Chasing Pancho Villa (8 page)

“Fair enough,” Harrison said. “I'm staying at the Hoover. Just leave a message with Miguel if I'm not there.” He stood, nodding to Consuelo, who smiled quietly in response. “Good evening then.” Harrison turned, put his hat back on and headed out the door.

*

He threaded back through the alleys until reaching a street with gaslights. Broadway—Harrison recognized the street from earlier in the day. He had observed yet another side of the New Mexico town. Nearer the well-lit street, the small adobe homes of Juan's neighborhood had given way to two story, wood frame, clapboard houses, once brightly painted and trimmed with ornate latticework. Walking slowly back to the center of town along Broadway, Harrison encountered increasing numbers of soldiers.

Harrison stopped in front of a well-lighted saloon that he recognized from the day before. Why not, he thought. It's still early. He entered the Last Chance Saloon.

Upstairs, he saw men leaning against wooden banisters, talking or watching the crowd below. A thick haze of dark blue tobacco smoke hung in the air. The smell of stale beer and cigars permeated everything. He saw saloon girls strolling through the room taking drink orders or making other arrangements with the soldiers, but he saw no Negroes anywhere.

Sipping their mugs of beer, several soldiers turned to watch as James walked to the bar. “A beer,” he ordered. He leaned over the polished mahogany and placed one foot on the brass footrail.

The short, stout bartender nodded and drew a mug for the new arrival. Harrison slid a quarter across the bar toward him. The man picked it up and smiled. “Evenin',” he said, flashing his black and brown stained teeth. The man had a belly that pushed against the front of his grimy white apron, and an even larger bald head. But Harrison saw that he was quick on his feet as he watched him move around behind the bar, satisfying his customers.

Harrison stared up at a wooden framed lithograph of the battleship U.S.S. Maine hanging behind the long bar. To its right was a lithograph of John L. Sullivan in his glory days. Seeing it, he smiled, remembering how often and in how many places he had seen the same picture of the great fighter hanging in a saloon.

“Hey, Harry,” someone behind James called.

He turned to see the two soldiers he had met on the train.

“Gentlemen,” Harrison said. The two approached him, mugs of beer in hand.

“Ya know, Harry, for some reason I know'd I'd see you again. You're fast at findin' yur way 'round town. Ain't he, Jonesy?”

“Sure is. Howdy, Harry.”

“You drinkin' alone, Harry?” Jonesy asked.

“Yes I am,” James answered, smiling at the mismatched pair as they leaned against the wood railing on each side of him. “Isn't it a little late for you boys to be out of camp?”

They both grinned.

“Harry, we's off duty. We can come ta town if we wanta, eh?” Charlie said.

Both soldiers laughed out loud.

“You boys need another?” the bartender asked in a thick Irish brogue.

“Give us one. You buyin' Harry?” Charlie asked with a sneer.

“What about ye, sur?” The bartender asked Harrsion.

“Not for me, thanks,” Harrison responded, still looking at Charlie. “But give my good friends here each a beer.” Harrison then gave the short soldier a nasty smile.

“Ye be new lad 'round here, ain't ye?” the bartender asked.

“That's right. Harrison James.”

They shook hands.

“Patrick Derry. Call me Paddy,” the bartender replied. “This be me own place here. Now where ye be from, if ye don't mind me askin'?”

“I'm from Illinois.”

“Illinois,” Paddy repeated. “Be travelin' through, now?”

“No, Paddy,” Harrison replied.

“Come on, Paddy. Where's ar beer, eh?” Charlie was irritated.

“Comin' up, boys. Jus' hold yer horses,” Paddy said, tapping two draughts, then sliding one after the other across the mahogany.

“You boys come here often?” Harrison asked Jonesy.

“Sure do,” Jonesy answered, then took a long swallow from the mug.

“Tell me more about what the army has you gentlemen doing out here. What with the real war on in Europe,” Harrison said.

“We makin' sure the Mex don't come 'cross the border again,” Jones continued. “Now, we's gettin' ready for the big 'un. Yessir. Give us our steel helmets today.” He looked at Charlie.

“That's right,” Charlie responded, taking a deep swallow of beer. He wiped the froth from his face with the back of his forearm. The bastard Yankee buys me a beer and expectin' me to sing fur it, he thought, kicking viciously at the sawdust that covered the dark wood floor.

To Harrison, Charlie had trouble written all over him. This encounter only confirmed his earlier opinions. He easily pictured Charlie as one of the big rats that lurked in all of Chicago's alleys.

Charlie leaned real close to Harrison so no one else could hear. “Ya got money on ya, Harry?” he whispered, his hand holding Harrison's upper arm.

