Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  Dismounting slowly, stiff from the long ride in the cold night air, we looked around for a place to unsaddle and take care of our horses. A young woman ran up, eyes flashing, teeth brilliant white against her soft brown skin, her long, black hair in a loose plait down her back. Her face showed years of hard times. Giving Roja a knowing smile, she took our reins and led the horses and pack mule off toward the big corral.

  Camisa Roja nodded toward the young woman who took our horses. “Magritte is a soldadera, a woman who travels with the army and helps with the cooking and supplies. She knows how to use a rifle, too, and, if I mind my manners, she sometimes keeps my bed warm.”

  He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and spread his hands. “The general doesn’t like it when his dorados sleep with the soldaderas, so most times my bed is cold. Your gear is safe with her, and she’ll take good care of your horses. The men here are all dorados, golden ones, the best of the best, the general’s bodyguards. All will gladly die before the general or his guests are harmed. Come fill your bellies with the morning meal while I tell the general I’ve returned with you.”

  The women around the cooking fire filled big pie tins with tortillas, beans, chili verde, and empañadas, and then handed us big, crockery mugs of their hot, syrupy coffee that had the chocolaty taste from mixing coffee with ground roasted piñon seeds. The men sitting on big rocks around the second fire waved us over and made room for us to sit. They were friendly enough but said nothing more than a casual, “Buenos días, señores.” They kept a close eye onYellow Boy, no doubt wondering why an Apache, an enemy of their fathers and grandfathers, passed freely into the general’s camp.

  No more than five minutes after we began eating, we heard a booming, “Bueno!” from the wagon farthermost down the canyon. Villa stepped out, now thick in the middle, wearing knee-high riding boots. He wore nearly the same outfit as his men. Dark circles of fatigue surrounded his eyes. His face had aged far beyond the one from the times when we’d lived with the Apaches.

  He threw up his arms and shouted, “Buenos días, amigos! After many years, I see you again.”

  Roja, grinning, followed him down the steps of the wagon, but respectfully hung back as Villa shuffled toward us. We put down our pans and coffee and stood as Villa caught each of us in a bear hug, slapping our backs. “Por favor, amigos, finish your tortillas and beans. It’s a long ride from Americano Las Cruces.”

  Yellow Boy, a man of few words, seemed unusually affable when he spoke for both of us. “It’s good for the eyes of Muchacho Amarillo and Hombrecito to see our amigo from many harvests past, now a mighty war chief.”

  Villa grinned and continued to wave us back down to continue eating. One of the women brought Villa a cup of coffee. He glanced around the circle of men before asking, “Hombrecito, you stay in the school for doctors six years, sí?”

  Smiling and a little proud of myself, I said, “Sí, General. I studied medicine in California.”

  Villa, his mouth hanging open, studied me a moment. “It’s hard to believe that an hombre so deadly with the rifle is now a medico.” He looked around at his dorados and said, “Americano medicos rode my hospital train and saved the lives of muchos soldados and soldaderas wounded in the battles with the armies of Díaz, but none could shoot like Hombrecito.”

  His brown eyes flashing with good humor, he looked at Yellow Boy. “And you, Muchacho Amarillo, both your wives still care for you on the reservation? Your sons, they grow strong before your eyes?”

  Yellow Boy nodded. “Sí, the Mescaleros live in the mountains. My people no longer roam and raid as we did in the time of my father, but the little ones live well and grow strong. Maybe the Indah will not steal our land.” He looked across the canyon and said, “Word comes that your soldados move to cross the mountains to the Bavispe and San Bernardino valleys. You fight your enemies again soon, sí?”

  Villa nodded with a smile. “Sí, since no trains run east and west in Mexico, mis soldados march toward the sierras from Chihuahua to Sonora through El Paso Púlpito even as we speak. Once in Sonora, we’ll take Agua Prieta and then march south toward Hermosillo. I expect many men to join us on the way. Soon we’ll be rid of this dictator Carranza, but I’ll speak more of this later. Por favor, eat and rest. We’ll speak in private before the moon rises above the mountains tonight. Viva Mexico!” The men around responded by shaking their fists and yelling, “Viva Villa!” Villa grinned and shook his fist with them.

