“Get off your horse, señor. Take off the saddle and your equipment. Leave it here, and lead your horse to that big cottonwood.”
Putting my hands on the saddle horn, I leaned forward across the pommel to dismount. As my right foot cleared the stirrup and I swung my leg across the back of my horse, I began falling to its left side, while still holding on to the saddle horn, and keeping my leg on the saddle as I’d seen Apache warriors do at full gallop, with the horse’s body to hide them as they shot at enemies from the underside of their mount’s neck.
When I first began the fall, I gave the loudest, most unnerving scream my lungs and fear could offer and raked my horse’s back with the crossing spur. It startled him so badly, he crow-hopped into Roja’s horse, already starting to rear, knocked it off its feet, and landed on top of Roja before he could clear his stirrups and bail out. His rifle made a thunk sound as it hit the hard sand and discharged.
It seemed to take a lifetime for me to bail off my bucking horse, and I hit the ground with a jarring thump. I rolled to my feet, expecting to be shot. Roja’s horse, still on its side, was kicking and struggling to roll up on its stomach so it could get its feet on the ground and stand. Roja had dropped the rifle so he could use both hands, one to handle the reins and the other to hold on to the saddle to stay with and control the horse.
He saw me coming and let go of the saddle to grab my pistol, which was stuck in his belt, as I flew in a long, body-extended leap and landed on top of him. The impact of our bodies colliding knocked the screaming horse back over on its side, again pinning Roja’s leg against the ground. I swung wildly, trying to hit him anywhere. He threw up his left arm to fend me off while he tried again for my revolver.
Pumped with adrenaline, fighting for my life, I had strength I’d never known. In my fury, I round-housed a fist to his left temple. Stunned, he suddenly went limp, unconscious.
I jerked my revolver out of his belt, thumbed the hammer back, and fired just as the horse gave a mighty heave, struggling to stand with the weight of us sprawled on him. The barrel of the pistol was just inches from Roja’s temple, but with the horse struggling, I missed. I thought, Oh to hell with it, and clubbed him against the side of his head. As his horse began to stand, my feet touched the ground, giving me the leverage I needed. I grabbed Roja by the collar of his red shirt, jerked him out of the saddle, and threw him to the ground.
I stepped back and cocked the old Colt once more. Gasping for breath, I felt the flood of adrenaline begin to recede. Memories of Rafaela swooped into my mind, her sweetness and devotion, how his bullet had burst through her shirt, the anger and rage I’d felt for so long and wanted to vent.
My hands shaking, breath coming in gasps, I cocked the Colt, pointed it at his head, and fired. Sand and gravel next to his ear erupted in a tiny geyser. I fired again, and again, and again, missing each time. I couldn’t make my hands stop shaking long enough to put a bullet in his brain.
Finally, with both hands I pointed the pistol at the center of his chest, thinking, I’ll be damned if I miss this time, you son-of-abitch. I pulled the hammer back and sighted at the middle of his chest. The front sight was steady as a rock on his heart. I pulled the trigger, and the hammer fell with a hard metallic snap.
I stared at the old pistol in disbelief. Pulling the hammer to half cock and opening the loading gate, I pushed five empty cartridges out of the cylinder. I did a quick mental count. I always kept one cylinder empty under the hammer, and there was one shot while we were on the horse, and four misses at his head. Six. I thought,Camisa Roja, you’re the luckiest man I’ve ever known.
Shadows grew long as twilight came. My mind steadied. I bent over, my hands on my knees, wanting to vomit. I’d never been so close to being a crazed, cold-blooded murderer. I didn’t know what to think, but the sense of relief I felt for not killing him lifted a ton of weight off my shoulders.
He moaned and started to stir. I felt his pulse and looked at the place where I’d smashed him with the pistol. He should be all right; maybe have a bad headache and sore head for a while.
His horse was pulling at spare clumps of grass a few feet away. I brought the horse over to him, pulled the coiled reata off his saddle, tied his hands and feet, heaved him across the saddle, and tied him in place. He was nearly conscious when I wrote Villa a little note on paper from my prescription pad and pinned it to the back of Roja’s jacket.
