You know me by now. I love nothing more than an original family activity. All the better if it can be squeezed in around the dinner table. A lesser known, dark secret of mine is that I’m a Dallas Cowboy’s fan, and I’m addicted to watching men in tights kill each other in the gladiatorial ballet known as American Football. (Not to be confused with Futbol, which is pronounced totally differently. It’s ‘fut’ and ‘foot’ people.)
In case you rightly don’t give a donkey bray about the NFL, it’s been in the news this week that the Washington Redskins are finally going to rename their franchise. It turns out that after resisting pressure to change the name for over a decade, all it took to change their minds was a global pandemic, a tender box of racial tension, outbreaks of violence, and…several major retailers dropping their products.
Anywho, when sitting down at the table one night this week, I declared that we were going to have a little contest to rename the beleaguered franchise. The first comment came from my oldest son who asked, “Why is it such a big deal anyway? Nobody has cared until now.” My oldest son is adopted from Vietnam, and he’s twelve. He’s recently endured some harassment for his cultural heritage, so my response was obvious.
I simply said, “So you’d be cool with it if they were called the Government Gooks?”
His eyes got big for a second. He nodded his understanding. “Oh. Gotcha.”
With that out of the way, I knew how important it would be to get the game started on the right foot. So I proudly announced, “I think they should change their name to the Washington Whities.”
Up to now, the wife hadn’t been paying attention to what she assumed was only stupid football talk. At this point, she understood my shenanigans and joined in the fun. “How about the Capital Crackers?”
“Oh, good one.”
My youngest son suggested the “Washington Liars.” (I have no idea where he would get such an idea! I swear!)
“Maybe they’ll go with the Washington Rednecks? Or the Washington Hill People. I mean, each has its own regional charm.” We all had a good laugh. Eventually, the wife asked if they already had a new name in mind. Early scuttlebutt has been around names like the DC Red Wolves, or the Red Tails (a nickname based on the painted planes of the Tuskegee Airmen). To wrap up the dinner time conversation we discussed some of the general significance of naming things and how names can be powerful (even if, and sometimes because, they become static in the background of our brain).
I went to university in Montana, where Native Americans play a significant part of the culture and the history. The story goes that a white dude asked a Blackfoot about his neighbor one day and the response was, “Who? Those flat heads?”
The white dude was like, “Oh, the Flatheads. Sweet, thanks!” The white dude walks off muttering about how he’s going to name the mountains the Flathead Mountains. And the valley will be the Flathead Valley. Later their will be the Flathead National Forest…
Meanwhile the Blackfoot is snickering while his neighbor is waiving his arms saying, “Hey guys, that’s not funny! My name is Hank!” [Possible liberties where taken with the telling of this story.]
I grew up in Parker County, Texas. I assume it was named after What’s His Butt Parker. Nearby, there was an area known as White Settlement. I always assumed it had been named after Who’s Her Booty White. As a teenager, I knew you had to drive to Whiskey Flats if you wanted some hooch or to sneak into a nudey bar. (I never participated in either, mind you.)
“I guess the bottom line,” I told my sons, “is that names have power even if we aren’t consciously thinking about them.” All that being said, I’m betting the Washington NFL franchise does something lame like changing their name to the “Team Formerly Known as the Redskins.” Hey, change is hard.
In Case You Missed it…the Lost DMB Files are Streaming Now!
(The 2nd Season of The Green Ones will start up soon!)
During the month of July, this email update will take an intermission between the end of Season 1 of The Green Ones and the start of Season 2 of The Green Ones. I’m using this intermission to expose all of you to my Lost DMB Files series (set in the same Schism 8 universe as The Green Ones). I hope you enjoy these pulpy Western stories!
If you want to read the Lost DMB Files in addition to (or instead of) The Green Ones, you’ll need to sign up for the separate https://lostdmbfiles.substack.com/ substack. After the intermission, this email update will go back to streaming The Green Ones. The https://lostdmbfiles.substack.com/ substack will send out a weekly update for the Lost DMB Files.
Read Del Rio Con Amor, Scene 1 — Scene 3
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
FOUR HORSES MILLED ABOUT nervously as the train’s brakes cloaked them in hot steam. Chancho and Ah Puch tossed their reins to their compadres and dismounted. Summer had sunk its teeth into the countryside months ago and not yet relented.
