Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  The train pulled into Columbus about 8 a.m. The air was still cool, but the sun’s heat was coming on fast. We left the station and walked up the street to the livery. Compared to El Paso, the little village seemed like a ghost town. Doors to the stores were open, but there was little or no traffic on the dusty streets. At the livery stable, Satanas looked rested and ready for our return to the wild country. The liveryman sold Peach a roan gelding. I told him we’d be leaving about sundown and wanted to rest there in the shade until we were ready to go. He still owed me for four days of livery time and grain on the money I’d given him for Satanas the day before, so he showed us a stall filled with fresh straw where we could stow our gear and spread our bedrolls for a nap. I told him we’d be back after breakfast.

  We walked down the street and stopped at Sam Ravel’s store. In addition to getting Ravel’s answer on the arms delivery for Villa, I needed to buy a coffee pot, coffee, and a slab of bacon. Ravel waited on me like I was a stranger. We were about to leave when he jerked his head toward the supply room. “Can we have a word, Mr. Grace?”

  I looked at Peach. He grinned and said, “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Ravel motioned me to a chair in his office. When I shook my head, he sat down and threw his feet up on his desk. “Dah, yesterday after we talk, I ask, how I can help my amigo, General Villa? Here is deal I have. Yah tell him, dah? I can get him de bullets and rifles, and I can dodge de embargo. He includes de $771.25 he owes me for de udder deal, he give me an extra $1000 against de embargo, an’ he pays all wid gold, not dat wort’less script he uses. Den we do business, dah?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll tell the generalissimo whatever you want. You want me to say that?”

  He grinned, nodding. “Dah. Yah tell de generalissimo dat.”

  Peach and I had a big breakfast at the John Dalton Restaurant. He hadn’t said much about the trip since we made travel plans at the little bar in El Paso. As we finished eating, he leaned back in his chair and studied me, idly tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. “Doctor Grace, why are we waiting until sundown to leave town for Villa’s camp? Are you trying to keep me in the dark, literally, about Villa’s location?”

  I grinned and shook my head. “Sorry if I’ve given you the wrong idea about who I am and my friendship with Villa. Maybe we can start over? How about callin’ me Henry?”

  “Okay, Henry.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference if you knew exactly where Villa is now because he’ll be gone in two or three days. We can ride farther and faster at night than during the day because the night air is much cooler, and we won’t have to spend a lot of time looking over our shoulders for enemies. The horses don’t work as hard, and it’s near impossible for enemies to find us unless they’re mighty lucky. There’re Indians, bandits, renegade soldiers, you name them, all bad hombres, drifting around out there in the big lonesome on both sides of the border. Blood’s likely to flow if you run into them and they don’t know you. I’m just being extra careful.”

  “Got it. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Depends. What do you want to know?”

  “Well, I’m just curious why you’re running errands for Villa when you have a medical practice in Las Cruces.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I know what I’m doing must look strange to someone who doesn’t know my history. Villa, an Apache named Yellow Boy, and I go all the way back to before the revolución when Villa was Doroteo Arango and rustled cattle from the hacendado ranchos in Chihuahua.”

  Quent scratched his chin. “I haven’t heard much about Villa’s early life. I want to hear more about it later, but that still doesn’t tell me why you’re doing this.”

  Memories, some I hadn’t seen in seven or eight years, flooded my mind. “In the days before the revolución, Yellow Boy and I lived in a Sierra Madre Apache camp. We had a score to settle with a couple of Apaches from another camp, a father and son, Elias and Juan.

  “We decided to ambush them at a place on the San Bernardino River and Arango went with us. We camped on a butte next to the river and planned to ambush Elias and Juan when they came to raid a supply train out of Douglas. Then a Mexican army patrol stopped for the evening below the butte where we waited. We stayed quiet, waiting for the patrol to move on, but the biggest grizzly I’d ever seen showed up. Shooting it meant giving ourselves away and the patrol coming up that butte faster than flies to a fresh cow patty, which would end our chance of wiping out Elias and Juan. The bear mauled Yellow Boy when he tried to draw it off me. I put several arrows in it trying to get it off Yellow Boy, but they didn’t seem to make any difference. It had me and was about to crush my head when Villa landed on its back with a Bowie knife, and with unbelievable strength, drove the blade through the top of its skull.

