Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  A thick, muscular, blond man stood behind a counter watching his customers. His features bespoke Eastern Europe. His hands were big, and the scars on his face around his eyes and crooked nose said he wasn’t reluctant to fight with his fists. When I stepped up to his counter, he smiled and seemed affable.

  “Mr. Sam Ravel?”

  “Dat is my name. Yah?”

  “My name is Henry Grace. I wonder if there’s somewhere we can speak privately?”

  “Oh, shu. Der is my office. Come, Mr. Grace.”

  I turned to tell Yellow Boy I’d be back shortly, but he’d already drifted outside to stand with the horses. Ravel led me through a curtained door into a supply room filled with sacks of grain and flour, rolls of barbed wire, harness, ranching tools, and myriad supplies for every imaginable farm or ranch need. We made our way to a walled-off corner next to a wide loading dock door. A big rolltop desk was inside the makeshift office, along with three chairs and a couple of shelves holding ledgers. A small window near the top of the outside wall gave the room plenty of light.

  Ravel sat down behind the desk and motioned me toward a chair in front. He pushed aside a stack of papers and flipped open a box of cigars. He offered me one, but I shook my head. He bit off the plug, spat it on the floor, lit up, clamped it in his yellow teeth, and grinned.

  “So, how can I help yah, Mr. Grace? Moving to Columbus? I can extend credit on any supplies yah need.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No, sir, nothing like that. I’ve just come from the camp of General Francisco Villa.”

  Ravel frowned. His hands curling into fists, he said, “Yah? And what says General Villa?”

  “The general is camped near the border and buying supplies for his army. He says he ordered some rifles and ammunition from you. He expected you to deliver them when he was last in Ciudad Juárez. It’s been over a week, and he still hasn’t taken delivery of his purchases. He has to have them soon and asked me to stop by to ask when you can deliver and where.”

  Ravel snarled, “Tell dat bandito dere is no ammunition and no rifles. Dere is United States embargo. No sale! If dey is supplied to Villa, I go to the jail. Nyet. Nyet guns for Villa.”

  I nodded and smiled. “The general thought there might be that kind of problem and therefore wants his money back.”

  Ravel shook his head. “Nyet. No money back. Tell Villa I place his money against what he owes me after that bastard captain of his, Figueroa, who never paid $771.25 for the, uh . . . merchandise . . . took from me in Palomas last year after holding me prisoner for four days. You tell him dat, heh?”

  Before he blinked, I had him by his tie and my old long-barreled Colt cocked and stuck under his nose.

  I said in a low whisper, “Now you listen to me, Mr. Ravel. I’m just the messenger. I’ll give General Villa your reply. You know the general. He won’t be happy you kept his money. He might want to give you a ride by the neck through the cactus. I’m not anxious to come back as a bill collector. If I do, you’ll never know where the bullet comes from that kills or hobbles you for the rest of your miserable life. I know you’ll figure out what to do. I’ll be back in a day or two. You be ready to talk business. If you try to pull anything, the next time I see you, that Apache who came in with me will roast you over a hot fire for days, and you’ll beg to die.”

  Ravel relaxed and even grinned. “Gud! You tell General Villa I’m not happy dat he still owes me for dat Figueroa’s merchandise. Dere is nothing I can do anyway because of de embargo. As yah must have seen, de army is in my backyard. I ain’t afraid of yah.”

  I stood, and he did too. I said, “I’ll be on my way. Think about what I said. I’ll see you in a day or two.”

  His fists on his hips, he nodded. “Yah, I be here. Tell Villa we settle accounts when I get my dinero.”

  CHAPTER 6

  SWEENY JONES

  Leaving Sam Ravel’s store, we found a cantina in the block by the train tracks, and, looking through its windows, saw cavalry troopers, vaqueros from across the border, cowboys, and traveling salesmen crowded around its tables. The crowd became very quiet when we walked in. For a moment, all eyes were onYellow Boy. In the silence, I heard the hammer on the Henry click back to safety as Yellow Boy returned their stares.

  The owner of the cantina, a short, thin man with a long drooping mustache, stepped forward and made a little bowlike nod with his head.

