Crossed Arrows 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Densmore, knowing better than to argue, headed for the War Department with the satchel in his hand. He consoled himself with the thought that both the Secretary of War and Commanding General of the United States Army might turn out to be the best persons to deal with after all.

  Upon his arrival at the War Department, the ambassador was once more frustrated. He was ushered into a small office where an undersecretary of war and an army staff major were waiting to meet him. The small chamber had a table with three chairs. No file cabinets or shelves were in view; not even as much as a waste basket. Densmore assumed this was a location for unimportant matters to be discussed.

  After a round of introductions and handshaking, Densmore was invited to take a seat at the table. Undersecretary of War George Deacon and Major David Newton both seemed bemused. Deacon cleared his throat, asking, “Now what is this Mexican thing, Mr. Densmore?”

  Densmore retrieved his paperwork from the satchel and set it in front of him. “These are maps and descriptive documents regarding a series of attacks into the United States from Mexico. This was provided to me by—“

  Major Newton interrupted. “Ah! So that is the subject you wish to discuss. Let me assure you that we are well aware of those bandit raids.”

  “Those raids were not by bandits!” Densmore snapped back. “This is part of a military action contrived by renegade officers of the Mexican Army and—“

  Another interruption, this one by the undersecretary. “The Mexican Army is of no consequence, Ambassador. And that goes double for any rebellious Mexican officers. Surely you know that.”

  “May I continue?” Densmore stated impatiently. “It is a revolutionary plot by certain officers of both the Mexican Army and the German Imperial Army. And I believe you will agree that the Kaiser’s forces are of great consequence! There is a corps of them in Cuba waiting to enter Mexico and join forces with those renegade officers.” He passed copies of the paperwork to each man. “The informant who provided me with this information is trustworthy. He is also an influential man who does not want Mexico and the rest of Latin America turned into a giant colony ruled by Germany.”

  “Give us a chance to digest this information,” Undersecretary Deacon requested.

  Densmore sat back in his chair as the pair perused the reports, maps and diagrams provided by Tim Harrigan. It took a half hour of reading and commentary between the pair as they passed the documents back and forth.

  Undersecretary Deacon looked up. “Who exactly is this Tim Harrigan you mentioned? Is he a subject of Ireland?”

  “He was,” Densmore replied. “Now he has Mexican citizenship and is prominent in financial and political circles of that country. I have met him both officially and socially many times in my duties as ambassador.” An instinct developed from countless diplomatic situations caused him to avoid mentioning that Harrigan had been a deserter during the Mexican War.

  “Mmm,” Major Newton mused. “Are you aware that there is already a U.S. Army detachment ordered to react to those raids?”

  “I have been informed of that by Minister Harrigan,” Densmore replied. “He advised—and I agree—it will take a much larger force to deal with a situation this serious.”

  “I see,” the undersecretary said. “Major Newton and I will take this material to the Secretary of War for review by our superiors. I suggest you come back in a couple of days and we’ll have an answer for you.”

  “Thank you,” Ambassador Densmore replied. Another implanted instinct developed during of his long career as a diplomat was to recognize when he was being given the cold shoulder.

  The undersecretary and staff major hurriedly exited the room, leaving Densmore sitting by himself.

  Twenty

  Captain Mack Hawkins, comfortably bivouacked on the Fort Duncan military reservation, was extremely irritated when his afternoon nap was interrupted. The source of this disturbance was the arrival of a messenger from the garrison headquarters. Ludlow Dooley shook the captain awake to announce the soldier’s presence.

  Hawkins, lying on a pallet made up of a shelter half and blanket, opened his eyes. He scowled ferociously at his second-in-command, growling, “What the hell do you want, Mr. Dooley?”

  “A telegram has arrived, sir,” Ludlow replied, indicating the soldier with a nod of his head.

  The courier, more than a little nervous about disturbing the captain, handed over the missive, saluted, then made a quick withdrawal.

  Hawkins sat up and opened the envelope. After reading the contents, he handed it back to Ludlow. “See what you think of this.”

