Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  Quent frowned, the crow’s feet around his eyes deep. “Then why didn’t you wait until you had an advantage rather than ordering your cavalry and infantry to charge men in trenches protected with barbed wire, and using machine guns, rifles, and artillery pieces? Why did you waste your army like that? With all due respect, sir, I don’t understand.”

  Villa again clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles rippling, and stared at Quent for a long moment before sitting back with a sigh, shaking his head. “I didn’t care that Obregón had the weapons. Mis muchachos, they face bigger Díaz armies with the same weapons. We never lost. We were invincible. I always attacked. I always won. Hombres joined División del Norte because we always won. In Celaya, Obregón squatted in the dirt like a whore waiting for business, like a spider for my heel to crush. I had to . . . how you say, ‘whack’ the perfumed one. I had to kick the whore out of the way or soon my División del Norte would be no more. The muchachos, they’d leave if they thought I feared Obregón.”

  I glanced over and saw Yellow Boy’s jaws clamp down on his cigar as he studied Villa through narrow, discriminating eyes. I knew what he was thinking. Villa had played the fool at Celaya. The man before our eyes was no longer the smart, pragmatic bandit with whom we had ridden before the revolución.

  Nodding as he wrote, Quent completed his notes and sat back in his chair. “General, I’ve talked to some of my reporter friends who saw the two battles at Celaya and the ones after at León and Aguascalientes. They say you lost between a third and a half of División del Norte in the fighting. Will you be able to face Obregón in Sonora now with an army much smaller than you had in Celaya and León, an army that can’t have much spirit left after losing so badly so often? My American army friends in El Paso say the border is filled with deserters from your army.”

  Villa, his eyes narrow slashes, squinted at Quent. He slowly nodded. “Sí, Queentin, División del Norte sank very low. Those hombres were not what they used to be. They ran then if you shook a bell. They ran for Chihuahua, up the train tracks on anything that moved—their feet, horses, mules—all of them, hombres, women, boys, girls, all running. I wanted to puke. All those I took care of and loved, they ran. It was a bitter, bitter brew I swallowed then, Queentin.”

  Quent scratched at his three-day beard and then crossed his arms. “So, what is your strategy now, General?”

  Villa smiled and swung his arm toward the west in an expansive gesture. “We go over the Sierra Madre to Sonora. Carranza has no armies there, just a few undermanned outposts. There we rest and rebuild División del Norte. Agua Prieta is across the border from Douglas, Arizona. Not many Carrancistas are there. No trenches, no machine guns, no barbed wire. We run them out with one good charge by my cavalry. We rest. We rearm using guns and bullets we take from those who oppose us and with the good weapons we buy across the border from the Americanos. We move south, a gathering storm of fire and blood all the way to Mexico City that overcomes Carranza and El Perfumado.”

  Holding up his left hand, palm out, Quent asked for a pause while he finished his notes. He read them back to Villa for accuracy and said, “Just one more question, General?”

  “Sí?”

  “Who are in those graves down the canyon there?”

  Holding up his hands, Villa shrugged and said, “Disloyal cowards. Generals who did not want to go to Sonora. They say there must be an end to this war with Carranza, and they want the lands promised them. Before they have the land, they must obey their general. They swear they will follow my orders when they become generals. They cannot leave their suffering men now. Cowards! I shoot them myself. The last hombre, I am sorry you have to see his burial, mis amigos. He has a store in Douglas. He tries to cheat me. He takes my dinero for two times what the Americanos pay for guns and brings me only half of what he says are there. Does he think I’m a fool? Does he think I cannot count? He’s the fool. He found the wrong end of my pistola, not the dinero he tried to steal from me. Now I have his rifles and his dinero.”

  I knew Villa would not tolerate cheats and fools or the appearance of disloyalty from his men, even if obeying his orders meant they were committing suicide. Still, I was stunned. He was so casual about executing those close to him. I knew discipline had to be maintained, but at what cost? Had I been in his boots, might I have executed those men? Or if I were one of his generals and saw that he was senselessly slaughtering my men, would I keep my oath? God help the man who crossed him. Quent put away his pen. Yellow Boy, his teeth still clamped on his cigar, glanced at me.

