Chasing Pancho Villa (5 page)

“Three beers,” he said. “And get yourself one, too.”

“Well, thank ya, sir,” she said with a Southern twang. “My name is Peaches. What yur name be?”

“Harrison,” he answered with a smile. The young woman, James thought, couldn't be older than sixteen or seventeen.

She brought the beers quickly, set them on the table, then backed up provocatively to sit in Jonesy's lap, but facing Harrison. Jonesy was elated, and immediately placed his hands on her breasts. Charlie leered at her, but said nothing.

“I want to thank you gentlemen for showing me around town,” Harrison said, appreciative. “And Jonesy, if there's anything you want me to take to your family back in Illinois, just let me know.”

Jonesy smiled, but was preoccupied by the young woman. His hands covered her small breasts. “Yeah, sir,” he said, fondling her.

Charlie sat staring at Harrison.

“So, Charlie,” Harrison said, feeling his eyes. “When do you think you'll leave for France?”

“Don't know,” he said. “Why ya wanna know?”

“Just asking,” he replied, sipping the beer. “So this is the frontier, eh?”

“The frontier? Yeah, I guess. So what?”

“Seems like there could be plenty of opportunities here for a man who worked hard. Have you ever thought about settling down around here?”

“Hell no.” He threw down the mug of beer. “I don't wanna talk my business with the likes of you,” he growled. “What doya know 'bout it, anyway?”

“I didn't mean to offend you,” Harrison said. “I'm just making small talk.”

“We best be headin' back to camp. Git up, private, he ordered Jonesy. “We gotta git.” He stood up.

Jonesy looked at Charlie, surprised. “I was jus' gittin' comfortable, Charlie.” His hands were still on Peaches' breasts.

“Charlie, cain't ya see the private here is preoccupied?” Peaches said, appearing to enjoy the fondling, or recognizing potential business in the young man. But it was the civilian who caught her eye. “Where ya stayin' mister? Mister? She listened closely for Harrison's answer.

“The name is James, and I don't know for certain where I'm staying.” He grabbed his grip and prepared to leave.

“Let's go,” Charlie said.

“You come back later, Mr. James, and you see Peaches now, ya hear me? You too, slim,” she said as an afterthought.

“I surely will,” Jonesy said with a wide grin on his face.

*

After walking about two blocks east, the three arrived at the Hoover Hotel. In another three blocks they would have reached the eastern limits of town.

About one block before reaching the hotel, they passed a charred ruin. Only the stone foundation and an adobe wall remained. “That's where the Commercial used to be,” Jonesy told him. “The Mex burned it out when they come in 1916. They say 'cause Villa don't like the owner. Said he cheated 'im on a gun deal.”

“People take their business seriously down here, don't they?” Harrison said. Charred pieces of wood still lay about on the ground where they had fallen. They kept walking.

“Here ya go, Harry,” Jonesy said, having walked another block. “The Hoover.” They stopped on the wooden sidewalk.

James looked up at the two-story clapboard building dominating the entire block. It was the largest building in town, he observed. Originally painted red, it had since faded to a grayish pink in the hot desert sun. Entrance was through double wood doors inset with large windows. “THE HOOVER HOTEL WELCOMES YOU” was painted across the large plate glass window to the right of the double door. There was no front promenade. The doors were open wide. A young, neatly dressed Hispanic looking man leaned against them.

The two soldiers turned to walk back toward Camp Furlong. There were no further words spoken. Jonesy had pointed to the entrance, and Harrison demonstrated his appreciation with a nod. He entered the building, the grip still over his shoulder.

The young Hispanic man followed him into the lobby. “Ahh señor, you will stay at the Hoover Hotel?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes, I will,” Harrison responded. “You have a room available? I want the best that you have, please.” He looked around, impressed with the large, well-decorated lobby. Small groups of men stood about talking and smoking.

“Claro, señor. For you we have only the best,” he said, taking hold of Harrison's one bag. “You will be staying long?” The young man immediately noticed the expensive cut of the white man's suit.

