Chasing Pancho Villa (13 page)

“Yes, I am.”

“Could have been an accident. Drunks shooting it up to make some noise. Happens too damn regular 'round here. Then again, it might have been deliberate. I'll look into it. And the Army will take a hand in the investigation.” He stood and walked around to sit behind his desk.

The constable had a strong suspicion that this shooting was somehow linked to the death of Captain James. “That was a real shame about your brother dying the way he did,” Arnold said directly, but with compassion. He wondered if this James brother was getting in over his head.

Arnold thought about the big smuggling outfit the Bureau was watching over in El Paso. He was part of that investigation. He had identified one man in particular—a Jackson Smith who maybe ran the operation. Smith was able to get his hands on good munitions from American armories. Arnold had learned about Smith thanks to the efforts of Captain James. He had told Arnold that he was going to meet with him. That was right before James died. Now he wondered whether he should tell this James about their meeting.

Arnold was preparing a report to President Wilson, but he needed witnesses and documents. More evidence, or the authorities could not act. Through persons unknown, Arnold had discovered that Smith had much influence in Washington. He'd just use that influence to get out of anything less than an airtight case. Arnold knew the game and what he had to do.

“I don't think he died that way,” Harrison said.

The constable considered. “What do you think caused this shooting, Mr. James?”

“It was no accident, constable. And no drunk, either,” Harrison said. “Lieutenant Floyd was murdered. They were trying for me as well.” He held up his hat for the constable's inspection. “Whoever it was went for two head shots, and almost succeeded.”

Arnold thought about Lieutenant Floyd's body, what he had observed. Examining the hole in James' hat, he added, “You're hat don't look so elegant now, either.” The constable then gazed down at his boots, obviously thinking. “There's a lot of foolishness in town some nights,” he said, finally looking up. “The boys like to let off steam by drilling some holes in the air. There's always that possibility. But like I said, you could be right.”

“I am right, constable,” Harrison said calmly, looking directly into the man's eyes. “You may see me lying there next time.”

“Then best to be careful, Mr. James, damn careful,” Arnold told him. “And stay away from alleys after dark.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Harrison had a fitful sleep that night. Lieutenant Floyd's murder, the attempt on his own life, and his brother's death seemed tied together. Yet in the back of his mind there was something very different about Bart's death.

Early the next morning, Harrison carefully cleaned and reloaded the Colt. When he had finished the familiar routine, he headed for the livery.

*

The weapon he now carried had belonged to his father, Randolph James. “You're going out to the frontier, Harrison. You will take your father's pistol, and use it if you have to,” his mother had instructed him before he departed. Some mothers would have packed a box lunch, he thought wryly. Mine packed a .32 Colt. The weapon had a different feel than the pistol he normally carried—the .38 caliber Colt. That one had saved his life more than once in the mountain passes of Bolivia.

*

An hour later, Harrison rode to the main gate of the camp to speak again with Major Snow. He decided that the major had been holding back information from him during the last interview. He knew more about Bart's other mission than he let on. James was certain.

Harrison encountered great activity at the gate. Trucks loaded with white troops were queued up, waiting for orders to depart. Two Negro military policemen strolled slowly from truck to truck in the convoy, checking documents they held and counting heads.

“Yes, sir?” one MP asked while the other began waving trucks through the gate onto the dirt road leading to the rail station. The black Fords labored under the weight of their loads. The departing soldiers waved at James as they passed him. “To France!” one young soldier yelled. They were singing a marching tune. “…and the caissons keep rolling along….” The muzzles of their Springfield rifles stuck out above the wooden sides of each vehicle.

“I would like to meet with Major Snow, Commander of Third Battalion, 24th Infantry,” Harrison stated to the young military policeman. He tied his horse to a post near the guard shack.

“I'll telephone to Third Battalion Headquarters, sir. Yur name, sir?”

“Harrison James.”

