Chasing Pancho Villa (14 page)

“He's not that popular these days on this side of the border, Juan,” Harrison said dryly. “Many hate him because of his raid on Columbus.”

“His attack on Camp Furlong was a military action, Harry. But General Villa did not plan on the American Army chasing him,” Juan explained. “He want the Americans to make war, but, I think, not so quickly. He want all Mexican people to unite against the United States. In this, he make a mistake.” Juan stated it without emotion. “Mexican still fights Mexican, and the people of the United States hate him more, I think.”

“Yes,” Harrison said. He was confused by the politics and the factions swirling about him. Who's right and who's wrong? He asked himself, trying to make sense of what Juan told him. The only reason I'm here is to find my brother's killer.
But there's only one reason I'm here—to find my brother's killer.

“Harry, it is complicado, no?”

“That's a good word for it,” Harrison replied, believing it did not affect him. “How does Maria fit in?” he asked again.

“Los compesinos fight against the rich landlords, and against the foreigners. The Mexican people demand tierra y Libertad. Everywhere we hear that, amigo. Everywhere! Your brother heard it, too. In Mexico. He tell me this.” Juan saw Harrison looking at him. “It is her fight, señor.” He flushed with embarrassment, realizing he had said too much. Calmase, he told himself. “I am sorry, amigo. Too much talk. But, I speak from here.” Juan pounded his chest.

Harrison only nodded.

“Americans worry about their gold, Harry. Not about the Mexican people,” the sergeant finished.

“The newspapers don't write about that. They write mostly about the fighting between the generals. And Zapata?” Harrison asked.

“Emiliano Zapata,” Juan said. “He will take the land and give it back to the peasants.”

“Like Robin Hood,” Harrison smiled.

“Sí, like Robeen Hood. I heard this story. His plan for the Mexican people will give land to all the people. It is already written as the law, amigo. Zapata did that,” Juan told him.

“It must have been difficult for you when you served with General Pershing against Villa.”

“Not so difficult. Like I tell you, I am a soldier of the United States Army,” Juan tried to explain. “And I know we never catch Pancho Villa. We chase him through northern Mexico, the land of my father, but we never catch him. Everyone, even General Pershing, knew this.”

“Why did we do it then?” Harrison suddenly wanted to know.

“Ask your Presidente Wilson,” Juan answered shortly.

“Do you support Villa?”

“Amigo, you are a rich white man from far way. You should not ask that question to me,” Juan stated, and stopped abruptly in the middle of the road. “Escúcheme. As a Mexicano in this country, I must wear many hats and I must do many things. Some I do not want to do. But like you, Señor Harry, I am a cit-i-zen, too, eh? With opiniones.”

“Yes, you're right.” Harrison nodded and smiled at the shorter man. “I meant no offense.”

They walked in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. The sun was now at their backs, casting long shadows in front of them. Overhead they spotted an airplane. It flew from the Army airfield north of town. “A Jenny,” Harrison observed, pointing at it.

Still pondering their earlier conversation, Juan ignored the low flying plane. “The padre teaches us to forgive. But this is sometimes not possible.”

“Juan, my brother is dead,” Harrison stated flatly. “Today, that is all I care about. I forgive no one.” He nodded once with cold determination.

The bi-plane flew off toward the north and the airstrip. The rays of the setting sun reflected off the brightly painted fuselage.

“Bueno, Harry,” Juan responded after a long pause. “But remember, amigo: The truth remains the truth, but changes its color…like the desert. So, amigo, I say prepare yourself for what you find.”

Harrison wondered what he meant.

The two men reached the outskirts of town, walking in silence. Then they separated.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

There was a knock on the door several hours after dusk, waking Harrison from a sound sleep. Startled, he instantly reached for the automatic on the nightstand, rolled out of bed, then stepped lightly to the door. “Who's there?” he whispered. There was no response. Then, there was another knock. “Who's there?” he repeated. But this time, disengaging the safety, he moved up against the wall and prepared to open the door.

