Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  A distant train whistle jarred me awake. My watch showed a little after three p.m. Far down the tracks, a big smoking engine rolled toward us on the shiny steel rails. It ground to a clanking halt at the stock pens. I saw the engineer wave at us, and I waved back. From the passenger car next to the caboose, Quent, carrying saddlebags and a portfolio case over his shoulder, his pants stuffed in high riding boots, dressed like a cowboy, and with a Winchester in the crook of his arm, stepped off the train. The conductor leaned off the back of the caboose, waved the roll signal to the conductor, and yelled, “Board!” The engineer waved back to him, and the train began to roll.

  Yellow Boy and I led the horses toward Quent. He met us halfway to the lean-to and stuck out his hand. “Howdy, boys. You look like hell.”

  We shook hands all around, mounted, and rode. I asked, “Quent, a couple of hours ago a long train came by here, and it looked like it was filled with Carrancista soldiers and equipment. What’s going on?”

  Quent shook his head, his face grim. “An outrage. That’s what’s going on. Wilson recognized Carranza as the official President of Mexico ten days ago, and to be sure he stays that way, he let Obregón send General Calles three infantry brigades up from Piedras Negras, through El Paso, and then across the US over to Douglas and back across the border to Agua Prieta. On top of that, General Calles has been able to pull troops in from other defenses. Instead of twelve hundred soldiers, Villa will be facing about seven thousand men in trenches with machine guns behind barbed wire and minefields. The slaughter will be worse than it was at Celaya.”

  Speechless, I stared at him. Yellow Boy stared straight ahead, muttering, “No damn good. No damn good.”

  I said, “But . . . but Villa’s men are starving. He thinks he’ll have a resupply point on the border after he takes Agua Prieta and the battle won’t take more than a couple of hours. He has to take it, or he’s finished.”

  Quent shrugged. “He doesn’t know that Wilson’s officially recognized Carranza or even that Wilson has let Carranza ship troops to Agua Prieta. If he tries to take it, he’ll certainly be finished. I shouldn’t even have come. I’ll never be able to write what Villa wants, but I gave my word. Here I am. Where’s Villa now?”

  “He’s with his banker getting money to buy supplies after he takes Agua Prieta.”

  Quent’s jaw dropped. “Banker? What banker? What banker is fool enough to do business with the Generalissimo?”

  “Texas John Slaughter.”

  Quent looked at me from under his raised brows. “The old fire-breathing sheriff from Cochise County? The one who owns San Bernardino Ranch? That John Slaughter is a banker?”

  “Yep, he’s a banker. Not an official one, you understand, but friends and neighbors give him their money for safekeeping and to invest it when he thinks it’s a safe bet. Evidently, the Generalissimo has a good-sized stash with the sheriff.”

  “Damn! Who’d have thought, or hearing about it, believed it was true? Is that where we’re going now? To Slaughter’s place?”

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  “Well, when I give Villa the news, just be sure you’re not in the line of fire. He’ll be blind with rage.”

  Yellow Boy nodded and muttered, “Sí, very blind.”

  CHAPTER 24

  BAD NEWS

  Swishing its tail at flies and nibbling at grama grass, the general’s palomino stood hobbled next to Texas John’s white rail fence when Quent, Yellow Boy, and I returned. As we tied our horses near the general’s, the ranch house front door opened, and Texas John shuffled out, followed by Villa. Villa’s vest pocket held a folded sheaf of white paper, and he was motioning us to hurry inside. We left our gear on the porch and sat around Slaughter’s kitchen table.

  Maria set out three more cups and poured us coffee. We were all barely seated before Villa said, “So, Queentin, what says El Presidente Wilson?”

  Quent had already opened a notebook. He finished a sentence he scribbled in that unreadable shorthand script of his, put his pen in the seam of his notebook, and looked into Villa’s anxious eyes. “It’s not good, mi amigo. Wilson recognized Carranza as First President ten days ago and made permanent the temporary embargo on arms to you.”

  Villa stared at the tabletop in front of him and muttered, “Betrayed.” Red in the face, he smacked the table so hard, coffee nearly sloshed out of our cups as he shouted, “The god-damned gringos have betrayed me after all I do for them!”