Harrison waited patiently while the young private cranked the telephone, hearing two longs and a short. Finally, the private spoke into the mouthpiece. “A Harrison James ta see the major, sergeant. Let 'em pass?”

“Come with me, suh,” he said, turning to the civilian. “I must escort ya.” He looked at the horse. “Please, leave the pony here. We'll watch 'im fur ya.”

Harrison easily spotted the major out on the dusty parade field, watching several platoons of his troopers performing close order drill with rifles. Another man stood beside him. Approaching, he saw the two white officers were at parade rest with their arms folded behind their backs before the lines of marching Negro troops.

When Harrison arrived before them, Major Snow turned to face him. “Sir, please state your business quickly.” The major was abrupt. “As you can see, we are very busy.”

Harrison immediately recognized the captain from the previous evening. “Captain,” he said pleasantly, ignoring the major.

The captain nodded. “Sir, we have heard of your near misfortune and the tragic death of Lieutenant Floyd. Shooting accidents seem to have become commonplace here, I'm afraid.” The captain looked at his major, who stared impassively out over the field. “Perhaps we'd be safer in France.” He laughed. Then, turning, he dismissed the MP with a quick salute.

Major Snow gave no indication of his own thoughts.

“It was no accident. Lieutenant Floyd was murdered last night. And I was almost killed myself,” Harrison stated calmly, watching both men. “I'm asking you, major. Have you begun your investigation yet?”

“Mr. James, we have just been discussing it. Terrible. You must be distraught. First the death of your brother, and then Lieutenant Floyd shot while walking beside you,” Major Snow answered without looking away from his troops. His brown campaign hat was set low over his eyes to offer some protection against the blowing dust and grit. “I can assure you, the incident will be investigated. I have asked Captain Blaine here to conduct an inquiry.”

“I'm afraid, sir, that when we left the lieutenant he was quite intoxicated,” the captain explained. “He and Mr. James, here, had evidently continued their activities in the saloon well into the early morning hours.” The officer did not look at James. “When they did leave, sir, there were probably armed drunks all over town. Well, anything could have happened,” Blaine said to his major. “But Mr. James, I will examine the case very carefully. We want to discover the truth as much as you.” He turned to the civilian. “If we discover that the shooting was deliberate, you can be assured that the army will pursue it.”

“I understand, gentlemen, that you are preparing for a war, so I won't take up much of your time.” Harrison was tired, and still upset from the evening before. As an afterthought, he added, “The constable will also investigate Lieutenant Floyd's death. However, I have additional questions about my brother.”

“Yes, Mr. James?” the major responded. “I believe I've answered all your questions. Nevertheless, again I will do my best to assist you.”

His response lacked even the façade of sincerity, Harrison thought. “In private, if you don't mind, sir?”

“Very well, the major said, and sighed. “Captain, continue the review.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted his senior officer, nodded to Harrison, and marched off across the field.

“Yes, Mr. James?” The major finally turned to stand squarely in front of the civilian.

“Thank you, major, for your time and consideration.” Harrison recalled Maria's remarks about Bart's activities. “Major, I have some information which indicates that my brother may have been investigating illegal activities along the border. Is that true?”

Major Snow laughed harshly. It sounded forced, unnatural. “Forgive me, Mr. James. Gunrunning was and continues to be a serious problem here, and your brother was investigating it. It became apparent to us after the embargo was implemented that someone was stealing weapons from the Army and selling them across the border. To Villa's renegades. Through your brother's efforts, the stealing was greatly reduced.”

“Why didn't you mention this when we spoke earlier?”

“Captain James' mission with regard to smuggling was highly secret,” Snow said. “And I have had little involvement in it. Please keep in mind that I am only recently assigned to this unit. Much of this transpired before I assumed command. So, I cannot speak as a direct witness.” He paused for Harrison's acknowledgement.

“Yes?” Harrison impatiently waited for the officer to continue. He realized his mood was too sour for this interview. But, after almost being killed himself, he was at last certain that his brother did not commit suicide. “Major, I think you're hoping that I will just go away.”

