Chasing Pancho Villa (18 page)
“What's the captain's name?”
“I don't know. Cain't 'member it.” James twisted the barrel harder. “We only know'd him from ridin' the train,” Charlie croaked.
“Last chance,” Harrison said coldly.
“Tell âim, Charlie,” Jones begged.
“His name is Blaine, Captain Blaine. We know'd him 'cause we see'd him on the El Paso train all da time. Ya can find âim. He's in the nigger battalion.”
They were followed by several men from the group at the saloon, with others joining in as they slowly made their way down Broadway.
“The Army has a big reward posted for them outlaws, Harry. You know where they at,” Charlie said. “We'll split with ya. What ya say to dat?”
“Shut up and keep walking.”
The constable met the three on the street in front of the jail. “Trouble just naturally seems to follow you around, Mr. James.”
“These two low lifes assaulted me, constable. I want to press charges.” He reached into his pocket for their weapons and handed them to the policeman.
Constable Arnold raised his voice. “Now, you folks get back to whatever you're doing, you hear me? You've all seen this before.”
Arnold took the weapons from James and examined Charlie. “Looks to me like they got the worst of it.” He smiled. “I'll charge 'em if you want, but the military police will come down right smart and take 'em outa my custody.” He escorted the two to the back of the jail and locked them into a cell. “José, take Mr. James' newest complaint.”
Then the constable reconsidered. “Mr. James, come into my office and have a seat,” he said. He waited patiently for James to sit. Then he continued. “I want to tell you something.”
“Yes?” Harrison said.
Arnold smiled thinly. “There was something else I haven't told you. About those last days before your brother died.”
Harrison leaned forward in his chair.
“Your brother stopped by my office. As usual, he was in a great hurray. But he wanted me to know where he was going,” Arnold said. “He told me he was traveling to El Paso to meet a Jackson Smith. The Captain said this man had important information that he was willing to give him. For a price, of course”
“What was the information?”
“I don't know. We never met again, and your brother never mentioned the kind of information he was expecting from this man. Captain James said he would brief me later, but he never did.”
“I see,” Harrison said, considering. Smith again, he thought. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Constable.”
“I thought you had a right to all the information concerning your brother's death. I hope that helps in some way,” Arnold said. “We know Smith is a smuggler with powerful friends up north. What do you know about him? Anything that might help in my investigation? Anything at all?”
“I'm sorry, Constable,” Harrison replied. “I'm afraid I don't know him. But if I find something, I'll certainly share it with you.”
“Was Smith a business associate?” Arnold pressed.
“I never worked with the man,” Harrison replied. “But I'll check with our home office. They may know something.” I need to meet with Smith first before I tell Arnold what I know, he decided quickly.
“James, be very careful how you poke around here,” Arnold said with genuine concern. “There's some things going on around here that could get you killed.”
“Like what, constable?” Harrison asked.
“The problems across the border. The fighting going on there can spill over to our side easy enough. And I suspect there are people right here in town who have a hand in it. One way or another.”
“Are you talking about smuggling?”
“Mr. James, I'll look into your concerns,” Arnold said without answering his question. “I promise. Now, José will help you with your second complaint this evening.”
“Thank you, constable,” James said, knowing he would get nothing more from Arnold.
“José!”
“SÃ, jefe.” He motioned for James to sit. “Venga, señor. Sit here.”
Harrison tiredly began dictating his complaint.
January 16, 1918
The ride back to the ranch was a long one for Daniel. He had lost heavily gambling in El Paso, and knew Maria would be angry when she discovered how much money was gone. He looked over at the Indian riding beside him. In many ways, Daniel envied Carlos. He was his own man, free to come and go as he pleased, with no demanding sister. Daniel looked at the Springfield strapped across the Indian's back.
“Don't tell my sister, amigo,” Daniel said. “About the gambling, I mean. She wouldn't understand.”
