint in my Papa’s eye.

     I had never seen the town square so full and yet at the same time so silent. Nobody dared defy the Governor’s decree to attend but there was none of the chatter that usually flowed like a river whenever any of the townspeople gathered together. They just stood, silently staring at the gallows fixed in the centre of the square. I was too young at the time to understand what had come over everyone but I know now that this silence was a symptom of the fear that was shared by everyone present. The fear of one man alone can be a terrible thing but when fear infects a group of people it takes on a life of its own, growing and breeding until the air hangs heavy with the stench of it.

     You must understand – we all still believed in our hero… Juarez. We knew that only the night before he had pulled off yet another of his daring escapades, rescuing his closest friend and most faithful companion, One-Eyed Alfonso, from beneath the very nose of the Governor. If you had asked them, every citizen in the square would have sworn that Juarez would have something up his sleeve for today but until he appeared there was always room for just a sprinkling of doubt. And so, the people continued to stare at the noose and feel a shiver in their hearts.

     A little before noon, the gates of the hacienda opened and a long line of Provincial Guards marched out, all smart and shiny as though they were on parade. They marched right around the outside edges of the square, finally coming to a halt in a formation that completely encircled the crowd. I can still picture them, standing perfectly still with their caps pulled down low over their eyes and their bayonets glinting in the sun, and I remember the way that at that moment the cloak of fear seemed to settle a little heavier upon the shoulders of the people.

     Then the bell in the rickety church tower tolled to signal the hour of noon and another procession marched out of the gates of the hacienda. It was led by the Captain of the Provincial Guard, his chest puffed out to display that ridiculous row of jangling medals which, if they had been earned at all, must surely have been earned for services to the taverns and brothels of Santa Marta. Alongside him walked the Governor himself, dressed in his customary black and with the ends of his moustache waxed to an especially deadly point. They were followed by the Governor’s family, poor Dona Elena looking as though she might faint from the weight of that silly hairpiece, and her brood of red-faced, sweaty boys and skinny, sour girls.

     With them were two guests who happened to be staying at the hacienda at the time, a young English couple, both tall and elegantly dressed but with the pale, sallow complexions that are a feature of their race. I seem to remember that they both wore strangely uncertain expressions and I fancied that they were wishing themselves anywhere but here beneath the scorching sun in front of the tense, silent crowd. They tell me that the English can be every bit as ruthless as the Spanish when it comes to running their colonies but I do not think these two English had quite the temperament for seeing Spanish justice at such close quarters.

     The whole party made their way to a wooden platform which had been erected alongside the gallows to keep the Governor’s family clear of the stinking crowd and offer them the best view. One by one, they all climbed the steps onto the platform and took their places upon it. Seats were provided for the ladies, the men preferred to stand. When everyone was settled the Governor gave a nod to the Captain of the Provincial Guard who gave a signal to the soldiers standing by the gates of the hacienda and the final act of the drama could at last begin.

     Two more soldiers marched out from the gates and between them they steered a third figure who stuttered and staggered, walking half-blindly, so filled with terror that he scarcely knew where he was or what was happening. A ripple ran through the silent crowd, a kind of collective gasp that flowed from front to back, as one by one the townspeople recognised the poor man being dragged to the gallows as Mateo Diaz. I say man but he was no more than a boy really, barely eighteen or nineteen, a poor orphan with no real family to speak of who earned his meagre keep by working as a general help in the dry goods store.

I think that the collective gasp of the crowd was an expression of pity but also perhaps of relief as the people could not help but be a little glad that it was poor Mateo Diaz being hauled towards the gallows and not them. Everyone that is except sweet, plump Senora Luna who ran the dry goods store and who, having employed Mateo Diaz since he was ten years old, saw him as, if not a son exactly, then at least as a favourite nephew. When she caught sight of his frightened, confused face, she let out a terrible cry and flung herself forward as though to tear her precious boy away from the guards with her bare hands. But two other soldiers stepped smoothly forward from their posts to intercept her. She struggled desperately with them for a few seconds before they succeeded in thrusting her back into the crowd. She would have tried again… and again… and again… but her friends and neighbours, realising the hopelessness of her struggle, held her back. So instead she collapsed onto the dusty ground and howled like a wounded coyote caught in a trap.

