by Matt Braun
“Brilliant!” he announced with genuine warmth. “The Fourth of July.”
Chapter Five
“Hola, Aniceto.”
Pizana smiled. “Augustin, mi compadre.”
“Cómo está, Luis?”
“Bueno,” Vasquez said. “And you?”
“Vivo graciadios,” Garza replied. “I think I will live another day.”
“Que tal,” Pizana said with a laugh. “You will live forever.”
“God willing.”
The three men seated themselves on the porch of Pizana’s home. Garza’s horse, and the dun gelding belonging to Vasquez, were tied to a hitch rack in the yard. A warm afternoon sun drifted westward as Pizana’s wife brought them bottles of cerveza, the native beer. Vasquez lifted his bottle with a broad smile.
“Salud.”
“Salud,” Garza echoed. “To victory!”
Aniceto Pizana was a stocky man in his early forties. A Tejano, he owned a small ranch on the Arroyo Colorado river, outside the town of Rio Hondo. Luis Vasquez, also a Tejano, was tall, with fiery eyes and a black mustache. Industrious, if not prosperous, he leased grazeland from an Anglo rancher and ran a few cows. They were to be the first recruits in the Plan of San Diego.
Garza believed the key to any military campaign was quick and decisive action. Last night, after the meeting concluded with Otto Mueller, he had assigned Ramos to begin recruiting in the town of McAllen. They reclaimed their horses from a stable in Matamoras and separated once they crossed the International Bridge. Ramos rode west along the river, and Garza continued on through the darkened streets of Brownsville. His destination was the town of Rio Hondo, some twenty miles north of the border.
San Diego, the town for which he’d named the revolutionary plan, was another hundred miles to the north. There was no question in his mind that he could raise dozens of soldados in a Tejano community where he had lived for the last year. But he recognized the need for junta leaders closer to the border, men who could recruit loyal fighters and conduct raids along the river. The initial strikes against Texas would require field commanders who were familiar with the lower Rio Grande valley.
Aniceto Pizana and Luis Vasquez were names that immediately came to mind. The area around Rio Hondo was yet another Tejano stronghold, with fully two-thirds of the inhabitants of Mexican heritage. Regeneración, the anarchist newspaper, was widely followed by the people, for it expressed the outrage everyone shared about injustice at the hands of Texans. Men of stature, such as Pizana and Vasquez, had formed grupos, active discussion groups, to debate the economic discrimination against Mexicans and Tejanos. Vasquez was particularly outspoken about direct action to overthrow the yoke of oppression.
“I am here,” Garza said now, “to tell you of a new movement for justice. A plan to avenge all we have suffered at the hands of the gringos.”
“Ah, chihuahua!” Vasquez said in a loud, vindictive voice. “I thirst for vengeance more than beer. Are you serious?”
“Si,” Garza said. “Very serious.”
Pizana’s brow puckered in a frown. “How would you do this thing, Augustin?”
“We will bring the Revolución to Texas!”
Garza rapidly explained the Plan of San Diego. He omitted any mention of German involvement, but he stressed the coalition of Mexicans, Negroes, and various Indian tribes. He spoke of the power of such a coalition, and how an uprising throughout the southwest would drive the Americans from the lands of the native people. His words brimmed with the conviction of a prophet.
“We will sweep the land,” he assured them earnestly. “You two will be foremost among my field commanders, guerreros in the fight for liberty. We will reclaim the honor of our ancestors.”
“Sangre de Cristo!” Vasquez barked. “How I have waited for someone to lead us against the accursed Texans. I am your man!”
“Augustin, I ask you,” Pizana ventured carefully. “Do you truly intend to kill gringos just sixteen—children?”
“I do,” Garza said, a cold venom in his stare. “The American presidente must realize he will lose a generation unless he concedes victory. We will spare no Texan, young or old.”
Pizana passed a hand across his eyes. “Then I cannot follow you, however just the cause. I have children of my own, two niños.” He paused, his voice clogged with apprehension. “The gringos would surely kill them in retaliation.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Never more certain of anything.”