  When we finished eating, Villa returned to work in his wagon, and Magritte showed us a comfortable spot in the shade of some cottonwoods near the blue-green water tank where she’d put our saddles and gear. We spread out our bedrolls and spent most of the day sleeping undisturbed.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE REQUEST

  Yellow Boy and I awoke late in the afternoon. Shadows in the canyon merged into soft twilight, and tree frog peepers and crickets were beginning their songs. Magritte told us our supper was ready and that the general wanted us to join him. We bathed in the overflow from the tank and went to his wagon.

  A man with black, wavy hair combed to one side, bearing a striking resemblance to Villa, nearly as tall, but not as thick in the chest and midsection, stood at the foot of the steps to Villa’s command wagon, holding a big accounting ledger. Villa was on the steps above him, gesturing with the palm of his right hand in a chopping motion, giving orders.

  “Hipólito, you be damned sure we get what we pay for, eh?” Villa, looking even more haggard than he had earlier, saw us and brightened. He waved his hand for us to come forward. “Muchachos. Perfecto timing. Meet Hipólito, my brother. He’s also my cashier and purchasing agent. Now he heads for the border to buy more supplies for our long march.”

  We shook hands with Hipólito and exchanged a few pleasantries before he said he must go.

  Villa walked a few steps with him, still streaming instructions and warnings. Then Villa turned to us and said, “Magritte and the other girls soon come with our supper.” He brought out a folding campstool for himself and motioned us to sit on logs around a small fire near the side of his wagon, facing away from the rest of the camp.

  For a long while, he talked, laughing often about battles he’d fought in the revolución. Then he frowned as he talked about driving out Huerta, who murdered Madero, first presidente after the revolución. His frown became a thundercloud when he described the civil war between him and the want-to-be-Presidente Carranza and Carranza’s leading general, Obregón. He said, “In my battles with Obregón, he fights like a coward. He hides his men in trenches and behind barbed wire like the Germans tell him. I almost had El Perfumado, the dandy, at León. One of my cannons blew off his right arm, but he was one lucky son-of-a-bitch and lived.

  “Obregón and me, we have fought all over Chihuahua. That bastard . . . he executed a hundred and twenty of my officers at Celaya after they surrendered. Later he caught and hung my musicians, my great música band, and an inspiration for the army. More than eighty of them, he hung in the trees on the plaza at Aguascalientes. I nearly had him again at Aguascalientes. He let his supply lines get too long, but before I could cut them and chop his army to pieces, he turned and attacked my men at their supper. My men . . . they ran. With victory nearly in their hands, they ran.”

  Yellow Boy frowned and asked, “So, you build a new army with men that run? This is not wise, Jefe. You never know if they’ll run again when bullets fly.”

  Villa, resting his head against his hand with his elbow propped against his knee, sighed like he was admitting something hard to swallow. “Sí, Muchacho Amarillo, you’re right. But I must use everyone I can, from the old ones who ran to new ones I say must fight. There are still many hombres with me who are of great courage and who will help give the others the steel they need in battle.”

  I was puzzled. “What do you mean by ‘new ones I say must fight’?”

  He shrugged. “Hombres I didn’t call during the revolución. They were needed with their families in
the villages. I let them stay when I was fighting Díaz, but I need them now.” He grinned and added, “Some come willingly. Others I have to prod a little bit.”

  “Prod a little bit?”

  His eyes flashed, hard and cruel. “Oh, you know how it’s done. I tell them if they don’t want to come with me, they can watch me shoot their wives and children, and then they can come with me. They never put me to the test when I tell them this, and I’ve never done such a thing. But I tell you, Hombrecito, even this terrible thing I can do for the cause of liberty and the cause of justice long denied to my suffering countrymen.”

  I swallowed the hard words I wanted to say to my old friend. This hombre was not the charismatic Villa I had known in the camps of the Apaches. He didn’t even sound like the man of military genius in the newspaper stories about the revolución battles. He sounded more like a ruthless bandito. Before Madera came to power and the revolución against Díaz in 1910, recruits had begged to join his army.

