Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  I grimaced and said, “Yes, sir, you’re right. I hate to hear folks on this side were hurt, but it’s a risk they take and can’t be helped if they have to watch.”

  Doctor Thigpen sighed. “Doctor Grace, from what we can see this morning, it appears General Villa’s forces took very high losses. No doubt there are many wounded. If you need any help, we feel it’s our Christian duty to offer our services as doctors, and we’ll be happy to assist you.”

  His offer was like manna to a man starving in the desert. “Doctors, you’re a gift from heaven. We ran out of medical supplies last night. Some of our wounded haven’t had any medical attention in six or seven hours. I’m sure General Villa will be very grateful if you can come.”

  Thigpen motioned toward the door. “We anticipated that might be the case and have a buggy and our medical bags outside. We’ll follow you.”

  On the way back to Villa’s headquarters, I saw hundreds of men who, having reached the smelter ditches for water, were at the border fence holding their pails across the wire, begging for clean water, and the smelter workers were giving it to them.

  By the time I returned to the medico circle, half the severely wounded had died. Doctor Oñate, frantic to help the wounded when they were brought in, rushed toward my wagon and the new supplies. The medicos scrambled to gather what they needed to clean and bandage wounds. Thigpen and Miller pulled up behind me, jumped out of their buggy, rolled up their sleeves, and got to work.

  A few hours after we began work, Villa appeared and walked among the wounded, giving comfort and praise to the men for their courage and sacrifice. As he headed in my direction, I saw him look at Thigpen and Miller, busy bandaging wounds. Frowning as he approached, he said in a low monotone, “Hombrecito, why are these gringos here among our brave wounded?”

  “They’re from Douglas. Doctors Thigpen and Miller. They volunteered to help us, and I brought them with me when I came back with the supplies. I knew you’d be grateful for their help.”

  Villa’s quirt dangled from his right wrist and he slapped his pants leg with it as I spoke. “Sí, gracias. Por favor, bring them to my wagon when you finish here.”

  “Sí, General. We’ll come in an hour or two.”

  “Muy bien. See that you do.” He gave his pants leg an extra hard swat with the quirt and walked off.

  The sun was low in a blood-red sky when Thigpen, Miller, and I walked to Villa’s wagon. Camisa Roja sat off to one side smoking. I waved to him, and he saluted me with a smile and a tip of his hat. Villa saw us and nodded while he continued to listen to dorados gathered around his desk. I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept in two days, and in that time had seen more death and destruction than I’d expected to see in a lifetime.

  The dorado meeting finished, and the participants saluted and left. Villa waved us toward chairs sitting at cockeyed angles in the sand by his desk. I felt dread filling my guts when I saw anger flashing in his brown eyes. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. He cocked his head to one side and growled, “So, Hombrecito, you bring Doctor Thigpen and Doctor Miller to help us, eh? Muchas gracias, señores . . . Many thanks for nothing!”

  I was humiliated and disgusted. Their kindness didn’t deserve his snarling anger. Thigpen stood up, Miller an instant behind him, and said, “I’m sorry we’ve been of no help to your wounded, General. We’ll leave now.”

  Villa’s quirt whistled through the air and slapped the papers on his desk with a loud whack. He roared, “No! You’ll sit down, señores. You’ll leave when I tell you to leave. Sit down!”

  Thigpen’s hands went up, palm out, in front of him. “Sí, certainly, General, we’re sitting down.” Miller didn’t say a word. He stared at Villa and sank back into the chair.

  Villa leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and said, “I’ve always extended guarantees to the persons and property of you gringos. With my own eyes, I’ve watched over fortunes of precious metals for gringos. With my own hands I’ve buried your treasures safely out of the reach of your enemies. Your families have enjoyed my protection.”

  He leaned back and stared at them. Thousands of men and animals moved and worked nearby, but I barely heard them. Then Villa quirted his desk papers again.

  “Your Presidente Wilson has betrayed Mexico, betrayed Francisco Villa, and betrayed División del Norte. For four days, not a single bite of food has passed the lips of my men and me. We are starving. We’re here sacrificing our lives. For water, we’re drinking the discharge from your Douglas smelters. This, while you, whose families and treasure I’ve protected, sleep in the lap of luxury. Your government is playing a high hand in its attempt at scuttling the peace, prosperity, and freedom of Mexico.”

