Villa’s commanders used hundreds of men with picks and shovels and teams of mules to pull boulders and junipers out of the way to smooth and widen the trail along the bottom of the canyon, turning what was once only a pack-mule trail into a passable wagon road.
The wind was not nearly as cold and raw at the bottom of the canyon as at the top of the pass. Afraid that if they stopped for rest they wouldn’t get up, Villa kept the men moving once they were on the canyon floor. He promised them a day to rest and forage for supplies when they reached Colonia Oaxaca, and told them the quickest way to unlimited water was the thirteen-mile trek through the canyon to the river.
The trail down the canyon also took its toll of men, mules, and wagons. Although the wagon drivers didn’t have to worry about rolling off a narrow road and bouncing hundreds of feet on the canyon’s side, some got stuck with their heavy loads and had to be pushed and pulled out of soft places, and some slid off the trail and turned over. At first, the men tried to push or pull the wagons upright and salvage supplies, but they soon learned there were few supplies left to save. They began cutting the mules loose and leaving the wagons for the rains to sweep away.
CHAPTER 19
COLONIA OAXACA
Looking over my shoulder back up Púlpito Canyon, its long hall of steep ridges filling with ink-black shadows in the falling light, a strong sense of pride for the men who made this hard march filled me. As we approached Pulpit Rock, men and animals caught the musky, wet scent of the river coming up the canyon on an evening breeze. They wanted to run, to stampede for the water, but they were too weak and could only walk a little faster. Satanas, smelling the water, jerked at his bridle, wanting to run straight for the river, but I held him back to tell the men their suffering and courage gave them first place at the water.
I was the last man in Villa’s long, serpentine column that, by sheer force of will, made it across the Sierra Madre and marched out the west side of El Paso Púlpito. Passing Pulpit Rock, I saw the glow from fires up and down the river. The cavalry and mule-train packers, who had been there for several days, having scavenged for supplies up and down the Río Bavispe, cooked meals to fill our starving bellies.
All the way to the river, I looked for lights from Colonia Oaxaca, but saw none except for one or two in the dark outline of a distant house up the road. I wondered if revolución fighting had driven away the Mormons who had built the place, or if they’d decided to move on after the 1905 flood.
Wagons were parked in random groups all over the big fields next to the river. We rushed past them, only stopping when the mules stood in the river up to their bellies, drinking their fill, and their drivers had jumped down from their wagon benches in whoops of joy to bury their faces in the cold, clear water. I let Satanas drink while I drank a few double handfuls before I began filling my canteen to give the patients in the wagons a drink. Doctor Oñate, Marco, Jesús, and other medico wagon drivers were doing the same thing.
In a field just above the river, Villa’s wagon stood apart from the others, his big warhorses tied to a nearby picket line as they ate their grain. Villa and his commanders met under a large, tattered piece of canvas tied to one side of his wagon. I heard anger and frustration in their voices.
Myriad stars glittered in a velvet-black sky as I unsaddled Satanas, brushed him down with handfuls of grass, and hobbled him so he’d be free to graze. Juan, with a big toothless smile, waved his stewpot spoon at me to come eat. I didn’t give him any argument. For the past five or six days, I’d been living off what I could make the land give me, and the smells from Juan’s stewpot twisted my stomach with a ravenous need to eat.
Juan ladled steaming beef stew into a big tin pie pan and tossed me tortillas from a flat piece of iron on the fire next to the pot. Out of the big, fire-blackened coffee pot, Juan poured a tin cup full of strong, soothing tea made from desert willow and handed it to me. Men all over the camp would make and drink the tea and use it to wash the sores on their bodies. I expected to do the same.
Looking around for a place to sit, I heard from across the fire, “Buenas noches, Doctor Grace. The ground next to the wagon wheel makes a good easy chair. Come keep me company while you eat.”
It didn’t take long to see the flash of the bright red shirt in the flickering firelight. Sipping from his tin cup, Roja sat relaxed, leaning against a wagon wheel.