“Mr. James, no one has given me approval to share army business with you, or any other member of your family,” Snow answered. “I am a soldier, bound by army regulations, sir. Please try to remember that.” Snow realized that this man would not go away until he was satisfied.

“I must insist that you tell me what Bart was involved in. I will not go away until you give me some answers,” Harrison said, no longer able to control his temper. “I have evidence, sir, which suggests my brother was murdered.”

The soldier stared at Harrison silently for seconds before responding. “Mr. James, I hear you are a very good poker player, but I must call your bluff,” the major said. I know nothing about murder, and if you have new information I request that you share it immediately.”

“To what purpose?”

“Good day to you, sir,” Snow said, unable to mask his anger any longer.

“Forgive me, Major. I'm still recovering from events of last evening. What more can you add to my knowledge of what transpired just before Bart died?”

“Very little,” Snow replied, pausing to collect his emotions. “Your brother had a liaison with a young woman, a Negress, who, as it turned out, had a great deal of information that she was willing to share with him. That information greatly assisted our efforts to reduce the weapons smuggling.” The officer again paused. “She was an informant apparently more than willing to provide information to your brother, especially if it got rid of her competitors. And he compensated her very well.”

“Yes,” Harrison said. “I have heard that before.”

“He met with her the day before he died, Mr. James. Your brother informed me that he was meeting with one of his contacts at the border, just south of here. He did not mention her by name, but I was able to discover their rendezvous. It was in the report that Captain Blaine was given by Constable Arnold during Blaine's investigation.”

“I see,” Harrison said, considering the new information. “Did the constable say what was discussed at this meeting?”

“He said he didn't know. Captain James told him of the meeting when he rode alone to the border. He evidently insisted that the constable not disturb them or attempt to arrest the woman.”

“Did Lieutenant Floyd tell you his suspicions about the woman and my brother?” James asked.

Snow's face flushed. He made a noise to clear his throat. “I can't reveal my source. But we are a close group and his, ahh, liaison did not go unnoticed among the others.”

“And, of course, the best interests of my brother and my family were paramount in your mind.” Harrison was surprised at his own sudden anger.

“Mr. James, our conversation is at an end. If you wish to submit your allegations to the proper authorities, I cannot stop you. But I will not be subjected to your interrogation any longer. Good day to you.”

“Yes,” Harrison said, knowing he had lost control, but not caring.

“Mr. James,” the major said before leaving. “Your brother had enemies. Some may have wanted him dead. But, I must remind you that circumstances all point to your brother's death as a suicide. Nothing has subsequently changed that finding. I—that is, the Army—does not believe that your brother was murdered.”

“Enemies,” James repeated. “What about those enemies? Could one of them as easily have killed him?”

“I can assure you, Mr. James,” Snow replied, barely able to contain his own anger, “that Captain Blaine investigated that thoroughly. I think a greater understanding of the Houston troubles would help you to understand why your brother believed he had no choice but to take his own life. Good day, sir.”

James watched as Major Snow walked away toward the drilling soldiers. He was left standing alone on the edge of the dusty field.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Harrison was still considering his conversation with the major when he heard his name being called.

“Señor James. Oiga, Señor James,” Sergeant Parilla said, coming toward him. He had waited for the Battalion Commander to leave. “Please, Harry, come with me to my quarters. I have no duty now. We talk, yes?”

James raised his eyes to see the sergeant extend his hand. “Thank you, Juan. I'd like that,” he said. They began walking across the parade field.

“I see that you carry your pistola today,” Juan said softly, and smiled. “Be careful so the military police do not see it. They will take it. Go to the company area. I will meet you there, but I must take another way. It is better not to be seen. Comprendes? We talk in my tent. I have hot coffee. I think, amigo, you need coffee, no?”

Harrison smiled. “I could do with some, Juan.”

The first sergeant departed, striding with authority across the field in another direction.