“SÃ,” was all Carlos answered. His black hair whipped across his face in a late night breeze. He didn't listen to the silly Negrito, and did not care about his problems. The boy was already dead in Carlos' mind. He was busy working out the details of his next job. That was the big one they had paid him so well to do. It must be clean, he thought. No loose ends like the job he did for the local boys back in October. The rich gringo had escaped. Everything must go perfectly or it would fail.
He wondered why it had to involve the young Washington, and why it had to be done now. It would have been so easy to take care of both hombres, one at a time. If he killed the Negrito now, he could have his way with the woman when he returned to the hacienda. The thought of touching her made him hard. He would enjoy her in many ways before he killed her. Carlos looked across at Maria's brother and smiled.
The two men galloped on through the darkness, determined to make the Washington hacienda by dawn. Carlos enjoyed the solitude of the desert. The emptiness of the vast land matched the emptiness of his soul.
The train ride from San Antonio back to Camp Furlong seemed to last forever. The car they were riding in was unheated, and the weather unusually cold and damp for west Texas. The weather had been the main topic of conversation among the passengers for the last four hours. Harrison, bored, peered out the window at the gray, sunless day. Dreary and dull, he thought, like the conversations around him. He squirmed on the worn seat, feeling the springs poking at his backside. His muscles ached, and he felt the beginnings of a headache, in the back of his neck. But at least the Grover's trial was over.
He thought about the quadrangle shaped building in the middle of Fort Sam Houston where the court martial for 64 of the 150 Negro soldiers who had mutinied back in late August in Houston had been held. Less than a week after kissing Maria good-bye he was there in San Antonio defending Grover Burns of M Company, one of the 64 men.
Flanked by huge portraits of Steven Austin and Sam Houston, the men were tried by a panel of 12 white army officers for mutiny and murder. They each faced a hanging if convicted. The opening day of trialâNovember 1stâwas cool, but sunny for central Texas, he recalled. The trial dragged on for almost 30 days, with the Army's prosecutors presenting their case against each of the 64 men. Harrison had been one of only two defense attorneys for the defendants. He had represented only Grover. The others had shared one young army officer.
Feeling the chill of the coach car, Harrison longed for the warm Mediterranean breezes of southern France.
*
James looked over at the Negro soldier in the brown uniform sitting beside him. His chin rested on his chest while he slept. Occasionally, he gave out a loud snore. The young man's head, with a day's whiskers beginning to sprout in uneven patches, moved from side to side with the sway of the train, but the motion didn't wake him. Harrison envied him.
He remembered what Grover, frightened out of his wits, had told him when they first met in the stockade just before the proceedings had begun. “They tol' me they put a rope 'round ma neck. âIf ya don't talk, we gonna see dat you have a rope 'round ya neck.' Some boys already say they saw you downtown in Houston.”
Grover had been suspicious of Harrison's motives for offering to defend him. “Mista Harry, ya believe ya can save me?” he had asked. “Ya ain't saved no Negro before. They gonna hang me, sure enough. I knows it.”
Harrison told Grover he was sent by Maria and Grover's uncle, Mr. Jones, to get him out of a hanging. He assured Grover he knew what he was doing. But deep down, Harrison was not that confident. The last time he had litigated was five years earlierâand he had lost.
“Not guilty,” the President of the Court had read, acquitting Grover of all three charges. “In the main,” the general read, “these explanations given by the defendant are neither completely convincing nor entirely satisfactory. However, the Court, upon consideration of all evidence, entertained a reasonable doubt as to his actual participation in any of the offenses charged. Measured against this standard, acquittal is justified.” Grover was the only one found not guilty.
Harrison realized from reading the witness statements and the other evidence presented by the prosecution that the case against Grover was weak. The Army, determined to make an example of the accused, presented witnesses that were easily rebutted. He also knew that it was his presence in the court room, more than anything else, that had saved Grover. He wondered how the other 63 defendants would have fared if they had been properly represented.