  “Buenas tardes, señores.” He motioned us toward an empty table next to one used by a couple of troopers.

  “Por favor, the table here.”

  Nodding, I said, “Gracias, señor.” The customers began to relax, minding their own business. All, that is, except for a grizzled sergeant at the table next to ours who watched our every move. His face showed scars from old battles and years of rough frontier living. I kept my hand close to my pistol. The waitress brought us coffee without being asked, and we ordered enchiladas.

  When the waitress left the table, the sergeant said, “Been a long time, Yellow Boy. ’Member me?”

  Keeping my hands below the table, I slid my thumb over the hammer of my pistol. Yellow Boy studied the sergeant for a few seconds. His narrow eye slits widened in recognition, and he nodded. “ ’Member you, Sweeny Jones. Many harvests since we trailed Geronimo.”

  Sweeny Jones shook the shoulder of the young man sitting with him and said, “Marv, this here gentleman is Yellow Boy. Best damn shot in the country. He’n pick the balls off a gnat at two hundert yards with that there old Henry. He scouted with me fer a while when Crook was a-chasin’ Geronimo in the Sierra Madre.” He nodded toward me and asked, “Mister, how do you know this ol’ hard-nut devil?”

  Smiling, I relaxed and leaned back in my chair. “He found me in the desert when I was a kid. Saved my life from some bad hombres. I’m a doctor now, but we still ride together once in a while.” I waved my hand toward our table. “Come on over and join us. You two can catch up on old times.”

  Plate and beer mug in hand, Sweeny Jones was in motion before I finished the invitation. He sat down next to Yellow Boy and stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Sergeant Sweeny Jones, US Army, 13th Cavalry, and this here is Private Marvin Johnson.” His scarred, rough hand had a good strong grip, and I liked him right away.

  “Henry Grace. It’s my pleasure, Sergeant.” Marvin didn’t say anything, but stuck out his hand and gripped mine with the power of a vice.

  Sweeny Jones asked all the usual catching-up questions. Yellow Boy told him about his wives, sons, and his work as a tribal policeman. Sweeny showed him his sergeant’s stripes and told us about his life on the border. Our enchiladas came. We ate as Sweeny rambled on about life in Columbus at Camp Furlong, the army camp we’d passed on the other side of the tracks.

  He concluded, “It ain’t bad duty here in Columbus. Colonel Slocum, the camp commander, is easy-goin’ and the trains give us easy access to El Paso for blowin’ our pay on booze and whores.”

  I asked why there was an army camp in Columbus. Sweeny Jones frowned and stared at me as if I were crazy. I shrugged and said, “I’ve been in medical school in California for the past six years and haven’t read the New Mexico papers much.”

  Sweeny said, “It’s the damned Mexican Revolution. They done tore the hell outta the country in the fightin’. Peones looking to find a better life, gettin’ outta the way of the army or trying to avoid bein’ forced to join one side or the other, been comin’ across that border wire like a brown river. On top of bein’ overrun by the illegals, that there bastard Carranza has let the Carrancistas raid towns across the river in Texas all the way to Brownsville. Wilson said it had to stop and told the army to make it happen. So here we are.”

  Nodding, I said, “I remember reading about that in the California papers. It just didn’t sink in that there would be so many troops on the border. I guess you’ve been busy.”

  Jones shrugged and grimaced. “After we come, it was quiet for a while until ol’ Carranza and Villa got into it. After Ob
regón kicked Villa’s tail, we heard Villa’d been movin’ his army north and edgin’ west. Ain’t nobody knows ’xactly where he’s a-goin’. My money says Agua Prieta if he’s a-goin’ to Sonora. I ’spect purdy soon he’s gonna hafta cross the Sierra Madre. That’ll be a hell of a job if he’n do ’er at all and still keep his army together. Ol’ Yellow Boy and me was with Crook in the Sierra Madre. Yellow Boy knows how damned rough the country is.”

  Yellow Boy leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  We talked for another half an hour while Yellow Boy and I finished our dinners. When the clock hanging above the cash register told me the eastbound train was due soon, I pushed back from the table and said, “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but we have to get going.”

  Sweeny and Marvin shook our hands, and Sweeny said, “You boys come visit us over to Camp Furlong when your business is done.”

