TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border

by Clifford Irving

  “That’s not true, Hannah. I didn’t seduce you. I hope you don’t hold that against me. And I didn’t even—I mean, you’re still—”

  “No,” she cried, “I’m not! That’s not so! It did happen!”

  Did she really think that? The mind plays tricks; I know that now. Perhaps she had convinced herself. Perhaps, I realized, she had only done it in the first place to clamp me in a tighter grip.

  She looked at me more calmly, although her eyes were still hot with resolve.

  “If you go now,” she said, “I won’t wait for you. It will be over, Tom.”

  “Oh, Hannah,” I groaned. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. I’ll consider myself free. And you’ll be free too. You can stay in Mexico! You can live in miserable Mexico! Why don’t you do that?” she said cuttingly. “Find some Mexican girl who’ll wait for you while you chase around the country with Pancho Villa. That’s what you need, Tom. You don’t need me. I wonder—did you ever?”

  A massive burden suddenly lifted from me. I felt as if I were gazing at a stranger. A beautiful and once beloved girl, but still a stranger. It was as if she receded from me in space—still visible but far away … fading. In her place, close to me—she had brought forth the image, for I would have struggled against it—I saw a browner face, dark eyes, a sweep of sable hair.

  To Tomochic … If you want it, you will have to come for it. You know where it is buried …

  Something became clear to me in that moment, an understanding I could only deny at my peril. Hannah had been the dream of my youth ever since I could remember. I had conjured her into form even before I met her in the lobby of the Commercial Hotel. She was something I’d read about by a campfire, and I always saw her that way, despite our episodes on the davenport: a poetic image of idyllic love.

  But if I wanted to live with her for the rest of my life, why had I always left her? The rest of anyone’s life, I realized, begins now. And now, once again, I was leaving. I had sustained my image of her because I had never been willing to test the dream against wakefulness.

  Rosa and I had been together for two long years, through separations and battles and all the bizarre events of the revolution. That was real, that was good. When she left me in Zacatecas, I had been lessened as a man. What might have come of us, what could ever come of us, I didn’t know. We were strangers, creatures of the planet who had met by accident and cleaved by need. So were any man and woman. She was no princess in a tower, but she had worked herself into the fabric of my life and I couldn’t push her out. And didn’t want to.

  That was my fate, at least for now, and it was time I stopped ducking it. But I was still in the grip of some chivalric notion.

  I said, “Hannah, I have to go or I’ll miss my train. You’re upset. I don’t think you mean what you’re saying.”

  “I do, Tom. Of course I’m upset. I’m more than upset! But I meant every word.”

  I gave her another chance. “I’ll be back when it’s over, Hannah. Let’s not decide anything until then.”

  “You’ve decided already, Tom. You’re going!”

  “Goodbye, Hannah. I’ll write.”

  “Don’t bother!” she shrieked after me as I backed down the steps. I turned and ran out the door into the sunlight.

  The motor of Hipólito’s Cadillac was idling. As he stepped on the gas pedal he turned to me. “Tomás, your face is bright red. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Awful,” I said.

  We raced toward the International Bridge. He drove recklessly, leaning on the horn, ignoring pedestrians and traffic alike. “No, wait—not awful. Wonderful, Hipólito. And awful too. Awful and wonderful.”

  I was part of the revolution again. I wasn’t going to live happily ever after and bounce babies on my knee and have Luz Corral and Sam Ravel tell me how clever I was, but it didn’t matter. I was going to do what I had to do.

  As for Rosa, I was clear in my mind about that too. I knew where to find her, and I would go.

  At ten minutes after nine, just as the train for Chihuahua City gave its final high-pitched whistle, Hipólito shoved me aboard. The train wheezed out of the Juárez station, and in a few minutes we were out in the desert, picking up speed. I loved it: the rippling heat, the brown horizon, the stainless blue sky. This was where I belonged … for now.

  The railway car rattled and banged, and the broken seat dug into my thighs. As soon as I had my wits back I dug into my saddlebags to haul out my pistol and cartridge belts.

  I broke open the rifle and slipped a box into the chamber. In revolutionary Mexico, you never knew.