“You understand what will happen if you betray our cause? If you speak of it even to your mujer in the privacy of your bed?”
“Si,” Pizana said woodenly. “You would kill me.”
“And your children,” Garza said with chilling calm. “I will not stomach a traitor.”
“Yo entiendo,” Pizana said softly. “I understand.”
Garza turned. “And what of you, Luis? Are you still game for the fight?”
“On my oath!” Vasquez squared himself up stiffly. “I will move my wife and children across the river by this time tomorrow. I told you, mi jefe, I am your man.”
“Your name will bring glory to our people.”
Garza was disappointed about losing Pizana. But he was pleased with the spirit shown by Vasquez, and felt confident he’d found a daring field commander. One who would not flinch however repugnant the order. A man, in fact, very much like himself. One who would relish the killing of gringos.
McAllen was located some fifty miles upriver. The town was the county seat of Hidalgo County, with a population of six thousand, and situated roughly eight miles north of the Rio Grande. The prosperity of the town was tied directly to farms and ranches that dotted the countryside.
A large Mexican community lived on the south side of town. Crops and cattle required cheap labor, and over the years increasing numbers of Mexicans had migrated north of the border. Some families were fifth or sixth generation on Texas soil, and thought of themselves as Tejanos. Anglo residents, for the most part, still thought of them as Mexicans.
Basilio Ramos rode into town late that afternoon. His job was to recruit a junta leader, someone who commanded respect throughout Hidalgo County. The obvious candidate, selected by Garza, was a local merchant who had previously supported the Huerta regime. Andres Villarreal owned a mercantile store on the south side of town, and was widely regarded within the Mexican community. He was a fifth-generation Tejano who fervently decried the racial discrimination suffered by his people.
Villarreal was a portly man with the sharp eyes of a merchant. He received Ramos in a small office at the back of his store, inquiring politely as to the purpose of the visit. Ramos, who was neither articulate nor subtle, often became frustrated if pressed to string together complicated thoughts. He carried with him a duplicate set of papers detailing specifics on the Plan of San Diego, and he spread them across Villarreal’s desk. He referred to the papers like a schoolmaster consulting lecture notes.
“There you have it,” Ramos said when he finished. “Colonel Garza personally commissions you as the district junta leader. We will drive the gringos from Texas.”
“Yes, I see,” Villarreal said, squinting with concentration. “Tell me, what part does General Huerta play in this scheme?”
“None.”
Ramos was under orders to lie about Huerta, as well as the Germans. Garza was determined to bring the various political factions together, all in the name of racial justice. No mention was to be made of Huerta for the moment.
“We fight for all Mexicans,” Ramos went on in a strident voice. “Once we have won, we will redistribute the land to the people. Equality for all!”
“There would certainly be land enough for all. Especially if you kill all the gringos.”
“Only the men, señor. We do not make war on women and children.”
Villarreal was silent a moment. He knew Ramos and Garza from the old days, and he’d always considered them competent military leaders. But the plan before
him now was insane, the work of a lunatic, dangerous to the extreme. He thought it would result in Anglos reckoning a bloodbath on Mexicans and Tejanos.
“A suggestion,” Villarreal said tactfully. “Allow me to bring a few men of influence into our discussion. I think we need consensus on so important a matter.”
Ramos hesitated. “How long will it take?”
“An hour, certainly no more. There is a cantina down the street where you could have a drink. Their food is good as well.”
“Hecho!” Ramos said, gathering his papers from the desk. “I have been riding since last night. I could use a drink.”
“Have one for me,” Villarreal said pleasantly. “I will arrange the meeting as quickly as possible.”
“Bueno.”
Ramos walked from the office. Villarreal waited a moment, then moved through the store and cautiously peeked out the front door. A half-block downstreet, he saw Ramos turn into the saloon. Quickly, with no explanation, he ordered a clerk to watch the store. He hurried off uptown, toward the courthouse.