  “Yellow Boy and I feel like we owe Villa our lives for saving us from that bear. So here I am, and Yellow Boy waits for us in Villa’s camp.”

  Quent looked in my eyes and shook his head. “That’s quite a tale.” He tapped his cup with his thumb and asked, “How long will it take us to get to Villa’s camp?”

  I shrugged. “Yellow Boy and I left the camp early in the evening and got to Columbus by about ten the next morning. We were riding hard, andYellow Boy has the best night vision of any man I know. I don’t see as well at night, and you’re not used to long rides, so let’s say two nights of riding and a day holing up to rest the horses and for us to get a little sleep.”

  He frowned and said, “I don’t ride much now, that’s true, but I’ve been on long rides across the desert before. I don’t think I’ll slow you down.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE RETURN

  By early dusk, we were on the south road to Palomas. I tried the paceYellow Boy and I had used to Columbus. Quent’s horse held up better than I expected, but when we stopped around midnight for rest and water, he was tiring, so I shortened the distance for the fast gallop, and he held up without much strain the rest of the night. An hour or two before dawn, I swung south to skirt the edges of the Hatchet Mountains along the eastern edge of the bootheel and then turned back west.

  Quent didn’t complain, but it was obvious from the way he sat high in the saddle he was getting sore and his thigh muscles were cramping. Dawn began to break, and I found a place to rest for the day near a pool of water trapped in a small, almost dry riverbed. That evening, when the moon floated up off the eastern horizon, we rode southwest down the riverbed until I got my bearings from the dark mountain outlines against the rising stars.

  The rising sun filled the mountain canyon mists with soft, gauzy light when I found the wash leading up the canyon toward Villa’s camp. Quent studied the trail in the wash and said, “It looks like Cox’s army rode through here. I thought you said Villa was off from the main body of his troops.”

  “He was when I left. The trail coming in here from the Animas Valley shows signs of heavy pack-train traffic. Maybe they’re bringing Villa supplies from across the border, and he’s either off-loading them in this camp or routing them farther south to División del Norte after checking the loads.”

  At the sound of wagon wheels grinding against the sand and gravel, the clink of harness chains, and the occasional snuffle of mules or horses, we rode off the wash into the junipers to stay out of sight and watch a short wagon train roll by. The wagon drivers were adolescent Mexican boys in rags and beat-up straw hats, their eyes squinting against the rising sun. Following the wagons, an escort of eight or nine older men, armed with ancient, lever-action rifles, stock butts held against their thighs, rode by on sturdy little horses.

  After the wagons and their escorts passed out of sight, we returned to the trail and Quent said, “I guess most Americans don’t know and don’t care that a large part of Villa’s army is made up of young boys. Two or three of those drivers had to be twelve or thirteen. I wonder where he’s getting his men now that most of the peones, even the young ones, don’t want to fight anymore.” He paused
and said, “Mister Winchester probably does his recruiting now.” I said nothing, but marveled at Quent’s insight and understanding of what was happening with Pancho Villa.

  A mile later, we saw smoke drifting out of the tall cottonwood trees rising up in front of us. When we were in sight of the camp, Camisa Roja rode out to meet us and saluted us, his quick, brown eyes giving Quent the once-over. “Buenos días, Hombrecito. El general, he is anxious for your return. He sends me out every morning to look for you.”

  I gave him a little salute in return. “Buenos días, Capitán! This is my amigo, Señor Quentin Peach, the reportero General Villa asked me to bring. Quent, meet Capitán Camisa Roja, a dorado for the generalissimo.”

  Roja shook the hand Quent offered him and said, “Amigos, beans, tortillas, and coffee are hot and waiting. Vamonos.”

  We rode into camp and gave our horses to a man who offered to take the reins. Roja disappeared among Villa’s growing collection of wagons. There were at least twenty wagons and maybe fifty men now in the camp.

