Across the Río Bravo

by R. W. Stone

  “And don’t sir me, soldier. I work for a living.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied before he could correct himself.

  McCallum just stared at him and shook his head in frustration.

  “Look, sonny, I used to wear that same uniform but for a hell of a lot longer than you have. So why don’t you just explain to me what the Sam Hill a sentry is doing on duty way out here in front of a peaceful little American town?”

  This time the soldier cleared his throat first before answering. Pedro had to stifle a laugh. Over the years riding with McCallum he had seen variations of this routine repeated many times.

  “Well, far as they tell me, this here’s now a war zone. See we was attacked a couple of days ago,” the sentry explained.

  “Attacked?” Thad repeated. “Out here? By who? A couple of little old ladies on their way to church in a buckboard?”

  “Oh, no, sir. By Mexicans! A whole army,” the soldier answered, looking somewhat sheepishly at the vaquero.

  Peralta was expressionless. “Revolucionarios,” he whispered. “Must be, jefe.”

  McCallum shrugged. “Anything else gonna go wrong on this damned trip?” He looked up, inhaled, noticing for the first time the smell of the smoke lingering in the air. “How badly did they burn the place up?”

  “Well, sir, it’s like this,” the soldier said, lowering his rifle. “They burned quite a bit. Word is they killed almost twenty men. Stole a lot of horses and guns, too. Leastwise that’s what they tell me.”

  “Private, just where is your sergeant stationed now? And stop calling me sir. I ain’t no damned officer.”

  The young soldier nodded. “Once you get into town, turn right, and go all the way down to the camp. It’s located about ten blocks west.”

  McCallum nodded. “Thanks, Private.” As they started to leave, McCallum paused a moment. “On second thought, maybe you should leave the rifle’s safety on, after all. Wouldn’t want you to shoot yourself.” With that the two men rode on to the town.

  As they rode into Columbus, they studied the people milling around in the street. As far as Thad was concerned there was far too much activity and noise for a town this size. It was as if everyone and everything had been set in motion at the same time.

  “Looks bad, jefe,” Pedro commented.

  Thad didn’t reply. He just scanned the streets as if looking for something he might use to his own benefit. It was an old habit. His eyes finally came to rest on an army detail of five soldiers who were carrying water pails. He and Pedro rode over to them.

  “We’re looking for the sergeant. Know where we can find him?” McCallum asked. In his experience sergeants usually ran the army at the local level, used to dealing with the down and dirty on a daily basis. Ask specifically for the sergeant, and odds are you’d get the real person in charge.

  The oldest of the men set down his pails and looked up at the two men on horseback. He recognized the kind of hat McCallum was wearing as old army issue and was a little curious as to why the man would be riding with a Mexican. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  “Top kick’s over at the supply depot,” he explained. “Go down this street and turn left when you go past the ladies’ dress shop. It’ll be down at the far end.”

  “Thanks, soldier,” McCallum replied, tossing him a relaxed salute.

  * * * * *

  The depot was indeed a beehive of activity. Soldiers were coming and going in a way that to the untrained eye might seem rather chaotic. As McCallum saw it, however, there clearly was a method in all this madness.

  “Mobilizing,” he said to Pedro.

  “For what, jefe?”

  “From the way it looks to me, the army’s gonna get involved in whatever this is … big time. Wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t work this up to a full-scale expedition.”

  “The whole army for such a little attack?” Pedro asked.

  McCallum thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “Looks like it to me.”

  The two men dismounted and tied their horses to a nearby hitching post. They then walked into the depot and looked around. It was a big barnlike affair with two large sliding doors both at the front and rear of the building. Off to the left side were two long wooden tables and several chairs. There was an American flag nailed to the wall behind them. A soldier with several stripes on his arms was seated at the first table, handing out papers to a line of men gathered in front of him.

  “Follow me,” Thad said to his friend.

  As the two approached the tables, they watched a young man step up and address the sergeant. He was in civilian clothing.

  “Excuse me, sir?” the boy said. “I’d like to speak with someone about enlisting. Would it be you I talk to?” he asked.

  “As good as anyone I suppose,” the sergeant replied, looking up from his stack of papers. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, my family had some friends killed in the attack and I want to do my part. Problem is, I’m not sure about going into the army. My uncle says the marines is better,” the lad commented sheepishly.

  “That so?” the sergeant said, looking the boy over, top to bottom.

  By now McCallum and Peralta had moved up to wait their turn. They couldn’t help overhearing the conversation.

  “Yes, sir,” said the young man. “See, I just cain’t make up my mind. You army fellows is closer, but some says the navy gets better chow, and others told me where the marines are … well, that’s where the action is.”

  McCallum couldn’t help a smile taking shape on his face, knowing the boy was setting himself up for a good leg pulling from the sergeant.

  The sergeant studied the boy a bit before saying, “Well, let me ask you a question, young man. Are your parents married … and were they married to each other when you was born?”

  The lad looked puzzled by the question and was obviously bothered by the sergeant’s insinuation.

  “Yes, sir!” he replied angrily. “Of course they were. Married right and proper, too.”

  The sergeant smiled, arching his eyebrow.