Sitting down beside him, I wiggled the bottom of my cup into the dirt to hold it stable. “Buenas noches, señor. I haven’t seen you since you watched me shoot for the medico boys. Where’ve you been hiding?”
He shrugged while he rolled tobacco in a corn-shuck cigarette.
“I hide nowhere. El general, he sends me and other riders across Sonora to scout the land and learn the news. It is a big country, Doctor Grace, many miles to ride, much to learn. I’m the last one back to camp just this afternoon. It takes a long time to tell El general what I learn.”
My mouth stuffed, I just raised an eyebrow to ask a question. Roja shook his head.
“No, señor, I speak only to El general. You’ll know what I tell him when he decides to tell you.”
I nodded and swallowed. “This I understand, amigo. Never betray your jefe’s confidence. I respect you for this.”
He smiled and took a deep draw off his cigarette. “Gracias, señor. Tell me of the trip across the pass and down the canyon. No one tells me anything about the march over the pass and down the canyon since I speak with El general.” He waved his arm in a sweep covering the camp and said, “The men, they look in very bad shape. They say days pass since they drank more than just a little water and ate more than a few tortilla crumbs.”
“Unfortunately, they all speak the truth. Everything went wrong that could go wrong. We ran out of supplies a day or two after the wagons parked at the top of the pass, and it didn’t take long for the men and animals to drink the springs and tanks scattered around the pass dry. Getting all the wagons and caissons down that steep trail to the canyon’s bottom took longer than El general expected, because the men had to make a wagon road out of that narrow pack-train trail down the canyon. The trail on the western side of the pass was cut to ribbons and ground to deep powder by the sliding wheels and men marching on it, making it very slippery and dangerous. The freezing wind, sometimes mixed with snow and dust, made it so thick from trail dust you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, made every living thing in the pass miserable, almost ready to lie down and die, but Villa didn’t let us lie down, made us keep marching, and so we made it to the Río Bavispe.”
Roja smoked slowly as I spoke, taking an occasional long drag on his cigarette.
“Coming off the top of the pass, twenty men died in wagon crashes before they reached the bottom, fifty were so badly hurt that half of them died before we made the river, another three or four died on the canyon trail, and we lost ten wagons and three caissons. The country between Púlpito Rock and the bottom of the pass is lined with the graves of many brave men, señor.”
Somewhere across the river a wolf called and a brother answered. I wondered how many in División del Norte would be around to hear that wild, lonesome call when we reached Agua Prieta.
I sighed. “Men with smashed hands, broken arms and legs, and torn-up internal organs fill the medico wagons. On three or four of the men, we amputated a leg or an arm because they were so badly crushed gangrene was inevitable. Those men suffered in terrific pain until I remembered plants the Apaches use. My fusions eased their pain a little, but nearly all of them have died.”
Camisa squinted at me and shook his head. “It sounds more like a bloody battle than a long march across the mountains.”
“A battle? Sí, a battle every step of the way, and our compañeros won it!”
As I spoke, the meeting between Villa and his generals broke up. Villa shuffled over to the fire to take the plate and cup Juan held out for him. He joined us, sitting down with his legs crossed, and looked at us from across the little fire. “So,
at last, we cross the mountains, eh, Hombrecito?”
“Sí, General. A march to remember, a hard march with courage, one deserving of old men’s toasts to battles won.”
Villa nodded toward Roja. “Has this hombre told you his news?”
“No, General. He says I’ll know when you decide to tell me.”
A grin formed under his mustache. “Ha! Camisa Roja is my most trusted man. But you, amigo, the División del Norte owes you much for all the hard work you did with the broken men and the way you eased their pain. My other medicos don’t know the desert plants as you do. This they tell me. Muchas, muchas gracias, Hombrecito.”
“It’s nothing, General. I’m a doctor. I do what I can, when I can, for anyone who needs my help. This I’ve sworn to do.”
“Sí, this I know. Camisa Roja, tell Hombrecito—Doctor Grace—the news you bring us while I eat my stew and tortillas. A long day, and I’m starving.”