With his left hand James lightly grasped the knob. Then, throwing the door open, he turned into the doorway, prepared to fire. His first reaction upon seeing the giant figure, dressed in a dark suit and holding a top hat in his large hands, was that the Angel of Death had come. The man, expressionless, with kinky snow-white hair, filled the doorway. He reached slowly into the upturned hat. He pulled out a folded slip of paper and carefully handed it to Harrison.

Like the earlier message, he noticed it was written in a graceful long hand. In it, Maria introduced the older Negro as Mr. Jones and requested that Harrison go with him. He decided that he wanted to see Maria again, and that was worth the risk.

With the old man patiently waiting, he took what he thought he would need. Before holstering the automatic, Harrison released the magazine to check that it was full, then he reinserted it with a quick snap. The old man remained standing like a stone.

They left the hotel going down the back stairs, unobserved, and got into a shiny black Dodge with leather upholstery. The automobile seemed completely out-of-place here in the desert town.

They drove the three miles to the border under a brilliant star-studded sky. The road was empty after they passed Camp Furlong, except for a family in a horse drawn wagon heading north from the Mexican border. It was a high-sided grain wagon filled with blond-headed kids, stacked furniture, clothes, odds, and ends. Whatever they were able to throw together, Harrison thought. A team of two weary mules pulled the old wagon. A man and woman, both dressed in dark clothes, sat on the driver's bench. Harrison saw the old man cross himself as they passed.

“Mormans?” he asked.

The old man nodded.

Harrison had read that the Mormans had established settlements in the province of Chihuahua before the revolution. The Mexicans called them Colonia Dublan. They were now caught in the middle of the fighting. Bart had mentioned in his letters that Mormans had been useful allies during the Mexican campaign. Perhaps the Mexicans now thought of them as too useful.

When they reached the border crossing, a lone figure waved them through to the Mexican side. No papers or identification were requested, and no examination was made of their motor car. Just a simple wave of the hand by a younger, light skinned man dressed in civilian clothes. He had a Springfield rifle slung across his back. That was easy enough, Harrison thought. Mr. Jones waved back to the border guard as if he knew him.

Harrison saw two Mexican soldiers armed with older rifles standing in the middle of the dirt road as they crossed into Mexico. In front of them was a long pine pole positioned horizontally across the road.

One of the men motioned for the motorcar to stop, while the other walked over to the driver's side of the vehicle. Folding his arms, Harrison waited, looking to the old man for a sign.

The old man handed the soldier an envelope from his coat pocket and flashed a broad smile.

Of course, Harrison thought, as he watched the transaction.

“Gracias, señor,” the soldier responded. “José, arriba!” he yelled to his companion. The other soldier immediately raised the pine pole and the shiny black Dodge passed through the gate.

Rounding a bend in the road a short time later, they saw a sprinkling of lights indicating a village in the distance. But the Dodge did not enter Las Palomas. Before reaching the outskirts of the pueblo, the old man turned west onto a trail that wound upward into the hills.

The motorcar groaned as it labored up the steeper incline. The old man changed gears. Harrison could tell by the easy manner in which he shifted the transmission that Mr. Jones was a very experienced driver. The engine responded with an unbroken whine as it crept slowly up the hill. When they finally reached the top—a mesa concealed within a circling stand of scrub pine—Harrison guessed they were closing on their destination. The car rolled on a hard dirt track through the sparse pinion forest. A high adobe wall suddenly rose in front of them. The trees and a bluff had hidden it from his view.

The black Dodge, now streaked with brown dust, stopped at a closed, raw wood gate. Its headlights illuminated two solid doors held with immense iron hinges. Sitting forward in his seat, Harrison waited. His right hand rested in his lap, not far from the holstered pistol.

The driver sat patiently with the motor running and did not use the car's horn. Finally, the doors groaned as they slowly opened. Two figures carefully swung them away from the road to allow passage. No words were spoken. The two merely nodded at the driver to acknowledge him. They were very young, perhaps 13 or 14 years of age, and had no weapons, and no hats. They were barefooted. The boys looked at Harrison with simple but intense curiosity.

