Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  Bracamontes shook his head. “General Villa does not travel so fast. He comes in his commandante wagon. I warn you, señor. Today General Villa is not in a forgiving mood. He has been betrayed by the Americanos, by División del Norte deserters, and by Carranza commandantes who will not listen to him. He has lost battles at Agua Prieta and Hermosillo, and his anger knows no bounds against those disloyal to him. He’ll think those who shot his soldiers disloyal and will execute them, every one. I advise you to take your men to the mountains until the División del Norte passes on.”

  Garcia frowned at Bracamontes. “But, Commandante, how can General Villa shoot anyone when he doesn’t know those to blame for these accidental shootings? We don’t know who shot the soldiers, even if we wanted to tell. He won’t do this terrible thing. He can’t do this terrible thing. We won’t leave. We can’t leave our casas and hide like rats in a stable. We’re hombres.”

  Bracamontes bit down hard on the stem of his pipe showing his teeth. He stared at Garcia, saying nothing. They stood there seemingly suspended in time. At last, Bracamontes said in a low voice filled with threat, “I’ve warned you, señor. If you stay, you play the fool. Now take my men to your village so Doctor Grace might have a chance to save them.”

  CHAPTER 32

  MASSACRE

  Villa, his brown eyes flat and lifeless, stared at the alcalde like a rattlesnake contemplating a rat frozen in place, certain its brown fur will make it disappear against the sand. “So Señor Garcia,” he growled and slapped his wagon desk with a loud whack from his quirt, “your village men think they can murder heroes of the revolución?”

  Garcia jerked his head to one side as if he’d been slapped. “No, oh no, General. We’re very sorry we have done this thing. We didn’t know—”

  The quirt slapped the desk even harder than before, and Villa snarled, “You feel free to murder men who have faced death many times battling the dictator Carranza, the dictator Huerta, the dictator Díaz? You betray heroes who pass by this dung hill of a village?”

  Holding his hat with both hands in front of him, Garcia licked his lips and stammered, “No, General. Por . . . por favor, we did not kn . . . kn . . . know who your men were. We thought they—”

  The quirt was faster than a striking snake and left a nasty cut across Garcia’s face that stretched from just below his left eye across his nose to the far side of his right cheek. “Traitors! That’s what you are, señor,” Villa bellowed. He made a fist with his right hand, held it in front of the alcalde’s face, and said, “At last I hold some traitors in my hands. By God, these traitors won’t escape justice.”

  Blood splattered all over his white shirt, his left eye already swelling shut, Garcia seemed to find iron in his core and stood straight, refusing to back up from Villa’s onslaught. His voice no longer sounded pleading, but coolly reasonable. “Por favor, General. We’ve offered to make amends by replacing men we killed and providing shelter and nursing for those we wounded. We’re feeding your entire army and its animals even though it means we’ll starve this winter. Por favor, we—”

  Villa spat on the ground, gently slapping the quirt across his palm, leaving faint, dark red stripes of Garcia’s blood. “Sí, Alcalde, oh sí, you most certainly will pay. This, I, General Francisco Villa, promise to the world: you will pay.”

  He pointed toward a dorado at the edge of the lantern’s circle of light. “Search this privy of a village. Put every man over the age of twelve years in the corral. Do it now! If any escape, I’ll hold you personally responsible. I’ll give these traitors their judgment mañana when the sun comes over the sierras. Vete!”

  Dorados, rifles ready, stepped out of the shadows to take the alcalde and the men with him to the corral. The alcalde tried to reason with Villa once more. “General, we didn’t know, por favor, we—”

  At this, Villa shouted, “Damn it! Take these traitors away. My ears are ready to puke from their whining. Vete!”

  I watched the scene play out as if in a bad dream. It made me heartsick to see Villa that way, and I wished I were somewhere else. I started to speak, but I saw Bracamontes and then Camisa Roja, standing back in the shadows, give me tiny, covert shakes of their heads. Best to wait until he calmed. He always calmed down. I waited and said nothing.

  Villa plopped down in his field chair, tossing the quirt onto his desk. I waited a little while for him to relax, and then excused myself to feed my horse and take care of our wounded.