*
Carlos had sold the information for one thousand dollars. The white man from El Paso had bought it immediately when he told him where he got it. Not more than several hours later, he received payment in American dollars and orders to accompany Maria Washington on her journey south. That meant his decision to take her would have to wait. Carlos had already implemented his plan for getting rid of her brother and the important white man in Columbus. It was more complex than usual, but another man there would assist him. For a price, of course.
“Señor Daniel,” he yelled from the gate. “Un mensajero de Los Estados. Muy importante.”
“Digale a venir,” Daniel called back. “I will meet him now. Maybe a love letter from her gringo, eh?” He laughed, but Carlos only smiled.
*
At the San Antonio train depot, Harrison had requested that the soldier be allowed to ride with him instead of in the car reserved for Negroes. The conductor absolutely refused, so Harrison sat in the Negroes' car with Burns. He looked up at the sign in the front of the car.
For Coloreds
, it announced in large black letters.
Harrison's hand trembled slightly. I could use a drink, he thought, still seeing the executions in his mind. He couldn't forget the image of 13 condemned men dropping into space to twist at the end of a rope. Several bodies jumped involuntarily, then all thirteen hung lifeless in the air. The Army had planned the hanging as an example, and they had wasted no time in carrying out the sentences. The prisoners stood in a line, blindfolded, with arms and legs tightly bound. They stood on a high wooden platform specially built for their executions in the courtyard of the Quadrangle at Fort Sam Houston.
James had witnessed the hanging only because he had assisted Captain Grier, the single defense attorney for the other 63 accused men, with last minute appeals for reprieve. President Wilson had refused to grant clemency, or even a delay. Harrison was sickened, but not surprised. The whole spectacle was meant to appease the white Texans, and to discourage any other attempts by Negro soldiers to resist the Jim Crow Laws.
Harrison finally had an opportunity to read the witness transcripts, and he read them thoroughly. They were very informative. He gained a very clear picture of Bart's commanding officer. Harrison reviewed Major Snow's account of his own disappearance during the riot. “The men stampeded toward the center of town. My first thought was to get help. I had to notify the city of Houston then get to Camp Logan to act against these men,” the major had testified. “I went down Washington Avenue, then ran down Washington Street to get help.”
Harrison thought about Bart's refusal to fire on the mutineers. He had read his brother's testimony. And it was true, just like the soldiers at Camp Furlong had told him. Bart had refused to order his men to open fire. He admitted it. Reading the words again and again, Harrison sensed his brother's stubborn defiance, but not shame. “To shoot our own soldiers down in the street is against everything I believe in,” he stated in his deposition. Harrison thought he would remember Bart's words always. Then the whistle shrieked in his ear as the train braked for El Paso station.
Burns began to stir. “Where are we now, Mista James?” he asked, first opening one eye, then the other. He raised both arms into the air to stretch, mouth gaping.
“El Paso, Grover.”
Quickly realizing his campaign hat was missing, he stood up in a panic, looking about the floor. “Ma Hat? Where's ma hat?”
Harrison pointed above them. “I stowed it. It fell off while you were sleeping.”
“Thank ya, suh,” Grover smiled and stood to retrieve it. “Is thar food here, suh?”
Harrison looked at the station platform coming into view. “Can we git somethin' to eat here, suh?” He sat back down quickly as the train jerked to a stop.
“I believe so.” Harrison smiled. “But we stay together until we get to Camp Furlong.”
“Yeah, suh.”
Through the dirty window they both stared at the station platform and what lay beyond, then at the people still packed into their car. The passengers here were waiting patiently for all the whites in the forward carriages to exit first. Burns nodded slowly.
“Texas, Mr. James. Not a good place for color'd folk,” he said.
Mr. Jones moved easily through the crowd to greet them as soon as they stepped off the train. He had been standing silently by the ticket window, watching passengers disembark. Grover noticed him immediately. “Uncle James!” he cried, the emotion clear in his voice.