The note said:
Ustedes me traiciona, señores.
Muchacho Amarillo es mi padre.
Compensaré.
Which translates,
You betrayed me, señores.
Yellow Boy is my father.
I will repay.
I led Camisa Roja’s horse back to the trail for San Pedro de la Cueva, tied the reins behind the saddle horn, slapped him on the rump, and watched him trot off down the trail. I gathered Roja’s weapons and ammunition while twilight turned to darkness. Then I loaded my horse and headed upriver. I figured I’d have about a day’s lead before Villa sent dorados after me. With a little luck, I’d beat them to the border before I had to kill them all.
CHAPTER 34
LONG RIDE HIDING
After tying Camisa Roja across the back of his horse and sending him back to Villa, I rode up the river trail, intending to put as much distance as I could between me and Villa’s dorados. Black, thick night came quick in the river valley, but twilight lingered high on the mountains. I could see my breath like steam in the still, cold air, and my fingers grew numb holding the reins.
Solitude held me like a lover, close and gentle, leaving my mind free to roam. Mostly, my mind was filled with what had happened that day. My fists clenched against the reins, fury making me want to snarl and roar like an enraged grizzly. It was startling to feel such primal emotions and to hunger for the pleasure of ripping the heart out of a man I once called friend, one to whom I swore allegiance, one for whom I would have died.
As thoughts about Villa faded, new ones as stinging and as intense brought Camisa Roja to mind. I marveled at how his life intertwined with mine. Today providence had favored us, both of us. My mind turned over and over our history, trying to look at it from different angles, trying to put its facets in perspective, each event illuminating the other like a diamond spreading bright sunlight in different directions with a rainbow of colors. I saw much, but understood little.
When the arc of the moon approached midnight, and its brilliant rim shone bright white, a great weariness fell over me. My horse needed rest and grain before it carried me to the top of the mountain ridges, and I needed to rest to stay alert when the sun came. I began looking for a safe place to stop.
In a grove of cottonwoods growing in the brush back from the riverbank, I dug a hole and lit a small fire. The spot, surrounded by big boulders, shielded us from the icy wind flowing down the river canyon. I hobbled my horse in a stand of dry grass, rubbed him down, and gave him some grain.
Huddled over my little fire’s coals with my blanket over my shoulders and warming my hands, I tried to think through what I needed to do and how to do it. I knew it was close to the Season of the Ghost Face, maybe early December. It would snow soon, and that meant a slow, dangerous, energy-draining ride to get through snow on the mountains and down to the river valley village of Moctezuma. I didn’t know the country. It might not snow at all this far south, except near the tops of the mountains, or the valleys might fill with snow and stay that way all winter. I decided I had to ride during daylight up on the ridges like Apaches: stay out of sight, keep an eye on the main trails for an ambush, and cover ground as fast as possible to have the best chance of beating bad weather and staying out of the reach of Villa’s assassins.
Up before dawn, I shivered by the fire, ate more of the victuals Juan had put in my sack, and drank the remains of the coffee I’d made the night before to warm my insides. As birds started twittering in the gray light, I hid the remains of my fire, brushed away my tracks, and left the big t
rees on a deer trail following a long, wide canyon running to the top of the mountain ridgeline.
It was a hard climb to the ridgeline, so steep I had to dismount and hold on to my horse’s tail to make it. Even then, I nearly slid off the trail on loose shale near the top. On the ridgeline at midmorning, the view filled me with wonder. Far below, I could see Río Moctezuma and north, never-ending ranges of mountains. Taking out my field glasses, I studied the trail along the river and saw no signs of any rider ahead of me or on my back trail.
After three days, the mountain ridges along the Río Moctezuma smoothed into a high plateau that defined the east side of the river valley. Except for working my way across two or three gorges with creeks flowing to the river, I made good time on an easy ride along the edge of the plateau.