The soldiers escorting Mateo Diaz then continued their march as though nothing had happened. By now the poor boy’s legs had gone completely so that the soldiers were obliged to half-carry him up the steps to the gallows and hold him up between them while they waited for the signal to slip the noose over his head.

Before this could be given though the Governor could not resist the temptation to make a speech. Don Pedro waited until the wails of Senora Luna had faded into a series of choking sobs before he stepped forward to address the crowd. He had a loud voice which carried easily across the Plaza, above the sad lamentations of the heartbroken shopkeeper. He was sorry, he told us, to have to bring the people of Santa Marta here to witness this sad event but we must realise that the man who was truly responsible for what happened today was… Juarez. It was Juarez who had brought such turbulence to a once-peaceful land. The people had somehow been fooled into thinking him a hero but they were sadly mistaken. Don Pedro only hoped that the events of today would finally convince the people to turn their backs on Juarez and his band of rogues and then perhaps we might share in the peace and prosperity that only the Governor could offer.

Silence followed the Governor’s speech, only the muffled sobs of Senora Luna breaking the still air. Nobody believed the Governor’s lies. I do not think that Don Pedro himself expected to be believed. He just liked to hear the sound of his own voice. Don Pedro would say his piece and then he would hang poor Mateo Diaz and there was nothing that anyone in the crowd could do to stop him. He paused there on the edge of his platform just long enough to allow this to sink in and then he turned to give the signal to the escorting soldiers that they might proceed with the hanging.

But just before he could give the instruction, he heard a sound that made him hesitate. We all heard the sound, a strange noise, something like a rumble of thunder or the rush of water at a great fall in the river. It was very distant at first, seeming to come from somewhere beyond the edge of town. But even while Don Pedro stood there, his hand raised uncertainly, the sound grew louder… and louder… coming closer with each passing moment. All the people in the crowd, all the soldiers standing around us, each member of the Governor’s party up on the platform gradually turned their head towards the south, the direction from which this strange storm seemed to be approaching.

Then, suddenly, it burst upon us. A stampede of cattle, flooding into the Plaza from the narrow streets and alleys of southern Santa Marta. I have never seen such a terrifying sight in all my life.

Ah, you may laugh little Moncho because you hear cattle and you think of Aunt Maria’s old milking cow, placidly chewing the grass in her back yard. But even old Hernandez is big enough that he could be quite a frightening sight if something had spooked him and sent him charging heedlessly towards you. Now imagine thirty, forty or even fifty such beasts, all snorting and bumping and jostling one another in fright, a great wave of solid beef about to trample you into the dust if you don’t get quickly out of its way.

Everyone in the Plaza scattered before the stampede, townspeople and soldiers all mixed together, clothes torn and rifles dropped as everyone blindly fled towards any scrap of safety they could see, flattening themselves against walls and ducking into doorways. Papa snatched me up into his arms and I can picture now clear as day the view I had back then over his shoulder, the glimpses of snorting beasts and frightened faces through the dust, as Papa darted this way and that, trying to steer both ourselves and Mama and little Diego out of harm’s way.

And then I saw him… Juarez himself! Mounted on his fine black horse and with his red cape billowing behind him, he rode right through the midst of the stampede, expertly manoeuvring between the snorting beasts and the fleeing people. Following him closely came One-Eyed Alfonso and two more of the gang on their horses, all riding through the wave of cattle.

