Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  It was late in the afternoon when Yellow Boy tapped my foot with the barrel of his Henry. He put his fingers edgewise in front of his mouth to signal for quiet. I nodded. He held his hand to his ear and jerked his head toward the tank. The sounds of horses moving and men’s voices came to us from the distance. I crabbed over to my gear and pulled Little David, my big 1874 Sharps, out of its saddle scabbard. Edging down the wash, we crawled up on some boulders and peeped over the edge to see the llano spread out below us.

  A cavalry patrol, making camp at the tank, gathered brush for a fire, erected several small tents, and worked on their horses and mules tied to a picket line. I knew the army must be keeping a close eye on things up and down the border. I wondered how many of Villa’s rifle and ammunition deliveries they’d intercepted and how many peones they’d turned back.

  Studying the men with my field glasses, I recognized Sergeant Sweeny Jones giving orders to Private Marvin Johnson and five or six of his army brothers while a lieutenant strolled around with a big pair of field glasses, scanning the country toward the border before turning to look north toward Hachita.

  Yellow Boy used his telescope to study the soldiers and said, “Wait until dark. Before moon, we go.” When we camped in a canyon, Yellow Boy always picked a place with a second way out, the proverbial rabbit hole for escape. In this canyon, all we had to do was to lead our horses up the wash, over a little pass, and then down another wash behind the ridge above us on our left side, which would block the soldiers’ lines of sight toward us until we were well clear of the Big Hatchets.

  I was a little nervous going up the wash. It was hard to see loose rocks, and there were big boulders scattered about that made us crisscross back and forth across the trail. We topped the wash, carefully found our way in the loose talus down the backside of the ridge, and, in less than an hour, were long gone. Swinging south of the trail we’d used riding for Hachita, we reached the border a little after midnight. Stars in the dawn above the sierras were fading by the time we rode down the trail toward Villa’s canyon.

  The rising sun showed tracks of numerous wagons and a small herd of horses had recently come down the canyon wash. We rode on to the remains of Villa’s camp, found a shady spot by the big tank, took care of the horses, and made a small fire for coffee and the remains of Magritte’s victuals.

  Yellow Boy made signs for me to stay quiet and not change what I was doing. Glancing down the canyon, I saw nothing. When I looked back, he had already disappeared into the shadows. Wearing my old pistol butt backwards on my left hip, I casually eased its retaining loop off the hammer.

  I twisted the stick holding the tortillas into the ground between two rocks next to the fire and put on the coffee pot to boil and the beans on to heat before sitting back from the fire and relaxing. Bushtits stopped their chatter. The only sounds were from the greasewood fire crackling and popping.

  I was ready to take the tortillas off the fire and glanced down the canyon. Three Apaches, a warrior and two women, sat on their horses, watching me. The warrior cradled his rifle in the crook of his left arm. I tried to appear relaxed, but I was lucky I didn’t drop the tortillas into the fire.

  Waving for them to come on to the fire and speaking my pidgin Apache, I said, “Friends. Come. Share this food with me. There’s enough.”

  They slid off their ponies. The warrior left his horse with the women. He looked familiar, but I didn’t recognize the rough, hard-looking women. Middle-aged and bowlegged, the warrior walked toward me with an easy, self-assured stride. His hair was black with streaks of gray, his face flat with high cheekbones, eyes not much more than narrow slashes under a high forehead. He seemed fearless and powerful enough to make war all by himself. Wearing a bandolier across his chest, he carried a Mauser bolt-action rifle he probably took from a Mexican soldier, and a revolver handle protruded from his canvas pants pocket.

  Nearing the fire, he waved his hand about waist high in an arc parallel to the ground and said, “Hombrecito! Many seasons, no see. You grow. Still carry Shoots-Today-Kills-Tomorrow? Still with Yellow Boy?”

  I then recognized Runs Far, a scout from Pelo Rojo’s camp. Runs Far often appeared with information none of the other men knew. He’d always been respectful of me because of my marksmanship skills.

  Smiling, I saluted him. “Runs Far! Many seasons pass. My eyes are glad to see you. Bring your women to the fire. There’s enough for all of us. Yellow Boy rides with me.”