“I don't know yet,” Harrison answered. “Perhaps.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Later that day, after a bath, a nap, and clean clothes, Harrison James stood on a rocky promontory looking down at Camp Furlong from the north. Standing there on the overlook, he observed three or four wooden buildings clustered around the road that ran south to Mexico. The railroad tracks, running east and west, were just behind him. South of the wooden buildings he saw row after row of tents arranged symmetrically in city blocks, stretching toward the west and southwest. They were organized around an empty expanse of field approximately 100 by 40 yards. The only complete wooden structures he saw among the tents sheltered horses. Small formations of men could be seen drilling on the open field, kicking up clouds of brown dust as they marched. The entire, sprawling camp stretched out on a flat desert plain, with mountains rising in the west and southwest.

He was stopped at the main gate by a Negro military policeman. The young man had stepped out of a small wooden guard shack. A Ford motor transport truck turned in at the same time as Harrison, sending up a screen of dust. He turned away and covered his face.

“Wait suh,” the young MP said. “I gotta check the truck through. Quickly he looked into the back, poking under and around sacks of grain with his night stick. He then walked around to the driver. “Where ya goin', private?” He asked the soldier.

“Feed for the horses. Came in on the train,” the soldier said. He was older than the MP and white.

“Pass,” the MP ordered. He turned to walk back to James. The driver put the engine in gear and slowly moved forward.

“Yur bus'ness, suh?”

“I'm going to the Third Battalion, 24th Infantry,” James replied. He quickly noticed how the MP was armed—a .45 caliber automatic was strapped to his waist.

“Follow me, suh.” An aimless gust of wind suddenly blew up. It swirled down the roughly graded streets between the squares of tents, dusting everything with another layer of hard, red grit. Directly ahead, James watched the activity. Marching men on the parade field passed again and again through the curtain of dust without breaking formation. Very harsh, bleak conditions, he thought, as they made their way around the parade ground to a regimental headquarters area. He could tell by the banner waving in the breeze out in front of one of the larger tents that it was the 24th Infantry's headquarters.

He deliberately slowed the pace to observe the Army camp more closely. He recalled what Jonesy had told him about their duties at Camp Furlong: “to catch gun smugglers and Mexican rebels crossing the border…and to keep an eye on the Niggers.”

They continued walking until they came to another large tent with the Third Battalion banner out front.

“Just like hell,” Harrison mumbled, remembering what Charlie had said.

“We is here, suh,” the MP said to James. “He'll help ya fine.” He waved to another Negro soldier standing at parade rest with a Springfield rifle in front of the tent. The MP departed the same way he came.

“Yeah, suh,” the young soldier stated firmly before James could climb the three steps into the tent. “Ya bus'ness, suh?”

“I'm looking for Major Kneeland Snow,” Harrison said. “I'm expected.”“Inside, suh,” the soldier said, holding the tent flap open. Trucks rattled by, churning up more dust in the camp.

“Thank you,” Harrison responded, entering. His young escort turned and returned to his duties.

The command tent was oppressively hot and stuffy. “I'm looking for the Battalion Commander,” Harrison announced to the tired looking Negro soldier at the first desk he encountered.

“Sir, who ain't,” the man replied slowly without looking up.

“I mean, I have an appointment with Major Snow.”

The soldier finally looked up. “And yur name, sir, is?”

“James,” he announced. “Harrison James.” The other soldiers in the tent stopped what they were doing to stare at the civilian. “An appointment was made with the major four days ago.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, flipping through the pages of paper on a clipboard. “Here it is, sir.”

An officer entered through the front opening, swiftly marching up the two steps into the wood-floored tent.

“I've been expecting you, Mr. James,” the tall, heavily built white soldier called out as he entered the tent a short time later, followed by the clerk. He was hatless, and Harrison noticed the thinning dark hair outlining a broad, fleshy face with small, brown eyes and a rather large, bulbous nose. “I received a telegram from Mrs. James. She said you would be arriving today.”

Harrison faced the army officer.