Harrison reached across with his other hand. He grabbed Charlie's fingers and twisted hard to force the smaller man's arm behind his back. “Go to hell,” Harrison whispered, putting pressure on Charlie's arm.

Charlie struggled to free himself.

Harrison gave him a slight push, then let him go.

“Let's go,” Charlie suddenly ordered Jonesy. “We got bus'ness.” He turned and left.

“I'm sure we'll see ya agin, Harry,” Jonesy said, and followed Charlie to the door.

“Why we leavin' so soon, Charlie?” Jonesy asked when they were outside on the wood walkway.

“I don't like the Yankee none,” Charlie answered. “Come on. We'll go across the street. Wait fer ‘im ta leave.”

Harrison finished his beer.

“Havin' 'nother?” Paddy asked.

“No Paddy. I think I'll be retiring for the evening.”

*

From the mouth of an alley across the street, the two privates watched the civilian leave the bar and walk down Broadway. They then crossed the street and re-entered the saloon.

“I don't like that Yankee none, Paddy,” Charlie told the bartender when the two got to the bar. “He needs to be taken down a peg.”

“Ye think ye the man to do it, now?” Paddy asked, serving them two more beers.

“Ya sayin' I can't?” Charlie asked angry.

“I be sayin' to ye that the man be dangerous,” Paddy said. “I can tell it when I looks at 'im. Ye best be leavin' 'im alone.”

CHAPTER TEN

Harrison did not receive any message from the Sergeant the following day. He stopped by the front desk twice to speak with Miguel. With time on his hands, he asked around town about Bart's woman. But mostly, he stayed in his room thinking.

Early the morning of the second day, Harrison heard a knock at his door.

“Señor James?” the clerk said through the door. “Señor, I have message for you. From my uncle.

“Slide it under the door,” Harrison responded from bed. He had spent much of the early morning planning his next move. He waited, listening for the clerk's departing footsteps on the waxed wood floors, then got out of bed. Seeing the single sheet of tablet paper on the floor, he reached down to retrieve the note.

The message was simple and direct. “La Señorita will meet with you. Tomorrow, at six of the clock we travel. Come to the livery off Broadway.” It was not signed.

*

Sergeant Parilla and James departed as the sun's rays broke the horizon. Parilla had rented two horses and packed provisions for two days. “This is enough, amigo. No worry. I am a soldier in this country for many years.”

Harrison listened, reserving judgment.

Juan saw the expression on the white man's face. “You have pistola, Harry?”

Harrison hesitated, finally smiled and answered, “Sí.”

“Good. There are many animals in this country. Some dangerous. It is good to be armed.” Juan looked him over carefully. The weapon was well concealed.

Still smiling, Harrison drew his coat back to reveal an ivory handled .32 caliber Colt automatic in a shoulder holster.

Juan nodded.

Harrison pulled his hat down tight over his brown hair. He wrapped a scarf around his mouth and neck, more to hide his identity than for protection against the early morning chill. Only his eyes were exposed.

“Muy bien,” Juan laughed heartily. “We are ready. Now we go to meet La Señorita.” He led them out of town, moving due south toward the border.

“Now where do ye think they be goin' in this wide land?” the bartender asked, standing at the door to the saloon as the two riders passed down Broadway. He had just unlocked the door to get ready for the early morning trade.

“I dunno, suh,” the young Negro shrugged. “But, they ain't goin' to no picnic. I knows the first sergeant, an' he not a man to travel in a desert fur no good reason.” Using a slow, choppy motion, he deliberately swept the dirt and dust from the night before into one large pile in front of the door.

“Do ye know that lad with 'im?” Paddy asked, stepping away from the pile of sawdust and dirt.

“No, suh. I surely don't. He wears those fancy clothes. He don't need to go picnicin' in the desert, no way.”

“Ever seen 'im before?”

“Yeah, suh. I seen 'im a couple a day ago, I reckon. Seen 'im in the company area. He was askin' 'bout Capt'n James, Mista Derry. The one that kilt hisself.”

“They goin' someplace import'nt, maybe, to meet somebody, to git somethin', maybe.” Paddy narrowed his eyes.

“They say he's the capt'n's brother, but I never heard his name.”

Paddy only said, “Ye hear something, Peck, ye be lettin' me know. There's a good lad.”

“Yeah, suh, Mista Derry. I surely will.” The young Negro resumed his sweeping, gradually moving the pile out the door onto the wood sidewalk. Peck had been working at the saloon on and off since his company returned to Camp Furlong. Like many soldiers from the camp, he needed the extra money. And Mistuh Derry rewarded him well sometimes for his information. Mistuh Derry always wanted to know what the army was doing.