  I found my doctor’s bag, checked bandages on the soldiers, and then went to the corral. There must have been sixty or seventy men and boys in the cold night air sitting huddled together for warmth. Captain Gomez, the dorado in charge, let me through the corral gate. I motioned Garcia over to me.

  Garcia was shivering from the cold, his face a bloody mess. Still, he came and stood straight, his chin stuck out in defiance, saying nothing.

  I took his chin in my hand and looked at the cut in the light of a lantern. “Señor, that quirt will leave an evil scar. I’m a doctor. I have medicine to make you feel better and to keep it from filling with pus. I’ll stitch it together so it does not look quite so bad, eh?”

  He nodded. “Muchas gracias, señor, but you’re wasting your time. The general will kill me tomorrow when the sun rises over the mountains.”

  “I don’t think so, señor. He’s always been a friend to the poor and treated them with great respect. He knows your hard life.”

  Garcia looked at me as though I were crazy. I shrugged and said, “He’s just bitter and angry that the gringos have betrayed his trust, and he has lost big battles with Carrancistas. He’ll cool down tonight and think more clearly by morning.”

  A dark figure rose out of the huddle of men and walked toward us. From his robes, I saw he was a priest, young, close to my age. He said, “I pray to the great, merciful Father that your words are true, señor. General Villa is a mighty warrior who can snuff us all out like a man pinching off a candle. We’ll pray long and hard tonight that the general’s heart is filled with God’s will and justice by the coming of the sun.”

  “I’m sure that it will be so, Father. Por favor, help me with Señor Garcia. I want to get this cut cleaned and sewed together before it becomes infected.”

  “Ciertamente, señor. How can I help?”

  I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed of the fiery jaguar and felt his claws hook into my pants, pulling me toward the flames, closer and closer to his sabre-like teeth. I awoke sweating in the freezing air. As I tried to go back to sleep, I saw again the look on Villa’s face at Agua Prieta when he ordered the execution of Doctors Thigpen and Miller and the shelling of Douglas. Now he was even more filled with hate. Surely he wouldn’t execute Garcia. The village people were the ones for whom he’d fought all these years. I felt anxious, suspended in a purgatory of my own making, frozen into inaction as though reality had become a dream. My head thought Villa was crazy and would murder Garcia. My heart felt it wouldn’t happen.

  I heard Juan making a fresh pot of coffee. I stayed in my blankets until I heard him pouring a cup, and then I staggered up, wrapping my blanket around me. Juan handed me the scalding hot brew. “Gracias, señor. Is the general up yet?”

  He shook his head and said in his ancient, raspy voice, “He was not here all night, Doctor Grace.”

  I stood by the little fire, drinking my coffee and watching the mountain range outline turn from smoky gray to dim orange. When liquid gold poured across the edge of the sky, Villa still had not appeared. Birds began welcoming the dawn, and somewhere in the village, a rooster crowed. By this time, Villa was usually finishing his breakfast and talking to his generals.

  The sun threw shafts of light through the trees and village houses. Then the brilliant orb seemed to stop and balance on the edge of the high mountains, casting a straight, golden road across the lake.

  A cold realization settled in my mind: He’s going to shoot Garcia. Somehow I had to stop him. I looked toward the corral and saw Villa leadi
ng a double column of dorados, Mausers on their shoulders, marching smartly behind him. I wanted to vomit. I threw down my cup and blanket and ran for the corral gate.

  By the time I reached the gate, Villa and the dorados were inside the corral, and I heard him say, “Captain Gomez, form the prisoners in straight columns of five each, and get that god-damned priest out here.”

  Gomez was reluctant to touch the priest, who was on his knees, hands clasped in entreaty, and saying, “Por favor, General, por favor spare these hombres. In the names of God and the Holy Virgin, don’t take the lives of these innocent men.”

  Villa glared at him and snarled, “Get away from me. God doesn’t spare traitors, and neither do I. They must die!” He kicked the priest backwards and walked away from him.

  I strode through the gate, puffing from my run, and headed straight for Villa. A hand from a red sleeve grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip and jerked me back.

  Gomez’s dorados began forming the huddled bunch of men and boys into columns of five, lining them up by similar heights, one behind the other, and making each row stand four or five feet apart.