  Quent continued, “It gets worse. Wilson’s afraid a Carranza defeat will embarrass the United States and give the Germans too much influence on Carranza. The Germans want Mexico to attack the United States in order to keep it out of the war in Europe. He’s let Carranza send three brigades of infantry and their equipment from Piedras Negras into Eagle Pass, Texas, then ship them north up across Texas to El Paso and across the United States border to Douglas and into Agua Prieta. Hombrecito and Yellow Boy saw one of the trains filled with soldiers pass while they were waiting for my train. They can tell you what I say is true. Instead of having twelve hundred men for a fight, General Calles now has seven thousand. General Funston has been ordered to Douglas with soldiers and has been ordered to attack you if your bullets and shells land in Douglas or if you cross the border during the fight for Agua Prieta.”

  Villa, the fury of thunder and lightning in his eyes, stared at Quent. His hands resting flat on the table balled tightly into fists.

  Texas John, scowling, shook his head. “That ain’t right. Hell, it ain’t even legal. Why, that fool Wilson is transporting an army across the territory of a country that claims it don’t favor either side.”

  The room grew still. Villa’s hands slowly relaxed, and he slumped back in his chair.

  “Traitors. The gringos are traitors. After all I did for them, after all Carranza did to them, and they choose Carranza? Those gringos now in Mexico had better pray to God that they don’t cross my trail. I’m through protecting the gringos. Any gringo I see in Mexico will die.”

  Quent picked up his pen, ready to write. “What will you do now, General? I understand a trench behind barbed wire now goes all the way around Agua Prieta. Calles has in place many machine guns and artillery pieces to fire on your men. General Funston prepares to attack if he thinks you threaten Douglas. Wilson will not let you take Agua Prieta, even if he has to use Americano soldiers to stop you.”

  Villa stared at a Winchester hanging above the door lintel. Slowly, Villa’s gaze locked on Quent. “I will attack Agua Prieta and the entire United States if I need to. I have cannons my men died getting through El Paso Púlpito. I have twice the men as Calles. My army is hungry, even starving. My army does not fear this fight. They want it. They show great courage to march all this way. I’ll take Agua Prieta, a little anthill I step on and smash in two hours on the way to Hermosillo. Wilson will regret the day he did this thing to Francisco Villa, to Mexico, and to its people. Funston better stay on his side of the border. I’ll attack Douglas and burn it to the ground if I have to.”

  Villa slammed his fist onto the table. “All those years I guaranteed Americanos and other foreigners protection in my terrains. All those years, and this is how I’m repaid? Many gringos will die because of this, Queentin. Put that in big black letters in your periodico.”

  He smiled at Texas John Slaughter. “Señor Slaughter, muchas gracias for your help with mi banking, the magnificó ice cream, and the use of your teléfono. You are an honest hombre, not like our presidentes. My friends and I, we must leave now, for there is much to do. Adiós.”

  Slaughter shook hands with Villa and then us. “Adiós, Gen’ral. I understand you need to go. Good luck against Carranza. It was a pleasure meetin’ you boys. Adiós, hombres.”

  We rode southeast toward the river. Over the border and within a couple of miles of Slaughter’s place we crossed a dusty road. Villa stopped at the road and pointed into the dark orange sunset and scattered purple clouds. “Muchachos, Agua Prieta and Douglas
are thirty kilometers west. Take the road and scout out the way. Make sure Calles has no men in El Paso Gallardo to ambush me. If he’s there, Yellow Boy, bring me this news. Queentin, you go to Douglas and do your interviews. Find out what goes on there.”

  He pulled a paper from the sheaf of papers in his vest pocket and handed it to me. “Hombrecito, take this paper from Slaughter and go to Douglas. It is a line of credit, as good as dinero, and the storekeepers there will accept it. Send to El Paso for shirts and underwear for the muchachos, the sores on their bodies will not go away unless the rags go. Order also four wagonloads of hay for the animales del División, and, find out where medico supplies in Douglas can be bought. I see you in tres días on the llano before Agua Prieta. Be careful, mis amigos. Adiós.”