  Ludlow scanned the lines. “It doesn’t make sense, sir. It says that a steamboat blew up near Sumter Landing and we’re supposed to go investigate the incident.”

  Hawkins yelled, “I know what the godamn thing says, Mr. Dooley!” He took a deep breath. “Tell me, Lieutenant, what is your opinion of the reason behind us being ordered to check out a riverboat accident?”

  Ludlow, wanting to turn the irate captain’s attention away from himself, handed the telegram to Jesse Buford who had just walked up. The Texas ranger perused the short message. “It don’t make a bit of sense to me.”

  “Oh, well, shit!” Hawkins groaned, getting to his feet. “Orders are orders.” He looked over to where the scouts were lounging. “Sergeant Eagle Heart! Prepare the detachment for immediate departure!”

  The Kiowa noncommissioned officer sensed the urgent anger in his commander’s voice, and immediately alerted the scouts. The Indians quickly turned to their weapons and gear which were always in readiness.

  ~*~

  It took two days for the Kiowa-Comanche Scout Detachment to reach Sumter Landing. When the group arrived, they were met by Tommy Joe Klugg, the proprietor of the steamboat and mule train enterprise. He had been supervising repairs on the warehouse. “Glad to see you, Cap’n Hawkins.”

  The captain’s irritability had not faded an iota. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Klugg. Maybe you could enlighten me.” He glanced at the crowd now gathering around. “Those folks look like they’ve lost their best friends.”

  “They lost more’n that,” Klugg replied. “They’re upset about losing their livelihoods when the steamboat exploded.” He indicated the warehouse with a sweep of his hand. “As you can see, we’ve only got the depot partly rebuilt. Now, with no boat to ship goods between El Paso and Sumter Landing, there ain’t no chance of raising enough funds to keep the business going.”

  “That’s too bad,” Hawkins said. “But I still—“

  Klugg interrupted. “I tried to borry money from the bank in Casa Grande but they turned me down. I ain’t got enough collateral since ever’thing I own is either burned up or blowed up. And even if I could get enough money to buy another boat there ain’t nothing available. Building a new one along with the repairs on the warehouse is out of the question.”

  Ludlow felt it was time he entered the conversation. “We’re truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Klugg. But there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Hell!” Klugg said. “I know that. When we heard the explosion, we went down the river to see what happened. The boat was blowed apart and there was bodies of the crew floating in the river.”

  Ludlow shrugged. “That’s a tragedy all right, Mr. Klugg. But we’re still unable to help in any way.”

  Klugg replied, “After we pulled the dead fellers out of the river we could see that ever’ single damn one had been shot. They wasn’t drowned, they was shot dead!”

  Now Hawkins, Ludlow and Jesse knew what was behind the orders that sent them there. “Damn!” the captain swore. “Those Mexican bandits have been at it again.”

  “If’n you want to take a look where it all happened, head westerly down the river, Cap’n.”

  “Will do, Mr. Klugg.”

  Hawkins led his command on the half hour ride to the site of the disaster. When they reached the location, there were still bits of charred and shattered wood along the banks
of the river. A lone smoke stack stuck up out of the water while it’s partner was up against the bank on the opposite side.

  Jesse Buford let out a low whistle. “The boat was sure as hell blowed apart, wasn’t it?”

  Ludlow was puzzled. “I can’t quite grasp what could have happened. What made the engine explode? Did the bandits kill the crew then come on board to turn the steam up?”

  Hawkins was thoughtful for a moment. “They prob’ly shot holes in the damn engine.”

  “That wouldn’t have caused an explosion,” Ludlow argued. “That’d make the steam spew out, lowering the pressure in the boiler.”

  Hawkins chuckled. “Are steam engines another part of you extensive knowledge, Mr. Dooley?”

  Ludlow nodded affirmatively. “They were part of our engineer curriculum at West Point, sir. It appears to me that the working gear was somehow jammed.”

