Knight of the Tiger

by W. Michael Farmer

  “I’ll have justice. I owe you debts of honor for my woman’s death, for trying to kill me at San Pedro de la Cueva, and now you come here to murder me even after I decided not to kill you and Villa in Santa Cruz. You told me at San Pedro that you were just following Villa’s orders. Were you following Villa’s orders when you came after us this time?”

  “No, señor, not Villa’s orders. Gamberro and I did what we thought was right to protect the general.”

  I was astonished. “How could you believe murdering me and my friends in an ambush was the right thing to do?”

  He shrugged his shoulders a little and grimaced. “I learned you come to Santa Cruz when I was in the mountains. Sitting by the fire, deciding what must be done to protect the general, I considered all the miles you rode to get to Santa Cruz, all the hardships you must have suffered riding in the cold at night on trails you did not know while avoiding gringos, Carrancistas, and Villistas. I thought of the great thirst you must have for avenging the way Villa treated you and the even greater thirst you must have for killing me. I knew that whatever happened in Santa Cruz, you wouldn’t rest until you had satisfaction. I thought your desire for revenge must be branded on your soul.

  “You didn’t kill the general in Santa Cruz and didn’t even look for me. The general, he said you told him of a dream that haunted you, pulled the bone splinters out of his leg, stopped his suffering, and left. Even though he said you saved him from the gringos, Jesús stayed to help the general.

  “I was amazed when I returned and found you had not killed him. Why didn’t you kill the general? I know. You’re a man of honor. You won’t kill a wounded, crazy man until he can defend himself, he—”

  Roja apparently saw a surprised look on my face and grinned. “Oh, sí, Hombrecito, I know very well the general is crazy. He blames the gringos for everything, even dry rivers and hot sun that have been here since time starts. I know, after you leave Santa Cruz, you’ll come back and, when the general is strong again, you’ll finish what you came to do. Jesús, still a boy, would be there to open the door for you, whether he knew your intentions were good or not. The general can’t, as you say, spend his life looking over his shoulder, and I won’t spend my life that way either. I came to end it, one way or the other. I kill you, or you kill me. Your vendetta, it ends here.”

  He paused, looked off down the trail, and said, “Gamberro? He doesn’t care who’s right or wrong. He’s like Rodolfo Fierro, the butcher. He likes killing and the smell of blood. He’ll use any excuse to satisfy his thirst for killing. The other two dorados, they come for the dinero we think you carry. We failed to kill you, failed to protect the general because of this Apache, Muchacho Amarillo. We aren’t the warriors you are. So, tell me, señor, why didn’t you kill the general or try to kill me? How am I wrong in my thinking?”

  I stared at his eyes and saw no guile. I pulled out my pipe, stuffed the burl bowl with tobacco, and lighted it. I said, “I want to tell you a story. Twelve years ago, I lived with the Apaches. The woman you killed, Rafaela, and another woman and her little brother and I hid from a Díaz army division. We were in a canyon on the Río Bavispe south of Colonia Oaxaca. The biggest jaguar I’ve ever seen carried off the little boy and slaughtered his sister when she chased after them. Rafaela and I made a pact to kill that jaguar, and we did, but not before it almost killed me. I live only because Rafaela took a rock and smashed in its brains before it tore me up after I shot it.”

  “I much regret that I killed such a fearless woman, Hombrecito, but as I—”

  “You regret it far less than I do, señor. Just listen.”

  He grimaced and nodded.

  “I’ve learned many things since Rafaela’s death. Chief among them is that undiscerning eyes rarely see the truth. Things are never as they seem. I went to the university for many years to become a doctor and returned to Las Cruces where you found me last fall. Almost from the day I returned, even before you came, I began having a dream, a dream that relived my fight with the jaguar and how close it came to tearing away my life. But this dream was different from what happened in the canyon. The jaguar was on fire.”

  Roja frowned. “A jaguar on fire? What does this mean?”

  “I didn’t know what it meant, and I always awoke before I saw Rafaela finally killing it before it took me. In the dream, I never saw who killed the jaguar. The dream came often, maybe two or three times a week. I didn’t understand it, but I came to believe that maybe it was trying to send me a message.

  “Finally, when I was alone with Villa in the hacienda, ready to kill him, he drew his pistol to shoot me. I snatched the pistola away from him, leaving him defenseless, because he was too weak to hold it steady. Before I could kill him with his own gun, I realized that the jaguar in the dream was a symbol for Villa. Many call him El Tigre. His anger is like a fire consuming him and making him loco.