*

When the two riders had gone several miles and were safely out of sight of Columbus, Juan abruptly changed direction and headed northwest. “Where are we going?” Harrison asked.

“Columbus has many eyes, amigo. We go toward Tres Hermanas.” He pointed to the three peaks standing side by side in the distance.

They rode slowly all day through the arid, rocky plain. They stopped only once to eat, rest, and water the horses. Juan pointed out landmarks to Harrison, and explained ways to survive in the desert. “Always look for landmarks, and do not let the distances fool you, amigo,” he told him. “The land is very flat here. You see?” He pointed to the mountains. “How far you think?”

“I'd say several miles—three miles, maybe,” Harrison replied.

Juan smiled. “No, amigo. “A half day by horse.”

When the desert turned suddenly to scrub forest, Juan knew they had reached the foothills, nearing the meeting place. The day was hot, and the dry air and dust had taken their toll on both men.

Making their way carefully through a narrow canyon, the two riders came out into an open area surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides. Higher up, rocky promontories towered over them. Harrison knew that from those high points someone could observe any approaches into the widening canyon. He felt they were being watched as Juan led him through a stand of scrub pine. They reached the rendezvous just as the sun set behind the peaks. There, they finally dismounted.

“We make camp,” Juan ordered, and began to unpack the horses. “I feed the horses. You build a fire. Build a big fire.” Juan knew they were being watched. “Make us some coffee.” It was autumn in the high country and the evening air was cooling quickly.

Harrison did as he was told. He filled the tin coffee pot with water from his canteen, then he scooped in ground coffee and closed the lid. When the coals were red and the fire was hot, he set the pot on a larger mesquite log at the edge of the fire. Within a few minutes it was boiling. The aroma of fresh coffee slowly filled the small clearing. He opened a large can of beans and dumped its contents into a large pan. Then he added a tin of meat to the beans. Ravished, they ate.

An hour passed.

“Make more coffee, Harry,” Juan ordered softly. “For our guests.”

By the time the coffee had begun to boil, they heard horses approaching in the darkness.

James was intensely curious about this woman, supposedly Bart's lover, who he had heard so much about. But he wasn't taking any chances. He positioned himself against a tree, from where he could cover most approaches to the fire.

There was the increasing sound of hoof beats and then, suddenly, two riders appeared out of the darkness. They had rifles. James saw the barrel of a Springfield pointed at his head.

“I will speak,” Juan whispered. “Hola, amigos! Que pasa?” he called to them. “Por favor, join us by the fire,” he said, his voice pleasant.

The two dismounted warily and lowered their rifles. They moved closer. Finally, they squatted down to warm their hands.

Where was the woman?” Harrison wondered, watching the two men.

“Coffee? This gringo brought coffee all the way from New York to share with you, amigos,” Juan lied. “Take some.” He pointed to tin cups sitting near the pot. Do you have hunger? Eat the frijoles. This is for you, amigos.”

The men helped themselves.

Harrison saw that one of the men was Negro, and the other appeared to be Indian or mestizo. Both were dressed like Mexican compesinos—dark blue cotton shirts and faded brown pantaloons, but with high leather boots. They were well-armed. In addition to modern Springfield rifles, they carried Model 1911 .45 automatic pistols. Bandoleers of rifle bullets crisscrossed their chests. The younger looking Negro was short but angular, with knotted, muscular arms. His hands were huge. Harrison noticed a scar, pinkish in color, that contrasted with the dark skin. It began just below his right ear and ran down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. The man's slow, methodical manner of sitting and pouring coffee gave the impression that he was not naturally quick.

He seemed sullen and angry, Harrison thought, seeing the young man's dark eyes burning in the firelight. His hair was cropped close, like the soldiers at Camp Furlong. There was a huge bowie knife stuck in the man's wide leather belt—probably his weapon of choice.

The young man's companion, about the same height, was lighter skinned, and much thinner. His features were chiseled, as from polished walnut, but marred by deeply pocked scars. Small pox, Harrison knew. The young man, although he guessed he was several years older than the Negro, had black hair that had been cut—chopped—straight across the back. The dark eyes seemed vacant, with a chilling lack of expression. Neither wore a hat.

Without speaking, the Negro directed the other, pointing to where he wanted him to sit. The other man paused briefly, frowning at the younger man, but did as he was told.

Harrison noticed, and sensed little warmth between the two. They were not friends. The Indian concerned him more than the young Negro. Harrison wondered why they were here, and why he had yet to see the woman. Some sort of ambush? No. He was willing to trust the Mexican sergeant, a soldier in the United States Army.