  Jesse studied the ground around them. “There’s signs of folks being here, but that’s prob’ly the ones from Sumter Landing who fetched out the dead.”

  “Well, we’ve got Michael Strongbow and Charlie Wolf,” Hawkins said. “Let’s have ’em swim over to the Mexican side and see what they can find.”

  “I’ll pass the word to Sergeant Eagle Heart, sir,” Ludlow remarked.

  Michael and Charlie were enthusiastic about being able to go for a refreshing dip. The youngsters stripped down to their underwear, and waded into the water. After arriving on the far bank, they climbed out and began searching the vicinity.

  Everybody sat their horses, watching the two bending over and picking up a few things. After fifteen minutes, they re-entered the river and swam back. Both walked up to Captain Hawkins, holding out their hands.

  “Spent cartridge brass, sir,” Michael informed the officer. “It’s the same eight-millimeter we’ve found before.”

  Charlie spoke up. “And there was sign of a dozen or so fellers and their horses. They’re the same bunch we been tracking, that’s for damn sure.”

  Captain Hawkins raised his eyes and glared across the Rio Grande into Mexico. “God! I wish like hell I could go over there and run down those son of a bitches!”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch them on this side of the Rio Grande,” Ludlow surmised.

  Ranger Jesse Buford spat a stream of tobacco. “You gotta make your own luck in the border country, Ludlow.”

  Hawkins, still gazing southward, said, “I’ve always made my own luck.”

  Ludlow grimaced. He sensed Captain Mack Hawkins was closer to a frame of mind that would end in outright disobedience.

  Twenty-One

  Another meeting occurred between Tim Harrigan and Ambassador Alan Densmore at the exclusive hunting lodge. But this time, it was the American diplomat who arranged the get-together. He had returned to Mexico City from Washington, D.C. the day before and had been anxious to speak with the elderly Irishman.

  Densmore was waiting in one of the lodge’s cabins when Harrigan and Fidel arrived. The bodyguard joined a U.S. marine from the embassy who was clad in civilian clothing. The pair would stand guard during the meeting. They did not speak each other’s language, so wordlessly took up positions on both sides of the path in the trees between the lodge and cabin.

  The kitchen staff had laid out sumptuous servings of pastry and cafe con leche as they always did . However, the American was impatient and wasted no time cutting to the chase. “I’m afraid I don’t have any encouraging news, Tim,” Densmore announced. “The situation along the Rio Grande has not been given much of a priority. In fact, I was directed to an undersecretary of war to pass over your copies of the maps and documents.”

  Harrigan’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Did you tell them about the planned German invasion?”

  “I did,” Densmore replied. “Frankly, they seemed to think I was exaggerating the situation.”

  “Then they’re going to sit back and let the bandits continue raiding?”

  Densmore sighed. “There is a small detachment of U.S. Scouts operating along the Rio Grande detailed to manage that situation. I was informed that the unit was made up of two white officers and some Indian soldiers. Their numerical strength was under a dozen.”

  “May the saints preserve the poor lads!” Harrigan exclaimed. “The Germans and Mexicans will roll right over them.”

  Densmore cleared his throat. “Well…not exactly, Tim.” He hesitated, then blurted, “The War Department is going to order them to cross into Mexico and find the hideout of the raiders. Then wipe them out.”

  Harrigan was alarmed by the revelation. “This is breaking me heart! The raiders are decent lads who are under the impression they are avenging the deaths of their fathers and grandfathers as well as getting back the land Mexico lost in the war.”

  Densmore was sympathetic. “They’ll be sacrificed, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” Harrigan replied. “They’re only two officers and a dozen young men. Those youngsters are peasants who have only lately been trained as soldiers. As far as I know they’ve never been under fire in a defensive position. The Indian scout group might be able to kill them all, then withdraw back across the Rio Grande. That would at least slow things down. More importantly it would discourage the people living in the village of San Patricio from providing any more of their lads to the Mexican rebels.”