“Welcome to the 24th Infantry. I'm Major Kneeland Snow.” The major held out his large hand to the civilian.”

“Thank you, major.” He extended his hand. It was immediately engulfed in the larger man's hand. Weak grip, Harrison noticed, and the soldier seemed heavy on his feet for an infantryman. He wasn't what James had expected.

“May we talk…in private?” Harrison asked quietly.

“Yes. Of course,” Major Snow said politely. “Let's go to my quarters. Please follow me.” He led Harrison through the large tent. The Negro soldiers still watched as the two white men left by the rear entrance.

Crossing one of the dusty streets, they entered another, smaller tent. Harrison was careful to maneuver over the tent's anchoring lines as he stepped into the major's quarters.

“Please sit down.” Major Snow motioned with his hand to one of the two chairs in the tent. “Forgive the lack of accommodations, but we are on a war footing here.” He smiled. “You can understand.”

“Yes, of course, major. I'll try not to take up much of your time.” Harrison then pulled a yellowed envelope from his breast pocket and unfolded its contents. Inside was a letter written on simple white stationary, and a Western Union Telegram.

The officer recognized the contents. He had written them.

“Major, in this letter…” he held it up, “You state that my brother put a gun to his head and…” Harrison suddenly choked, feeling sickened and bereaved. “And shot himself.”

“Yes, sir. That is correct,” Snow nodded. “I'm very sorry.” Sitting at the small writing desk, the major looked down.

“He took his own life because he was depressed. Is that right?” Harrison struggled with his sudden emotion.

“Please, sir. Let me explain. This unit recently had a very unfortunate experience while stationed in Houston, Texas. Many of the men mutinied. A horrible time, really. They mutinied and went on a rampage. People were killed. Civilians were killed. These boys are a difficult bunch. Coloreds, you know….”

“What does that have to do with the death of my brother, major?”

“I'm trying to explain,” the major replied, standing. “Captain James was a good company commander. But, I'm afraid he over-sympathized with his Colored troops. Too long out here in company with them.”

“One year, sir. Do you consider that too long?”

“He failed to provide the leadership that the army expected of him. Mr. James, his concern for his men clouded his judgment.”

Agitated by the criticism of his brother, Harrison, too, jumped to his feet. He towered over the soldier. “You're saying his death was because he blamed himself for the Negro troopers rioting in Houston? Your letter indicated as much. However, sir, I'm afraid the family still does not quite understand.”

“The cause of your brother's unfortunate death was the Houston riot.” Snow was intimidated by the tall man now coldly staring at him. “Yes, your brother blamed himself for what happened. He was Officer of the Day during the riot. Captain James couldn't live with that dishonor. But, Mr. James, I'm not saying the Army blamed him. I'm not saying that at all, sir. He blamed himself. When we got here to Columbus, well, Bart just wasn't himself.”

“He wasn't himself? What does that mean?”

“Your brother seemed sad, out of sorts. He was acting strange. He kept to himself, not talking to anyone, and always seemed busy. He traveled by train the day before he died, but he wouldn't tell anyone where he was going, or why. Lieutenant Floyd asked him, but Captain James told him only that he had to go to El Paso on personal business. He refused to discuss the troubles in Houston with me or the other officers.”

Harrison filed that information. “Who discovered his body?” he asked quietly.

“I discovered him. I found his body late, around 11:00. He was lying across the floor of his tent, between two cots. He was alone. His .45 was beside him. It had been fired.”

“His gun was fired,” Harrison repeated. “How many times?”

“Just once. I checked it myself. No other bullet holes anywhere. Just the one. There were no signs of a struggle.”

“No chance of an accident? Perhaps his gun accidentally discharged?”

“Accidents happen,” the officer agreed. “But this was no accident. His weapon had to have been charged, cocked, and the safety released before it was fired. In any case, the coroner ruled out accidental discharge due to the wound.”

“The wound?”

“Yes sir. An entry wound to the temple. At extremely close range.” The major paused. “Mr. James, again I'm extremely sorry.”