  The priest crawled on his hands and knees through the dust to face Villa again. “General, in the name of God, don’t do this thing, I beg you from the dust. Don’t do this. Mercy. In the name of God, Christos, and the Virgin, show mercy.”

  Villa’s hand dropped to his pistol, his eyes boiling hatred, teeth clenched in anger. He looked at the first row of five, two stooped gray heads and three boys who couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  “Very well, priest! I’ll show mercy. Take that first column of traitors and get the hell out of my sight. I warn you, Padre, never, ever let me see you again, or I swear to God, you’ll never see the light of another day.”

  The priest stood and ran wide-eyed to the first row of old men and boys and waved them out of the corral like they were chickens. The dorados finished forming the columns of five. I made a quick count. There were thirteen columns of five and one of four. Villa paced back and forth in front of them, slapping his leg with the quirt. I saw the young men and boys looking at each other across the columns, and the youngest had tears on their cheeks. The grown men stood tall and stared straight ahead.

  Gomez stepped up to Villa and saluted. “The columns are formed, General.”

  Villa nodded, and with his fists against his pistol belt, he looked at the columns. “I, General Francisco Villa, Commandante División del Norte, have found the men in this village guilty of murdering heroes of the revolución. You are all traitors to Mexico, to the revolución, and to División del Norte. The penalty for such treason is death by firing squad. Colonel Soto, you know what to do.”

  The leader of the dorado column behind Villa stepped forward and began barking orders. Dorados with Mausers stepped to face the first man in each column ten feet away. I tried to jerk away, but the grip on my arm grew tighter, stronger. From behind me, I heard running feet and a loud wailing plea, “Nooooo, General! For the love of God, no! Mercy, I beg you!” The priest had burst through the dorados at the corral gate and stumbled to fall on his knees behind Villa.

  It was as though, for a moment, time stopped. No one breathed or blinked as they stared at the priest. Villa, his right hand reaching for his pistol, turned on his heel to face the priest.

  “You stupid, stupid man, I told you to stay out of my sight.” The pistol seemed to clear its holster in slow motion. I saw Villa thumb its hammer back and saw it falling as he squeezed the trigger. It was like being shocked out of a dream when I heard the roar from the big .45 echoing across the mountains. Blood and brains sprayed out the back of the priest’s head. He fell backwards, flopping in the dust, his mouth and eyes still open in supplication, a bright red spot on his forehead between his eyes.

  My arm was out of that steel grip, and I was on Villa in an instant, bellowing, “You bastard!You no good bastard!” My fists pummeled his thick, hard body, careless of how or where they landed. I got in three or four wild, solid punches and knocked Villa down before I was stunned senseless from a blow from behind and saw stars. I fell forward and to one side of Villa. A boot kicked my shoulder and rolled me over on my back. I had a hard time trying to focus my eyes, until I saw a brilliant red shirt inside the dorado coat of the man standing over me with a Mauser.

  Villa sprang to his feet, graceful as a big cat. “Gracias, Camisa Roja. We must talk with this half-breed Mexican who loses his mind. Take him to my wagon and wait for me. This will not take long, eh? Vamos!”

  As Roja and another dorado took me under the arms and dragged me forward out of the corral, I heard the metallic hiss of Colonel Soto’s saber as he pulled it from its scabbard. He barked, “Ready . . .” Fourteen rifle bolts made a jangly metallic marching sound as they were pulled back and pushed forward to load shells. “Aim . . .” I was stunned and semiconscious, but I distinctly heard the scream of an eagle and lifted my eyes to heaven see it floating high above us just before I heard, “Fire!”

  The staccato roar from the rifles rolled across the big lake and echoed back. Fourteen bullets to kill sixty-nine men and boys, the lifeblood and future of an entire village snuffed out in less than a second.

  CHAPTER 33

  BETRAYAL

  Camisa Roja and the other dorado dropped me on my back beside Juan’s fire and disappeared. When I opened my eyes, the sun was past the top of its arc, and Villa and Camisa Roja sat drinking coffee while they watched me. I sat up and gingerly touched the big goose egg on the back of my head. Memory of the morning flashed back. I felt sick and hung my head between my knees to keep from vomiting. Off in the distance, I heard the steady toll of a church bell and the mournful, eerie sound of women keening.

