Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  Pelo Rojo frowned. “Where goes Villa?”

  Runs Far stuck out his chin and shook his head. “We last see Villa in wagon on trail south of Guerrero.”

  I sat listening, my teeth clenched in disgust. Villa, nearly helpless, still got away. Now, after waiting more than two weeks, all I know is that he was shot south of Guerrero. All I could think was, Damn, damn, damn. I hoped he was still alive when Yellow Boy and I found him.

  I asked, “Did any of the men around him wear a red shirt?”

  Runs Far nodded. “Sí, one with Villa wears a red shirt.”

  Yellow Boy and I sat alone by the medicine lodge fire, daylight nearly gone, discussing how best to find Villa and Camisa Roja. Yellow Boy said, “Best to wait until other scouts come back, use what they see and hear and then decide where to find Arango.”

  Impatient, I shook my head. “Already we’ve waited too many days. Pelo Rojo’s scouts won’t find much watching from long distance. We need to talk to army scouts, hear what they know, maybe talk to Mexicans on the road, then we’ll find where Villa and Camisa Roja hide. We’ll never find them sitting in camp waiting. Anything is better than sitting and waiting.”

  A smile crossed Yellow Boy’s lips. “Hombrecito still does not have the patience of the hunter.”

  CHAPTER 48

  SEÑOR ROOSTER

  The Mexicans believed they’d been invaded by the United States. Chihuahua was a tinderbox needing only a spark to become a roaring fire of outrage determined to drive the Americans back across the border. Villa had disappeared, leaving no indication of where he hid, and no Mexican was willing to say he knew. The Americans, with their scouts and money to pay informers, continued to search ranches and houses near Parral, south of Ciudad Chihuahua.

  The day after Yellow Boy and I talked, scouts arrived and reported seeing a few of Villa’s men passing through mountain villages south of El Paso Púlpito. They said some groups continued south toward Durango, and some, shot to pieces after fights with gringo army patrols, wanted to stay and rest awhile. After hearing the scouts’ reports, Yellow Boy and I agreed it was time for us to find Villa and Camisa Roja, and we prepared to leave Pelo Rojo’s camp the following evening.

  Pelo Rojo and I discussed how best for Lupe to use the skills I’d taught her. He agreed with my suggestion that she live in the medicine lodge and continue to help the People. Before we left, I spent the day with Lupe going over my ceremonies, watching her make medicines, and ensuring she understood she must follow my strict hygiene ceremony. The Apaches, very clean people, bathed often using chopped yucca root boiled to make shampoo and soap. Teaching Lupe that she must strictly follow how I’d taught her to wash meant only that she had to learn to wash even when she didn’t think her hands needed it.

  The canyon’s western ridge glowed in retreating sunlight, a low twilight lingering in the canyon as frogs by the burbling creek tuned up and crickets began their songs. We ended the day sitting in the medicine lodge reviewing my notes on who we’d treated and how. Lupe sat beside me and verified or supplied new details about each patient as I went down my list.

  We finished, and I checked my bag to ensure I had a basic supply of medicines and instruments. I wanted to leave as much medicine and as many instruments as I could with Lupe and empty my medical bag of all but its essentials.

  When we finished, she went to the door and pulled its blanket door down, a sign telling visitors we want privacy. She turned to me, looking into my eyes, the light from the fire reflecting in hers. Inside, I trembled as she cupped my head in her hands.

  At first she spoke in a shy, halting voice but it grew stronger with each word, “With you gone, the days will be long, Hombrecito. All the village will miss you, but no one more than me. Indah di-yen makes powerful medicine. Your hands have a gentle touch. Your heart understands and values kindness. Every day, I thank Ussen for sending you to help the People. Every day, I thank Ussen for sending me to help you.

  “Once I had a good man. He was a strong, powerful warrior. Now he walks with the grandfathers, and I am a widow, free to choose a man who wants me.”

  I was not such a fool that I didn’t know where these words were leading. A longing and desire for her filled me, but I wasn’t ready to take a wife again. I stood, gently held her shoulders, and said, “You honor me with your words, your help, and your heart, Lupe. You’ve shown me many fine medicines I didn’t know. I’m proud to help the People with you, a fine woman, full of life, knowing much. I’ve lost a good wife and you a good husband, but I have much work to do in hard days to come. I must use my power beyond the People’s lodges. I’m not ready to take another wife.”