Not quite an hour later, Ramos returned to the store. He was comfortably full, having downed two beers along with a plate of carne asado, frijoles, and fresh-baked tortillas. As he came through the door, he saw Villarreal at the rear, near the office, bobbing his head in a frantic motion. A man, hidden at the side of the door, stepped into view.
“Hands up!” he ordered, looking over the sights of a pistol. “Don’t try nothin’ dumb.”
“Que pasa?” Ramos glanced around, saw the glint of a badge. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Ledbetter,” the man said. “Sheriff of Hidalgo County.”
“I have done nothing—”
Ledbetter poked him in the ribs with the pistol. When he raised his arms, the sheriff removed a gun from his waistband and the packet of papers from inside his jacket. The pistol jabbed him in the back.
“You’re under arrest,” Ledbetter said. “Conspiracy to commit murder.”
Ramos glowered at Villarreal. “Hijo de puta!” he shouted. “You are muerto. Muerto!”
“No,” Ledbetter said in a gruff voice. “You’re not gonna kill nobody, Peppy. Let’s go.”
He marched Ramos toward the county jail.
A freight train pulled into McAllen shortly after midnight. Gordon and Maddox, neither of them carrying luggage, stepped off the platform of the caboose. Sheriff Horace Ledbetter was waiting outside the depot.
After a round of introductions, they turned uptown. Ledbetter, who was fluent in Spanish, had translated the papers taken off Ramos. Late that afternoon, he had wired Ranger headquarters in Brownsville, stating he’d arrested a Mexican who was plotting insurrection. Gordon and Maddox had caught the last train out of town.
On the way to the courthouse, Ledbetter shook his head. “Damnedest thing I ever come across,” he said. “Some jaybird name of Augustin Garza put it together with this here Ramos. Looks like they figgered to declare war on Texas.”
“We know the names,” Maddox observed. “Has Ramos said anything?”
“Not a peep,” Ledbetter replied. “But wait’ll you get a look at them papers I took off him. Bastards was plannin’ to kill every man Texan over sixteen.”
“Lucky you caught him,” Gordon said. “We didn’t know they’d crossed the border.”
“Lucky we’ve got some good Meskins like Andres Villarreal. ’Cept for him, you still wouldn’t’ve known.”
The jail was in the basement of the courthouse. Ledbetter introduced them to the jailor and then showed them the papers found on Ramos. Gordon stood at Maddox’s shoulder while the Ranger translated, and read aloud, the Plan of San Diego. The magnitude of the conspiracy was far greater than they expected, sufficient to put the United States on war alert. Perhaps sufficient to start a war.
So far, though, there was no hard evidence to implicate the Germans. By mutual agreement, Gordon and Maddox had already decided not to mention the Germans unless the situation left them no choice. The mere rumor of German involvement would attract unwanted attention from the press, and almost certainly cause panic along the border. The less said the better.
“Definitely a federal violation,” Gordon remarked when Maddox finished reading. “I forget the statute under the Criminal Code, but it covers insurrection. Or a conspiracy to incite insurrection.”
Maddox snorted. “Yeah, I’d say they was tryin’ to incite.”
“Do you think the Indians would join in an uprising of this sort?”
“Tend to doubt it. The army whipped the tribes damn bad when they drove ’em onto reservations. I’d bet the Apache wouldn’t even fight. And they’re the toughest of the lot.”
“What about Negroes?”
“Well, the jigs might be something else. There’s some that’d probably go along.”
Gordon inwardly flinched at the racial slur. From what he’d seen, all Texans, including Maddox, were prejudiced to some degree. The order of prejudice seemed to be Mexicans, Indians, and at the bottom of the heap, Negroes. He wondered where Orientals fit into the scheme of things.
“Let’s have a talk with Ramos.”
Sheriff Ledbetter walked them back to the cell block. There was a dungeon atmosphere to the place, with dank walls and bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He unlocked the door to a barred cell and swung it open. Ramos was seated on a bunk with no blankets and a dirty mattress.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Ledbetter said. “He talks American real good.”