Watching the river trail with my glasses, I saw only old men shouldering heavy awkward loads or boys with donkeys. I rested a day and did nothing but wait and watch. Still, I saw no dorados. I tried to think like Villa and recall what he’d done in the past. For men he thought were traitors, he waited until they thought they were safe and then assassinated them in front of the world. He relished any trick, any dramatic embellishment in front of an audience, to make his version of justice that much sweeter.
I had an epiphany. Villa would wait to kill me on the north side of the border surrounded by gringos he thought had betrayed him. My murder would leave a message: You can run, but you can’t hide from Pancho Villa.
I followed the Río Moctezuma Valley past Moctezuma, then to Cumpas and on to Los Hovos, where the trail passed through rough mountains to the mining town of Nacozari de García. There, I sold Quent’s good, steady roan and bought a train ticket to Douglas. From Douglas, I caught the eastbound train to El Paso.
PART 2
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
. . .Today he can discover his errors of yesterday and tomorrow
he can obtain a new light on what he thinks himself sure of
today . . .
From The Oath of Maimonides
CHAPTER 35
RETURN TO MESCALERO
After disappearing for three months, my return to Las Cruces produced a lot of speculation and rumors in the barbershops and ladies’ clubs. The few patients I’d had before I left were seeing other doctors, so I knew I’d have to rebuild my practice from scratch. However, putting first things first, I rented a mustang gelding and headed out of Las Cruces for the Organ Mountains and over San Agustin Pass for Mescalero.
Falling snow drifted back and forth in a slow, bitter wind at Yellow Boy’s tipi, still deep in a box canyon a few miles from Mescalero. In the gloomy twilight, I could make out Yellow Boy’s old paint, a couple of mules, and, to my relief, Satanas, all staring at me, their ears erect. I led my gelding into the corral. Satanas trotted up, and after sniffing and prancing around to establish his authority with the mustang, paid it little attention as he put his nose up close to my face. I breathed in his breath, and he took in mine. I gave him a quick little rubdown before he returned to nibbling hay tossed out on the snow inside the corral. I took a handful of the hay and rubbed down the mustang before turning him loose to nose the hay with the other animals.
Taking my saddle, bedroll, rifle, and bulging saddlebags, I walked to the tipi and stopped just outside the door flap. I could hear happy end-of-the-day sounds, children playing, an iron pot lid clanging, and women laughing. I smiled and called out, “Dánte’ (Greetings)!”
A man’s raspy voice replied, “Ho!” In a moment, the door flap raised, and from around the edge, I saw the round, smiling face of Moon on the Water as she motioned me inside. I stepped into the cozy firelight. The air was filled with the aroma of venison stew and fry bread, cedar burning piñon, and cigar smoke.
Cleaning his Henry rifle, Yellow Boy sat on the far side of the fire grinning as he motioned me to come in and sit beside him. Juanita and Moon on the Water clapped their hands that I’d returned safely, and taking my things, waited until Yellow Boy spoke before they said anything.
Yellow Boy said, “Welcome, Grandson. It’s more than two moons since I saw you. You’re well? Arango still lives?”
I pulled off my gloves and held my hands up to the fire, letting them soak in its warmth. “Yes, Grandfather, I’m well. Arango still lives.”
He laid the oiled rifle, its barrel and brass action gleaming in the firelight, across his knees and, pulling the stub of his black cigar from his mouth, blew a long stream of smoke up toward the smoke hole.
“You ride a long time in the cold wind from the town of the crosses. Sit by the fire and warm yourself. Juanita and Moon will fill our bellies soon from their stewpot. Speak, women. My grandson returns from a long raid in Mexico.”
Speak they did, chattering about their glad hearts now that I was back, safe, after a long ride and how cold the winter felt that year. Moon began filling gourds from the big pot of stew, passing a gourd and cedarwood spoon first to me, their guest, then to their husband, smaller gourds to Redondo and John, who sat back in the flickering fire shadows, quietly watching and listening to the adults. Finally, Moon filled gourds for herself and Juanita. Juanita passed me a basket filled with hot fry bread she had just finished making and poured us coffee from an old blue speckled pot nearly black from years at the fire.
