Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  The bottom of the canyon fell another thousand feet in nearly fourteen miles, only about a one and a half percent grade, to Colonia Oaxaca, a small Mormon farming village, badly damaged, but rebuilt after flooding on the Río Bavispe ten years earlier.

  The greatest danger for an army marching down Púlpito Canyon to the Río Bavispe came from rain. Runoff from the mountains could turn the canyon floor’s dry wash into a roaring flood, wiping out everything before it. I’m sure Villa knew he gambled with the very existence of his army in betting it wouldn’t rain until the División del Norte reached Colonia Oaxaca, and he ordered the infantry to march to the top of the pass and camp the morning we arrived.

  Cold and windy with little water or grass for the animals, the camp offered little comfort to men already tired and hungry, but the infantry could help get the wagons and cannon caissons through the last half-mile of steep grades and switchbacks. Forty-two artillery caissons and well over a hundred wagons would have to maneuver the steep grades and switchbacks of the pass. Not having been around teamsters much, I couldn’t imagine how to get those heavy guns and big wagons over the first two and a half miles of steep trail, never mind the last half-mile of canyon trail, which looked vertical by comparison. No other army had marched over the Sierra Madre like this before. I knew the Carrancistas didn’t believe División del Norte would survive to reach Colonia Oaxaca, but Villa didn’t doubt División del Norte would make it.

  Taking a final swallow of coffee, Villa said, “Mis amigos, I have much to do this day. Take some rest, and then find us some fresh meat, eh?”

  Yellow Boy and I raised our cups in salute as Juan brought a big, black stallion that reminded me of Satanas. Villa gracefully swung into the big silver-trimmed saddle with the oversized saddle horn, large enough for a small writing desk, and, tipping his little flat-brimmed Stetson to us, rode off to see and be seen by his men.

  Not having been back to her grave since I buried her, I wanted to visit Rafaela’s cairn and pay my respects. Yellow Boy, worried that her ghost might be there, nevertheless thought the spring and piñons nearby made a good place to nap and went with me, even though he usually avoided burial places.

  At the spring, I didn’t have any problem finding her cairn; it was as if I’d built it yesterday. Staring at it, what might have been came to mind, and how her killer and I were now shoulderto-shoulder fighting a common enemy. I shook my head in awe at life’s strange twists and turns.

  Yellow Boy walked a big semicircle around the water tank, looking for fresh tracks near the spring, but found none. He made a bed out of pine straw for a nap in the junipers and told me to call him at midmorning so I could nap while he kept lookout.

  I found a spot where I could see up and down the canyon all the way to the south end of the wash, where I occasionally glimpsed the infantry and supply wagons. Creeping along, they looked like a gigantic centipede moving inexorably forward up the trail toward the top of the pass. Unable to sleep, I lay there and stared blindly at the endless line of men and wagons rattling by as memories of my days with Rafaela drifted through my mind.

  The sun was a little past its zenith when Yellow Boy and I rode to the top of the pass, where the trail turned to the southwest, and I could see Pulpit Rock Canyon stretching south between high cliffs and ridges. At the place in the trail where the last of the cavalry horses and pack-train mules began the descent to the bottom, it looked as if they were pouring over the edge of a cliff and disappearing into oblivion.

  Yellow Boy pointed to the ridges off to the north on our right and said, “I hunt the mountains there. You take the ones south.”

  “Bueno. Good hunting. Adiós.”

  I found a buck resting in the junipers over the next ridge and took him with an easy shot from Little David. I started to field-dress him, but decided Juan probably could use every piece of him except his snout. I let him bleed out, tied him across my saddle, and returned to the top of the pass a couple of hours before the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

  División del Norte soldiers and equipment waiting to go down the cliffs were spread out on a small plateau about a half-mile wide and a mile long at the top of the pass. Wagons and caissons waiting to descend were end-to-end on the trail all the way back past the entrance to the pass. Myriad small fires began to appear all over the plateau and on the pass trail.