  CHAPTER 25

  DOUGLAS

  We rode into Douglas at about midnight and found American soldiers everywhere. A couple of miles outside of town, we passed several artillery pieces being set up to point south, and, a little farther on, hundreds, maybe thousands, of four-man military tents, the straight lines of their pyramid tops disappearing into the northeast darkness out over the llano. Camp Jones.

  Torches lined a couple of dusty roads running parallel to the border. High ridges of dirt appeared to zigzag between them, thrown there by hundreds of men digging a trench or filling and stacking sacks of dirt along the trench’s edge facing the border. A half-mile south, torches lit up the border at Agua Prieta. It was impossible to see much there except the turmoil of men swinging picks and shovels in the flickering lights.

  Quent looked for a building with a high roof for a better view. Near the center of town, we found the five-story Gadsden Hotel, its mansard roof cut off flat in a widow’s peak and trimmed in fancy scrollwork. Quent grabbed my arm. “The top of that roof is perfect. It’s at least sixty feet off the ground and can’t be more than three-quarters of a mile from the border. We’ll be able to see everything with our glasses come daylight. Come on. Let’s see if we can get us a room and if they’ll let us get up on the roof.”

  Yellow Boy didn’t say anything, but I knew he didn’t like the idea of staying inside the Indah big house. The clerk, an old man, glasses at the end of his bulbous nose resting above a great white mustache, needed a shave but otherwise looked presentable. His eyes studied Yellow Boy while he talked to Quent and me.

  “Howdy, gents. What can I do for yuh?”

  Quent said, “We need a room for the night.” He paused for a heartbeat watching the old man’s face. “I’m Quentin Peach. Maybe you’ve read some of my articles in the El Paso Herald. Allow me to introduce Doctor Henry Grace and his associate Señor Muchacho Amarillo, Mescalero tribal policeman.”

  The clerk frowned. “Tribal policeman, huh? Reckon I have a room for you two fellers but the ’Pache has to sleep on the roof. Everbody in the place’ll leave if they find out they’s under the same roof with a ’Pache.”

  I wanted to laugh out loud and strangle the old coot at the same time. I glanced at Yellow Boy, whose expression hadn’t changed. I knew he understood everything the clerk said, but I turned to him and said in Apache, “Grandfather, this is too good to be true.” He just nodded in reply.

  I said, “Sí, señor, Muchacho Amarillo sleeps on the roof.”

  Quent asked, “Well, can we sit with him awhile up there?”

  The clerk said, “Don’t see why not.” He pushed the register toward Quent. “It’s gonna be fifty dollars a night for the three of yuhs. Sign right there for me please, sir.”

  Quent raised his brows. We both knew this was highway robbery, but he let it go.

  The clerk rambled on, “Tell the ’Pache to keep his head down up there. It might get kinda dangerous. Everbody says Pancho Villa’s comin’ and they’s gonna be a big battle with Carranza’s boys ’cross the border in Agua Prieta. Ought to be one hell of a turkey shoot.”

  The clerk gave us a room on the fifth floor. We thanked him, took the horses to a nearby livery stable, and then returned to head upstairs to the widow’s peak.

  There were so many torches all over town that we got a clear picture of the defenses against División del Norte. About three-quarters of a mile south was the border fence, and just beyond was the large rectangular outline of torches around Agua Prieta that General Calles defended. East of the hotel and running parallel to the border were the lines of torches where soldiers dug. Scattered around town were bonfires where men took a break to eat and drink coffee. Adding to the strings of torch fires were clusters of torches used by crews setting up artillery.

  Yellow Boy shook his head. “Many Villistas die here, Hombrecito. No place to fight. There are better places, better times. Not here, not now.”

  After leaning out over the edge of the widow’s peak rail, using his field glasses Quent nodded. “Yellow Boy is exactly right, Henry. If Villa’s pride and anger get the better of him, he’ll lose half his men again and still not take Agua Prieta.”

  Looking down the street running in front of the Gadsden, I saw a woman carrying a basket filled with loaves of fresh, hot bread, and behind her a boy about twelve carrying a coffee pot and five or six cups. I was so hungry, the whiffs of her fresh-baked bread drifting up to us in the cold night air nearly drove me insane. I ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. My hands were shaking, and I was near to fainting when I gave her twenty dollars, four or five times what she would have made selling her bread and coffee a slice and a cup at a time.

