The hats were peasant hats, huge round monstrosities shading the laborer from the sun; the mustaches—full and black—drooped past the lower lip; the pants were baggy, often with leather leggings; the clothes always dusty. And then there were the weapons: the crossed bandoliers, the rifles, the revolvers slung low. So they, appeared, so they abide: the classic images of the first great revolution of the twentieth century—Villa and Zapata. Villa and Zapata at the San Angel Inn, Villa and Zapata lounging in the chair of Maximilian, Villa riding at the head of a column snaking down from the mountains. Villa in the north, Zapata in the south—together they gave the Revolution its energy and muscle, and a good deal of its vision.
In Mexican history they are honored as revolutionaries. The problem, of course, is