Seeing Grover and then Harrison, Jones winked at his nephew and motioned to them with a turn of the head toward the black Dodge parked nearby. They passed him to approach the automobile.
“Harry! Harry, quick!” a female voice from inside the Dodge called out softly as they drew near.
Harrison smiled, took the private by the arm, and stepped to the window of the Dodge.
A hand reached out for him. “Harry, thank you,” Maria said, squeezing his hand. “I knew you would not fail.”
He bent down, looking into the car. Maria was in black, wearing a long full dress with high button collar. No gun belt was visible. Her fine features and hair were veiled. He saw the black cavalry boots sticking out from beneath her skirts and smiled.
“Get in, please,” Maria ordered softly. Mr. Jones opened the door for the two and they slid into the back seat. She reached over and embraced Grover Burns, pressing him to her veiled face. “Now you are safe, Grover,” she whispered in his ear, and lifted her veil to kiss his cheek. She held James' face in her gloved hands, looking into his eyes. “Harrison, you are my man of honor,” she told him, her beautiful dark eyes shining with tears. She kissed him on his lips.
“Maria, this is dangerous,” Harrison whispered intently. “You must go back over the border quickly. And I must get Grover back to Camp Furlong.”
“I had to see for myself. When I heard the news, I could not believe it. Ah, Harry, my dearest. Mi amor.”
She squeezed his hand. “We will meet later. Mr. Jones will bring you as before.”
Harrison was worried. “Is that wise?” he asked, concerned.
“Don't worry, Harry.” She smiled. “But you must be careful. Things have changed in Columbus. Now it is more dangerous than ever.”
“Why?”
“The soldiers watch the border more closely.” She touched him on his cheek, smiled, then kissed him on the forehead. “Mr. Jones, we must go,” she ordered firmly. “Good-bye Harry, my love. For now.”
Harrison and Private Burns slid out of the back seat as the big chauffeur started up the Dodge. Standing in the car's dust, they watched it pull away.
Harrison bought a copy of the
El Paso Sun
before they returned to the train. He opened it and began reading. In the lower left corner of the front page was a headline: “Fireball from warehouse explosion lights up night sky.” Harrison opened the newspaper to the second page and read: “It was seen as far away as Columbus, New Mexico. Mr. Jackson Smith, a spokesman for Rio Grande Feed and Grain, stated that he had no idea why someone would blow up the building. Besides wheat, only several cases of dynamite for clearing tree stumps had been stored there. The cause of the fire was unknown, but arson was suspected, according to the El Paso Police.”
Smith. Just like I figured, James thought with a smile, pleased with himself for getting the information on Smith's whereabouts from Jonathan before leaving Chicago.
*
The two men arrived in Columbus mid-afternoon of the same day. Harrison, with baggage in hand, went to his hotel with Private Burns. “I'll find us rooms for the night. We'll go out to Camp Furlong in the morning,” he told Burns as they entered the lobby. Harrison had already decided to escort the private back to camp. A good time to talk with the major, he thought. And with Juan.
“Yeah, suh,” Grover responded. He was uncomfortable in the whites-only hotel.
One of the changes Maria had spoken of was obvious in the Hoover. The lobby was quieter, with fewer people milling about. Harrison saw only one Army officer. He looked for Miguel.
“Señor. Señor James,” a voice called out from behind them. They both turned to see the hotel clerk approaching them from the dining room. “You have returned. Bueno!” He sounded pleased.
“Miguel.” Harrison smiled. “I need the best room you have. And a hot bath. I'll be staying several days. Can you arrange everything?”
“SÃ, Señor James. For you, no problema.”
“The best,” James said.
“Only the best, señor.” Grabbing James' single piece of luggage, he led them both to the front desk. Miguel eyed the young Negro soldier. “Heem, too, Señor James?” he asked pointing at Burns doubtfully.
“Yes, amigo. Him, too. And he needs a hot bath.” James produced a ten dollar bill.