“What else did you find at the scene?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. It was late, as I've already stated, sir. On a Saturday evening.”

“Did you hear the gunshot?”

“No, I didn't. L Company is quite a distance from my quarters here. Only his orderly, Private Peck, heard a gun discharged. Most everyone else was gone. It was Saturday night, after all.”

“Is that unusual?” Harrison asked. “That only one person would have heard the gunfire? We're in the middle of an Army camp, major.”

“No, it is not, Mr. James. Out here, random gunfire is not unusual, in any case. Everyone carries a sidearm. After the Mexicans raided last year, people took to arming themselves.” The major continued. “Gunfire is commonplace on a Saturday night, and it's something we've grown accustomed to hearing. The town is a lethal mix, guns and whisky.”

“Had my brother been drinking…in your opinion?”

“No, sir, not in my opinion.”

“I see.” Harrison frowned, pausing to focus his thoughts. “You didn't hear his gun fire, yet you found him?”

“We were to meet in his tent. I entered and saw him. He was there on the floor.”

“You were to meet that late, major?”

“Yes. I was the duty officer that Saturday…to give the other officers a night in town. I know that sounds strange, but it's true. We were the subject of an investigation by senior officers from Washington. The Adjutant General's office. Their visit proved to be a very trying time for all of us.”

“There was a high level investigation?” Harrison asked.

“Yes, sir. The AG staff was preparing for the Colored's court-martial. They were conducting a review of the Houston troubles. They had questioned Captain James that day. They asked him if he had refused a direct order to fire on the mutineers before they left camp. That had re-opened wounds…between your brother and me.” He stared at the ground. “We, all the officers under my command, had been interviewed that week regarding the events in Houston. The other officers left camp earlier in the evening, after the Washington people were taken to the train, to relax in Columbus. They had earned it. But your brother declined, stating that he had some business to take care of. We arranged to meet because I needed to talk with him. That's when I found him.”

“Do you know what kind of business he had, major?”

“I don't know exactly. I assumed he was taking care of personal correspondence. We found his fountain pen on the floor, but no papers, notes or anything else on his desk.”

“Curious,” Harrison said, thinking about it. “Sir, may I review those investigation transcripts?” he asked. “It's important that I know how my brother answered those questions.”

“Not at present, Mr. James. Not until after the court martial is concluded.” The major was absolute. “All interviews are material evidence.”

“Who gave the order to fire?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Who gave the order to fire on the Negro troops?”

“I gave the order, sir. They were mutineers…. They had to be stopped.”

“What happened then, major?”

“It was mutiny. The damned Coloreds went marching through town to the police station.” Major Snow's lower lip trembled. “We should have fired on them immediately…to disperse them. It would have saved trouble, saved lives, and a lot of grief. Mr. James, your brother's refusal to follow my order was a serious breach of his military responsibility. I believed it was a problem your brother and I needed to settle between ourselves. He refused my direct order to stop them, sir.”

Harrison noted the anger.

“We needed to talk further about it,” the battalion commander said, then paused. “Sir, I want you to know…this was a highly respected unit. They distinguished themselves in Mexico. However, like any other unit, it had its bad apples. Trouble makers, stirring up the others. With Coloreds, I've come to understand, more discipline is required rather than less. Race troubles being what they are in Houston…well, sir, I feared something bad was bound to happen.”

Harrison listened without interrupting.

“Your brother refused to open fire. I told him it was a direct order from his commanding officer. Still he chose to disobey it.”

Harrison watched the Major grow more agitated.

“He treated me with contempt, sir. He spoke of our disagreement openly with other officers. This has seriously affected morale. Captain James was my subordinate.” The soldier turned to stare out the tent opening, making an effort to master himself.

“I wanted to settle the whole matter so that the unit could overcome this, this terrible event. As soldiers in the United States Army, Mr. James, we both understood what was expected of us,” he said, turning back to the civilian. “And, sir, I want to tell you that I never charged Captain James with disobeying a lawful order, nor did I convey my own feelings to the Board of Inquiry.”