  “Do you desire me as a man desires a woman, Hombrecito?”

  I stared into the little oil lamp fire and saw the flame moving sensuously. I felt my pulse race, and I whispered, “Yes.”

  She touched my hand and said, “I don’t speak of marriage. I’m free to choose who I want. I want you. Lie with me that I can know you when you lose yourself to Ussen in the pleasure of our union. Warm yourself with the fire in my heart. I give you fire stronger than the jaguar’s fire, fire stronger than the blind rage that burns in a man’s heart.”

  I was stunned. I hadn’t told her of my dreams. “How do you know of the jaguar’s fire?”

  “My Power shows me many things. It tells me it will keep you safe. It tells me to keep you in my heart. This I do. Take me as a man takes a woman. Lose yourself to Ussen, know my fire.”

  She blew out the oil lamp. In the darkness, I heard her shift fall to her feet, and I was stirred in a way I’d not been in years. I felt her arms surround me as she lay her head on my chest, and my hands felt the smooth, warm skin down her back as I pulled her to me.

  Yellow Boy and I used the same narrow trail up out of Rojo’s canyon and across the Sierra Las Espuelas we had used ten years earlier to chase Billy Creek, the man who had kidnapped my wife, Rafaela. The trail wound south and east along the ridges of the Sierra Madre and led to the eastern entrance of El Paso Púlpito near where Rafaela was buried. Out of El Paso Púlpito, we rode across the great, rugged Chihuahuan llano. Always pointing toward the southeast, always toward Colonia Dublán and Casas Grandes, always in the night, always passing far around the campfires of Punitive Expedition patrols, Carrancista army patrols, small groups of bandits, and even a few remnants of División del Norte.

  In the middle of the fifth night, we found the large camp General Pershing had established on the outskirts of Colonia Dublán. Rather than risk being shot by a nervous sentry, we decided to rest the three or four hours until sunrise and then show ourselves. We found a place in a thick willow and cottonwood bosque along the Río Casas Grandes south of the Punitive Expedition headquarters, made camp, dug a deep fire pit to keep the firelight from giving us away, rubbed down the horses, and made coffee to take the chill off our bones. I wrapped in my blankets and lay down next to the fire. Yellow Boy, as usual, stayed out of sight nearby. I was weary, but it took a while before I passed into fitful sleep.

  My eyes snapped open. Darkness; coals in the fire pit barely orange. I heard the click of a pistol’s hammer pulled back, started to rise, and felt the pressure of a cold steel barrel pressed against my forehead. Against the stars, I saw the outline of a dark figure above me with shoulder-length hair, and in the dim glow from the fire coals I made out a US Army uniform shirt.

  The figure holding the gun barrel against my forehead motioned me to stay still and said in heavily accented, guttural Spanish, “Who are you? Who are the others in the camp behind you? Speak before mi pistola blows off your head.”

  Before I could answer we heard the hammer on Yellow Boy’s Henry click to full cock. “Buenos días, Señor Rooster. He is Doctor Henrique Grace. The Mescaleros call him Hombrecito. So you join the Americano army? Wear their uniform? Speak before mi rifle blows off your head.”

  The cold steel on my forehead vanished, and I heard the pistol’s hammer ease down before the weapon slid i
nto its flap-covered army holster. Rooster squatted down by the fire, rocking back on his heels, and lifting the coffee pot, threw a few sticks on the coals, saying, “Buenos días, Muchacho Amarillo. Sí, I track for the army. The soldiers search for Villa, but cannot find him. They will welcome you and Hombrecito in the soldier camp to help them. Why sleep here? Is it because of your friends in the other camp?”

  Yellow Boy materialized out of the darkness, came to the fire, and squatted down. “Guards nervous in the night. Shoot first, and then ask who is the dead man. We wait until light so guard sees us. Where is this other camp you think belongs to us?”

  “Ha. Muchacho Amarillo makes two camps of Apache brothers rather than one. Cannot catch all if one camp raided. Waits here for light while others sleep. Wise choices. Hard to find small camps. Gringo guards always nervous. You come to scout for the gringos?”

  “No. I scout only for Muchacho Amarillo and Hombrecito. Why are you here and not south with the gringo army looking for Arango?”

  “I carry Big Star Pershing tracks on paper to the jefe of this camp.”