  Chapter 21

  “Take all the swift advantage

  of the hours.”

  Candelario waited for me in Chihuahua City at the Hotel Fermont. He wore a sheepskin coat and dusty trail clothes, and he was polite enough not to comment on the starched newness of my uniform. He had received Hipólito’s wire only ten minutes ago.

  He explained that the military situation was changing by the hour, and the roads were not quite as safe as they had been a week or two ago.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “After Parral I’ll still keep you company. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

  “Well, now I can sleep nights. But you were quitting. That’s what the chief told me.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “And I thought you had more brains than the rest of us. What made you change your mind?”

  “I would have missed you, you hairy ape.”

  “You’re not well, Tomás.”

  “I’m better than I’ve been in a long time. Listen, do you know what I’ve got to do in Parral?”

  He scratched his beard. “I know we’ve got to get a sack of gold here, that’s all. As for Parral, I’d just as soon you didn’t tell me, unless you need my help. The more I hear about the chief’s doings these days, the more confused I get.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “In Zacatecas, getting the Division organized. Or Irapuato. It’s hard to keep track of him. He’s changed, Tomás.”

  “How?”

  “Well, he’s worried. He never used to worry before.”

  The gold was still in the laundry room of the hotel, exactly as we had left it. The gold never changed. It gleamed dully and mysteriously in the soft light of the basement. There was something almost frivolous about the task, considering the gold’s destination and the news from southern battlefields, but at least it wasn’t taking us out of our way. The chink and jingle as we hauled a sack from one corner reminded me of the day and night that Candelario and I had spent counting it, and the two other sacks buried behind the corral of Rosa’s house up in Tomochic. From the glint in Candelario’s one good eye I could tell he was thinking the same thing.

  “You’ll have your restaurant soon, compadre.”

  “That’s pleasant to believe, Tomás.”

  He had already bought a black trunk with a great brass lock, and we loaded the sack of gold Spanish pesetas into it and stuffed the edges with sheets and dirty towels so that there would be no telltale rattling. Candelario ground out the cigarette with the worndown heel of his boot.

  “Urbina’s giving us horses and an escort to Parral. Let’s be careful when we meet him.”

  The main boulevard, lit by flickering torches, was filled with whores and drunken soldiers. You knew who was in command here. Urbina, with a week-old growth of beard, met us at Doña Luisa’s Station Hotel, where he had arranged for us to stay the night. The lobby was empty and forlorn. Occasionally from the darkness there came the sound of a random gunshot or the snatch of a ballad sung off key. One of Urbina’s great Spanish swords clanked at his side in a silver scabbard, and he wore three bandoliers stuffed full of brass cartridges, so that when he walked he wobbled from side to side with the weight he carried.

  He was drunk, of course, and his small eyes rolled back and forth in their sockets, like black marbles.

  “What the hell’s goin
g on?” he demanded. “I’m sitting here in this miserable town with three thousand men and no ammunition. I’ve got dynamite, but you can’t shoot dynamite from rifles.” Pulling his huge pistol from its holster, he spun the chambers. “Can you stuff a stick of dynamite up here? I’ll tell you, without mentioning any names, I’d like to stuff this pistol up someone’s ass. Where is Pancho Villa? Someone told me Irapuato. Someone else told me Guadalajara. Who should I believe? These days, everyone lies. I heard that we were supposed to go north to Sonora and take Agua Prieta. How can I move three thousand men in any direction without ammunition? I’ve got the rifles, but no bullets. I’ve got the trains, but no coal. Son of a whore, this is crazy weather! It’s too cold, and my rheumatism is killing me. The horses are hungry, and I can tell you, I’m fed up. What have you got in that trunk?” He grinned devilishly. “If it’s good whiskey from Texas, you’d better open it up. I’m the new collector of taxes in Chihuahua. I haven’t got anything else to do, so I’ve decided to get rich. You think that’s a bad idea? If you do, tell me. I haven’t got a better one, but I’m a reasonable man. I’ll listen to anyone’s opinion.”