When Harrison reached L Company's area, Juan was already in the larger administration tent. They both sat down. Everything was covered with a thin layer of red dust. “Private!” the sergeant ordered. “Two coffees. Harry,” he said, leaning close to the civilian “Que paso last night? The lieutenant es muerto.”

“Yes,” was all Harrison said, seeing two other men in the company tent. They seemed to be looking for things to do. The hurried activities so apparent at the gate among the white troops contrasted with the quiet here. A young Negro private brought over coffee in two tin cups.

“Gracias, private.” Juan accepted the coffee. “Now, take Private Peck and inventory the new equipment in the quartermaster's tent.” He handed the man a scrawled list.

The private nodded and departed with the other soldier.

Passing James a hot coffee, Juan said, “Now, señor, we are alone.”

Harrison took the coffee, then froze. “Wait! Did you say Peck?”

“Sí. What is wrong?” Juan asked, surprised.

The two privates stopped in the doorway.

“Let me talk to this man Peck. In private,” Harrison insisted. “About my brother.”

“It is arranged, señor.” Juan motioned to Peck. “Come,” he said to the other private, and together they left the tent.

“Private Peck, please sit down,” James said, offering the young man Juan's chair. “I'd like to ask you some questions about my brother, Captain James. If you don't mind?”

“Yeah, suh. I don't mind, suh,” the young black man said, sitting down beside James.

“You were orderly to my brother, weren't you?” Harrison spoke calmly. He wanted to put the man at ease. “My brother mentioned you in his letters. He wrote that you were a good soldier.”

“Yeah, suh, Mista James. I was orderly for Captain James. I al'ys done what the captain tol' me ta do, suh.”

“Of course.” Harrison sipped his coffee slowly. “Were you with my brother the night of the mutiny?”

“During the troubles, suh? Yeah, suh. All night.”

“Did my brother talk with Major Snow that night? After 8:00, I mean?”

“That night ever'thin' was goin' on. But, suh, I was wit' the cap'n all night 'cept when he was called to the company, suh. By Sergeant Parilla. Yeah, suh, I seen the major come and talk wit da cap'n. It were out 'long the skirmish line. “

“Did you hear their conversation?

“No suh. They was speakin' private.

“Did the captain seem depressed or sad after you returned from Houston, private? Did he act like a man who might kill himself?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah, suh. I'd say so suh. He stay in the tent, suh, when he here. The capt'n don't speak ta nobody that I seen.” Peck stared at the floor. “Jus' the men from Texas and the lieutenant maybe when they in the tent.”

“How about on the night he died? Notice anything peculiar about him?”

Peck thought a moment, still not looking at James. “Yeah suh, I surely did. He stayed to hisself most a the night. He was sad, suh. He surely was. He had the blues. Jus' like they say, suh.”

“Just like who said, private?”

“I hear the major say it, suh. After the cap'n die,” Peck said.

“I see. Did he seem sad to you?”

“We's all sad after Houston, suh. And those officers from Washington ask ever' one questions 'bout the riot. Like we all done it.”

“Do you think Captain James took his own life?”

“Yeah, suh, I do. I'm real sorry for ya an' all, but I think he done it to hisself. I'm truly sorry, suh.”

“Yes, I see. Have you been in the Army long, private?”

“Five year, I reckon.”

“And you're only a private?” James asked, curious. “Why is that?”

Peck hesitated at first. “I guess I don't see things ways I should.”

“How's that?” James asked.

“When I first come in the Army, I go AWOL a lot, suh. Jus' ask the sergeant, suh. But the captain help me out 'cause I done good down in Mexico, suh.”

“I see. Where were you the night my brother died?”

“In the quartermaster tent, suh. I was doin' my watch. Till the Sergeant of the Guard relieve me, suh.”

“What were you doing there, private?”

“Al'ays, there be a guard on the guns, suh. 'Specially after what happen in Houston. Use ta be a lotta stealin' 'round here, suh,” Peck said.