  I thought, Maybe Villa is a little crazy. Maybe you have to be a little crazy to fight on when the odds are stacked against you. Life is filled with tosses of the dice. Villa just wants another throw, another chance to make things right in Mexico.

  CHAPTER 11

  JUST CAUSE

  Closing his notebook and crossing his arms, Quent said, “Your questions, General?”

  Villa leaned back in his chair and stared off down the canyon. “Queentin, since the revolución started, I’ve been a friend of the Americanos. After my army took ranchos, mines, and factories from the wealthy Americanos in Mexico, ranchos, mines, and factories Díaz gave them, ranchos, mines, and factories rightfully belonging to the people, General Scott, he asked me to be a friend to the Americanos and give these things back. It cost me millions of pesos to give them back. It was dinero I could use to buy weapons and bullets, but I wanted the friendship of the Americanos more than the dinero. I gave the ranchos, mines, and factories back to the Americanos and other foreigners. When General Funston took Veracruz, the Americanos asked if I would fight them over this. I said, ‘No, Americanos are my amigos. Take Veracruz. It’s nothing to me.’

  “Carranza, he let his army raid Americano ranchos and towns across the Río Grande from Brownsville to El Paso. It was so bad, the Americano army put hombres in muchos places along the border to stop this. Carranza he took prisoner Americano navy officers and then released them. He opened fire on the Americano ship, Annapolis. He declared war on the Americanos, and then said there was no war, claiming it was all just a big misunderstanding. Carranza, he does not reply to Americano diplomats who represent Presidente Wilson. Without cause, this hombre Carranza, he takes from the people and foreigners their property. He takes their haciendas, their horses, their money, and their crops, even their furniture. Anything of value, he takes. He tries to make the people in Mexico City leave. He withholds food and water from them to make them go. He sends defenseless women to Veracruz locked in cattle cars. He closes courts and schools. He sacks churches and holds priests for ransom. He kills men and violates women for no cause. He tortures and rapes Mexico, and he shows to the Americanos nada, nada but bad faith, insincerity, and hostility. I, Francisco Villa, amigo to the Americanos, I never do these things.”

  As Villa spoke, I felt the justice of his cause, felt his outrage and my own at Carranza, and heard a voice in my head say: This isn’t right. Carranza must be stopped. Wilson has to recognize Villa as the President of Mexico.

  Villa leaned forward and rested his elbow on a knee. He spoke again, his eyes flashing fire. “Now, I learn from my amigos across the border that Presidente Wilson will say Carranza is the true Presidente of Mexico, and not Francisco Villa, Zapata, or some other true hero of the revolución. I learn Presidente Wilson says no more guns and bullets for Villa. Is this so, Queentin?”

  Quent, pursing his lips, slowly nodded. “Sí, General, it is so. General Scott, your amigo, the Commander of the Army in the United States, told me he heard rumors President Wilson planned to do these things and begged him to reconsider. He said diplomats in Washington only last month advised the president not to do this thing. A few days ago, I learned from a source, who has never been wrong, that Wilson will recognize Carranza as the true President of Mexico.”

  Villa stared at Quent and said nothing. His hand curled into a fist and slammed into his thigh several times. His words came in a cold monotone. “So . . . this is how Pres
idente Wilson repays me for doing what the Americanos ask of me? This is Americano friendship? You tell him, Queentin, that now I don’t give a damn what happens to foreigners in Mexico or my territory. I can whip Carranza and Obregón and all their armies. It’s asking much to whip the United States also, but maybe I’ll have to do that, too!”

  Quent opened his notebook and began writing. Yellow Boy and I looked at each other. Yellow Boy glanced at the cliffs and almost imperceptibly shook his head. My heart was in free fall. Villa was losing his mind when he most needed to think clearly. He was no match for the United States Army. He had no chance to win his war, with Carranza backed by the United States. The best thing was for him to disappear into the Sierra Madre and wait for a better time.

  Villa called me back to the moment.

  “Sí, General?”

  “Did you find Señor Sam Ravel in Columbus? What does he say?”

  After seeing a dishonest Douglas merchant’s body rolled into a grave not seventy-five yards from where we sat, I hesitated, but the die was cast. Ravel had given me his message, and Villa wanted to hear it.