  We promised we’d see them again soon. Stepping out of the cantina’s cool interior into the sun’s fiery glare was like walking into a wall. Squinting at me, Yellow Boy nodded toward the train station. I looked west down the tracks. There was no sign of the train in the distance.

  I said, “I’ll put Satanas in the livery stable here while I’m gone to find Peach. I figure it may take me a couple of suns to get back here. I doubt Peach will be used to long, hard rides, so it’ll probably take us two nights to get back to Villa’s canyon.”

  Yellow Boy glanced off to the east. “I go also to El Paso?”

  I shook my head. “Given the way you feel about riding the iron wagons and how the locals eye you when we walk down the street, it’s best I go alone. I’ll meet you in Villa’s canyon in four or five suns.”

  Yellow Boy stared east down the tracks toward El Paso and said, “Bueno. I tell Villa you come soon with Señor Peach. I say nothing of Ravel until you come. Hombrecito, hear me. Stay out of his way when you tell Villa of Ravel. Villa grows mucho angry pronto, no thinks, forgets his amigos, goes maybe a little loco.”

  “I hear you, Grandfather.”

  Yellow Boy nodded. Grabbing his saddle horn with his left hand while holding the Henry with his right, he swung into his saddle with a smooth, graceful leap. He headed south down the road past Camp Furlong, and I led Satanas up the street to the livery stable. In case I was longer than a couple of days returning from El Paso, I paid the liveryman for five days’ worth of grain and grooming. Walking back to the station, I heard a train whistle and saw black smoke in the distance. On the train station platform, a small crowd of cowboys, salesmen, and soldiers had gathered, laughing and joking.

  CHAPTER 7

  QUENTIN PEACH

  Watching from the window of an El Paso and Southwestern passenger car, I watched the tops of the mesquites and creosotes skim by and thought riding the train must be like flying in those machines I’d read about in the papers. Looking away from the tracks and out across the rolling vastness of the Chihuahua Desert, the plains of creosotes looked like a dark, forest-green ocean frozen in time. Liberally sprinkled with dried stalks of yuccas and century plants thrusting their stems above the surface and islands of light, delicate green mesquite, the land, bathed in the mellow afternoon glare of the western sun, pulled at my soul. I wished a good horse carried me and that I was not just something flying across that land at unbelievable speed to save a little time.

  Near the end of the trip, I dozed off and saw the burning jaguar coming for me. I dodged its attack just in time to jerk awake as the train pulled into the El Paso Union Depot late that afternoon. Walking through the big brick station filled with echoes of pounding feet and squealing children following their mothers, I stopped at a ticket counter manned by a clerk barely old enough to shave.

  “Pardon me, can you tell me where to find the El Paso Herald?”

  He studied me for a moment and said, “Yes, sir. When you go out that door yonder, you’ll be on San Francisco Street. Look to your right, and you’ll see the Mills Building. You can’t miss it. It’s the tallest building in El Paso. It sits on one side of Pioneer Plaza. Next to it, on the same side of the plaza, is the McCoy Hotel. The Herald is right next to the McCoy. Must be ten or twelve blocks from here. You’n catch a street trolley or a taxi right outside. Trolley will cost you a nickel.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk.”

  The kid looked at me like he thought I was crazy, but shrugged and nodded.

  By my watch it was 4:30, but the street was crowded with people flitting in and out of the stores and saloons, and restaurants were becoming lively. In addition to the crowd of businessmen and women with long, fancy dresses and hats, cowboys and Mexicans strolled both sides of the street. I jumped in surprise the first time I heard the dinging bell and whine and grind of a street trolley whirring past, but the crowd ignored it like it wasn’t there. I turned the corner at the Mills Building and found theHerald building.

  A green-and-white-striped awning shaded the Herald’s big double doors. As I crossed the plaza, the doors flew open. A man wearing a Panama boater straw hat came out with a lady holding his arm. He was a head taller than me, square-jawed and clean-shaven, in his mid-to-late thirties, and well dressed. His lady was a fine-looking woman with jet-black hair under a big, blue velvet hat trimmed with ostrich feathers. From the way the man strutted with her and the way she smiled and talked with him, it was obvious they were much in love.