  Yellow Boy tossed Rooster a cup. “Have coffee. I’ll speak with you.”

  Rooster sat down next to the fire, crossed his legs, poured his coffee, took a swallow, and smacked his lips. “Humph . . . Hot. Strong. Good. You join Big Star Pershing’s scouts. His army gives warm uniforms, pistolas that shoot many times without reloading, belts to carry supplies, and windows to keep dust from the eyes.” He pulled his goggles off his headband and showed them to us, sticking out his lower lip, nodding in obvious satisfaction. “Very good supplies.” He tapped his wristwatch. “Gringos even give time on wrist.”

  Studying Rooster, Yellow Boy leaned back on his left elbow, the Henry on a blanket beside him. “Where does Arango hide?”

  Rooster shrugged his shoulders.

  Yellow Boy rephrased his question, his eyes narrowed to a squint, staring at Rooster. “Where does Rooster think Arango hides? Speak.”

  Rooster first eyed Yellow Boy, then me, and returned to Yellow Boy. He shrugged again and said, “I don’t know. The gringos go no further south than town of Parral. Soldiers search between villages of La Joya and Parral. Mi jefe, he says Villa must stay in one place until leg heals or he loses it. I hear Mexicans tell Mexican army jefe they see Villa. They say leg bad, very bad.” Rooster marks off about six inches on either side of a place below his knee. “Black here to here to here and white stink leaks from bullet hole. Mexicans say he cries like a woman having baby, say he wants to kill self. Villa’s Power gone. You gain no Power if you kill him.”

  Rooster emptied the cup with a long swallow and poured himself a little more coffee. He looked at Yellow Boy and made a one-sided grin. “If I look for Villa on my own? I go south of La Joya between San José del Sito and Parral. Mexicans in villages nearby say Villa hides near Santa Cruz. Me? I don’t know.”

  Yellow Boy nodded as Rooster swallowed the last of the coffee and handed back the cup.

  “Gracias, Rooster. How far to Santa Cruz?”

  Rooster tilted his face toward the tops of the trees and then looked down into the fire. “The village lies southeast, near San José del Sito. It is seven, maybe eight days’ hard ride if you have strong horses and grain for them. I know you always travel at night. Good. Ride with care. Many gringo and Mexican patrols also travel at night. Many Villistas still roam free looking for horses, rifles, and bullets. Gringo cavalry goes fast, goes far. Soldiers wear out horses, take extras, and keep riding. Glad they no chase me.”

  Yellow Boy stuck out his lower lip and nodded. Rooster stood up and stretched. “I go to find jefe of the camp. Give him talking paper, eat, sleep, carry paper with jefe’s tracks back to Big Star Pershing. Adiós.”

  Yellow Boy said, “Rooster, answer my question.”

  Rooster frowns. “What question?”

  “Where is the other little camp of Apaches?”

  “Ah, so you play games between you, eh? Ha. The camp is a rifle shot south in the bosque. They make no fire. Maybe they are only passing by Casas Grandes. Then I find you and think maybe you and these Apaches come to scout for or steal from the gringo army. This is so, Muchacho Amarillo?”

  Yellow Boy frowned and nodded. “Sí. Apaches come to the gringo army.”

  He started to leave, but I stopped him. “Un momento, Señor Rooster, por favor.”

  “Sí?”

  “Señor Peach, Quentin Peach, rides with Big Star Pershing?”

  Rooster frowned as he thought, and then grinned. “Sí, Señor Peach rides with Big Star Pershing. Makes many tracks on paper. Asks many questions.”

  “When you return to Big Star Pershing, tell Señor Peach you see Hombrecito in Colonia Dublán and that he and Señor Yellow Boy ride south to search for Villa. Will you speak those words to Señor Peach?”

  “Sí, Hombrecito, I’ll speak those words.”

  “Gracias, señor, muchas gracias.”

  CHAPTER 49

  JESÚS

  Rooster disappeared into the darkness, a ghost filled with information drifting over the land. He left us wondering about the other Apaches he saw and how best to find Villa far to the south, hiding like a wounded animal at the edge of the sierras, gaining strength, getting ready to slash and burn and kill again when the gringos left.

  Faint gray began outlining the edges of the mountains to the east, bringing with it the call of awakening birds and the first whispers of icy morning air stirring into a breeze that later grew into a dashing spring wind. I threw more sticks and driftwood on the fire and saw Yellow Boy staring at the flames. I knew in his mind’s eye he tested one strategy against another, searching for the best way to find Villa.