You are right to cheer, little Moncho, for never have I seen such a feat of breathless skill and daring. Juarez steered his way through the chaos straight up to the Governor’s platform and leapt onto it directly from his horse. The platform had been buffeted by the cattle as they charged past and the Governor’s party, knocked from their feet, were thrown about, clinging onto the wooden floor for dear life. Juarez, though, with perfect poise skipped lightly across the stage and delivered a swift kick to the Captain of the Guard, sending him rolling off the edge to land with a heavy thud on top of an unfortunate soldier sheltering below! By the time the stampede had passed by and the juddering stopped, Don Pedro, still fumbling around on his knees, looked up to find his adversary standing over him with his sword in his hand and a playful smile upon his face.

The thundering noise of pounding hooves died away as the cattle continued their charge right out of the square and away to the north, all except for a couple of bewildered beasts that got trapped by the hacienda gates and circled in confusion, snorting loudly. A hush now descended and everyone looked around uncertainly, unsure of what to do next. By some kind of miracle, it seemed nobody had been seriously hurt but there were many who were nursing cuts and bruises. Broken by the stampede, the once-disciplined ranks of the Provincial Guard appeared to have lost all sense of order and were now scattered across the Plaza with no idea of what to do.

It was Juarez who broke the silence. His voice was lighter and more musical than Don Pedro’s but it carried just as easily across the Plaza so that although he spoke directly to the Governor the whole crowd heard every word.

“You will forgive my arriving a little late to the party,” Juarez said, “but the invitation was issued at such short notice and I had quite a busy night last night.” He smiled that magical smile of his. “Still, here I am.”

Hot as it was beneath the noonday sun, I think the rage and shame burning in Don Pedro’s cheeks just then was enough to raise the temperature a few degrees higher still! He looked around for assistance but Juarez’s three companions, circling the platform on horseback with their pistols raised, were enough to dissuade those few of the Governor’s soldiers who had not been stripped by the stampede of both their weapons and their wits from attempting any kind of intervention.

“I had hoped, Don Pedro,” Juarez cheerfully continued, “that you would, by now, have had the good sense to tear down this appalling contraption.” Here, he indicated with a slight tilt of his head the gallows. “If I would not allow you to hang my good friend, did you really suppose I would allow you to hang innocent citizens instead?”

Don Pedro glared at Juarez, his cheeks burning, and he glared also at One-Eyed Alfonso circling the platform on his horse.

“Order the release of the prisoner,” Juarez demanded.

Don Pedro squirmed but said nothing.

The merest flick of his sword and Juarez had slashed four buttons from the front of Don Pedro’s coat. “Order the release of the prisoner,” he repeated. “I will not ask a third time.”

Don Pedro squirmed and seethed some more but what choice did he have? Finally, he looked over at the two soldiers still standing on the gallows with poor Mateo Diaz between them and, through gritted teeth, told them, “Let him go.”

One of the soldiers slit the rope binding Mateo Diaz’s wrists with his bayonet and they pushed him back down the steps. The poor boy took a couple of uncertain steps and hesitated, almost afraid to run away. It was Senora Luna who rushed forward, gathered him to her bosom with sobs of joy and relief, and quickly bundled him away, back into the safety of the crowd.

“You call yourself a man of honour, Don Pedro,” said Juarez with a shake of his head. “Is this your idea of honour – terrorising innocent young boys with the noose?”

Humiliated as he was, Don Pedro could not let such a comment pass. “Don’t talk to me of honour!” he spat back at Juarez, almost quivering with rage. “I will take no lessons in honour from a man who lurks in the shadows, never fighting in the open but only striking at easy targets before slithering back under whichever rock it is you prefer to hide under.”

Juarez only smiled in return. “I am intrigued to discover what parts of your hacienda you consider to be an easy target,” he lightly replied. “But let us address your concerns anyway. For I am here now, in the open. What do you say, we settle this disagreement between us once and for all?”

Don Pedro looked at him warily, sensing a trap.