  Magritte brought us pans of beans, spicy sausage, tortillas, and coffee. After the long ride with nothing to eat but coffee and bacon, her breakfast was magnificent. Taking the pan and cup from her, I motioned toward Quent. “Gracias, Magritte. This is my amigo, Señor Quentin Peach.”

  Quent gave her an easy smile and nodded toward her. “With much pleasure, Señorita Magritte.”

  Camisa Roja returned. His eyes were hard and narrow, and anger was written in the scowl across his brow. “The general speaks with you soon, amigos. He has business that cannot wait. Por favor, eat!”

  I nodded and put the heavy crockery cup to my lips. A pistol shot boomed, echoing against the canyon walls. Only years of discipline and training to be steady against the unexpected kept me from sloshing coffee all over my face and shirt. Quent jerked as if he’d just been snake bit but managed not to spill his breakfast. No one else in camp, even the animals, paid any attention.

  Camisa Roja looked over his shoulder, then back at us, and shrugged. “The general does not tolerate cowards and liars or hombres who try to cheat the revolución, señores. He will see you after you finish your beans.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE INTERVIEW

  I hurried to finish my breakfast. Quent took his time. Camisa Roja crossed his arms and stood with his back to the fire, warming himself against the morning chill. He kept shifting his eyes toward Quent and frowning, as if to hurry him along. I enjoyed watching Quent make Roja squirm. At last, Quent finished and motioned for Camisa Roja to lead on.

  Villa sat by a fire in a simple straight-backed chair, the back of his open hand beating the air as he emphasized his points. He was speaking to Yellow Boy, who sat on the ground, leaning against a log and smoking one of his black cigars. About seventy-five yards farther down the canyon were several mounds of fresh dirt. An old man, dirty, in sweat-soaked rags, was busy with a shovel digging a grave. The body of a man in a suit was stretched out just beyond it.

  Villa looked up when he heard our footsteps, his mouth curving into a smile under dancing eyes. “Buenos días, señores! Muchas gracias, Hombrecito, for bringing mi amigo, Queentin Peach, to my camp. Muchas, muchas gracias for coming, Queentin.”

  Quent shook hands with Villa and Yellow Boy. He said to Yellow Boy, “Quentin Peach, señor. My friends call me Quent. Doctor Grace has told me much about you. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.”

  Yellow Boy nodded, and then he squinted at me. I had learned long ago that his squint warned me to be careful.

  Villa played the gracious host for a few minutes, making small talk about our trip. I occasionally glanced past Villa’s shoulder to watch the old man. He finished digging, undressed the corpse, and rolled it naked into the shallow grave. Neatly folding the clothes, he set them and the man’s high-top shoes aside before covering the body. Although Quent appeared to pay strict attention to Villa, I was certain he’d noted the old man.

  A heavyset woman from the cooking fires appeared with a fire-blackened pot of coffee and mugs. Villa motioned her to pour us all a cup and waved her away. “Now, mis amigos, let’s turn to business very important. Queentin, we speak many times together during the revolución. The stories you wrote in los periódicos spoke true of what I say and do. Unlike most reporteros, you told no lies. You didn’t . . . how you say . . . embellish the truth. I ask you to hear me once more and write in los periódicos only what you see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears. I ask also that you tell me with direct words what Presidente Wilson thinks of Carranza and of me. Will you do this, mi amigo?”

  Quent stared at Villa a moment and said, “Sí, of course, General. We’ll speak the truth, and when I return to El Paso, I’ll write the truth, and Señor Slater will print the truth in his periódico, El Paso Daily Herald.” He opened the leather satchel he carried, pulled out a notebook, and uncapped the lacquered, green and black marbled fountain pen he carried in his vest pocket.

  Villa took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Bueno. Ask your questions for what you’ll say in los periódicos, and then I’ll ask you mine about Presidente Wilson.”

  Quent rested his notebook on his knee and zipped out a short line of characters across the top of the page in shorthand. He said, “General Villa, you, General Zapata, and others are in a civil war with Señor Carranza. It’s tearing Mexico apart. Tell my readers why you continue to fight this terrible war with such slaughter of your army?”