  Runs Far smiled and turned long enough to motion in the women as Yellow Boy appeared beside me. Runs Far and Yellow Boy laughed, made jokes about being old men no good for riding the raiding path, and sat down in the shade back from the fire to catch up on news from across the harvests and to share information about the fighting in Mexico and movements of American cavalry patrols just across the border.

  Before coming to the fire, the women turned their horses loose in Villa’s brush corral. Tough, mean-looking characters, their faces betrayed nothing of their femininity. They wore calf-length, beaded moccasins and cloth shifts gathered at the waist by wide leather belts that held sheathed knives. One of them carried a flour sack over her shoulder, and as they approached the fire, they waved me off toward Yellow Boy and Runs Far. I was glad for them to take over cooking as I listened to Yellow Boy and Runs Far swap news and lies.

  I heard Runs Far say, “The Mexican war on the east side of sierras makes life hard for the People. Little remains. Cattle, gone. Horses, gone. Corn, gone. Haciendas grandes empty or only starving peones left. Bad, very bad. More better on the west side, but still bad. Few mines we raid; few supply trains, but not much on them to take. Warriors range far, many killed in foolish raids.”

  He waved a hand toward the women. “Some women with no child and their man killed, they ride with warriors. Those who can fight and hunt, shoot straight, shoot long, we use.”

  Yellow Boy studied the women. “Shoot straight? Shoot long?”

  Runs Far nodded. “Yes, those with rifles shoot straight, shoot long. Many have no rifle, They use knives and bows well.”

  “Women warriors?” I asked. “What does Rojo say?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Runs Far said, “Once many warriors in camp of Pelo Rojo, now not so many. Rojo says people need more children. From Mexicans and Yaquis, warriors find, take. Women also take new children. Rojo says good!”

  Runs Far nodded toward the women. “We see many young boys travel with Arango’s army. Some fight with army, brave like Hombrecito when he avenged father and came to the camp of Pelo Rojo. If we take boys, beans, and meat from Arango’s army, Rojo’s camp grows strong again.”

  Runs Far asked if we knew where Arango was and frowned in surprise when we told him he was with the army at El Paso Púlpito. “Banditos in Rojo’s camp say Arango is finished. This is not true?”

  Yellow Boy shook his head. “Arango is with his army. Listen to me. Arango has few supplies and many men. He needs food, bullets, and warriors who know how to fight. The children you see are his warriors. They’ve been trained in Arango’s army. They’ll never become Apaches. Those you take, you’ll have to let go or kill because their fathers fought Apaches all their lives. They hate Apaches. Arango knows where Rojo camps. Arango even knows where the camp hides if raiders come.”

  He paused a moment, his face focused in his thoughts, before he reached in his pocket for one of his little black cigarros, lighted it, and we smoked to the four directions. He wanted Runs Far to know this was serious business.

  “Hear me, Runs Far. You take Arango’s children, his soldiers? You take his meat, his beans, his mules? You take his bullets? No. You won’t do this. You do this and Arango wipes out Rojo’s camp to the last warrior, woman, and child. There’s no escape. Stay away from Arango. I, Yellow Boy, tell you this as a brother, warn you as a friend, and I’ll kill you as an enemy of the People if you don’t listen.”

  A cloud of anger drifted across the face of Runs Far and disappeared, and his rippling jaw muscl
es relaxed. Leaning back, crossing his arms, and staring at the women who were preparing to take the stew off the fire, Runs Far slowly nodded and said, “Yellow Boy speaks wise words.”

  The women waved for us to come eat. Among the five of us, it didn’t take long for the stew to disappear. Runs Far told us to take a siesta and that he would take the first watch. The women scouted around the camp, but found little left they could use. I found a place to sleep under a cottonwood, and Yellow Boy, a place under a willow not far away.

  Coals from the little fire cast an orange glow against the darkness when Yellow Boy tapped my foot. I blinked awake, stretched, and looked around the camp. Runs Far and his warrior women were gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  FINDING VILLA

  Light from a fingernail moon was enough for us to find our way when we left the canyon. There were arroyos to cross and patches of cactus and mesquite and sharp rocks to navigate, but we still made good time. At some point, Yellow Boy stopped and sat staring a little east of south. Rather than coal-mine darkness, the horizon south had a low, golden glow.