“A duel between you and I, isn’t that honourable way?” suggested Juarez. He took a step backwards, giving Don Pedro room to get to his feet. “I give you my word that my men will not interfere, no matter what the outcome, and I am sure that for the sake of honour you will have no hesitation in ordering your men to do the same.”

Oh, if you could have seen the Governor’s face just then as he rose slowly to his feet! He had not expected this. He had spoken of honour and Juarez had called his bluff. The members of his household had already edged away to the edges of the platform, leaving Don Pedro and Juarez alone in the centre.

“Will somebody kindly provide the Governor with a sword?” Juarez called out.

There was a brief hesitation before the Captain of the Provincial Guard unbuckled his belt and threw it up onto the platform.

“Go on then,” challenged Juarez to Don Pedro. “Pick it up.”

Oh, how quickly the fortunes of men can change! That platform, which had provided such a perfect stage for the delivery of his speech just a few minutes ago, had become an uncomfortable place now for Don Pedro. Of course, he did not want to fight Juarez. He knew he could not defeat such a skilled swordsman one on one. But to back down from the challenge with the eyes of the whole town watching him! He looked around in search of some means of escape but no opportunity presented itself. Slowly, oh so slowly, Don Pedro bent down, picked up the Captain’s belt and drew the sword from the scabbard.

Juarez lifted his own sword in salute and took up his stance, resting lightly on the balls of his feet, ready for action. Don Pedro lifted the Captain’s sword as though it were made of lead. He looked around the Plaza, every eager eye gazing back at him. He looked at Juarez, regarding him with that relaxed, playful smile of his. The sun beat down. You could hear a pin drop. Suddenly, Don Pedro threw the sword down in front of him. “I do not fight with bandits,” he declared, his voice quivering in spite of himself.

Juarez laughed. “I thought as much,” he said with a regretful sigh. “Then there is nothing left for me to do but take my leave. And before you think of putting on such a performance again, dear Governor, you will do well to remember that the people of Santa Marta come under my protection.”

“You will not triumph in the end!” cried out Don Pedro in frustration. “You may have your petty victories, Juarez, but I have the men, I have the money and I have the rule of law. Sooner or later your luck will run out and then you will die the miserable bandit’s death that is due to you. You and all your misguided followers.”

As he said these last words Don Pedro’s eye fell in particular upon One-Eyed Alfonso. A look passed between the Governor and Juarez’s right-hand man. I doubt if many in the crowd noticed it and those that did surely thought nothing of it but, brief as it was, that look was to decide the fate of a great man.

Juarez, certainly, seemed to be entirely oblivious to it. He merely gave the Governor a mocking bow, sheathed his sword and turned to jump back on his horse.

As soon as Juarez had turned his back though, Don Pedro imagined he had spotted his chance and swooped to pick up the sword he himself had discarded only moments before. He was not man enough to take on Juarez in a fair fight but he was not above stabbing an unarmed man in the back. A great gasp of horror ran round the crowd as they saw him move but fortunately Juarez was ready for the Governor’s treachery. He sprung lightly aside, easily evading Don Pedro’s despairing lunge, and in one graceful move he grasped the waist of the young English lady standing on the edge of the platform and twirled her around in his arms so that when Don Pedro turned to make a second thrust he found his own honoured guest standing between himself and the object of his aim. The poor girl’s eyes opened wide in terror and she gave a frightened cry at suddenly finding herself facing the point of Don Pedro’s sword.

“Tsk tsk, raising your weapon to a lady?” Juarez lightly tutted at the Governor. “I had not expected such bad manners of you Don Pedro.”

How Don Pedro burned with frustration! Once again, he had been outwitted by Juarez and was obliged, oh so reluctantly, to lower his sword.

Juarez then jumped lightly down from the platform onto his horse, at the same time pulling the wide-eyed young English girl down onto the saddle in front of him. “Just to make sure that none of your men are so foolish as to attempt to follow me I am going to take this delightful young lady for a ride,” he told Don Pedro, “So long as nobody does anything silly, she will be returned to you in good time, safe and well.”