  “There’s no whiskey in the trunk,” Candelario said calmly. “Just dirty laundry.”

  Urbina spat in the general direction of a spittoon and missed. “Look at that fancy trunk! Are your clothes stitched with gold thread?” At the mention of the word, a crafty look spread over his features, which were those of a black-snouted fox. “You visited the Hotel Fermont, didn’t you?”

  Candelario yawned. “Let’s get to the cantina and have a drink.”

  Urbina said thickly, “It’s my duty to inspect everything that passes through Chihuahua. Open the trunk. If it’s laundry, I’ll get you a woman to wash it. Do you want a woman, by the way? This city’s lousy with them. I found a pretty one the other night, coming back from the river. A young hellion, not very willing, but they’re often the best kind. Tits like melons. Look! She gave me this!” He pointed proudly to a scabbing welt on his cheek. Then he turned on me. “Who has the key to the trunk? You or this other peasant?”

  “I have the key,” I said. “But the dirty laundry belongs to the chief. He wouldn’t want me to open it.”

  Thumping a fist against his thigh, Urbina exploded into harsh laughter. “Now I know you’re lying! The only dirty laundry that Pancho Villa has got is right next to his skin. I’m the commanding general in the state of Chihuahua, so don’t make me shoot you for disobeying an order. Open that fucking trunk.”

  “I can’t do that, General Urbina.”

  “You can’t?” He flashed a smile that showed his decayed teeth. “Or you won’t?”

  I said quietly, “With respect, the chief doesn’t want the trunk opened until we reach Mexico City.”

  Urbina sniffed, then snarled like an animal. I could swear he smelled the gold.

  “Fuck your respect. You sound like Fierro.” He turned to Candelario. “Compañero, if I shoot this gringo ass-kisser, will it upset you?”

  “It will upset him a lot more,” Candelario said.

  “Then you have no objection?”

  Swaying slightly, Urbina once again pulled his pistol from his holster and once again spun the chamber. The brass cartridges gleamed. I don’t know if blood can actually run cold, but that’s the way it felt; an iciness that spread from the heart into the limbs. The great temptation was to reach for my own pistol, but it would have been too late.

  Candelario spoke thoughtfully. “If I were you, my general, I wouldn’t do it.”

  Urbina spun around. “Do you think I fear Pancho Villa? There’s no man on earth I fear,” he cried, slurring his words. “I love him like a brother, but the word fear isn’t in my vocabulary. Now tell me the truth, you bastard! What’s in the trunk?”

  Candelario shrugged and said, “Gold.”

  “By God, I knew it!” Urbina’s eyes blazed in triumph. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Candelario, what an intelligent man you are. And honest! I like that! Oh, yes, I like it a lot! Now I don’t have to shoot him, you see? Válgame Dios! Gold! From the Banco Minero, right? Let’s have a look!”

  The big pistol swung away from where it had pointed at my belly. Leveling it at the brass padlock, he pulled the trigger. The shot boomed in the hotel lobby, echoing down the corridor, and the padlock splintered apart. Drunk or sober, Urbina could shoot straight. I took a half step forward—but Candelario’s hand lightly touched my arm, holding me back not so much by force as by suggestion.

  Urbina holstered his pistol. With a grunt of pain from his rheumatism, he bent to the trunk, the bones of his bad knees creaking in protest. He wrenched the shattered padlock loose from the hasp, thrusting open the top of the trunk with such violence that he nearly unhinged it.

  “Christ! It is laundry!” He began tossing out the towels. “Shit! But now … wait. There’s more …”

  His fingers gripped the side of the sack, and he squeezed. He felt the hard edges of the peseta coins and heard the heavy chink as they slid one against another. He turned to us, on his knees now, and his eyes burned with a bright fever. Reverently he whispered, “You know, I almost thought you were joking. But it’s true! It’s the gold from the Banco Minero. I’ve caught you red-handed. What bad people you are. A pair of fucking thieves to boot! How much have you got?”

  “Count it,” said Candelario. “But take off your hat first. Show some respect for gold.”

  Dutifully Urbina swept the sombrero from his head and thrust his hands into the sack. He started spilling out the coins. “Cómo están bonita!” he murmured. “How beautiful they are!”

