Read Online The Mexico Run by Lionel White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lionel White
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reliving one of those old nightmares which had been bothering me over the months.
But there are no physical pains in a nightmare. You don't have a head that feels as though someone has been using it for a battering ram. You are able to open both eyes, not just one. You don't look down and see dried blood across your naked chest.
My one good eye finally went from my chest to the four white walls of the room. There was a window, high in the wall, opposite the narrow cot on which I lay, and there were bars across it. The door was solid. It looked like metal. There was no doorknob, no keyhole.
In one corner of the room was an enamel pot.
I was lying on an old army-blanket, and I could feel the springs through it. There was no pillow. Looking back at the window, I could see it was still daytime.
The floor was cracked concrete, and there was no furniture but the cot. No electric light-bulb. It was a jail cell, but I didn't believe it was in Tijuana. The jail there was behind the police station, in a relatively modern structure.
This cell, even for Mexico, was the bottom of the barrel.
My head ached. I ached all over. Gradually I was remembering why. I shifted onto my side in the bed, trying to sit up. I didn't make it. I couldn't make it. They must have done a complete job on me after knocking me out, probably with boots as well as blackjacks.
I lay back, closed my one good eye. All I wanted to do was go back to sleep, so the waves of nausea would go away.
I must have passed out again, because the next time I awakened, the room was in total darkness. This time I made it to a sitting position. I moved a finger, an arm, a leg. Painful. But nothing seemed broken. I felt over my body, and just about every place I touched was sore. After a couple of tries I managed to stand up and take a step or two before I staggered and almost fell. I went back to the cot and lay down again. My head ached as much as ever.
My throat was dry and raw, but I was too weak to go over to the metal door and try and attract attention.
I threw up on the floor next to the cot. When I finally fell asleep again, I didn't awaken until the following morning. The sun was shining brilliantly through the barred window in the wall.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed taking inventory. My head was better, but I still ached all over. I was dying of thirst and was getting up my strength to struggle over to the door and bang on it. They couldn't just let me lie here and die of thirst.
As I got to my feet there were sounds outside the metal door, and I could hear a bar being drawn back. A moment later the door opened outward.
It took me a second to adjust my eyes to the light, and then I saw there were two of them. The one holding the tin tray in one hand, the bucket of water in the other, was a bare-footed Indian, wearing surplus khaki-pants, a blue work-shirt, and a beaded band around his forehead. Next to him was a short, squat, heavy-set Mexican with a comic-opera uniform and a tin badge. He actually wore a sombrero, and had the crossed bandoliers with the bullets and the twin six-guns in the side holsters.
The' Indian came into the cell, and the Mexican, who must have been the jailer, stood well back, his hands resting on the pistol butts. He wasn't taking any chances.
I could see a segment of the room he stood in, and it was almost as bare as my cell, except that there was a scarred desk, with a girlie calendar on the wall behind it. A brass spittoon and a broken-backed rocking chair. I guessed it was the office.
I was one up on him if it was. My floor was concrete- his was dirt.
The Indian put the tray on the cot and the bucket of water on the floor. There was a tin cup on the tray, and I grabbed it and scooped up some water. My throat was so dry I don't think I could have spoken without the drink
But there are no physical pains in a nightmare. You don't have a head that feels as though someone has been using it for a battering ram. You are able to open both eyes, not just one. You don't look down and see dried blood across your naked chest.
My one good eye finally went from my chest to the four white walls of the room. There was a window, high in the wall, opposite the narrow cot on which I lay, and there were bars across it. The door was solid. It looked like metal. There was no doorknob, no keyhole.
In one corner of the room was an enamel pot.
I was lying on an old army-blanket, and I could feel the springs through it. There was no pillow. Looking back at the window, I could see it was still daytime.
The floor was cracked concrete, and there was no furniture but the cot. No electric light-bulb. It was a jail cell, but I didn't believe it was in Tijuana. The jail there was behind the police station, in a relatively modern structure.
This cell, even for Mexico, was the bottom of the barrel.
My head ached. I ached all over. Gradually I was remembering why. I shifted onto my side in the bed, trying to sit up. I didn't make it. I couldn't make it. They must have done a complete job on me after knocking me out, probably with boots as well as blackjacks.
I lay back, closed my one good eye. All I wanted to do was go back to sleep, so the waves of nausea would go away.
I must have passed out again, because the next time I awakened, the room was in total darkness. This time I made it to a sitting position. I moved a finger, an arm, a leg. Painful. But nothing seemed broken. I felt over my body, and just about every place I touched was sore. After a couple of tries I managed to stand up and take a step or two before I staggered and almost fell. I went back to the cot and lay down again. My head ached as much as ever.
My throat was dry and raw, but I was too weak to go over to the metal door and try and attract attention.
I threw up on the floor next to the cot. When I finally fell asleep again, I didn't awaken until the following morning. The sun was shining brilliantly through the barred window in the wall.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed taking inventory. My head was better, but I still ached all over. I was dying of thirst and was getting up my strength to struggle over to the door and bang on it. They couldn't just let me lie here and die of thirst.
As I got to my feet there were sounds outside the metal door, and I could hear a bar being drawn back. A moment later the door opened outward.
It took me a second to adjust my eyes to the light, and then I saw there were two of them. The one holding the tin tray in one hand, the bucket of water in the other, was a bare-footed Indian, wearing surplus khaki-pants, a blue work-shirt, and a beaded band around his forehead. Next to him was a short, squat, heavy-set Mexican with a comic-opera uniform and a tin badge. He actually wore a sombrero, and had the crossed bandoliers with the bullets and the twin six-guns in the side holsters.
The' Indian came into the cell, and the Mexican, who must have been the jailer, stood well back, his hands resting on the pistol butts. He wasn't taking any chances.
I could see a segment of the room he stood in, and it was almost as bare as my cell, except that there was a scarred desk, with a girlie calendar on the wall behind it. A brass spittoon and a broken-backed rocking chair. I guessed it was the office.
I was one up on him if it was. My floor was concrete- his was dirt.
The Indian put the tray on the cot and the bucket of water on the floor. There was a tin cup on the tray, and I grabbed it and scooped up some water. My throat was so dry I don't think I could have spoken without the drink
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