  “What’s that?” I whispered.

  “División del Norte campfires.”

  I stared at the glow and thought we were like men sitting in a small rowboat listening to the roar of a big waterfall as the current, too strong to escape, pulled us forward faster and faster, straight to the long fall over the edge of the precipice. We rode on. The glow grew brighter. When we stopped to rest, the night air was freezing cold, and, as we’d done many times before, Yellow Boy and I sat back-to-back wrapped in blankets to share body warmth and to keep watch in every direction. Now that I’d seen the sky glow from all those fires, the size of Villa’s army started taking form in my mind as a real thing, and my curiosity began to work overtime.

  “How many hombres do you think there are with Villa in División del Norte?”

  Yellow Boy thought for a moment and said, “Muchos hombres. Maybe more than one hundred one hundreds.”

  “You really think Villa has ten thousand men out there? He can’t have collected enough supplies to support that many men.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe so. Fires burn far down the trail. Muchos hombres.”

  “But where will he get water and feed for his animals and food for his men? There’s only Colonia Oaxaca next to the river on the other side of the pass. It was flooded out ten years ago. Ranches around there can’t possibly provide enough to supply that many hombres and that much livestock, even for a day. His army will die of starvation before he even gets close to Agua Prieta.”

  “Maybe so. Many wagons come with army. Maybe carry food, water, grain for animals. Maybe it’s enough until Arango takes Agua Prieta. Who knows?”

  It was beginning to sink into my brain how complicated it was to move an army, never mind tactics and strategies. That idea increased my respect and admiration for our old friend’s capabilities. After an hour’s rest, we rode on.

  A few hours later, we were close enough to distinguish individual fires, to see the tiny, dark outlines of wagons and shadowy forms of horses or mules and perhaps a few cattle. As far as we could see with our binoculars and telescope, the fires stretched from behind hills to the east and into El Paso Púlpito. We moved forward slowly, picking our way, watching the line of fires, ready to run if necessary.

  Near a dark, shadowy smudge of a mesquite thicket close to the entrance to El Paso Púlpito stood a barely discernible horse. Silently, Yellow Boy swung toward it. He motioned me to ride wide and come up on the horse from behind. Yellow Boy tied off his pony and approached the horse on foot while I waited, revolver in hand, several yards away, hidden in the shadows of the thicket.

  We heard the double click of a pistol pulled to full cock and a growl from one side: “Quién es? Who comes to my bed?”

  I spoke better Spanish than Yellow Boy and didn’t hesitate to answer. “Muchacho Amarillo and Hombrecito come to join General Villa. There’s no need for weapons. Who are you?”

  There was a deep belly laugh. A thumbnail snapped against a match, and, in a near blinding flash of light, we saw Villa on his knees, a blanket over his shoulders. He was not twenty feet from the horse. “Muchachos, welcome to my hacienda. Be careful. You’ll get shot wandering around outside a military camp like this.”

  Villa laughed again and said, “Wait! I saddle my horse. We go to my fire in the camp and have some coffee and frijoles.”

  He saddled his horse, and we rode toward the pass entrance using the same path we’d been following. As we neared the trail into El Paso Púlpito, sentries rose out of the mesquite, guns at the ready, saw it was Villa with two compadres, and smiling, waved us along.

  It must have been an hour before dawn and already the camp was stirring. When we reached the fire in front of Villa’s command wagon, a man, ancient of days, a blanket across his shoulders, hobbled out of the shadows and held out a hand, offering to take our horses. Villa swung down from his saddle and handed his reins to him, saying, “Gracias, Juan. Amigos, give Juan your horses and packhorse. He’ll take good care of them. He loves the horses and helps me mucho with mine, is this not true, Juan?”

  The old man grinned. I didn’t think he had more than three or four teeth in his head, and his words came in a hard-tounderstand croak. “Sí, General, I do what I can for you and the revolución. Your horses, señores?”

  We gave him our bridles and the lead rope for Quent’s roan. Juan led our mounts and the roan toward a picket line near the wagon.