“Load the horses as planned.” Chancho strode through successive waves of heat, intent on reaching the lead passenger car before the train settled to a complete stop. Ah Puch followed close on his heels.
Both men wore the stolid gray and braided silver of the Mexican Rurales, despite the alleged disbanding of the infamous Guardia Rural fourteen months earlier in July, 1914. Chancho straightened his black tie. He tipped his sombrero over his brow while Ah Puch slung his carbine over his back and positioned his saber neatly at his hip.
“Who the hell are you? And why have you stopped my train?” The general himself swelled to block their path. The right sleeve of his starched Constitutional uniform ended abruptly at the elbow and loomed above Chancho’s head. The empty, cut-off sleeve emphasized the absence of the arm that had been there only five months earlier—until the battle at Celaya.
Chancho wasted no time. “Rurales of Coahuila on special assignment, with information about Villista activity in the area.”
Obregón betrayed his surprise with a subtle twitch of his left brow. “Rurales. Villistas.” He spat out both words. “You still haven’t explained why you presumed to stop my train.” He patted his left hand gently on his holster.
“General, your train would have been stopped one way or the other. The Villistas have disabled the track 30 km north of here.”
General Obregón dismissed them with a quick jerk of his head and disappeared into the train while barking orders. “Seat these men in my private quarters, and tell the engineer to get this damn train rolling.” Two Constitutional infantrymen stood aside in the doorway while Chancho and Ah Puch squeezed past them in time to see the door leading to the adjacent car slide shut behind the General’s backside.
An infantryman crowded Ah Puch roughly until he slipped a dagger from his belt, flipped it around backwards in his grip, and touched the tip to the man’s nether region firmly enough to convey his meaning. The man coughed and stood down. Ah Puch grinned crookedly over his shoulder as the two men progressed at their own pace toward the general’s quarters. After the Rurales entered, the nervous infantryman shut the door behind them.
A bead of sweat rolled down the small of Chancho’s back. “Do you think he bought it?”
“He hates the Rurales almost as much as Villa. That’s our advantage. He can’t see past his hatred.”
“Ah, but will he stop the train?” Chancho bounced up and down on the general’s cushioned couch.
Ah Puch shrugged, then stiffened. Heavy boots approached in the corridor. Chancho jumped up from the couch as the general threw the door open violently. “More of your men have boarded my train!”
Chancho didn’t budge. “It is not safe even for Guardia Rural to ride about today’s Mexico in pairs. Two more of my men have loaded our horses.” Obregón opened his mouth to speak but Chancho continued. “We will not be left on the border without transport.”
The general’s fingers twitched. Realizing his mouth was open, he shut it and narrowed his eyes to slits. Chancho resisted the urge to smile. Mentioning their intention to disembark at the border had been perfectly played.
“Tell me what you know of the Villistas.” The general moved past them and dropped onto his couch as the train lurched along the tracks.
“It’s been done before.” Ah Puch interjected.
The general slammed his fist against the wall of his personal quarters. “I will not yield to that jackal, Villa.”
The windows remained shut despite the three bodies in close proximity. Chancho dabbed his brow against the stifling heat. “He will have organized a hundred of his most experienced cavalry for this mission.” Chancho emphasized the word “this” subtly, causing Obregón to tense and lean forward.
“General,” Chancho continued. “If we Rurales know this train holds special interest for President Carranza, Villa will know as well.” Carranza and his troops had only been in Mexico City for a month. It pained Chancho to address him as president, but he swallowed his pride for now.
“This train,” Obregón gripped the two men with his iron stare long enough for two lengths of rail to clack beneath them, “is my responsibility. And no number of ignorant, mislead peons will stop it—”
“From reaching Corpus Christi?” Chancho leaned against the door and crossed his legs.
“With its precious cargo,” Ah Puch added just as casually.
The general’s jaw popped.
Chancho said, “It is our job to know everything happening in Coahuila, before it happens.”
Ah Puch followed, “It is also our job to protect the Mexican government’s interests.”
“We are good at our job.” Sensing the general’s breaking point, Chancho put on formal airs before continuing. “We are here to be of service to you and your detachment in the completion of your mission.”
The train car shuddered and bucked as it coursed along a rougher section of track. Only two years old, the jarring stemmed from insufficient roadbed material and haste of application rather than age. Even as provincial governor, Carranza had known the importance of connecting the scattered, short sections of track throughout Coahuila into the continuous Tex-Mex Railway. The temporary alliance between Pancho Villa and Venustiano Carranza against President Huerta had provided the opportunity for the project to be completed.