  While we ate, he told us about rebuilding his army and the trips he’d made all over Mexico to firm up his support. After we finished, we sat back from the fire. Villa sighed and said, “Amigos, I have a favor I must ask of you.”

  Yellow Boy crossed his arms, cocked his head to one side, and said, “We owe you much, Jefe. Tell us how we can begin to pay our great debt to you. This debt walks in my head many harvests.”

  Villa shook his head. “Muchacho Amarillo and Hombrecito, you owe me nothing, nothing, but it’s only you and Hombrecito I can ask to do me this favor. Your help I ask only because you’re my amigos, not because you owe me anything. Across the border in Columbus lives a storekeeper, Sam Ravel. This hombre you know?”

  We shook our heads. Villa said, “I gave mucho dinero to Señor Sam Ravel for bullets and rifles. He promised to deliver these things during my last trip to Ciudad Juárez. I understand Señor Ravel must cross the border with great care when the army is not looking and that maybe he cannot come to Juárez when we agreed. But the guns and bullets, I must have them now so my men are armed when we leave the Sierra Madre and march up San Bernardino Valley to take Agua Prieta. Who knows what we’ll find when we come out of the sierras? Maybe a big army already waits for us. I must have the bullets, if not the rifles.

  “I sent Camisa Roja, one of my most trusted men, to ask Ravel for my guns and bullets. Before he left, I said to Roja, ‘If Ravel doesn’t have the guns, don’t stir up trouble.’ When Roja saw Señor Ravel, Ravel he said he didn’t know if Camisa Roja truly spoke for me. Ravel told Roja nothing and sent him away.”

  Villa tapped his temple with his right index finger. “I think this man Ravel plays a game with me. Por favor, amigos, ride to Columbus, see Señor Sam Ravel, and tell him I want my guns and bullets pronto. These things I’ve already paid for. If he can’t get them, then my dinero must be returned rápidamente. Comprende?”

  Yellow Boy nodded, and I grinned. It was time to convince Mr. Ravel where his best interests lay.

  Yellow Boy squinted at Villa and said, “There are other matters we can help you with, Jefe?”

  Villa’s forefinger went up. “There’s one other thing, señores. Your Presidente Wilson, I’m told, thinks maybe Carranza ought to be Mexico’s true presidente and that I am nothing more than a bandito Obregón chases. I must convince Presidente Wilson this is not true.

  “He needs to understand that Carranza is not for the United States or Mexico. Carranza is for Carranza. He does not even like the United States. Even now, he talks with the Germans about invading the United States if the Americanos go to war against Germany. I tell you, it is me,” he said, slapping his chest for emphasis, “Francisco Villa, Presidente Wilson must recognize for the good of Mexico and the United States.

  “A victory over Carranza at Agua Prieta will open Presidente Wilson’s eyes to this if the Americano newspapers tell him it is so. In El Paso, there’s a reportero. I know him well from when he rode on my trains during the revolución and wrote magnifico stories of my battles. We were amigos in El Paso after I escaped from Huerta’s prison. If he’s at Agua Prieta, this reportero will see how I crush Carranza’s army and can write a great, impressive story on the battle. Presidente Wilson will at last understand I’m not a bandito, but a capable general who pounded Carranza’s army to dust. After you see Señor Sam Ravel in Columbus, por favor, go to El Paso, find the reportero, and bring him back to me so I can look him in the eye and convince him to come with me to Agua Prieta for a great story. I can stay here another six days, waiting for my bullets, guns, and other supplies from storekeepers across the border before I must join División del Norte in El Paso Púlpito. Can you bring this reportero to me before I leave this place? It’s muy importante that he come with me to Agua Prieta.”

  “Sí, General, we can do this. What’s the name of this reporter we must bring back to you?”

  A big smile spread over his face. “Gracias, muchas gracias, mis amigos. The reportero es Señor Queentin Peach.” I smiled at his pronunciation of Quentin Peach’s name.

  CHAPTER 5

  SAM RAVEL

  Riding to Columbus and catching a train to El Paso, finding Quentin Peach, and returning in less than six days meant we’d have to leave that night and travel hard and fast. Magritte, pouring Yellow Boy and me a final cup of hot coffee and giving us a sack of empañadas, promised to take good care of our pack mule and supplies.