“This is a fortress,” he said, admiring the thick adobe walls towering above the car.

The Dodge entered the compound to find a flurry of activity. Five large wagons were lined up in front of a two-story adobe building set against the eastern wall. Each wagon was stacked high with long wooden crates. He saw four men—all short with dark skin, dark eyes, and wearing sombreros—covering one loaded wagon with a large canvas tarp. Other men led a team of four mules out of the stables against the western wall to the front of the lead wagon. The men were either Mexican or Indian. Perhaps both, Harrison decided.

Mr. Jones stopped the car in front of the house, also a two-story wood and adobe structure with a red tiled roof. The windows were ablaze, with light streaming out into the night, even though the hour had grown late.

The old man parked the car, got out, and walked around to Harrison's side. He opened the door for the white man to step out. James emerged from the Dodge, thanking him. At that moment, he heard his name called.

“Señor James,” a female voice called out. “You have come. Wonderful!”

Harrison turned to see Maria running lightly down the steps, illuminated by the brilliant light behind her. She was wearing a long, Mexican dress with a wide skirt of many bright colors and complicated designs. It was cut low in front, revealing the deep cleft between her breasts. Her shining, midnight hair was pulled back and held with a simple yet beautiful turquoise comb. Her dark eyes glowed. “Señorita?” he asked. “Is that you?”

Maria stopped in front of him, so close her dark eyes seemed to swallow him. Her breath smelled of honey and mint. Then, pressing her breasts against his chest, she kissed him impulsively on the cheek. Harrison noticed her perfume, dusky and promising.

The kiss surprised him.

“You brought your Colt, eh?” she whispered in his ear, smiling. Such a deep shade of blue, she mused, looking directly into his eyes. Like the feeling of steel on a winter day, they both chilled and gave her strength. She touched his face with her hands. “Come into my home, señor,” she said with a smile.

“Maria,” he forced himself to say. “Your message….”

“Shhh…,” she mocked him, “…Señor James.”

“Come. We eat, drink, and then we talk.” Maria took his hand and led him into the house. “I want to call you Harry. It is what your brother called you, yes?”

“Yes, my brother called me Harry. How did you know?”

“He spoke of his big brother often. I think he idolized you.” Holding his hand, she led him into a foyer with a high vaulted ceiling, then she shut the heavy wood door behind them. The door itself was two inches thick, with iron hinges that growled as it was closed.

Entering the grand room, he was immediately struck by the rich colors. Painted in bright colors, the blend of reds, yellows and blues adorning the walls seemed to leap out at him. The adobe walls were framed with heavy beams of native timber. He saw brown ceramic tile floors with richly painted ceramic mosaics in the center of the room. Harrison stopped to admire it. He saw that it depicted a local scene—Indian women carrying baskets filled with fruit and vegetables on their heads. Only two paintings adorned the walls of this room. One was of an older man dressed in black, wearing a sombrero and mounted on a great white stallion. The other was of a family—the parents seated and surrounded by four small children. At first glance, Harrison couldn't tell boys from girls.

Watching him with a smile, Maria finally spoke: “That was my grandfather. A great man.”

“Impressive,” he said politely. “The family?

“The smallest child was my mother. The woman was Dona Estrella, my grandmother.”

Harrison nodded and continued walking through the large room. He felt a flow of cool air gently touching his face. He looked up and saw a fan with large wooden paddles slowing churning above them. Electricity out here? He was impressed.

Crossing the room, they passed through a wide archway to enter another room equally spacious, but well furnished. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung from the wall and blended naturally with the rich wood furnishings. Everything appeared thrown together, but Harrison felt a warmth and harmony here. A glass chandelier hung from a great beam in the center of the ceiling. In its light the variety of colors were reflected like so many rainbows. The room had the air of grandeur from an earlier age, brought to life through electric light.