  He rose from his chair and leaned forward to glare at Thigpen and Miller. Quent, a frown across his brow and fire flashing in his eyes, walked around from behind the next wagon and stood watching Villa.

  Villa pointed at a general watching from nearby, his smoke-yellowed eyes wide, his mouth open like a fish out of water, trying to gulp air. “My general, bring back the artillery!” He pointed toward a low point near the road. “Take it down there, and turn it loose on those sons-of-bitches in Douglas.” He looked around at other officers and then at me. “I didn’t want history to record our side as the offender, but the cowardly bastard Wilson has left us no other alternative.”

  He looked at Thigpen and Miller and snarled, “From this moment on, I’ll devote my life to the killing of every gringo I can get my hands on.” He pointed at Camisa Roja, who was watching with the enlisted men, and said in a loud voice, “Execute them! Señores Gringos, I give you one more hour of life. Make your peace with God.”

  Thigpen and Miller slumped back in their chairs, staring at Villa, their jaws dropped in disbelief. Quent and I gaped in shock, shaking our heads. Camisa Roja drew his revolver, pointed it at Thigpen and Miller, and cocked it. He threw down his corn-shuck cigarillo, crushed it with his boot, looked around at the soldiers watching, and motioned as if he was tossing a ball toward them underhanded. Six of the men stood. They slung their rifles over their shoulders and came forward to pull Thigpen and Miller out of their chairs. The two doctors appeared dumb and shaken as they were led away.

  The general Villa had ordered to train artillery on Douglas had disappeared. I knew he obeyed any Villa order without question, and so did Camisa Roja, who didn’t look at me as he marched the doctors away.

  Villa slumped in his chair and tossed the quirt on his desk. I stood and leaned across the desk and said, “General, this is an outrage. You can’t . . . you mustn’t do this. These men helped you. They volunteered to come help with your wounded. No one asked them to come. No one offered to pay them. The people in Douglas have done nothing to you. Some have even died because of stray bullets and shrapnel. If you do these things, you’re the worst criminal in Mexico.”

  His fist was a blur as he hit the left side of my face. The blow had the impact of a mule’s kick. I staggered back, but I didn’t fall. I heard his revolver clear his holster and make a loud double click as he cocked it. Yellow Boy’s Henry clicked to full cock behind me, followed by the sound of Mauser rifle bolts cycling cartridges into chambers. Villa kept his eyes on me, the big Colt steady and leveled at the middle of my chest. “Hombrecito, you do not call your jefe names. It’s disrespectful. You pledged your service to me. You work for me until I say you’re through. Comprende?”

  I saw the anger in his eyes draining away. I was so disgusted, I wanted to curse him and die, but Rufus Pike’s mantra flashed in my mind, Cold and cakilatin’, Henry. I bit the inside of my lip and took a deep breath. “Sí, I understand, but, Jefe, I’ll never respect you as a general or an hombre again if you do these terrible things.”

  The anger in his eyes evaporated. He looked down at his gun hand and ran his other hand through his hair, the expression on his face dazed and confused like that of a fighter after a hard punch.

  Quent, apparently sensing that Vil
la was stepping back from the precipice, said in a calm voice, “General, there’s not a man alive who could have taken Agua Prieta without destroying an army ten times the size of yours or taking weeks or months to starve Calles into surrender. The Americans ensured that you would lose this battle. It’s nothing to them that you lose. They thought they would be safer and could fight the Germans if you lost. You’ll live to fight another day. But if you do these things, murder men who came to help you, fire your cannons against helpless women and children without warning, even your own countrymen will spit on the ground when they speak the name of Francisco Villa. You’ll never be able to raise another army. You’ll be despised more than any bandito. Hombrecito speaks the truth. Don’t do these terrible things.”

  Villa let the hammer down slowly, carefully laid the revolver on his desk, and slumped into his chair. He rubbed his temples with his strong, stubby fingers and stared at the ground. I heard the hammer on the Henry behind me return to safety. Gradually, the soldiers with the Mauser rifles relaxed and went about their business. I didn’t move, and neither did Quent. I looked along the road and saw mule teams pulling cannons into place.