  “General, I spoke with Sam Ravel twice in two days. At first he said no deal and that he was keeping your money for a past debt, one owed him by General Figueroa. The second time I saw him, he said he could get the rifles and bullets past the embargo and delivered wherever you say, but you must pay him General Figueroa’s previous debt of $771.25; you must give him an extra $1000 for him to get past the embargo; and you must pay in gold, not in the scrip you print.”

  Villa, his mouth open, stared at me as though he didn’t understand. Then his brown eyes filled with fire and lightning. “Señor Sam Ravel will cheat Francisco Villa no more. I’ll drag that son-of-a-bitch screaming through the cactus and mesquite. Like the Apaches, I’ll put fire on his cojones. Mis dorados will ride their horses over him until there is nothing left in the sand but blood and bone. This thing I swear.”

  He stared off down the canyon, saying no more. I saw an artery pulsing near the hairline at his temple. No one said anything. I looked at Yellow Boy, who sat with his arms crossed, the Henry rifle across his knees, eyes glittering.

  Quent slowly shook his head. I’m sure he knew Villa meant every word, and he expected Villa to do exactly what he’d said. I hoped Villa caught Ravel when no innocent bystanders were around, because if the dorados were filled with blood lust, innocent lives wouldn’t be worth a whorehouse penny in church.

  We sat there, saying nothing, making few moves for maybe ten minutes, waiting for Villa to bank the fires of his rage. When he returned, he was like a man coming out of a trance. He looked at Quent and said in a mellow tone, “Queentin, I ask another favor of you.”

  “Sí, General?”

  “In maybe three weeks División del Norte will be ready to sweep the Carrancistas out of Agua Prieta.” He chopped the air for emphasis. “El Presidente Wilson needs to understand that Carranza has not finished me and that I will rid Mexico of this tyrant. A great victory in Agua Prieta, for Presidente Wilson, this will help open his eyes. I ask that he see this victory through your eyes, Queentin. Come with División del Norte and write what you see at the battle at Agua Prieta.”

  Quent looked him straight in the eye and shook his head. “No, General, I can’t come with you to Agua Prieta.”

  Villa’s relaxed fingers slowly curled into a fist. “Why not? You—”

  Quent held up his hand, fingers spread to stop Villa’s retort. “General, I have a loving wife and two young sons in El Paso who depend on me. I can’t risk their lives by risking mine for this adventure, as much as I’d like to travel with you. However, in a day’s time, I can take a train from El Paso to Douglas. Have someone send me a telegram when the División del Norte is two days away from Agua Prieta, and I’ll come. When I see your army, I’ll cross the border, interview you, and write what happens as seen from your side during your attack. You’ll have your story, and my wife and sons won’t have to risk losing me in the wilds of the Sierra Madre. Can you accept that?”

  A grin spread into Villa’s cheeks. “Sí, Queentin. Muy bien. You’ll have your telegram at the proper time. You’ll hear my testimony, and you’ll see División del Norte in battle. I ask only you write the truth of what you see.”

  “Sí, General, you know I write the truth.”

  Villa was still smiling when they shook hands. I looked in Yellow Boy’s eyes and raised my brows. He gave me a quick little head bob, saying yes to what he knew I was thinking. I turned to Villa.

  “General, Muchacho Amarillo and I will follow you to Agua Prieta and do everything we can to help your cause. I, as a doctor with a rifle, and Muchacho Amarillo as a warrior.”

  With great gravitas, Villa stared at us and said, “Muchachos, there’s much you’ll suffer if you ride with me. I can’t ask you to make this great gesture, but I’m very honored that you offer to fight the dictator with me.”

  I said, “General, you once knew us as Apaches. We know what it is to sleep on the cold ground, suffer hunger, thirst, ice-filled winds, and the sun’s fire in the desert. We’ve never feared our enemies or the coming day. Your enemy is our enemy. We’ll fight beside you until your enemy is no more.”

  Villa’s face was solemn and earnest as he straightened himself to his full height, saluted us smartly, and shook our hands. “Gracias, muchachos. I’m proud to be your general. With men such as you, we’ll win a new revolución against Carranza and Obregón.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A MATTER OF SURVIVAL

  Magritte brought the fire-blackened pot and poured another round of coffee. Still grinning, Villa raised his mug and said, “Amigos, I salute you. Mexico thanks you and in the years to come will remember your great contribution to the revolución.”