“Did you hear the shot?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah suh, I heard it. But I didn't pay no mind.”

“Why not?” James wanted to know.

“Lots of shots fired, suh. It bein' Saturday night and all, and we's so close to town.”

“Do the soldiers here in Camp Furlong do that on Saturday night, too?”

“No suh, not here. In town, suh,” Peck told him.

“This shot was fired near here. Wouldn't that have caused you to investigate?”

“Yeah suh, one shot was loud. It surely was. I know'd it were close, but I have ma orders, sir.” Peck fidgeted with his hands.

“And those orders are?” Harrison could see his discomfort.

“Ma orders are ta guard the guns, suh. We cain't have men raidin' the tent an' takin' their guns, like what happen in Houston. It's a important job. The cap'n say, ‘Peck, never leave the tent,' so I stay put.”

“You did nothing?”

“I couldn't, suh. I did look out ta see, 'cause like I say, it were close, but I couldn't leave ma post. So I jus' look 'round the area and I don't see nothing. So I go back inside.” The young man was visibly disturbed.

“Yes, private?”

“When I looked 'round 'bout the area, suh. I thought, well Jeramiah, jus' some crazy Mex shootin' off out in da desert, maybe. The road south be real close and all. Yeah, suh.”

“Were there Mexicans in the camp?” Harrison asked him.

“No suh, I know'd it weren't them rebels again. But maybe a Mex ridin' by the camp, bein' drunk, or a soldier comin' from Paddy's.”

“Paddy Derry's saloon? Is that were you drink, private?'

“No suh, not me. Some a them white boys—I mean gennelmen—be drinkin there and comin' home.”

“Did you see anyone at all in the company area around the time you heard the shot?”

“No suh,” Peck answered.

“Did you see anyone later that evening here in the company area?” Harrison asked him.

“Yeah suh. I heard the major yellin', suh. So I goes out an' I sees 'im, an' I asks, ‘what happened, major, suh,' and he say, ‘In Captain James' tent.' I say, ‘The Capt'n, suh?' An' the major say, ‘private, come help me,' so I come. That's the truth, Mista James, suh.”

“I see,” Harrison nodded. “When you got to the tent, what did you find?”

“The capt'n was a layin' on the floor. Blood everywhere, suh.”

“Where was the gun?” Harrison asked.

“I see the major wit' it. Yeah suh, I 'member,” Peck replied. “The major had it in his hand. He ask me to take it an' lock it up.”

“Do you remember anything else? Anything out of place? The furniture?”

“The furniture, suh? No, suh.. I seen the capt'n on the floor jus' starin' up. Blood ever' where. It were awful,” Peck told him.

“Private, can you give me a better description of what you saw?”

“The capt'n was layin' on the floor wid his arm out like he be reachin' for somethin', on his back he was. Yeah suh, that's how I seen it. Blood was ever'where. An' his head….” Peck became nervous and agitated. He jumped up. “His head, suh. Oh, it were terrible. Terrible what I seen.”

“Yes,” Harrison answered sadly. “Anything else, Private? About the inside of the tent?”

“The inside of the tent, suh?” Peck said. “Don't know nothin', suh. Al ah could see was the capt'n and the blood.”

“Thank you, private. Please ask Sergeant Parilla to come in.”

“Yeah, suh.” Peck turned and left the tent.

Juan returned shortly with coffee cup in hand. “Was the private helpful?” he asked.

“Nothing new, Juan,” Harrison told him. Then he told Juan about his discussion with the bartender, and explained in great detail the death of Lieutenant Floyd.

Juan listened thoughtfully. When he was certain Harrison was finished, he asked, “Does La Señorita Washington know of the shooting last night?”

“I don't know,” James shrugged. “Is it important?”

“I believe she has some interest in the hermano of Captain James.” He smiled brightly.

“What about her brother?” Harrison asked. “He might take a shot at me, eh Juan?”