The men continued to stare at James without expression.

“Hola Juan!” James heard a female voice say from the shadows. “Who have you brought me, eh?” Her voice was clear and melodious. Harrison turned to look. The figure, taller than her two companions, finally stepped from the darkness, moving nearer to the fire. Like the others, she wore no hat. The long curls of black hair radiated out like a midnight sun, falling to her shoulders. Her sculpted brown face was alive with emotion. He saw her dark eyes sparkle in the firelight. And, Harrison saw, they were intent upon him as she openly examined him. He was certain she was measuring him against his brother.

But Harrison also took measure of her. Standing in the shadowy light of the fire, she was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The men's clothing she wore did nothing to detract from her beauty or her natural grace. Tall, yet not thin, she easily filled out the tan cotton shirt and trousers. In the firelight he could see her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her rough cotton shirt. Small hoops of silver swung from each ear.

Harrison continued to stare at her, unable to look away.

“Señorita Maria,” Juan exclaimed, delighted to see her. They spoke in English, and Harrsion suspected that it was as a courtesy to him.

The young woman still stood there, looking at him. Her own curiosity was evident.

“This hombre is the brother of Capitan James,” Juan stated, motioning for the young woman to sit.

“Of course he is,” she said, smiling at Harrison. “And does he have a name?” she asked. Her English, with its melodious Mexican lilt, was excellent.

“Harrison,” he answered. He watched as she knelt easily in front of the fire to pour a cup of coffee. The young woman, like her companions, had an Army .45 strapped to her narrow waist. He guessed her to be about 22 years of age. “And your name, I've been told, is Senorita Washington.”

She laughed from deep in her throat. “I've been called many things, Señor James, but my amigos call me Maria. Maria Pasquel Washington.”

“‘Maria' sounds almost Mexican.”

“Yes, my maternal grandparents were Mexican. But on my father's side…. He claimed to be related to George Washington.” She laughed again. “I suppose all Negroes claim to be related to Mr. Washington, or Mr. Jefferson, or some other famous white slaver.”

Bright and charming, Harrison thought. He tried to picture Bartlett with her.

“Harrison,” she repeated. “Harrison and Bart.” The young woman again studied his face. “Your brother and I were friends.” She paused. “And lovers. Does that surprise you?” She asked the question directly.

He was surprised by her openness. “Yes.” He smiled. “I had no idea my brother had such good taste.” That's one question answered, he thought, captivated in spite of himself.

She turned her head slightly. “Juan, your amigo speaks graceful compliments, does he not? Like his brother.”

Juan said nothing, simply smiling in reply.

Maria set down her coffee cup and abruptly turned back to James. She was no longer smiling. “Señor James, you have come a long way. You wish to talk to me about your brother.”

“I want to talk about my brother, and about how he died,” Harrison said immediately.

“Yes,” she said simply. She crossed her legs to sit on the rocky ground, and then slowly extended her arms, palms out to feel the warmth of the fire. The young woman was in no hurry, feeling her way into the conversation.

She stared into the cup of coffee poised on her knee. “Juan told me about Bart's death. I could not believe it. When he brought me the news, I was devastated. But, I am afraid I can tell you very little about that, Señor James.”

“You knew him well, señorita,” Harrison said slowly. “Do you believe he would kill himself?”

The brush in the fire crackled and popped as he waited for an answer.

“I was surprised to hear of the manner of his death,” Maria finally responded. “I have thought about it…about him.” Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “For him to take his own life? I am certain he did not, could never, do such a terrible thing.”

He studied her face in the flickering light, still struck by her beauty and her easy, yet almost aristocratic manner. He sensed she was holding back. The other three talked quietly in Spanish among themselves.

“You have reasons to believe so, Señorita Washington?” Harrison spoke quietly, but he could feel something in her denial.

“Your brother had enemies, Señor James. He was…” She paused, considering her answer carefully. “…involved in many things. Some things I knew. Some I did not know.”

“Things? What do you mean, señorita?” Harrison asked, controlling his impatience. Careful, he thought. Don't push too hard. Out of the corner of his eye, James noticed that the younger, darker-skinned man had turned to look at them.

“We were good friends, as well as lovers,” Maria began. She raised her head to look at Harrison. “And we were necessary to each other. Bart wanted to know things about the Germans in Mexico. And things about the Mexican freedom fighters, too. I wanted to know where Army patrols go, and when they go. We are traders, Señor James. We sell arms to the highest bidder, on either side of the border.” She paused, her eyes suddenly opaque. “Your brother and I also traded information,” she finally continued.