  At this point, McCallum nudged his friend to get his attention. “Listen to this one, Pedro,” he whispered.

  “Well, then it isn’t even an issue for ya,” the sergeant explained.

  “How so?” the lad asked, turning red under the soldier’s gaze.

  “I’ll explain it to you, son. See, iffen your parents was married to each other when you was born, why then you just simply won’t qualify for the navy or the marines.”

  McCallum had to choke back a laugh. He had said just about the same thing himself to nervous recruits on several occasions.

  The sergeant handed the lad a piece of paper and pointed to another table across the room. “Fill this out, and then take it to the soldier at that table over there and he’ll get things started for you. Welcome to the army, boy. We’ll make a man out of you yet.”

  The young man stared at the paper in his hand with a blank expression. After some hesitation, he turned and headed to the other side of the depot.

  Moving up in line, McCallum unbuttoned his coat and took off his gloves. “Sorry to bother you, Sarge,” he said bluntly, “but might I ask what the hell’s going on here?”

  The sergeant looked up at McCallum, glaring at him for his impertinence. At first sight the man might have been mistaken for someone a bit too overweight, but McCallum knew at a glance that stocky would have been a much better description. McCallum had witnessed the strength of many such barrel-chested men over the years. This one was probably capable of bending horseshoes with his bare hands if he desired.

  “Who wants to know?” the sergeant said suspiciously. “I ain’t got a lot of time to waste.”

  “Name’s McCallum. Ex-sergeant Thaddeus McCallum.”

  The sergeant did a double take. �
��No shit? I heard of you. You the one they used to call the Iron Sergeant way back when?”

  “Well, far as I’m concerned, with all the cuts and bruises I got over the years, nothing qualifies me for anything even remotely made of iron.”

  “Not the way I heard it. You’re the same McCallum who charged up the Hill with Roosevelt, ain’t you?” the sergeant asked.

  “Geez, you had to have been just a kid back then,” McCallum said, shaking his head in amazement. “Surprised anyone still remembers.”

  “I was old enough for my first hitch,” the man replied proudly.

  “Yeah, I made the climb all right,” McCallum explained. “I was actually on Leonard Wood’s staff, but I got attached temporarily to Colonel Teddy’s group for the assault. Not really much charging, though. Mostly just falling and crawling. In all the confusion, I ended up right next to Lieutenant Black Jack Pershing.”

  “Blackjack?” Pedro asked, curious.

  “John J. Pershing,” Thad explained. “He was the lieutenant in charge of the Tenth Cavalry, a Negro outfit. The buffalo soldiers. Jack is a nickname for John. It was a black unit he commanded, thus Black Jack Pershing.”

  “Don’t let the old man hear you call him that now,” the sergeant replied, grinning. “The general’s in charge of this whole shebang. This here’s gonna be a real damned expedition. President Wilson ordered it himself.”

  “From snot-nosed lieutenant all the way up to general. Who’d’ve thought it? Man’s got guts, though, I’ll give him that,” McCallum remarked more to Pedro than to the sergeant.

  “He better have, iffen he’s gonna lead all this,” the sergeant observed, nodding his head in agreement. “My name’s Lucas. Travis … no middle name … Lucas,” he added.

  “How bad we get hit, Sarge?” McCallum asked.

  “As far as I can tell, we lost eighteen, maybe nineteen and had another some odd wounded. They got away with about a hundred of our stock. Damned beaners attacked us at early light. Hit us first, and then went for the town. Charged right in and shot up the place.”

  Pedro was obviously bothered by the “beaner” slur, but Thad put a hand on his friend’s arm as a caution. “Not the time or place,” he warned in a whisper. Then, turning back to the soldier, he said, “Look, Sarge, I’m not trying to take up much of your time here. We’re just looking for a friend. Young lad who was working as a photographer in town. Jeff Shaw’s the name. Any idea where I might find him?”

  The sergeant reached for a piece of paper on the far side of his table and started running his finger down the names it listed. It was obviously the casualty list. When he paused for a moment, Thad had a sinking feeling, but the sergeant looked up and shook his head. “Sorry, no Shaw on this list.”

  “Any idea where the photography shop in town might be?”

  “No, but check with the corporal over there. The damned fool spends more time walking around town than he does working.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Glad to be of help,” the sergeant said, nodding. “Now let me get back to straightening out all the brass’ problems like I always do.”

  McCallum laughed. “Nothing ever changes, does it? Well, keep your head down, your pecker covered, and your powder dry.” He then crossed the room and addressed the corporal who was rolling a cigarette.

  The difference between the sergeant and this younger man was immediately obvious. Old school versus new school. The corporal was a rather lanky sort, about twenty-five years of age. His tie had been loosened and the top button on his shirt was undone. By contrast, even in all the dust and heat, the sergeant’s uniform had looked like it just came from a Chinese laundry. The corporal on the other hand looked like he didn’t even know what a laundry was.

  “Got a minute, Corporal?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” he replied suspiciously.

  “The sergeant felt you might be the one who could direct us to the town’s photography shop.”