The general took a deep breath and suddenly slapped his thigh, forcing a loud laugh. “Very well, Guardia Rural.” He scrutinized them again. “You are absolutely sure of your report?” The two men nodded. “I need to talk with my officers.” Obregón rose to take his leave.
Before he could squeeze past the two men, Chancho addressed him, “General, we humbly request to see to our horses and check in with our fellow Rurales in preparation for the conflict.”
“What conflict?” The general puffed out his chest. Chancho raised a brow and waited until Obregón dismissed them with a nod of his head.
The two men exited the posh personal quarters and stepped into the echoing corridor that ran the length of one side of the train car. What had remained a muffled clacking from inside the general’s quarters now thundered as a pulsing rhythm off the hardwood paneling in the hall. The smell of spent coal wafted through an open window.
“You’ll find them toward the back, if you can get there.” Obregón brushed his empty sleeve, along with its ghost arm, against Chancho’s side.
The sensation unsettled Chancho, and he knew at once why the general had chosen to leave the three-quarter sleeve stabbing awkwardly into space.
“Now excuse me.” Without further discussion, the general slid the door open and leapt to the neighboring car, leaving Chancho and Ah Puch to follow him toward the rear of the train on their own.
Chancho waited until he and Ah Puch had stepped onto the small platform at the back of the general’s train car and slid the door shut behind them. “What did he mean by if we can get there?”
“No doubt the gold is in a car between here and there. It will be heavily guarded by the general’s most trusted men. Apparently he does not intend to instruct them to let us pass.” Ah Puch sucked his teeth and glanced through the glass window behind Chancho. The corridor of the General’s private car remained empty.
“No matter.” Chancho breathed deeply. “We just need to identify which car contains the gold. As long as we have men in position when the time comes, the plan is good to go.”
“Nothing is good to go if we don't divert the train.”
Chancho placed a hand on Ah Puch's shoulder. “In due time.” He steadied himself with the handhold before leaping across the gap to the next car.
“But you have no sense of time.” Ah Puch complained as they slipped into the officers' car—designed much like the general’s, but less posh. On their way down the corridor, they overheard Obregón asking his top men for options.
A wall of hot air and stale body odor swam over them as Chancho slid open the solid metal door to the next car. Packed beyond capacity, the creaking passenger car contained more than a hundred regulars—infantrymen in patchwork Constitutional uniforms. The newly conscripted wore the BEF style hat with huaraches on their feet. Some sat backwards chatting to neighbors, but most stared blankly out windows.
Upon noticing the Rurales, each soldier fell silent and stared at his lap with sudden interest. Every man, on both sides of the conflict, could tell stories of swift and brutal judgement levied by the Guardia Rural over the last several decades. The relative rarity of encountering one of the silver-braided, rural police in recent years only fanned the folklore into flame.
The two men strode confidently down the aisle and out the metal door on the other end of the car without contest. Again in the swirling wind between train cars, Chancho shook his head. “Any one of those men could be my brother. They're just peons trying to feed their families.”
“They lack only initiative. Perhaps today we will give it to them.” Ah Puch gestured toward the next car.
“But what if we, what if they…” Chancho rubbed his tired eyes. “We’ve been winning, haven't we? Since May? I mean, the revolution?”
Ah Puch nodded. “The revolution has gotten smarter with your leadership. The bleeding has stopped. If today's plan works, the tables will be turned. Carranza needs the United States. He needs the treasure on this train to get their attention.”
“How much gold do you think there is?” Chancho glanced sideways at Ah Puch who couldn't resist smiling at the question.
“All of it. Carranza is clever, but he's a politician. He sees the small, targeted attacks in rural areas as the dying breath of the revolution rather than a new tactic for which he has no counter. I would bet my boots his entire treasury is onboard, everything he can spare.”
Chancho nodded. “I could use another pair of boots.”
“What's wrong with the pair I made you?” Ah Puch glared at his friend.
“Nothing. It's just,” Chancho shrugged, “a man can always use a second pair.”
“A second pair! No other pair like them exists! Yours have more features even than—”
Chancho held up his hands in surrender. “Relax before you burst a seam, my friend. Of course you are right. Now don't you think we should get on with robbing this train?”
Thanks so much for taking the time to read these scenes of Del Rio Con Amor, Season 1 of The Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from The Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy The Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!