Gordon and Maddox entered the cell. “Señor Ramos,” Gordon said, “I’m with the U.S. Bureau of Investigation and this is Sergeant Maddox of the Texas Rangers. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Ramos refused to look at them. “Help yourself by helping us,” Gordon said reasonably. “You’re going to prison for a long time unless you agree to provide information. Where can we locate Augustin Garza?”
There was a long beat of silence. “Let’s try again,” Gordon said. “Tell us about Otto Mueller.”
Ramos blinked, clearly caught off guard. But he recovered quickly, his surprised expression turning to a blank look. He stared at the opposite wall of the cell.
Maddox stepped forward. “You listen to me, you goddamn pepper-gut. We mean to have some answers. Comprende?”
Ramos smiled. “Chinga tu madre.”
Maddox hit him. The blow was a short, chopping right that broke his nose and split his lip in an ugly smear of blood. Ramos toppled off the bunk onto the floor, out cold.
“Damn, Hoyt,” Gordon cursed softly. “Why’d you do that?”
Maddox grunted. “The sorry sonovabitch insulted my mother. What’d you expect me to do?”
“Well, he’s no good to us unconscious.”
“You don’t understand these people, Frank. Ramos thinks he’s a bad hombre, and the only way we’ll get anything out of him is to beat it out of him. That’s the way it works with Mexicans.”
The Rangers had a reputation for brutal treatment of prisoners. The brutality was a carryover from old days, when Rangers were the first line of defense against marauding Comanches and Mexican bandidos. In many instances, the prisoner was shot “while trying to escape,” or simply hanged from the nearest tree. Gordon wanted no part of it.
“Here’s the way I work,” he said to Maddox. “We’ll take him back to Brownsville and prefer charges in federal court. Maybe he’ll open up once he’s facing trial.”
“Fat chance,” Maddox muttered. “You’re just whistlin’ in the dark.”
Sheriff Ledbetter cleared his throat. “You gents got my curiosity whetted. Who’s this Otto Mueller you asked about?”
“Nobody special.” Maddox fobbed him off with a weary shrug. “Just a trick question.”
Gordon silently wished they’d caught Otto Mueller rather than Basilio Ramos. He was already mentally composing his report to Director Holbrook, and he could imagine the reaction in Washington. Hardly what anyone expected of the Germans.
A cork
screw twist called the Plan of San Diego.
Chapter Six
Gordon and Maddox, with Ramos in manacles, arrived in Brownsville late the next morning. From the train station, they went directly to the county jail, which also served as the lockup for federal prisoners. Ramos was detained in a maximum security cell.
Outside the courthouse, Gordon and Maddox separated. They were agreed that it was now imperative to enlist undercover agents for surveillance work in Matamoras. Maddox had leads on people who had formerly worked for the Rangers, but he hadn’t yet made contact. He went off to talk with them.
Gordon hurried on to Fort Brown. There, he met with General Parker and related all they’d uncovered through the capture of Basilio Ramos. When he went over the papers dealing with the Plan of San Diego, Parker’s features darkened. The general seemed particularly alarmed about the edict for the execution of male Texans.
“We cannot allow that to happen,” he said with a troubled frown. “Here on the border, Texans dying at the hands of Mexicans would lead to a race war. God only knows where it would end.”
“General, I couldn’t agree more,” Gordon said. “Hoyt Maddox is out right now trying to arrange Mexican undercover operatives for Matamoras. I hope to have something in place by this evening.”
“Do you have any idea of the Germans’ timetable on this madness? Should I order more patrols along the river?”
“From what we know, Ramos and this fellow Garza have just started recruiting leaders at the local level. I think it will be a while before they raise a fighting force of any significance.”
“I pray you’re correct,” Parker said. “In any event, keep me appraised of what you uncover in Matamoras. Any warning at all will allow me to react accordingly.”
“I’ll be in touch the moment I know something.”
Gordon used the regimental adjutant’s office to draft his report to Director Holbrook. The date was Friday, June 18, and he felt he at last had something of consequence to report. When he finished the draft, the adjutant gave it to a cryptographer for encoding, the message to be sent by priority telegraph. Director Holbrook would receive it sometime that afternoon.