  His sombrero tilted back on his head, Villa stepped into the wagon, returned with three cups, and poured coffee, strong, bitter, and thick. A couple of swallows of the syrupy brew made my heart race.

  Yellow Boy, who hadn’t said anything since leaving Villa’s sleeping place, took a long slurp and said, “Arango, why are you sleeping in the mesquite far from your fire?”

  Villa raised his brows and shrugged. “Some soldados think they know better than the general. They think the only way to take command is to kill me. They’re right. I sleep away from the camp, in a different place every night, so they can’t creep up and murder me in my blankets. Also, I never take the first bite of my food. This the cooks do in front of me. I learned the hard way I must do all this or be killed by mis amigos. Comprendes, muchachos?”

  CHAPTER 16

  EL PASO PÚLPITO

  Off the low ragged edge of the eastern mountains, the cold, black horizon began turning crimson, orange, and other fall colors. Villa looked down the trail of fires, studied the golden glow in the east, and said, “Amigos, you do a fine thing for me. I’m very grateful.” He waved his arm in a vertical motion toward the campfires. “Already a week on the road, and this is only the beginning of a very hard march. Between here and the river at Colonia Oaxaca, there is not much agua and few supplies. We have to fill our bellies with what we find. At Oaxaca, we’ll take grain and meat from the ranchos on the rio.”

  I wondered whether Villa planned to buy supplies or commandeer them.

  Villa said, “I ask you, Muchacho Amarillo, to hunt game for the dorados and show my scouts where they can find water, and you, Hombrecito, to work with mis medicos.”

  Yellow Boy stared at Villa, not a sign on his face of what he was thinking. I nodded and said, “Sí, General.”

  Villa grinned. “Bueno! Amigos, spread your sleeping blankets by mi fire and eat out of the same pot Juan fixes for mi and mis generals. Mis generals and I value your company and advice, and we all have mucho to do, eh?”

  As we sat drinking our coffee by the fire, Villa explained why División del Norte must use the very dangerous El Paso Púlpito to accomplish what the Carrancistas thought impossible. He took a yucca stalk, drew a winding line in the dust, and put a cross at each end.

  “Señores, this is the trail through El Paso Púlpito. The east end where we sit is here, and Colonia Oaxaca there. A few well-placed men at either pass entrance can stop practically any army except fast cavalry who can ride through in the night
and return their fire from inside the canyon. If Carrancistas block El Paso Púlpito on the east side, they’ll force me to lead División del Norte across the northern sierras, much closer to the American border. That close to the border, I’d risk having many soldados run across the border. If we went farther south, we’d come closer to Obregón’s big army and risk a battle very dangerous to us both. To get over the mountains and succeed at Agua Prieta, División del Norte must cross here at El Paso Púlpito.”

  He took a big slurp of his coffee and nodded toward the canyon opening into El Paso Púlpito.

  “I sent my cavalry here a week earlier than the wagons and infantry to fight through and retake the eastern entrance if Obregón tried to hold it. But the pass stood empty. Now we must get out through the west side entrance where Obregón can place a small force to try and bottle us up in the canyon. Again, a fast cavalry solves the problem.

  “Now, most of the cavalry and pack mules march ahead of the wagons and infantry. They ride on ahead down Púlpito Canyon to fight through any Carrancistas that might try to trap us in the canyon at Colonia Oaxaca.”

  After apparently seeing me grimace when he mentioned fighting Carrancistas at Colonia Oaxaca, Villa grinned. “Oh, I hope El Perfumado has an army at Oaxaca. Dead men don’t need bullets and guns. My men can have them.”

  I nodded, grimly remembering the pass and canyon when I was trying to find a place to hide from Díaz’s soldiers thirteen years before. The steep, narrow trail dropped nearly twelve hundred feet over a distance of about three miles as it snaked along the edges of steep drop-offs, and made switchback turns so tight, I doubted a team and wagon could squeeze around them. The last half-mile to the canyon floor dropped a gut-wrenching 600 feet, and began with a view of nearly the entire length of El Paso Púlpito Canyon, named after towering Pulpit Rock, a huge volcanic monolith nearly ten miles away.