“Ah, señor, again you do not understand,” Juan said, then paused, waiting for Harrison to speak again. When he didn't, he said, “What you do now, amigo?” He stared into his empty cup, but he was listening for Harrison's reply.

“Do you think I can find out anything new if I go to San Antonio? To the court martial?”

Juan shrugged. “No se. If you believe your brother's death is part of the Houston troubles.” He looked around the tent. “Our troopers are punished because of Houston, amigo. Go to San Antonio, see for yourself,” he said. And get out of Columbus to where it is safer for you, he thought.

“Did you know the leader of the mutineers personally? This man named Henry? I've heard things about him. Good and bad.”

“Sí, señor. He was first sergeant, like me. He was with I Company. Henry was one very tough hombre with his soldiers, but they respect him.”

“Was he a man who would lead rioters?” James asked.

“He did,” Juan replied simply. “But that is an easy thing to say. And what does it mean? Go to San Antonio, Harry.”

“He refused to follow orders in Houston, didn't he?”

“Is that important, Harry? Sergeant Henry and me, we fight in Cuba in '98. Against the Spanish bastards. I know he was a very brave man and a fine soldier. Now he is dead, too.” Juan shook his head. “No comprendo.”

“What drove him? Anger?” Harrison struggled to understand.

“He's angry with American laws. He speak to me mucho about African people. It make him angry, Harry, the way white people treat them. In Houston, he tell me, he say, ‘Juan, I never get up for a white man on the trolley. I never do this. Negroes have rights, too.' He tell me this all the time.”

“What do you think about that, Juan?”

“Harry, I am soldier in the United States Army. I do my duty. But I know this, eh? I know I am a man just like you. And Sergeant Henry also was a man.”

“You're a wise man, Juan.”

The sergeant smiled. “You are learning, mi amigo.”

“What do you know about Lieutenant Floyd?”

Juan looked at James before he answered. “Harry,” he said. Then he paused to collect his words. “I do not know what enemies would kill him. An hombre who owes money is better left alive, no?”

“He knew something, Juan. About gun smuggling. I think he was killed because of what he knew. I also think it involves this camp,” Harrison told him.

“What do you know about this?” Juan asked.

“I think his information had to do with stealing and smuggling rifles to the Mexicans. This concerns money, lots of money,” Harrison said. “I know that, Juan. Money is my business.”

“Men will do many things, some not so good things, for money.” Juan said.

“And it will buy a whole lot of honor. I've seen it.”

“No, Harry, that is not true. A man makes his honor. He cannot buy it.”

“I suspect that Lieutenant Floyd was not above breaking the law or forgetting his honor for money,” Harrison said. “And his death was no accident, Juan. As I told you.”

Harrison's comments didn't surprise Juan, but they saddened him. Harry is a good man, he thought. But Harry understands so little. He does not understand this place, or Mexicans, or Negroes, or even where his own honor lies. He wants a simple answer where there is none.

“I also think my brother was killed because of what he knew, like Lieutenant Floyd.”

“You must understand more about things here in New Mexico, Harry,” Juan said softly. “And you must watch what you say. And think before you say it.”

The two privates returned to the tent.

Sergeant Parilla motioned for the men to get to work sweeping the tent's wooden floor. “Now, I am off duty,” he announced with a smile after looking at his pocket watch, a gift from his father. “Vayámonos!”

*

James chose to walk beside the soldier back into Columbus, his horse following, reins held casually in his hand. Neither spoke again about murder. “What more do you know about Maria's business, Juan?” he asked, “that would have interested my brother?”

“Señor James, you must ask La Señorita,” Juan answered firmly.

“Is Maria supporting Pancho Villa?” Harrison asked.

“Pancho Villa is a great hero to the Mexican people. Do not forget this,” Juan insisted. “He fights to free the compesinos. Viva la revolución, no?” He smiled. “That is how Maria sees him. I know this, señor.”