  No one else, not even Juan, was near Villa’s wagon. Villa, taking a big slurp of coffee, sat back in his field desk chair, his legs crossed at the ankles.

  “So, Hombrecito, your head is no longer filled with the darkness? Maybe you want no more to help Francisco Villa fight dictators, eh?”

  Villa cocked his head to one side to hear my answer, his eyes staring through me. I said nothing and stared back at him, forcing myself not to blink.

  “A general must always do what’s best for his men, Hombrecito. You want to leave, and I demand it. Go! Camisa Roja will show you where the trail begins over the mountains. División del Norte will rest here another couple of days. You’ll leave, and I’ll see you no more. That’s a good thing for both of us. Adiós, amigo.” He looked away and stared toward the mountains across the lake.

  I rolled up my blankets, staggered up off my knees, saddled, and loaded my horse. Juan, appearing from behind the chuck wagon, came forward, and with a toothless grin, gave me a sack. “Food for your journey, amigo. Vaya con Dios.”

  “Muchas gracias, señor, you’re a great friend.”

  When I was ready, Camisa Roja left the wagon and mounted his horse. He laid his rifle across the pommel of his saddle and nodded at the northern end of the lake. I led the way toward the far end of the lake and followed the trail north that ran beside Río Moctezuma.

  Fog still drifted in my brain as the horses passed down the trail and around a bend in the river. Soon the big trees next to the river and a ridge shuttered the view back to San Pedro de la Cueva. Camisa Roja rode up beside me, stuck the muzzle of his Winchester in my ribs behind my right arm, and pulled the hammer back. I cursed myself for being a fool and not realizing this was coming.

  Roja said, “Hand me your pistola and continue to ride a little in front of me, señor. If you try to run, I’ll kill you where you sit. Comprende?”

  I nodded as I pulled the old Colt from its holster and handed it to him. We followed the trail into the wide river canyon. I glanced over my shoulder at the rifle pointed at the middle of my back. Roja held it steady, his eyes locked on me. “So, Camisa Roja, el jefe decides I’m a traitor too, eh?”

  “Sí, señor. It’s only because you and the general are amigos from long ago that you’re not sta
nding in front of a firing squad now and making the general’s heart very sad to watch you die.”

  “So you do the general’s dirty work?”

  “I always obey orders, señor.”

  Memories filled my mind. “Sí, I remember you told me that a lifetime ago. Is that the same rifle you used to murder my woman during the Comacho raid?”

  He sighed and said, “Sí. It’s the same. It has killed many men and a few women.”

  We rode on up the canyon, saying nothing and watching the shadows lengthen as the sun fell toward the mountains on our left. The wheels of my mind furiously turned, trying to think of a way to escape. After a while, I remembered the lessons Yellow Boy taught me and knew I had to be patient and wait for my chance, or I was dead for certain. The memory of Rufus Pike spoke to me. Cold and cakilatin’, Henry. I was determined that somehow I’d survive, and I kept talking, trying to lure Camisa Roja off guard.

  “Why are you taking me so far upriver before you do your duty?”

  “El General doesn’t want to hear the shot that kills you, and he wants to speak truthfully to Muchacho Amarillo when he comes looking for you that the last time he saw you was on this trail. He doesn’t want to execute both of his friends from the old days. He didn’t want you executed, but you gave him no choice. Now I have no choice, Doctor Grace. Ride on and be silent. You won’t distract me.”

  The coals of rage burning in my gut grew brighter. If I survived, Villa’s days were numbered and few, and I’d take great pleasure in closing his eyes forever.

  Putting the horses into a trot, we rode up the canyon four or five miles, following the river’s many twists and turns. We came to a long, narrow meadow lined with trees.

  “Doctor Grace, turn your horse across the grass and into the trees next to the river.”

  I hoped to make a break for it when we approached the brush by the creek, but he was careful, watching my every move, and I couldn’t risk it. We stopped in the green grass a few yards from a sandy spit on the river. He nudged his horse up close to mine so the barrel of his Winchester was almost close enough for me to grab, but not quite.