  “Let us hope so for both our countries,” Densmore said. “But in my opinion, killing a bunch of youthful peones is not going to keep back thousands of German and Mexican soldiers from eventually charging onto sovereign American territory. I am sensing a lost cause.”

  “What about the Canadians?” Harrigan asked. “Surely they don’t want a European nation taking over three-quarters of the western hemisphere.”

  “They would join us in the fight, yes,” Densmore replied. “But by the time Canada and the United States could raise armies to respond to the threat, there wouldn’t be much of a chance to defeat an immense force of German and Mexican soldiers. Especially if they had taken over California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. There are large populations of Hispanics residing in those states who would join the victors.”

  Both men settled into a period of silence. It was broken when Harrigan asked, “D’you want any of them pastries?”

  Densmore shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Me neither,” the Irishman replied.

  Outside, Fidel and the marine continued their silent vigilance.

  ~*~

  Karl Jager continued to conduct a tried-and-true tradition of guerrilla warfare. He never ordered the vengadores to attack unless there was a definite guarantee of winning the battle. The fundamental tactic he applied was the element of surprise. He had learned in the battles in French Indo-China that attacking an unsuspecting and unprepared enemy was better than outnumbering them.

  Most of the time in Mexico he struck widely spaced targets to make it impossible for their victims to know where the next assault would be. But on rare occasions, the raiders would suddenly attack a town, then conduct a quick hit-and-run raid on the nearest community to keep the Gringos guessing.

  Consequently the casualties among the victims was rising. The usual lifestyles of the Texans were interrupted as they tried to provide some security for themselves. This was the worst part. Weeks of peace and quiet would suddenly split open under volleys of shots from the raiders during the hours of darkness. Even with practiced reaction to the outrages by the townspeople, the perpetrators always escaped back across the Rio Grande.

  The situation was doubly bad for Captain Mack Hawkins and his detachment. Their efforts were worse than useless as they tried to find a pattern in the infuriating situation. It grew progressively more humiliating for them as the citizens began to unfairly blame them for the continued spate of deadly harassment. During times when Hawkins and his small command arrived at the scene of a raid, there would be shouts of anger tinged with insults hurled at them.

  ~*~

  It was mid-day when the
detachment had returned to Fort Duncan. They had visited the town of Rawlins after a third nightly sniping on the community. No one had been hit by the bullets, but casualties did occur when some enraged townsmen saddled up and crossed the river to catch the bandits. Unknowingly, they rode into a rear guard that had been set up to deal with any potential pursuers. Two of the Texans had died in the accurate volleys fired at them.

  ~*~

  When the scout detachment reached their bivouac at Fort Duncan, Hawkins, Ludlow and Jesse Buford were restless with shame and embarrassment. The scouts felt no responsibility for the failure of their mission but were frustrated by what they considered white men’s foolishness.

  The officers and Texas ranger sat around their campfire, sipping coffee and muttering in disgust. Hawkins took a final drag off his stogie and tossed it into the flames. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  Ludlow looked over his tin cup of coffee at the captain. “I sincerely think we should each submit a letter requesting a release from this deployment.”

  “I kind of agree, Mr. Dooley,” Hawkins remarked. “But that would be quitting.” He glanced at Jesse Buford. “What would you do as a Texas ranger?”

  “We’d’ve gone down into Mexico and shot up them son of a bitches a long time ago, Mack.”

  Ludlow was skeptical. “What if you’d been ordered not to cross the Rio Grande?”

  “Shit!” Jesse declared with a sardonic chuckle. “An order like that don’t exist in the rangers, Ludlow.”

  Hawkins frowned. “I’m seriously considering going into Mexico.”

  “We couldn’t do it, sir,” Ludlow insisted. “We’d need a hell of a lot more ammunition and supplies than we have now. And you can be sure the post quartermaster here at Fort Duncan isn’t going to issue us anything without a proper requisition.”

  Hawkins spoke through clenched teeth. “I hate like hell to have to say the words, ‘Mission failed.’ It really sticks in my craw.”