  I told her if she’d come by the hotel at midday she could have her basket, pot, and cups back. Up on the roof, we each ate a whole loaf and fought the urge to devour the last two loaves and drink all the coffee. Our bellies full, we blocked the door with a chair from the hall leading to the stairs and soon fell asleep listening to the clanks and scrapes of men grunting to swing picks and lift shovels as they heaved dirt out of their ever deepening trenches.

  The dream came, unbidden and unexpected, as they always do. Rafaela was up on the ledge watching, and she waved at me and I to her. I heard the horses and mules snorting and stamping around, but the birds were silent. Rafaela screamed my name, and I turned toward a roaring ball of fire as the outraged jaguar soared toward me. Swinging the heavy rifle up to defend myself was like lifting it out of sticky molasses. There was no time, no time before the thing would be on me.

  Suddenly I was bathed in sweat in the cold air and holding Little David, confused and disoriented. My heart pounded, and I was out of breath, wildly looking around for the ball of fire about to fall on me. But there was only the velvet-black night sky, the glow from the fires in the streets below, and Quent snoring. Shivering, I laid Little David down beside my bedroll, wrapped my blanket around me, and tried to find sleep again.

  We awakened as the sun burned the edge of the sky, making it the color of blood. Still wrapped in our blankets, we used our binoculars and Yellow Boy’s telescope to view the ground activity. To the south, General Calles’s men had finished digging a trench all the way around a rectangular area that sat right up against the border. Over two miles of trench, about 1000 yards long on the sides parallel to the border, and about 800 yards long on the sides running north to south, had been built to stop División del Norte. Up and down the trench, bags filled with dirt surrounded machine guns. Inside the rectangle were connecting trenches that led to cover or to hard-to-see artillery pieces.

  Outside the edges of the trench, I saw reflections off coils of barbed wire that I later learned were more than twelve yards wide. Beyond the barbed wire, the desert bushes had vanished, and the ground was literally bare for several hundred yards in all directions around the perimeter of the rectangle. Wagons parked on the cleared ground provided men with shovels for digging small, shallow holes. A second crew unloaded thick, flat pots and carefully placed them in the holes. A third crew did something to the pots, and a fourth crew covered them up again. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of the pots were buried, and no one went among them after the last crew left.

 
I pointed toward the wagons and asked, “What are those things they’re burying in the ground?”

  Quent stared at them a moment and grunted, “Land mines. Step on one or trip a wire to the trigger and boom, you’re dead.”

  A little to the west of the Agua Prieta trench stood the guarded gate in the wire fence serving as the border crossing at Douglas. Mexicans, mostly women, children, and old people carrying blankets, pots and pans, and other essentials, or staggering under huge bundles on their shoulders, formed a steady, brightly colored river flowing north through the gate. Across the border, army troops guided them toward the stockyards where tents waited.

  The zigzag trench the army dug ran between Fifth and Sixth streets. Every two or three blocks, they had put up a machine gun or mortar station about two hundred yards forward of the main trench line and ran trenches from these points back to the main trench. For stability and protection, soldiers filled the trench dirt into burlap bags placed on top of the loose dirt and sand running in front of the trenches. At the rate the army had men digging their trench, I figured they’d reach John Slaughter’s ranch before Villa left.

  The townsfolk, even at this early hour, stood around in groups or moved from one hotel or store to the next as if getting ready for a big sporting contest. They didn’t seem at all concerned that Villa might roar across the border and slaughter them all. No doubt they thought the army would protect them.

  We warmed up the rest of our syrupy coffee, browned our bread downstairs on the hotel’s kitchen stove, and finished it down to the last drop and crumb. Quent planned to do some interviews for the Herald. Yellow Boy wanted to scout the defenses. Having to call El Paso and make some orders for Villa, I discovered the Gadsden had telephones I could pay to use. Trying for about an hour, I finally made connections in El Paso using the name and number Villa gave me. I asked for five thousand shirts, undershirts, and underpants and four wagon-loads of hay shipped to Douglas as fast as they could be loaded onto a train. The voice on the other end of the line assured me the order would leave for Douglas that day.