For all her terror of a moment ago I do not think there was a woman in the Plaza who did not envy the English girl just then, feeling the press of Juarez’s arms around her waist. She trembled slightly but there was a flush upon her pale cheeks that suggested she was not entirely unhappy to find herself held so closely by the hero.

It seemed at that moment that Don Pedro had no more cards to play. His defeat was total and he could only stand and watch Juarez ride away in triumph. But there was to be one final twist of fate. Don Pedro looked again at One-Eyed Alfonso. Ah, if only we in the crowd had known then what had passed between them whilst Alfonso had been the Governor’s prisoner!

Yes Moncho, I’m afraid it’s true. Nobody but the two of them knew it but just the day before, when it was One-Eyed Alfonso who had faced the gallows, the Governor had offered him the chance to save himself by betraying his friend and leader, Juarez. And One-Eyed Alfonso had accepted! Despite all their years together, all the risks they had run and the challenges they had faced, when the moment came One-Eyed Alfonso had faltered. In the shadow of the gallows any man’s loyalties may be stretched to breaking point.

And now, with just a look, Don Pedro beseeched One-Eyed Alfonso to remember their deal. You may wonder what there was to consider now that One-Eyed Alfonso’s neck was no longer on the line. But he was growing old and an outlaw’s life is not an easy one. Take the Governor’s side and he could have wealth and comfort, instead of hardship and danger. And, perhaps, who can say? Once the cancer of betrayal has been planted within a man’s heart, even if only for a moment, he can never quite shake himself free of it again.

If only the people had known! We would have shouted out a warning. We would have rushed forward. We would never have let Juarez blithely turn his back on his compadre as he gathered up his reins and prepared to ride away out of the square. But even as One-Eyed Alfonso slowly raised his arm and aimed his pistol at his leader, we did not guess what was coming.

A shot rang out. Juarez toppled from his horse, pulling the young English lady in his arms down on top of him.

Even then, I don’t think anyone in the Plaza quite understood what had happened. All was still for a moment. I, and I’m sure many others, could only think that it was some kind of joke. That any second now Juarez would jump back up onto his horse, flash that devastating smile of his and ride off to fight another day.

But Juarez did not move. Only the young English girl got to her feet. And then she looked down at the blood splattered all across the front of her dress and she screamed.

What happened next was chaotic. The crowd surged forward in horror and anger. Some perhaps hoped they could still help Juarez, others wanted to pull One-Eyed Alfonso from his horse and tear him to pieces. The soldiers on the ground struggled to reform their ranks in order to protect the Governor and his family. Somehow, in the confusion, Juarez’s two remaining loyal men managed to snatch up his body and escape with it on their horses. The Captain of the Guard, frightened by the fury of the crowd, eventually ordered a general retreat and the Governor and his party fled back behind the walls of the hacienda, leaving the people of Santa Marta to sob over the blood-soaked ground where their hero had fallen. Before an hour had passed the Governor saw fit to order a curfew and within two hours the soldiers had retaken control of the town.

Ah, do not cry little Moncho! We celebrate the exploits of heroes like Juarez in our tales but the sad truth is that this is how all such stories must end. It is the Don Pedros of the world who always come out on top. Courage and a pure heart will only take you so far. I wish it were otherwise but if you hope to survive or even prosper in this world then you must learn this cruel lesson.

Not long after that day in the Plaza we moved away from Santa Marta and gradually moved north until we settled here in San Francisco. With Juarez gone there was no hope left in that town. Here, at least, there are more opportunities for a man to rise in the world, to acquire the kind of money that will keep his family safe from the storms. So, dry your tears little Moncho, and dream instead of the day when you will be a man of consequence, admired and respected in a way that even the noble-hearted but ultimately doomed Juarez could only dream of.

To be continued…