  Villa looked up. There was a haunted, startled look in his eyes. “My God, Hombrecito, what am I doing? The treacherous Americans are making me lose my mind, even to the point of executing friends and firing on women and children. This I cannot do, no matter what the bastard Wilson does to me. Sí, Queentin, I’ll live to fight another day.”

  He took a slip of paper, found a pencil in his vest pocket, and scribbled a note. He handed it to me and said, “Take this to Camisa Roja, pronto. I instruct him not to execute the Americano medicos and to escort them to the border. You tell him I said this, eh?”

  I nodded and almost ran away from Villa’s wagon to find Camisa Roja. Quent told me later that Villa then wrote a second note to the artillery general, telling him not to fire on Douglas, and he gave Yellow Boy that note to deliver.

  It didn’t take long to find Camisa Roja, smoking a cigarillo off to one side of his firing squad. His men sat lounging, leaning back on their elbows. Fifteen yards away, Doctors Thigpen and Miller were on their knees, eyes closed, their hands clasped in front of them, praying. I could hear them mumbling as I handed Camisa Roja the note, and said, “The general says no execution. Escort them to the border, and let them go.”

  Roja took the note and read it. “Sí, Doctor Grace, so the general orders. Tell this to our medico friends while I dismiss the firing squad.”

  I walked over to Thigpen and Miller. Hearing me, they opened their eyes. “Gentlemen, the general sends you home and deeply regrets this ordeal he’s put you through.”

  They threw up their arms and yelled, “Hallelujah!” so loud, they startled me, and Thigpen said, “Thank you, Jesus! Oh, thank you, dear God. Doctor Grace, we’ve been praying that God’s will be done, and he sent us grace.”

  They laughed and slapped each other on the back, both crying, “Hallelujah!”

  I didn’t know what to say about prayers being answered, so I said, “Capitán Roja will escort you back to the border, and I personally apologize for this treatment. You deserved so much better than this.”

  Thigpen smiled as he pushed himself up and dusted sand off his pants. “Doctor Grace, it is I who thank you. We have our lives back. It’s enough.”

  CHAPTER 29

  ADIÓS, AMIGOS

  Yellow Boy, Quent, and I sat on a Douglas station platform bench waiting for a train. I said little, lost in my thoughts about the talk we’d had with Villa a little more than an hour earlier.

  Villa had stared out across the plain at Agua Prieta where so many of División del Norte had died. He said in a low voice, “Queentin, you return to El Paso this day. What will you write of this disaster?”

  Quent leaned forward, cool and unflinching. “General, I’ll write of the great courage of your men. I’ll write of how they tried to take a fortified position that no army, north or south of the border, could take. I’ll write how the Americans betrayed a friend by recognizing Carranza, by shipping his army across the United States to Agua Prieta, and by providing electricity to their searchlights. I’ll say you disappeared into the desert with División del Norte and will reappear where and when the Carrancistas least expect you as you continue your battle against the despot. That’s what I’ll write.”

  Smiling, Villa sighed and relaxed. “Bueno, Queentin. All you have said is the truth.” I noticed Quent had said nothing of the aborted executions of Thigpen and Miller or of the recalled orders to shell Douglas.

  “Just for my own curiosity, General, and off the record, what are your plans now?” Quent asked.

  Villa pointed a finger pistol at him, making the promise clear and certain of what would happen if his plan went on the record. “I’ll leave five thousand cavalry here in the north. They go first to Cananea and demand of the no-good, bastard, gringo mining company, supplies and twenty-five thousand dollars or I, Francisco Villa, will leave nothing they own standing. Oh yes, mi amigo, the gringo businessmen will give Señor Bastard Presidente Wilson an earful of the anger they feel from the enemy he made for them.

  “The cavalry will also keep Calles off my back while the rest of División del Norte goes to Naco. It’s only a day’s march to the west. In Naco, we’ll rest a few days, and I’ll resupply from the gringos in Bisbee. Those greedy little bastard merchants there will ignore the embargo. I’ll tell my countrymen of the deal the traitor Carranza makes with the goddamn, son-of-a-bitch gringos. I’ll take his army away from him with the truth of deals with the gringos he tries to hide, and I’ll chase him like the rat he is into his hole.”