  I held up my hand, signaling them to stop as I approached. The man frowned when he saw me, dusty and dirty in range clothes that must have made me look like an itinerant ranch hand, but he stopped, stepping between the lady and me, and asked, “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

  I smiled. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for a Herald reporter named Quentin Peach. I was hoping you might be able to tell me where to find him.”

  He frowned. “And you are?”

  I winced. “Sorry. Forgot my manners.” I held out my right hand. “My name is Doctor Henry Grace. I opened a medical practice in Las Cruces about two months ago. I have a message for Mr. Peach from General Francisco Villa, and I need to speak to him right away.”

  He shook my hand and said, “I’m Quentin Peach. Friends call me Quent. This is my wife, Persia. Persia, Doctor Henry Grace.” She gave me a coquettish nod and smiled as he asked, “What’s Villa’s message?”

  “Sir, with all due respect to Mrs. Peach, this is something I need to tell you in private.”

  Persia frowned. Quent glanced at her and waved his arm for one of the taxis parked on the plaza. The driver jumped out to crank it as Persia turned to Quentin and said, “Dinner will be on the table in an hour. Please try to be on time. If you can’t make it, call me. Doctor Grace is more than welcome to come with you.”

  We walked less than a block before he turned into a saloon. With overhead fans turning, it was cool inside. Peach slid into a booth by the window and motioned me to sit opposite him. “Beer?”

  I nodded.

  He called across the room, “Hey, Max. Bring us a couple of cold ones, will ya?”

  The first swallow was mighty good after the hot train ride from Columbus. Peach pulled a little notebook from his coat and took a pen out of his pocket. “Now, Doctor Grace, what’s so important? I never hear from Villa unless he needs something. Where is he?”

  I smiled and said, “I was with him in Mexico just south of the border less than twenty-four hours ago. He’s buying supplies for División del Norte and planning to cross the Sierra Madre before turning north for Agua Prieta across the border from Douglas. He’s asked me to guide you to a meeting with him. He’s anxious to get his side of what’s happened in the war with Carranza in the papers, and he hopes to change Wilson’s mind before he recognizes Carranza as El Presidente of Mexico. Villa believes you’ll give an honest, accurate report on his taking Agua Prieta.”

  Peach nodded. “Yeah, old Pancho’s smart when it comes to using the press. I believe he has the peones’ best interests at heart, but he’s lost too much power since the slaug
hters at Celaya, León, and Aguascalientes. I don’t think he has a prayer of ousting Carranza as long as Obregón’s in charge of the army.”

  He took a long swallow of the cold beer and frowned as he thought for a moment.

  “My sources tell me Wilson’s already decided to recognize Carranza as El Presidente. He just hasn’t done it yet. Besides, the peones are sick of war. Most refuse to join Villa’s army willingly. It’s likely most of the men he has in División del Norte are kids who don’t know any better, or his jefes have bullied them into fighting for him. You’re not telling me he’s planning to attack Agua Prieta, are you?”

  I was surprised at how much Peach knew and at his view of Villa’s chances at overthrowing Carranza. “Villa says he’s going to attack Agua Prieta and wants you to do the story. Will you come back with me to talk with Villa? At least give him an interview?”

  Peach took a swallow of beer and stared at the table while his fingers drummed a slow tattoo. His eyes drifted back to mine. “Yeah, I want to go, but first I’ll have to clear it with Hughs Slater, the Herald’s owner and editor-in-chief, but I don’t doubt he’ll approve my going. When do we leave?”

  CHAPTER 8

  REVELATIONS

  The next morning, Quent and I left for Columbus on the 5:30 train. He wore a white shirt with a red bandanna, canvas pants, mule-ear boots, a wide-brimmed Panama, and a vest holding a watch and a pen or two. He carried a shoulder holster with an old Wells Fargo Schofield Model 3 Smith and Wesson in an ancient leather satchel along with his notebooks and personal gear. And he had an 1894 Winchester in a horse scabbard, bulging saddlebags, a canteen, and a bedroll. I relaxed, thinking that maybe I wouldn’t have to nursemaid him across the desert after all.