We who gathered at the St. Teresa Del Norte Saloon rebelled against the norms of the day, whatever the norms were, it didn’t really matter, by committing small crimes targeting the oppressors of the lower class. We intended to kidnap the editor of the el periódico El Escorpión del Desierto printed weekly in the desert town of Durmiendo Conquistadores located in the Chihuahuan Desert, far north of Durango and home to 1700 people, most of whom were farmers. There were three of us, three because the designated third person could break any tie in decision-making among the other two. That night I was the third person. Who was the third person was always decided by the draw of the lowest card from a deck. That night the saloon was crowded and noisy. Clouds of cigarette smoke, thick as the fog in a Tijuana springtime, hung in the air, making it…