  Villa paused for a moment, looked out toward the horizon, and said, “When my men are ready, we’ll take Hermosillo from Diéguez. I’ve fought that fraud in battle before, and after Hermosillo? Why, Señor Peach, we’ll celebrate the birth of El Niño de Christo, the Christ Child, in Mexico City. That is my plan, Queentin—off the record, of course.” As Villa spoke, Quent took notes. He stared at Villa a moment and said, “General, when you take Mexico City, call me. I’ll come to do your story.”

  Grinning, Villa nodded. “Bueno, Queentin, the story will be a good one.” Scratching his beard’s stubble, he turned to Yellow Boy and me. “Muchachos, you’ve more than paid any debt you thought you owed me. This isn’t your war. Go back to Nuevo Mexico.”

  I knew Villa was still not right in his mind, still crazed with anger only partially under control. He needed help much more now than when he’d led his army to the eastern entrance of El Paso Púlpito. I couldn’t leave. He was close to slipping into the abyss and taking with him huge numbers of men, men I knew well. I had to stay. I remembered what that black hole at the end of his pistol barrel looked like when he’d pointed it at me, and I wondered if that was the last thing I’d see on this earth. I said, “General, I’ll stay as long as I’m needed. Your wounded need all the doctors and medicine you can provide them.”

  He looked at me from under his brows and nodded. “Sí, Hombrecito, we need you. You’re a great hombre to stay with División del Norte in these dark hours. I’ll always, always remember what you do. Muchas gracias.”

  Villa’s brown eyes looked in Yellow Boy’s flat, impassive eyes, black as obsidian, staring back at him. “And you, Muchacho Amarillo, what will you do?”

  “I go, Jefe. There’s no honor riding against hombres hiding in holes with shoot-many-times guns. Better to wait until los hombres come out of their holes. Better to fight when they no expect you. Lose too many warriors when enemy fights from holes behind rope filled with thorns. I go.” He paused a few seconds, continuing to stare hard at Villa, the cool morning as still as the death all around us. “I come back if you shoot my grandson, Hombrecito. It will take a long time for you to die. Comprende, Arango?”

  Villa stared back unblinking, slowly nodding. “Sí, I understand. You’re a great friend, Muchacho Amarillo. Muchas gracias for all you’ve done for División del Norte
.”

  Soon Villa glanced at the sun, took out his watch, and looked at it. “Amigos, the train east comes in one hour and a half. I know Queentin is anxious to return to El Paso. Por favor, Hombrecito, escort him to the train. Adiós, amigos.”

  A long moaning call and distant black smoke plume rising above the creosotes, mesquite, and cactus to the west brought me out of my reverie. We watched the train approach and made no move until it stopped at the station. Then we stood and shook hands.

  Quent said, “Good luck, Henry. Villa’s on the edge of a high cliff with far to fall. You can bet he’ll get his tail kicked in Hermosillo, and it’ll probably be the end of División del Norte. Watch him close and stay out of his way. When you get back to Cruces or El Paso, call me. We’ll have supper, and you can tell me about your adventures with Pancho Villa and División del Norte.”

  “I’ll be careful. Give my best to Persia, and keep your sons close. Adiós.”

  He and Yellow Boy grabbed each other’s right forearms and slapped each other on the back.

  Quent said, “Señor Yellow Boy, you’re wise to leave. Villa would be a much better and more successful general if he used your tactics. Good luck on your ride to Mescalero. Watch your back.”

  Yellow Boy nodded and replied, “Go in peace, amigo. Make the tracks of straight words.”

  Quent picked up his gear and climbed up the steps of a passenger car. He saluted us as the train puffed out of the station.

  Yellow Boy and I talked a while in Douglas. I gave him Satanas to keep safe as he mounted and rode toward the sun. Riding Quent’s roan, I returned to my patients. I changed bandages and cleaned wounds, treated skin sores, and administered painkillers.

  I suddenly realized how quiet it was. Hundreds of small fires were scattered around the medico circle of wagons, but there was no distant laughter or sounds of men talking, no clink of harness chains, or occasional guitar strumming. There was just the occasional stamp or snort from the mules. It was like the entire División del Norte had died at Agua Prieta, and I guessed, in a way, maybe it had. I couldn’t put off sleep any longer. Blankets on hard ground never felt so good. I pulled the blankets over my shoulders and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, blotting out the horror and anger that had filled the last three days.