  Villa’s face darkened. His brown eyes flashing thunderbolts, he said through clenched teeth, “Carranza is a rich son-of-abitch robbing Mexico blind. He and his hombres have always slept in warm beds with clean sheets and soft women.”

  He stabbed the air with his index finger to emphasize his point. “They can never be friends of the people who have spent their lives with nothing but suffering! Any chance these hombres have to gain an advantage, they’ll line their pockets and rob the people.”

  Pounding his fist on his chest, Villa said, “Against this greed and lies, Zapata and me, Francisco Villa, and others will die and spill rivers of blood rather than give any of Mexico to those vultures who tear at our people’s guts.”

  He paused for a moment, shook his head, and looked at us with sad eyes. “After the revolución, I was the one who brought order and made the government work again for the people.”

  He slapped his chest with an open palm. “It was I, not Carranza, who did this. Mis soldiers, mis hombres, they won the big battles of the revolución, they suffered the most, these men and women, from Chihuahua and Durango. They made the greatest sacrifices. They spilled the most blood for the revolución. Carranza, he steals the revolución from them and gives them nothing; only to his army from the other states does he give anything. In secret, he gives our lands back to the hacendados, the stinking, wealthy families we threw off their stolen ranchos during the revolución. This is not right, señores. It’s not justice. It can’t be allowed to stand. We’ll fight until Carranza and Obregón are no more and the suffering of the people ends.”

  Quent wrote faster than anyone I’d ever seen and finished within a minute after Villa stopped to take another swallow of his coffee. He read back what he had recorded to Villa and asked him if it was an accurate record of what he had said. Villa nodded. “Sí, Queentin, it is so.”

  Quent wrote another line, beginning a second page in his notes, and said, “General, it appeared to the world that you were winning your war with Carranza until the battles in Celaya, León, and Aguascalientes. Your army, División del Norte, suffered huge losses in those battles. You never lost during the revolución. What happened?”

  Villa sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. His teeth were clenched and his eyes flamed with grief and outrage. He shook his head as he stared above our heads at the light blue sky. When he faced us again, his was the saddest face I’d ever seen.

  “Queentin, in early April, I gathered División del Norte at Salamanca. I spoke to them before we marched. I said, ‘M
uchachos! Before it gets dark, we’ll burst into Celaya in blood and fire!’ ”

  Villa clenched his fists and shook them just above his chest. “In the revolución, my army was invincible! My cavalry was bold, ferocious. Our enemies ran for their lives when they felt the ground tremble from the thunder of our horses’ hooves. I never picked places to do battle. I always knew how to use my muchachos to the best advantage anytime, anywhere. I had only one strategy: attack, attack, attack, enclose and overwhelm the enemy, never look back, never hold anything back during the attack. Across Mexico, I was everywhere and nowhere. My trains carrying our horses and artillery, my muchachos y muchachas, riding on the top of the cars, appeared in battles where Díaz’s generals thought we could never be. As you said, we never lost. I loved my muchachos y muchachas, and they loved me. I was never wounded. I was invincible.

  “Angeles told me we ought to take Veracruz after the Americanos left. He said we must wipe out Obregón, Carranza’s little general, while I had the chance.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Angeles, he had mucho light in his head. He was right, I knew. But I had the understanding with Zapata. He fought in the south, and I fought in the north. Veracruz belonged to Zapata. He didn’t take Veracruz, and Obregón escaped with weapons Huerta had bought and the Americanos held when they took Veracruz. Bullets, rifles, machine guns, trucks, uniforms, artillery, and miles of the damned barbed wire. El Perfumado, the perfumed one, the dandy, Obregón, he got all the equipment because Zapata didn’t take Veracruz.”

  Quent stared at him. “General, the reports are that Obregón effectively used that equipment and the land around Celaya to slaughter your army. Didn’t you know he had it?”

  “Sí, I knew,” Villa said, grinning with pride. “Mis spies, they told me this.”