  The corporal seemed relieved. “That all? Sure, no problem. Follow me.” They walked to the depot’s front opening. Pointing, the corporal said, “Just go back up the street here and, when you get to the dress shop, keep going straight for three blocks and then turn right. It’s on the left-hand side.”

  “Got it,” McCallum replied.

  “Want I should take you there?” the corporal asked.

  McCallum glanced over at the old vaquero with a smirk. “No thanks. We can take it from here. Besides, the sergeant mentioned something about needing your help.” The sergeant hadn’t said anything of the kind.

  “He did?” the corporal asked. He sounded nervous.

  “Sí, señor,” Pedro replied, nodding.

  “I’d straighten that tie and button your tunic first, if I were you,” McCallum added. “The sergeant sounded annoyed.”

  “Right, thanks. I’m on it.”

  “Sure, you are,” Thad replied sarcastically.

  For all his lack of work ethic, at least the corporal’s directions proved reliable. Pedro was the first to spot the photo shop and the man standing out in front.

  “See his shoulder, jefe?” Pedro remarked.

  The man he’d pointed out was wearing a sling around his right shoulder and arm. His head was lowered and he seemed lost in thought.

  “Excuse me,” Thad said, walking up to the shop. “I am looking for the photographers who work here. In particular, I’m trying to find Jeffery Shaw.”

  The man sighed deeply. “That’s my nephew. I’m his uncle, Jacob Shaw.”

  Thad started to reach out to shake hands, but he observed that the man winced in pain as he shifted to shake with his left hand. He stopped himself and simply nodded instead.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Thad McCallum and this is my friend, Pedro Peralta.”

  The man looked at Thad and studied him for a moment. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You were in the army with my brother Al, right?”

  “Yes, sir, I was. Good man.”

  Shaw smiled. “That he is. How can I help you? What’s this about Jeff? Why are you looking for him?”

  McCallum explained: “Your brother asked us to find Jeff because he was concerned for his welfare. Apparently, Al tried but couldn’t get in touch with him. Seems he hasn’t heard from him for a while.”

  Jacob Shaw nodded. “I fussed at Jeff about that, too. Then the telegraph lines went out. The lad was fine till all this happened.” Shaw looked up the street and shrugged.

  “Was?” McCallum asked.

  “Well, when the Mexicans attacked, we were both out in front of the shop. Jeff was working on loading the wagon when I was shot.” Jacob touched his right shoulder. “I hit the ground and that’s the last thing I remember. I came to in the doc’s office where he had patched me up, but Jeff never came looking for me. I had hoped he was guarding the store, but when I got here, there was no sign of him. Nothing. And the equipment, supplies, including my best camera, are all gone, along with the buckboard. I figured the horses spooked and ran off, what with all the shooting those Mexicans were doing.”

  “Well, Jeff’s not on the casualty list,” Thad commented.

  Shaw nodded. “I know. I already checked.”

  “So, where is he?” Pedro asked.

  “I simply don’t know and I must admit I’m very worried,” Shaw replied.

  “There must be something you remember. Any little thing might help,” Thad said.

  “Well, like I said … I don’t remember much.”

  The detective in McCallum began to kick in. “No sign of Jeff, and your wagon and the equipment in it are gone. Maybe the bandits took your stuff. But ask yourself, what’s the likelihood that someone in a bunch of bandits knows how to use a camera and a bunch of other photography equipment?”

  “Not much,” Shaw responded.

  “Revolucionarios,”
Pedro suggested at this point.

  “What?” the two other men asked in unison.

  “These are not bandidos, jefe,” Pedro responded. “Too well organized, too many men.” He shook his head. “During the attack, they were focused on getting guns, ammunition, and horses at the fort. I think here, in Columbus, they were just trying to scare the people by shooting up the town and killing those who got in their way. They didn’t even try to rob the banks.”

  McCallum thought a moment, staring off in the distance. “Planned just like a military raid. Take out the opposing army by surprise, and then put the fear of God in the civilians.”

  “Sí, and they left the women alone,” Pedro pointed out. “Bandidos, they don’t act like that.”

  “Revolucionarios,” the two men concluded together.

  Chapter Seven

  Jacob Shaw invited the two men into his shop. “Would either of you care for a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  Both men nodded. “Hot, black, and strong,” McCallum said.

  “Take me a moment. Flying with one wing so to speak,” Shaw said, before disappearing into a room in the back.

  When he returned, Shaw held a pot in his left hand. He went over to a small stove located in the corner of his shop and set the pot down. He fumbled with the stove’s door, then tried to get a match out of his pocket.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Pedro offered, striking a match and tossing it into the stove.

  “So, what do you reckon happened to my nephew?” Shaw asked.

  McCallum hesitated a moment as if considering the possibilities.

  “Army’s pretty good about taking body counts, so if we assume they are correct and he wasn’t among the dead, then the logical answer is that he was taken out of town.”

  “But why?” Shaw asked. “He’s got nothing to offer them, no money to speak of. Nothing.”

  “The camera stuff, she’s missing, too,” Pedro reminded.

  McCallum nodded. “Right. So why would they want a photographer?” he asked, pouring coffee into three tin cups.

  “A photographer? Jeff hardly learned anything,” Shaw informed them. “He’d only been with me a short time.”