His people, los Mexicanos, always had sunshine. They always had one another. They honored their elders. They never turned their backs on family. Their food remained wholesome and fresh. Their claims on the land stayed pure.
The white Americans didn’t know who they were. They only knew selfishness. The gringos had no compass, no culture of their own. They straddled the lands of others and fed themselves on dreams of money.
Like Pancho Villa, Francisco would begin his attack with the haciendas. Poor people usually destroyed their own neighborhoods when they rioted, but Francisco would riot with intelligence. His violence would have meaning. His violence would carry the seeds of revolution.
Francisco and his men would sweep the haciendas clean, and then turn the palaces of white greed over to his soldiers and their mothers. And the white people would die with their diseased culture on their breath.
On the ten-mile walk from prison to his home in Rose Park, Francisco’s gang had moved through the white people like a snake through water. The gringos couldn’t function outside their controlled civilization; they thought rules still applied and that the police would come. They were not prepared for the violent decisiveness of Francisco and his men. They were unprepared for men who didn’t hesitate.
Soon the white people would understand the true way of the world, but for now they were like children, wandering and unsure. Francisco and his people would take back as much as possible, as quickly as possible. It would be easy at first, but it would grow more difficult as time passed.
He knew he must attack today, even though he lacked information. His instincts told him that he and his men could take the entire wealthy area above the capital—the Avenues—within a day or two. Hundreds of homes and many tons of supplies would be theirs. And he had always dreamed of moving his mama into a big home in the Avenues.
With a great victory on the winds, he could expand his numbers with the tens of thousands of Latinos in the Salt Lake Valley, giving him a true army. This morning, Francisco would spread the word among all Latinos: gather in Rose Park for food and shelter.
He awoke early. Prison hours forced early sleep and early rising. It had actually become his preference and, as a side benefit, he had gotten to watch his first sunrise in three years. The men who had been with him in prison were waking up, too, walking out into the yards of their host homes.
“Crudo, come here,” Francisco ordered the first man he saw.
The man jogged across the street. “Buenos dias, Jefe. Tell me.”
“Get all the lieutenants here in fifteen minutes.”
Crudo’s eyes widened. “Okay, Jefe, I’ll wake them.” He took off at a run.
It had all the makings of a historic morning. The lieutenants were in fine spirits, many of them warming their hands with hot coffee or maisena, compliments of their host families. The early morning air had just begun to chill enough to see their breath, and a thick head of steam came off the hot drinks. Just as they began their meeting, the sun peeked over Mount Olympus on the Wasatch Front.
“Hermanos, today we take back this land.” Francisco looked at each of them. They smiled like kids on Christmas morning.
“The gringos’ world is broken and they’re like puppies without their mothers. Now is our time to take it from them. All of it. And we will give it to our mamas and our sisters. All their wealth and their homes will soon will be ours.”
The men all nodded. In truth, most of them preferred money and drugs to visions of social justice, but it sounded like they were going to get both.
“First,” Francisco said, “we need to call the Latinos in this valley to join us. Any man who wants food, water and a chance to better his family should go to the county fairgrounds on North Temple Street. Bring guns, ammunition and all the food they can carry. That will be our base of operations. It has plenty of room and the river is close for water and washing.”
“Bastardo,” Francisco turned to one of his older lieutenants, “you’re in charge of the fairgrounds. We need to turn the river water into drinking water, and we need to settle all the families that come. Send me fighting men. We’re hitting the Avenues today or tomorrow.”
“Si, Jefe.” Bastardo nodded. The men shifted back and forth, their eagerness rising with the mention of raiding.
“Kermit, I want you to gather all the teenagers, and send them out as messengers to the Latino neighborhoods. Let them know we have food, water, and that Latinos are gathering at the fairgrounds. Don’t mention fighting to the people. Most of them will need time to get used to the idea.”
Kermit nodded.
“Digger, you’ll be in charge of sending men to help us in the Avenues.” Francisco pulled a map out of his back pocket and stepped over to a picnic bench. He opened the map and rotated it. The men gathered around, curious and excited.
“The fairgrounds are here.” Francisco poked the map. “We’ll be moving up Fourth Street, then turning north onto Seventh East.” He drew a line on the map. “From there, we’ll head up I Street and start jacking the Avenues, one block at a time. We’ll run the gringos off and take everything we want. For now, leave the electronics. No TVs or stereos. We want food, booze, guns, ammunition, money, cigarettes… anything we can eat, drink or trade.
“Digger, you need to keep some men along this route to make sure we don’t lose our road back to the fairgrounds. We need to be able to move men and supplies back and forth. It’s only about two miles. Grab anyone you need from the reinforcements to keep these streets under our control. Position men with guns every block, right?”
“Sure. No problem, Francisco.”
“Mad Dog, I want you to organize men to load the stuff we capture in pickups and bring it back to the fairgrounds. If we start handing out food and supplies to the families at the fairgrounds, we’ll have thousands here within a day. Word will spread. You understand?”
“How do I decide who to give supplies?” Mad Dog looked confused.
“It doesn’t matter, hermano. Give them to anyone who’s Latino. You’ll be just like Santa Claus—an ugly brown Santa Claus.”
The guys laughed. Mad Dog was indeed ugly.
“The rest of you lead the home invasions. Start with your crew and, when more Latinos arrive in the Avenues, put them to work. ¿Comprenden? Meet back here in an hour with as many men as you can. Go.”
The lieutenants turned and headed out to find men. They weren’t clear on the plan, but they all knew how to fight, and they knew they would figure it out along the way. The chaotic tempo of violence was nothing new to them.
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
Jeff watched morning light work its way across the valley. In a bit, it would peek over the hill and the day would start in earnest. He had that feeling of the calm before the storm. It would be a long day but, for now, he enjoyed his coffee and the view—orange-tinted oaks and maples, rolling up and over the hillsides and dropping into the muted valley, backlit by the dawn.
There were deer out everywhere, nipping at the mountainside fields of grass and wild alfalfa. The Homestead managed their perimeter security, and the deer were pouring into the safe zone created by the defensive line, an unintended but welcome game preserve.
Jeff didn’t know a lot about wild game. He had spent his adult life chasing prey of the two-legged variety. Even though he was a native son of Utah, he had never gone hunting with his dad or brothers. Since he graduated high school, he had been deployed overseas or training somewhere during hunting season. Maybe now that he had retired from all that crap, he could get around to hunting.