  We raised our mugs to his, and clinking them together, took a long swallow of the strong, bitter coffee, which somehow seemed appropriate to the occasion. We talked for a while about the old days, of battles won and friends lost, until Magritte appeared and whispered in Villa’s ear. He frowned, nodded, and waved her away. “Forgive me, amigos, but there is business that requires my attention. Get some rest, Queentin. I ask that Yellow Boy and Hombrecito ride with you back to Columbus.”

  Quent nodded. “We know you’re very busy, General. There’s no need for these friends to waste their time with me. I’ll ride north to Hachita and catch the train there. It’s closer than Columbus, and even I can find my way north.”

  Villa shook his head. “Sí, Queentin, Hachita you can find easy. But think, hombre. What will Indios, banditos, or a patrol from Carranza’s army do if they find you?” He answered by drawing his finger in a slashing motion across his windpipe. “I can’t afford to lose you now that we are within a month of taking Agua Prieta. Who will tell Presidente Wilson of the thunder from División del Norte against Carranza’s army? Our amigos, they’ll see you safe on the train in Hachita. I trust these hombres with my life. You can, too.”

  Quent snorted and grinned. “Sí, General, Hombrecito and Yellow Boy will be good company to Hachita.”

  Villa nodded and said, “Bueno, Queentin.” He turned to Yellow Boy and me and said, “Amigos, tomorrow I leave to catch up with División del Norte crossing El Paso Púlpito. You’ll find me there when you return. Now, mis amigos, I must settle other business.”

  We left before the moon was fully up, the trail toward the border clear and distinct even in the weak nightglow. Yellow Boy, his sense of direction gyroscopically perfect, headed northeast. I believed I was lucky to pay Villa my debt and at the same time make righteous war against Carranza. A half moon, providing enough light for us to avoid cactus and mesquite thorns, floated up above the mountains. We stopped for water and to rest the horses at North Tank, a few miles north of the border.

  Yellow Boy, the Henry rifle in the crook of his left arm, disappeared into the mesquites farther up the wash that fed the tank. Quent and I loosened saddle and pack cinches and gave the horses a little grain. Hilo
Peak, standing tall a couple of miles to the southeast, cast long, black shadows to our right. Quent pulled up his jacket collar to brave the chill. I sat next to him wrapped in a blanket, our breath forming little clouds. I said, “Villa doesn’t have a good grasp of the situation, does he?”

  Quent crossed his arms and said, “No, I’m afraid not. He doesn’t understand that Obregón has him figured out and has sucker punched him three straight times in big battles. Villa fighting Obregón is like watching Pickett’s Gettysburg charge over and over. Obregón will burn him again if Villa doesn’t change his tactics. Villa just can’t or refuses to see it. I hate to think what he’ll be like after his army is destroyed and who he’ll blame. I can tell you for sure, it won’t be General Villa.”

  I felt a chill run up my spine, and it wasn’t from the cold. “Tell me what actually happened in Celaya. I’ve heard you mention the slaughter, and Villa talks about Obregón executing his officers and band. Why was Obregón suddenly able to do so much damage to an experienced army led by what the papers called a brilliant general?”

  Quentin scratched his chin, shrugged his shoulders, and shivered. “Let me get my blanket first. It’s cold.” He unrolled his blanket and wrapped it over his shoulders before sitting down cross-legged next to me. “Where’s Yellow Boy?” he asked.

  “He’s right up the wash. You can bet anyone stalking us won’t see or hear him until it’s too late. Come on, tell me what happened at Celaya.”

  Quent shrugged. “According to reporters I trust who were there, it was awful. When the Americans left Veracruz last year, they left a storehouse of supplies that Huerta bought for a big army before he was forced to resign. Villa wouldn’t listen to Angeles’s advice, and he let Obregón get his hands on the equipment, recruit troops from the unions in Veracruz, and get out of a deadly trap. Had he surrounded Obregón’s army in Veracruz, their backs to the sea, the only way out past his guns, Villa and not Carranza would have become presidente. But Villa let Obregón take all the equipment and men and get out of Veracruz without a scratch.”