  I gave the deer to Juan and explored the trail to the canyon floor. The steep grade faced west, and while the western sides of the mountains were already in dark shadows, the eastern sides still had good light. I waited until a break opened between those that stayed at the top and those nearing the bottom and then rode down the trail to the bottom, thinking that if nightfall caught me, I’d dismount and lead Satanas back to the top of the pass.

  In several places, the trail bed was barely wide enough for a wagon to get through, and in a few others, boulders needed to be moved. Satanas made it to the bottom while the light was still good. The last of the cavalry that had started early in the morning had pushed on toward Colonia Oaxaca, probably intending to ride using torches until they reached the Río Bavispe and water and grain for their horses and mules.

  At the end of the trail from the top of the pass, a large water tank gave men and animals a cool drink of water. I swung out of the saddle and let Satanas drink. From what I’d seen, the trail looked impossible for wagons, much less the heavy cannon caissons, to make it to the bottom without running away or sliding off the trail’s edge.

  In the fast vanishing light, Satanas worked hard to climb back to the top of the pass, and there were places where I had to lean far forward in the saddle to avoid falling off backwards. When we reached the top edge of the steepest descent, I dismounted and trudged to the top, giving Satanas some rest. Walking up the trail, I met Sinolo Gutierrez, a División del Norte captain of engineers, leading a couple hundred men carrying torches, picks, shovels, and ropes, and leading mules in harness. Sinolo saluted me and stopped to talk. Somehow, every officer knew Yellow Boy and me.

  “You have been all the way to the bottom, Doctor Grace?”

  “Sí, Capitán, all the way to the water tank. It’s a hard ride, even with a strong horse such as this one. In some places, the way is barely wide enough to get a wagon through, and in others it’s partially blocked by boulders that have rolled from the ridge cliffs. I don’t see how you’ll be able to move the cannon caissons down that trail to get through, or, for that matter, the wagons.”

  In the failing light, he stared off toward the canyon and shrugged. “We’ll find a way. The general says it must be done, so we’ll do it. We’ll work through the night to make the trail ready for the wagons when the sun comes. Gracias, Doctor Grace. Adiós.” He saluted me and rode to the front of his men.

  I mounted Satanas and rode on up to the plateau at the top of the pass. Makeshift tents had sprung up like toadstools after a spring rain all over the plateau and on the trail east.

  Villa’s wagon was parked a little off the trail near the drop-off on the west side of the pass. Juan gave me a welcome nod as I rode up. He was cooking a venison stew. Unsaddling Satanas, I rubbed him down and gave him a little extra grain in his ration. Yellow Boy hadn’t returned. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have given his absence a second’s thought, but these were extraordinary times. Who knew what kind of dangers he might be facing? However, I was not about to raise an alarm like a worried kid. If he wasn’t back by morning, I decided, I’d quietly look for him.

  A meeting of Villa and his generals held next to his wagon broke up. The generals smiled and nodded at me as they walked past the fire to mount their horses tied off on a picket rope. All seemed friendly except Rodolfo Fierro, one of Villa’s closest confidants. Tall and thick-bodied, he had a round Mongolian face with a long, pointed mustache and black predator eyes. I soon learned the men called him “the butcher” because he loved executing prisoners or killing anyone who crossed Villa. He studied me a moment, his hands resting on the pistols hanging at his s
ides. I stared back, resting a hand on my pistol.

  Villa appeared from his meeting and plopped down with a groan on the steps of his wagon. “Ah, Hombrecito, it’s good to see you, mi amigo. Where is Muchacho Amarillo?” Fierro stuck out his lip, gave a little shrug, and moved on. I knew one day Fierro would test my mettle. Nodding toward Juan, I said, “I brought a buck in earlier in the afternoon and just returned from looking at the trail as far as the water tank at the bottom. Muchacho Amarillo left to hunt in that canyon there to the north and hasn’t returned yet.”

  Sighing, Villa nodded and asked, “What do you think of the trail?”

  “The last half-mile is very steep and has tight switchbacks. I’m not a teamster or an engineer, but it’ll be very hard to get the wagons down to the water tank, much less heavy cannon caissons. I’m not sure it can be done.”

  Villa laughed a big, hardy belly laugh. “Of course it can be done. If Sinolo can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.”