Maria offered him a place on a dark satin couch done in an early French fashion. She sat beside him. “Your house is very beautiful,” he stated simply. “There seems to be no order, yet everything is harmonious here.”

“Thank you. But this is only the appearance of wealth, Harry,” she replied, with a wave of her arm. “I inherited this house, these things, from my Mexican grandmother. La Señora Estrella was the wife of a very wealthy landowner and rancher. He loved her very much and built her this hacienda. Dona Estrella's only son—my uncle—was killed as a young man, fighting for Mexico's freedom. So, she bequeathed it to me.” Maria paused to remember. She looked around the room and then back at Harrison. “But the land, the real wealth of our family, was taken long ago by the Dictator, Porfirio Diaz. Do you know of Diaz?” She didn't wait for him to answer. “My grandfather opposed that horrible man, and eventually paid for it. Diaz was a great killer of my people. What he wanted he took. He took our land, and then he took my grandfather's life.” She shrugged.

“You still have this beautiful house,” he said.

She did not answer directly. “Harry, things here are not so simple to explain. The land that he took was everything to us.”

“Not so simple to explain,” he repeated. “So everyone keeps telling me, Maria,” he said. “But I'm not here to judge you and, for me, understanding who's right has been difficult. It's my brother's death that brought me here.”

“Sí, I know this,” she answered, caught by his striking blue eyes. They seem so sad, she thought. Do they hold the sins of the world, I wonder?

And Harrison was distracted and awed by her beauty.

“Someday the war will be over and we will have won. We will have defeated them.”

“Defeated them? Who, Maria?”

“The revolution is against the rich landowners and the politicians and the Americans who make use of Mexico to enslave my people. It is to fight them that I must supply guns, but maybe tomorrow it will be corn and frijoles.” Her dark eyes blazed with conviction.

Harrison suddenly wanted to believe in her passion and to share her conviction. For a moment, he felt a vast distance between them. “Those wagons outside? Are they loaded with smuggled rifles?”

We bought them legally from the Revel Brothers in Columbus. They are a respected American company. They buy guns the American Army does not want,” she explained. “Since the Americans went to war in Europe, that is all we can get, and this shipment is the last even of those.”

“Who smuggles them across the border?” Harrison asked.

“That is a stupid embargo. Two years ago, the border was open and guns did not matter to the Americans,” Maria said. “Everyone on the border sold them to make money.”

“I don't want to know how they come across,” he said suddenly. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“Harry, please….” Then Maria suddenly dismissed the subject by touching her thick, dark hair lightly with her fingers.

“I'm sorry if I insulted you,” Harrison said, noticing her delicate fingers. He was distracted by them, by her presence. “You are a lady. Of that I'm certain,” he told her, surprised to find he was sincere.

“And you are a gentleman with very good taste!” she said smiling. “Come, I want to show you a very special place.” She took James by the arm and pulled him up. She held his arm while they slowly strolled through the large house. “Bart and I met at a fiesta in Juárez, hosted by the Alcalde and his wife. I noticed him immediately. He stood so proud and dignified in his uniform. And his Spanish was so, so like a Spanish gentleman's,” she reflected fondly. “All the señoritas noticed him.”

Finally, they stood in the doorway of a large study. Harrison could see from her expression that she was very proud of it. They were surrounded by dark mahogany bookshelves, each filled from floor to ceiling with bound volumes. He saw a different mosaic in the middle of the tile floor. This one had classical Greek figures—older men with boys. James thought the scenes illustrated learning. On the walls hung only one painting—of the same man, but sitting in a great chair. That chair, he decided, looking at the chair behind a large desk.

Maria waited patiently for his response.

The electric lighting from a single large ceiling lamp illuminated the desk set in the middle of the room, with the black leather chair from the painting neatly pushed in behind it. The only other lighting was from a double framed window directly across the room between bookshelves. Heavy cotton drapes dyed brown and green concealed the outside, making the room very private—perfect intimacy for a reader and his books. The desktop was bare of anything, even an ink well.