After cleaning our gourds and nodding our appreciation for the good meal, we sat around the fire recalling old times, good and bad, while the women cleaned up their cooking area. Soon, the women put the boys under their blankets and then went to bed, leaving Yellow Boy and me to speak in private.
We smoked awhile, relaxing in the slow, flickering light until we heard a gentle snore or two from the direction of the wives’ blankets. Then Yellow Boy said, “Speak of your time with Arango.”
I told him about the march to Naco, the train ride west to Nogales, and then south to Hermosillo, where nearly all that was left of División del Norte died in terrible, blood-soaked charges against machine-gun nests and men in trenches behind coils of barbed wire, the destruction ten times worse than anything I had witnessed in Agua Prieta. I spoke of Villa growing crazier by the day, claiming the gringos had caused all his defeats. Yellow Boy listened carefully and watched my face, nodding occasionally, and grunting.
Then I told him what happened at San Pedro de la Cueva. He crossed his arms and slowly shook his head as I described how Villa had executed the village’s men and boys, murdered the priest who begged for their lives, and how I tried to stop the massacre and was knocked unconscious. Next, I described what happened between Camisa Roja and me and how I’d tied him across his saddle with the note pinned on his shirt when I sent him back to Villa.
Yellow Boy stopped me. “Wait, Hombrecito. You shot and missed four times and, after your hands were steady, you pulled the trigger again, but the cylinder was empty?”
“Yes, Grandfather, that’s the way it was.”
He shook his head, his jaw teeth clamped tight on the cigar. “Why didn’t you reload and finish him?”
“I don’t know. I wanted him dead for killing my wife and child. He had just tried to kill me. I owed him his death. I know by letting him live he will be one of those Villa sends after me. Yet, somehow, I feel I did the right thing. I tried to kill him standing so close that it was impossible to miss, but I missed. I missed four times. I guess after the last try with an empty cylinder, I decided it just wasn’t his time to die. Ussen was protecting him.”
Yellow Boy stared at the fire a few moments and nodded. “A man must listen to the spirits when they speak to him. Perhaps you’ll die when Camisa Roja returns, perhaps not. You’ve left it for Ussen to decide. Since you’re my grandson, we’ll repay Arango for his betrayal. When do we leave?”
I shook my head. “I believe Arango will come after me north of the border, maybe in Las Cruces. He’ll sen
d dorados north to get me. Of this, I have no doubt. Isn’t it better to let him come after me where I know the ground, and end it where I have an advantage, than to try and find him in Mexico?”
Yellow Boy stared at me for a few moments before his gaze returned to the red and orange coals. “Arango knows where you are, Hombrecito. Camisa Roja knows where you work. It’s very dangerous to be the bait in a trap. A wrong move and you die. Ambush is best for vengeance. Mexico, we ought to go there. We kill Arango and Roja quick and be done with them before he sends assassins after you.”
“You speak wise words, Grandfather, but I believe I’m safe for a while. I’ll speak with Quentin Peach about news from Mexico and learn what he thinks. Now Villa licks his wounds in Chihuahua and needs every dorado to rebuild his army before he can move north to fight Carranza and punish the Americans for their betrayals. I must be on my guard when he comes north. Let’s think on these things some more. Perhaps we’ll make a good plan for an ambush before he tries to kill me.”
Yellow Boy tossed his cigar on the coals and shook his head. “This is a very dangerous thing you do, Hombrecito. I don’t like it, but I’ll always stand with you. We’ll speak more of this.”
CHAPTER 36
VILLA RIDES NORTH
The abrupt, growling ring of the new telephone, like an alarm clock going off at odd times of day, consistently surprised me. I took the earpiece off the hook and spoke into the horn, “Doctor Grace here.”
A distant, female voice said, “One moment, please. I’ll connect you with Mr. Peach.”
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