  “What are you thinking, Grandfather?”

  Yellow Boy looked at me from under his brows. “Arango hides far away. Trail south very rough, no see trail since I am a young warrior. Mucho changes.” He tapped his forehead with his rough and calloused finger. “Mucho of the way south is no more in my head. Need tracks on paper, what the gringos call map.”

  He pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket and lighted it with a stick from the fire.

  I said, “Who do you think the other Apaches are that Rooster saw?”

  He smiled. “Runs Far and his women. He won’t let pass that I took his horse away from him when Villa led his army down the Bavispe Valley and he had to ride on a woman’s horse to return to the camp of Kitsizil Lichoo’. He’ll have his revenge. Maybe he tries to take our horses. Leaves us to take long walk across llano with no water. Maybe tries to kill.”

  “Let’s go take care of Runs Far now.”

  He shook his head. “No, not now. Let them follow. We watch. Maybe ambush. Runs Far and his women follow Yellow Boy and Hombrecito no more. Follow no man no more.”

  “Bueno. What will we do now?”

  “Rest horses today. Ride when the moon comes. Stay close to Galena road, watch for gringos and Mexicans, stay out of sight. Watch for Runs Far; make him think we not know he is there.”

  The sun floated in the morning mists above the tops of the mountains, filling the sky with feathered turquoise, changing the gray outline of the eastern mountains to a brilliant, blinding ribbon of gold. We covered the fire pit and gave the horses their morning grain. Yellow Boy said he’d take the first watch while I slept.

  Near the horses, I found a huge, ancient willow and spread my saddle blanket on the dry, crunchy leaves gathered in piles around its roots. I stretched out, trying to relax, wanting to sleep as much as I could before my turn came to keep watch. Across the fields and river, I heard the clank and rumble of men and their machines at the big army camp. Thoughts that we would finally set things right with Villa and Camisa Roja and memories of my last, sweet hours with Lupe and the thirst for life she stirred in me kept my eyes open.

  Dreams finally came. Dreams filled with fleeting images that flicked back and forth in my mind, images of Villa killing the grizzly with a Bowie knife; of thousands of horses and men f
lying apart in bloody pieces as they charged over and over into machine guns and barbed wire;Villa, bug-eyed and crazy, shooting the priest. Like a black fog passing, Maud Wright appeared, smiling, holding Johnnie, waving goodbye; and then Lupe, tall and angular with bright, birdlike eyes and a good heart, leading me to her blanket in the medicine lodge.

  A tapping on the bottom of my foot by the barrel of Yellow Boy’s rifle made the vision of Lupe in my arms vanish like thin vapor on the wind. Yellow Boy pointed toward the sky with his Henry. The angle of sunbeams filtering into my dark den showed it was at least an hour past noon and my turn to watch. He waved his hand palm down to indicate all was well, pointed toward his guard spot in a bamboo thicket next to the river, and we swapped places. It was a luxury to go to the riverbank and splash water on my face to wake up.

  From Yellow Boy’s spot in the bamboo, I had clear lines of sight into the army camp and up and down the river. To the north there seemed to be a constant dust cloud along the road as army trucks loaded with supplies, their engines puttering and gears grinding, came south, their loads increasing the growing supply dump near the center of the camp; and trucks rumbled back north, most empty, some carrying wounded soldiers and sacks of mail. Idly watching them, I tried to think of how best to find Villa, tossing every idea that came to mind into the void as unusable.

  I turned my attention to the camp across the river. A tent served as a barbershop. It had a chair tilted back twenty or thirty degrees that was nothing more than a stump sawed off at the same angle relative to the ground with packing crate planks nailed to it for a backrest and seat so the customers could rest their legs on a hitching rail. Tents serving as pharmacies or soldier messes had nearly constant streams of men in and out. Entrepreneurs, doing a thriving business, dressed in clean pressed shirts and pants, probably local Mormons, allowed past the guards as the result of deals made with the camp commanders, sold everything from vegetables to enchiladas to baked goods. The camp’s soldiers unloaded trucks or marched and trained in infantry or cavalry formations. I didn’t see Rooster anywhere and assumed he’d crawled off somewhere to sleep, or maybe had already left.