  Candelario’s pistol appeared in his hand, then spun. Barrel extended—the way any Brazos cowhand would do it, so that he wouldn’t relinquish the grip of the handle and the possibility that he might have to squeeze the trigger to finish off the ruckus he was about to start—he laid the notched sight across the top of Urbina’s skull where the bushy hair was thinnest. Candelario was tough enough to hunt bears with a switch, and when he buffaloed Urbina the general squawked once in distress, then fell headfirst into the trunk across the gold, limbs twitching, out cold.

  “Were you worried, Tomás?” Candelario asked, smiling.

  “You certainly took your time.”

  “It was either that or shoot him. This is the most stupid sonofabitch I’ve ever known. But we’d be even more stupid if we stayed around and waited for him to wake up. Don’t you agree that it would be wiser to leave town?”

  I took my first easy breath since we had walked into the Station Hotel. “What about the escort of soldiers?”

  “We don’t need them. I know the way to Parral. Doña Luisa!”

  An old crone with stringy white hair and steel spectacles appeared in the doorway from the hotel kitchen. The smell of garlic and sizzling corn oil followed her.

  “The illustrious Señor General Urbina has regrettably passed out,” Candelario explained. “Do you have a bed for him?”

  “Aieee! The poor one!”

  “As you can see, he fell into our trunk. If you’ll be kind enough to show us an empty room, we’ll carry him there.”

  Doña Luisa led the way; Candelario, having had second thoughts, told me to stay with the trunk of laundry and gold and get it securely closed once again. He thrust his powerful arms under Urbina’s and dragged him, sword clanking against the furniture, through the lobby and down the hallway to an empty room. He was back in a few minutes, sweat dripping from his forehead. I had found some rope and tied up the trunk.

  “Come on, Tomás. She’s blind as a bat, but I think she smelled the blood on his hair. Even a blind Mexican knows the smell of blood. When he wakes up, I want to be far away.”

  With the trunk and the letters of safe conduct that Pancho Villa had given me, we hustled round to the military stables. From the stable sergeant we commandeered the six healthiest-looking horses and a pack mule. While I saddled them, Candelario ran out to buy a bottle of mezcal and some tamales w
rapped in cornhusks. We strapped the trunk to the mule and moved slowly out of town, through the darkness, toward the pass of San Martin. This was the road Rosa had taken, a year ago, to bury our gold in Tomochic.

  A sky full of icy stars glittered down on us, and a freezing wind whipped out of the sierra. I remembered the year we had spent in the desert of Chihuahua, trying to warm our bones by a hundred campfires. The underfed horses blew steam, nickering in protest as the grade began to rise, and I kicked the belly of the old roan I was riding to show him who was boss. The skinny pack mule trudged in front of us, surefooted but slow.

  Once through the pass, we would have to turn south and descend into the desert, if Parral were our destination. When we reached the turnoff I slowed the roan and laid a hand on the horn of Candelario’s saddle.

  “Let’s go to Tomochic first,” I said.

  In the gloom of night I couldn’t see Candelario’s eyes. “Is there time?” he asked, and his voice was a shade hoarser.

  “If we don’t stay long.”

  “How long can it take to dig up two sacks of gold?”

  “That’s not it. The gold will just get us killed. You said so yourself. We still have no place to hide it that’s any better than Rosa’s mother’s corral.”

  “Then why—?”

  “I’m going to get Rosa.”

  He must have instantly understood the doggedness of my purpose, and sensed that it was unalterable, for after a second sigh and some muttering in the murky dark, he kicked his horse forward, toward the west. The mule had stopped. I laid a bullwhip on its back, and we moved deeper into the silent, night-mantled mountains of the Tarahumara sierra.

  The drab walls of the village cut the fringe of the horizon. Between rocks pitted with huge eroded cracks, with a stream trickling below, a narrow ledge along the incline served as a mountain trail that led down from the high sierra to Tomochic.

  I knew what I would do, I knew what I wanted. Whatever she said, whoever she was with, I would beg her to come back to me.