  I guessed Columbus to be eighty or ninety miles a little north of east from Villa’s canyon, and that Hachita was maybe sixty miles a little east of north. Our options were to ride north and catch a train in Hachita or to head directly for Columbus. I talked it over with Yellow Boy. We decided the fastest way to Columbus was to ride due east.

  Galloping into the star-filled, cold desert night, Satanas wanted to run. Yellow Boy led the way in the bright moonlight, using an alternating pace of fast walk, canter, and brisk gallop that ate up the miles and kept the horses strong and steady.

  We watered and rested the horses shortly after midnight. After an hour, we were back in the saddle in mighty rough country. Everything from chunks of black basalt rocks to cactus sharper and bigger than anything I’d seen in the country around Las Cruces or the Tularosa Basin. We stopped again at dawn near a dilapidated windmill, still pumping water in a tank made with rocks and cement.

  I was in good physical condition, but I wasn’t used to riding long, uninterrupted distances. Muscles ached all over my body. Yellow Boy grinned when he saw me hobbling around, teeth clenched. “Hombrecito grows soft learning the ways of Indah medicine. Be strong again; ride Satanas more.”

  We rode into the rising sun past randomly scattered thin creosotes, mesquite, cactus, and yuccas. At midmorning, our horses close to dropping, we saw a long, gray smudge low on the horizon, probably a rising smoke plume. Only big mines or some kind of town made plumes that large. We rode directly for it.

  In an hour, the single big smoke plume became several thin plumes rising straight up and then folding over in the upper air. Their sources were tiny black specks of buildings far in the distance. Striking and following a road north toward the buildings, we soon passed a border marker shaped like a small Egyptian obelisk next to a fence formed with many strands of barbed wire. The obelisk had US/Mexico Border chiseled into its sides. I guessed the town in front of us, not more than three or four miles away, must be Columbus. My pocket watch read 9:50. We’d made great time.

  Farther up and on the east side of the road, we passed eight or nine long, weathered wood buildings with adobe mess shacks in the rear. I figured they must be army barracks. Beyond the barracks were several stables, which were nothing more than open sheds providing shade for the horses and some protection for saddles and other gear. Just north of the barracks and closer to the road were a couple of gray, weathered shacks, which I learned later were the command headquarters for the officer of the day and the surgeon’s quarters.

  Paralleling the other side of the road was a deep arroyo, and just to the
west of the arroyo sat an adobe house where a clothesline strung between two twisted piñon posts held pieces of uniforms hung out to dry. A hundred yards from the road, beyond the house, Cootes Hill rose small and barren, rough rocks, weeds, and prickly pear the only growth covering its sides. Just before we crossed the railroad tracks running east and west, we came to a small train station on the east side of the road and the customs house on the west side of the road, opposite the train station.

  Running seven or eight blocks parallel to and three or four blocks north of the train tracks, sun-baked Columbus sat quiet and still in the desert. Dominating the other buildings, the wooden, two-story Commercial Hotel stood a block north of the train station, and the two-story adobe Hoover Hotel sat directly next to the tracks, about three blocks east of the Commercial. A bank’s windows across the street from the Hoover already reflected the glare of the morning sun. I caught a glimpse of a church steeple sticking up above the rooflines on the north side of town. We passed a post office and seven or eight stores, including a drugstore.

  Yellow Boy let the horses drink at the train station trough while I went inside where it was cool and dark; welcome relief from the sun’s bright glare. The white-haired clerk behind the ticket window, a pencil stuck behind his ear and several in his vest pockets, grinned and nodded when I asked about Sam Ravel and the next train.

  “Sam Ravel? Why, yes, sir, Sam’s store is right on the corner, just a block up the street by the side of the Commercial Hotel. Train east is due in about one o’clock this afternoon if you want to go to El Paso.”

  I bought a ticket for the next train, and we led the horses up the street to Sam Ravel’s store. The store dominated the block. Through the vertical bars protecting merchandise behind big glass windows, we could see several customers inside. The laughing and talking we heard from outside stopped when we walked through the door. Two men played checkers at a table beside the black coal stove, and three or four women were browsing rolls of cloth.