  Waving his right arm in a wide expansive gesture toward the trail, he said, “This trail, it’s nothing compared to the problems a general faces when men fight in big numbers. We’ll get down this sorry little trail.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure we will, General.”

  As Juan began spooning stew onto our plates, Yellow Boy rode into the firelight circle, a doe across his saddle. Obviously delighted to see Yellow Boy, Villa said in a jolly voice, “Fresh meat! Muchas gracias, Muchacho Amarillo! Come, fill your belly from Juan’s pot.”

  Yellow Boy handed the deer over to a grinning Juan and slid off his paint pony. “Buenas noches, General. My belly is empty. I feed my pony and join you.” I was relieved to see him, but I saw a look in his eyes that said something wasn’t right.

  Returning from the picket line, Yellow Boy took the pan and spoon Juan handed him, filled his plate, and shoveled in the chilies and venison as though he were famished. Finishing supper, we sat reminiscing about the old days in Pelo Rojo’s Apache camp.

  At last, Villa stood and said, “Muchachos, I see you mañana. I must see to División del Norte. Hasta luego.”

  We waved him off as he disappeared into the night. Yellow Boy lighted one of his cigars and stared off down the trail to the canyon bottom. I waited for him to tell me his news.

  “Apaches watch the camp.”

  I was taken aback. “Did you see them?”

  “Only their tracks. There were three riders, Runs Far and his two women.”

  I didn’t need to ask him how he knew who it was. Yellow Boy read and recognized tracks very well. He stuck out his lower lip and said, “Runs Far is a fool. He and those two women must stay away from Arango’s boy soldiers. If they don’t, Arango will kill all the People he can find. Mañana, tell Arango I hunt and scout the canyons and valleys for enemies. You speak true, but he’ll think I look for Carrancistas, not Apaches.”

  “Sí, I’ll speak so. I expect we’ll be here a few days while the engineers get the wagons and caissons in the Púlpito Canyon wash.”

  CHAPTER 17

  JESÚS, JOSÉ, AND MARCO

  Yellow Boy and I saddled our horses before dawn. During the night a brutal, freezing wind had come. Water stood in buckets under a filmy layer of ice, so cold it made our teeth ache to drink it, and the horses took only a swallow or two after their grain.

  Before mounting, Yellow Boy rested his ancient Henry rifle in the crook of his arm, grimaced against the cold, and stared into my eyes. “Hombrecito, hear me. If I’m slow to return, don’t let Arango stand between you and the trail home. He’s a roaring tigre trying to kill the wolves who shame him. Arango no longer thinks like a chief. His anger makes him do foolish things. He doesn’t choose his fights. His pride chooses for him. Arango wins no land, wins no treasure, wins no honor, and spills much blood. He blames others for fights he loses and does not learn from his losses. His pride makes him blind. You must watch Arango. Maybe he blames you for his bad choices. You leave before this happens.”

  “This I will do, Grandfather. Ride well. Adiós.”

  One hand gripping the saddle horn for balance, he sprung up on the paint, nudged him forward with his knees, waved goodbye with a little shake of his Henry, and disappeared into the cold, black dawn, heading north into the cutting wind.

  As I remembered Yellow Boy calling Villa a roaring tiger, I trembled inside, thinking that Yellow Boy’s choice of metaphor for Villa spoke of my dream.

  I mounted and rode Satanas east, back along the trail where the men made wagons and caissons ready for the drive to the bottom of the canyon. Unlike the dorados and officers who looked in pretty good shape, the enlisted men looked haggard and cold wrapped in their thin blankets, trying to capture some warmth by their little fires. Stopping to talk with them, I learned that all they’d had to eat was a little thin corn gruel flavored with a few chilies or maybe a couple of tortillas and a cup of rationed water until they reached the Bavispe.

  Near the pass entrance at the end of the line, I found a few wagons driven by young boys hauling medical supplies. The boys also served as medical assistants. I was the first American doctor to join them, but Villa expected medicos from both sides of the border to join him after he overran Agua Prieta and began his march to Mexico City.

