The Hero of Nacozari

By Cullen A. Cain

While the newspaperman was visiting his friend, F. F. Best in the Copper Queen general offices the other day (just before Best went off to war) he wandered into the private office of Walter Douglas, president of the Phelps Dodge Corporation, and, while waiting for Best to finish his work, began idly to study the pictures on the wall. One in particular arrested his attention. It had surely been a simple little old Kodak picture taken by an amateur in the beginning, but now it was a splendid photograph, enlarged and touched by a master and mounted in a large frame. And it showed a Mexican in his shirt sleeves and wide-brimmed hat, mounted on a little old burro, and this Mexican’s face was framed between the burro’s enormous ears. There was nothing about his Mexican’s face to attract special attention. He was just an average type of his countryman. Under the picture was penned this legend: “Jesus Garcia, Hero of Nacozari.”

Now the newspaper man knew that Walter Douglas is not a man to pen such a florid title on any photograph without a most sufficient cause, so he turned to Best and asked him the why and the wherefore of this picture of this simple Mexican and his simple burro and the heroic title, all hanging in the state in the president’s office.

“He was a hero all right,” replied Best promptly. “A hero for true and fair. I don’t remember much about it, for it all happened some eight or ten years ago, but I remember enough for you to get the point.

It was away back yonder in the days when James Douglas was manager of the mines down at Nacozari. Three of four cars of dynamite, or powder, or some high explosive, had been hauled to town for use in the mines, and for the moment, they were standing on the main track right in the middle of the town. Somehow or other they caught fire. And then there was a panic in Nacozari. The town seemed doomed to certain destruction. Perfectly brave men, and Americans among them, either ran aimlessly to and fro or stood stock still, helpless and hopeless of doing anything to save the camp. And then, this Jesus Garcia, a Mexican engine driver, without suggestion and command from anyone, suddenly backed his engine down to these blazing cars and hustled out of the cab and hooked the machine to the first car and climbed back to his cab and started off up the track with this terrible freight.

There isn’t much more to tell. He got clear of the town all right, and around the side of the mountain before the powder exploded. It blew a hole in the side of that mountain as big as Nacozari, but the town did not suffer a particle.”

“What became of Jesús García?” asked the newspaperman, deeply interested in the moving tale.

“He went on with his engine and his cars and that powder,” calmly replied Best. “They never could find a trace of any of them after that explosion.”

The newspaper man turned again to that brown face in the picture with the burro’s ears standing up on each side of it and looked long and earnestly. Who can tell of what stuff heroes are made until the crisis comes. Here was quick thought and action and sublime loyalty all brought out in the wink of an eye in the person of this obscure Mexican engine driver. Yes, he was a hero, all right. Simon-pure and 18-carat fine. And the newspaper man inclined his head to that brown face under the big straw hat and behind that burro’s ears just the same as though he had been a general with gold braid and gild epaulets and mounted on a prancing white charger in front of the band in a public square with marble places and throngs of people all around him.

Published on The Bisbee Daily Review
Bisbee, Arizona, October 20, 1918

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🎧 Listen to the Acts of Impact podcast episode (by Alex Grohls) dedicated to Jesús García on Spotify and Apple Podcasts.