Roja took a final draw on his cigarette and, blowing the smoke toward the brilliant stars, crushed the butt in the dirt. “The revolución fighting along the Bavispe drives off most of the patróns of the great haciendas, leaving the ranchos with little or nothing. Most of the villages have so little food the peones are close to starving. We’ll find little in the way of supplies from the haciendas and villages between Colonia Morelos and Agua Prieta.
“The Carrancistas have come to Sonora. An army marches up from the south through Sinaloa, and another lands from the sea in Guaymas. Maytorena, our commander in Sonora, has deserted and is in the land of the Americanos. The men he left behind won’t fight without him, and when Carranza’s troops came to Hermosillo, the cowards practically gave it to them. Agua Prieta now has three thousand men, and they furiously dig a trench around it to stand against us. The situation becomes worse by the day, Doctor Grace, much worse than when División del Norte left Casas Grandes.”
I watched Villa eating and listening as Roja told me the bad news. That he might have to fight two Carranza armies and that food supplies for División del Norte were scarce to nonexistent didn’t seem to bother him. I asked, “General, what will we do?”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shrugged, and smiled. “We do as we planned, Hombrecito. I discussed this with my generals. They fully agree with me.
“What can we do? If we return to Chihuahua, the men will starve and die of thirst after having suffered so much coming across El Paso Púlpito. If we retreat, most will never leave El Paso Púlpito alive and División del Norte will disappear with them. These men don’t know what the word ‘retreat’ means. If we retreat now, they’ll never fight tyranny again for as long as they live. The Carrancistas in Agua Prieta cannot stand against me. El Perfumado, Obregón, he must try to hold Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora. My spies tell me Diéguez commands them. I beat this man before. He runs in the heat of battle.”
He thrust a fist toward the sky and said, “As we planned, our blood and thunder can still take Agua Prieta. We’ll resupply from the guns and bullets the Carrancistas surrender, use their dinero to buy food supplies and bullets, and rest the men and animals. Then we go to Hermosillo and whip Diéguez again. When we do this, men will come to the División del Norte once more and no longer run away. Mark my words. By this time next year, we’ll eat steak and frijoles in Mexico City, and Carranza and Obregón will be dead or hiding with the Americanos who love them. You wait. You’ll see this happen. I, General Francisco Villa, Commander of the División del Norte, say it will be so.”
Somehow, I believed him.
CHAPTER 20
YELLOW BOY RETURNS
As the fire burned low and the night grew old, Villa and I discussed the patients in the medico wagons. Camisa Roja rolled and smoked another cigarette, listening, saying nothing. Doctor Oñate suggested to Villa that he leave the wagon-crash survivors in Colonia Morelos and send them back to their families when they were strong enough to be driven north to a train.
“So, Hombrecito, what do you say about Oñate’s idea for leaving the men in the medico wagons at Colonia Morelos?”
“If they’re looked after at Morelos, it’s the right thing to do, and knowing the Mormons, they won’t hesitate to help them all they can. We’re going to need all the wagons and supplies we can find for Agua Prieta.”
Villa nodded, scratching his chin in thought. “Sí, I agree. We’ll leave the men in the medico wagons at Morelos, even if we have to leave medico assistants to look after them.”
He stared out into the dark toward the black, jagged eastern horizon outlined against the stars and changed the subject. “Hombrecito, where is our compañero, Muchacho Amarillo? He’s not with us on the hard march over El Paso Púlpito. He brings no meat. None of the scouts see any sign of him. You think he is hurt, maybe killed or wounded by the Apaches that live in those mountains yonder?”
I shrugged and said, “He probably went north to Rojo’s camp. His wives still have relatives there, and he needs to learn how they’re surviving the revolución. We ought to see him soon, maybe before Colonia Morelos.”
We saluted Villa as he took leave of us and shuffled off into the darkness to mount the magnificent Appaloosa Juan had saddled for him. Camisa Roja said he needed sleep and headed for his blankets somewhere just outside the circle of light from Juan’s fire. I found the sack of plants I’d been using to make teas for the men in the medico wagons and started brewing a pain-killing tea for the night. While the tea brewed, the other medicos and I visited our patients and told them that General Villa planned to leave them in Colonia Morelos, a two-or three-day march downriver, and then send them on to their families and villages when they were strong enough. They all managed to smile when they heard the news, but I doubted if more than a handful would make it to Morelos.