  Doctor Miguel Oñate, in charge of the medical assistants and looking distinguished and commanding, had a shock of thick, white hair and a well-trimmed beard reaching to the edge of his collar. His dark, weather-bronzed face and his large blue eyes, peering through silver-framed glasses, showed kindness and demanded respect.

  After we shook hands, he offered me coffee and asked in fluent English about my background. He seemed impressed that I was not long out of medical school and knew the general before the beginning of the revolución. He told me that he went to the medical school in Mexico City, and that he’d had a practice in Chihuahua when Madero asked him to support Villa at the beginning of the revolución.

  Oñate patted the breast pocket of his long coat, found a cigar, lighted it, and leaned against the wagon. He said, “One night after a battle, when there were many wounded, the general came to me and said, ‘Miguel, there has to be a better way to help the wounded besides carrying them off the battlefield on a stretcher to die.’ The other medicos and I considered the problem and told him we ought to prepare the train cars so we could first operate at the battle and treat the wounded as though they were in the hospital and then carry them to a real hospital for recovery. The general didn’t hesitate to have them prepared. He gave our doctors about forty Servicio Sanitario boxcars, enameled inside so they were easy to keep sanitary and wash down after operations, and they carried the most up-to-date medical instruments and medicines. Using those boxcars, the care our wounded soldiers received near the front and their speed in reaching hospitals stood above even European standards, and outclassed the United States Army. No longer needed after the fighting stopped, the medical staff working on the train just evaporated like drops of water on a hot skillet. I believe most of them went back to the United States or stayed in Chihuahua to help the peones.”

  He blew a stream of smoke skyward and grimaced.

  “Now, Doctor Grace, we have far too few medicos. The soldaderas who used to help us with the wounded were ordered by the general to stay behind, replaced only by a few young, untrained assistants, and we have few medico supplies, most of these going to the officers. We march for about a week and already the soldados suffer.”

  I shook my head against the anticipation of men being maimed and killed. “I’ve seen the men this morning. Their suffering will grow much worse as they drive and march to the bottom of Púlpito Canyon.”

  Doctor Oñate, his eyes narrowing, said, “I’ve not yet seen the trail to the bottom.”

  Three boys in their teens, maybe fourteen or fifteen, appeared from behind the wagon. Doctor Oñate waved them over to meet me. Handsome young men, they carried old Winchesters and wore bandoliers filled with ammunition.

  “Doctor Grace, these
young men and a few others will assist us with the medical work.”

  I shook hands with José Soto, the oldest. He had a thin smudge of a mustache, thick black hair that stuck out around the edge of his infantry cap, and a perpetual squint as if he was staring at the sun. Marco Guionne, the youngest, short and very dark-skinned, had a grip like iron. Probably, I thought, an Indian from the south. His smile was quick, and he laughed often.

  Jesús Avella, the middle one, made the strongest impression, as he gripped my hand in a firm shake and looked me steadily in the eye. With his brilliant white teeth and striking brown eyes, he reminded me of the Villa I had known ten years earlier. He wore a holster carrying an old revolver in addition to his bandoliers.

  The boys were all friendly and eager to shake my hand, but their eyes looked past me to Satanas and Little David in its saddle scabbard. Jesús nodded toward Satanas. “Your stallion is magnificent, Doctor Grace, and I’ve never seen such a rifle as the one in your gun scabbard.”

  Marco grinned as he said, “It looks very old. Does it shoot cartridges? Does it—”

  I held up my hand to stop the questions and pulled Little David out of its scabbard. They frowned when they saw the big bore, long barrel, and offset hammer and grunted when I let them heft its ten pounds. I pulled a .45-70 cartridge out of my vest pocket and held its length between my thumb and forefinger for them to see. “This cartridge fits that 1874 Sharps Rifle used years ago for hunting buffalo. It’s not used much anymore.”

  José asked, “How many times can you shoot before you have to reload?”

  “Once. It’s a single-shot breechloader.”

  They smiled and shook their heads. Marco said, “A gun that shoots only once before reloading will get you killed in a war, señor. A soldier has to shoot many times before reloading. Ask the general to give you a Winchester or a Mauser. You won’t live long if you use this single-shot rifle.”