Miguel looked resigned. “Muy bien. I will find something, but not in the Hoover Hotel, señor. I have another hotel for this man.”
“No, Miguel,” Harrison said directly.
“It's okay, suh,” Grover intervened. “I'll take it.”
“Make sure it's the best you can find, Miguel,” James insisted.
“SÃ, señor,” Miguel answered.
“And a bath too, Miguel. For both of us.”
*
Early the next morning, after a breakfast of steak and eggs, Harrison and Burns strolled to the livery and hired a buggy and driver to take them out to the military camp. Harrison was surprised that the ride was only a dollar. Prices had dropped. He gave the old man five dollars for his trouble.
“Gracias,” the old man said with a dignified bow.
With Burns in uniform, an MP waved them through. The two men walked the short distance from the main gate to headquarters for the Negro battalion. Strolling down the dusty street, they passed empty rows of tents. The desert quiet had returned to Camp Furlong. It was slipping back into the sleepy frontier outpost of pre-Villa days. The empty tents, flapping in the desert breeze, held discarded pieces of broken furniture and equipment. He saw an overturned washstand with a cracked, dust-covered mirror nearby. Inside one tent, he glimpsed an abandoned pack with a broken shoulder strap. They came upon four Negro soldiers breaking down the tents. Probably to ship them to France, Harrison thought.
When he and Private Burns arrived at the headquarters tent for 3rd Battalion, 24th Infantry, they discovered that Major Snow had not yet returned from Texas, where he had testified for the prosecution in the court martial. The news frustrated James. “When can I speak with the major?” he asked. The young clerk did not answer. He was staring at Private Burns as though he were seeing a ghost. “Private?” Harrison asked again.
“Sir?”
“I want to speak with Major Snow. When will he be coming back?”
“Sir, he's expected tomorrow. I will inform 'im that you've asked, sir.” He turned to Burns. “Burns, we weren'tâ¦. That is, you're back. We heard you was hung.”
Burns shrugged. “So did I.”
“Where's Sergeant Parilla,” interrupted James.
“Sir, he ain't here, either. I'll tell the first sergeant that you asked for him, too, sir.” The clerk continued staring at Private Burns. “He's off duty, sir.”
“Good bye, Private Burns, and good luck to you,” Harrison said, shaking his hand. “You know where you can find me if you need me.”
“Good-bye, Mista James. I surely thank ya fur what ya done fur me. Yes, suh, I do,” the private said with simple dignity. He left the tent escorted by another Negro soldier.
Harrison turned to leave, then he stopped. “By the way, is the cavalry still here?”
“Yes, sir. Still patrolling the border, sir.”
“Thank you.”
*
Harrison returned to Columbus and the hotel. At the door to his room, he reached for the Colt as he checked the door. He inserted the brass key, and entered cautiously. The room was undisturbed.
Shortly after dusk, he heard a knock.
“Señorâ¦Señor James, venga! You have message. Muy importante, I think. Venga!” Miguel whispered through the door.
“Harrison opened the door. “Who's it from?” he asked.
“La policÃa, señor. Muy importante. The constable bring it. He give me to give you, señor.”
“How long ago?”
“Ahora, treinta minutos, no mas.” Miguel looked over his shoulder down the shadowy hallway. Lowering his voice, he repeated, “Muy importante, Señor James. He say to tell no one.”
“Why didn't the constable deliver it directly to me?”
“You were not here, señor. He was in hurry and leave muy rapido.” Miguel motioned with both hands.
James unfolded the yellowed slip of notebook paper. “Come to my office tonight. I have information for you.” The message was signed “Amos Arnold, Constable.” He reread it slowly. “You say the constable himself?” Harrison repeated to the clerk.
“SÃ, the constable.”
“I'll take care of it.” Harrison refolded the note and slid it into his trouser pocket, already considering. He turned and went back down the stairway. The clerk followed.
“Señor James, I see you mas tarde,” Miguel said at the hotel doors.
“Yes, later,” Harrison replied absently.