I spent a while at Doctor Oñate’s fire, discussing the patients and what could be done for the men throughout the camp who suffered from skin sores and a host of other ailments that came from exposure to the desert with little food and water.
It grew late. Exhausted, I slid under my blankets next to the coals of Juan’s fire. I was fast falling into a dreamless sleep when I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder. My fingers instinctively curled around my revolver’s handle, my heart galloping. In the low glow of the few coals left in the fire, I stared into the eyes of Yellow Boy. Instantly awake, I was relieved and filled with gratitude to Ussen that he’d returned.
I grinned and started to speak, but he signaled silence, pointed upriver, and motioned for me to follow him. At the river, we turned south, upstream, careful to step on rocks so even the most experienced tracker couldn’t follow our path unless he was an Apache.
A couple of hundred yards from the last fire, Yellow Boy turned up a deep, dry arroyo. We wound past so many bushes and trees that before long, we couldn’t see or hear the river and came to Yellow Boy’s pinto and another horse that looked familiar, hobbled and nibbling brush. A pot of coffee bubbled on the coals of a small fire, and he motioned me to take one of the tin cups on his blanket. I poured myself a cup and then filled his as he sat down by the fire.
He nodded his thanks and leaned back on an elbow, studying me, and said, “Hombrecito, you make it through El Paso Púlpito with Arango. Bueno. My eyes are glad to see you, my son.”
“It pleases my heart to see you, Grandfather. You’ve been gone a long time. Even Arango asks about you. I told him we’d probably see you by the time we reached Colonia Morelos. Why didn’t you stay with us in the camp?”
He took a long drink of his steaming coffee and lighted a cigar. “Better for me to stay out of sight. Yaquis watch Villa for the Carrancistas. I watch Yaquis. Army of Carrancistas in Sonora. Some go to Agua Prieta, some, to Hermosillo. A hard fight in Agua Prieta comes for Villa and his men. Even now the Carrancista jefe digs a ditch around Agua Prieta. His men dig faster than a rat trying to hide from a rattlesnake. I come to Arango’s fire at Morelos. Tell Arango you speak to me this night. Give him my words.”
“H
e already knows about the Carrancistas. His scouts told him.”
“Sí, it is true, but they don’t know about the Yaquis. You tell him I watch. He’ll think it’s a good thing.”
It felt good to know Yellow Boy covered our backs. “Where’d you get the horse? I’ve seen him before.”
“Horse of Runs Far.”
“Did you kill Runs Far?”
He looked in his coffee as if embarrassed and shook his head. “No. Only take horse. I tell Runs Far again to stay away from Arango’s army. No take muchachos. Runs Far, he listens? Maybe so, he has ears. He comes back, I kill him.”
“You know he’ll come back, and he’ll be on the lookout for you, making it ten times harder to catch him.”
Yellow Boy nodded.
“Hombrecito speaks true, but I’ll stop Runs Far. Arango must have no reason for war on Rojo’s camp.”
We talked through a second cup of coffee. Yellow Boy told me what he’d seen as he covered the mountains and Río Bavispe and San Bernardino valleys trailing Runs Far and his two women. “Mormon tribe gone. Houses, pueblos empty. Fields have nothing. No horses. No cattle. No sheep. All gone. Even Apache no come now. Bellies of Arango army stay empty long time.”
“Arango knows this. His scouts have told him already. What do you think he’ll do?”
Yellow Boy shrugged and said, “In war, weak always die. Many die on trail to Agua Prieta. Arango knows this. Don’t forget what I tell you before, Hombrecito. Arango never blames self for army defeat. Leave before he says you’re the reason he loses.”
“Sí, Grandfather. I’ll do this.”
I left him and crept back to my blankets. Even with a belly full of strong coffee, I didn’t have any trouble finding sleep.
CHAPTER 21
COLONIA MORELOS
Knight of the Tiger Page 11