  “Jesús walked through the door bringing me hot water for use in treating the general’s leg. In that room, I told Jesús that I had deceived him in order to find and kill the general. I wanted him to leave so the dorados wouldn’t kill him if I were caught after the murder. Jesús wouldn’t leave and told me that, since I’d betrayed his trust to find Villa, then I was no better than Villa, who had betrayed me. Everything from the dream was suddenly clear. The burning tigre in my dream was stopped from taking me by the one I couldn’t see.”

  Roja frowned and said, “I don’t understand. I heard none of this at the hacienda in Santa Cruz.”

  “In all the times I dreamed the dream, I never knew how, or even if, I escaped the jaguar in flames, the burning tigre. I know now that if I’d killed Villa for his betrayals and murders, it would have reduced my ability to know the difference between good and evil. Losing my way, I’d become no better than the crazy hypocrite Villa was then. Jesús stopped me from killing Villa, stopped me from losing my soul, and ultimately stopped me from becoming like Villa. Villa will crawl away and die on his own someday. I don’t need to help him get there sooner. In fact, I won’t help him die at all. He must live with the consequences of his mistakes. Perhaps that’s worse than dying because of them.

  “You, señor, presumed too much when you left Villa to kill me. Two of your compañeros are no more. Gamberro joins them soon if he hasn’t already. Now I must decide if I can let you live or if you must die.”

  Roja, his dark eyes fixed on me, nodded, took a last puff from his cigarette, and ground it out in the sand beside him.

  I sat smoking my pipe and thinking about what to do with this man who’d killed the love of my life and had tried to kill me twice. Jesús awakened, but he kept his distance and led the horses to water as the crickets began their songs in the lingering dusk.

  As the dusk turned black, Jesús dug and lit a small fire pit, put a pot of coffee on to boil, and started meat, potatoes, and chilies cooking in a stew.

  In a while, I heard stones click together down the trail and cocked Little David after signaling Roja and Jesús to keep silent. The sounds increased from something or someone coming up the canyon. Minutes passed.

  Satanas appeared in our circle of firelight and snorted, his ears rising as he stared toward the cliff. He had no rider, just the reins tied loosely at the saddle horn. I smiled. It was a favorite trick of Yellow Boy, who stood at the tank behind us, watering his paint.

  Jesús jumped up to lead Satanas to water, but I let the hammer down on Little David and signaled I’d do it myself, saying, “Just keep an eye on our guest.”

  I took the reins and led Satanas to water. Yellow Boy’s paint, ridden hard and played out, hung his head and drank slowly, unable to go any farther without rest. Satanas wasn’t in as bad a shape as the paint, but he needed water and rest.

  As the horses drank, I looked Yellow Boy over and didn’t seeing any bullet wounds or broken bones. “It’s a good thing for you to return now, Grandfather. Are there wounds I need to see? Our amigo cooks for us. Soon we eat.”

  He didn’t waste
any time getting to the point. “No wounds. I see Camisa Roja. You kill him?”

  “No, not yet.”

  He looked at me with raised brows for a moment and nodded. “Your prisoner. Do as you want.”

  We rubbed down the horses and gave them a big ration of grain. The paint lay down, too weary to eat. We left grain for it, knowing it would be on its feet in two or three hours. We also knew it would be at least two, maybe three days, before it could carry Yellow Boy across the mountains. Even Satanas would not be ready to ride tomorrow.

  We sat down with the plates of stew Jesús gave us. Roja, like a starving man, ate two full plates. After acknowledging Jesús’s outstanding stew, we sat drinking coffee.

  “Grandfather, tell us of Gamberro.”

  Yellow Boy took a long slurp of coffee and answered, “I am at spring, Gamberro across wash. We shoot. No see, no hit. Paint sees snake, rears to get away. Breaks tie line, runs for wash. Gamberro runs between the paint and me, grabs his bridle, swings up on him, and rides for llano. I take Satanas. Gamberro rides paint too hard. I see him falter two, maybe three times. I no shoot, no hit paint. Gamberro shoots back at Muchacho Amarillo and Satanas many times, wastes many bullets. When I see him start to reload, I push Satanas hard, hold rifle from barrel like war club, ride up close, swing back toward his face, and crack him across forehead. Gamberro flips off paint backwards, lands on head in road. I catch paint, ride back to Gamberro. No move. Neck broke. Gamberro is no more. I drag body off road. Take clothes. Mañana, sun cooks him plenty quick. Buzzards, hawks eat good. Maybe coyotes have full bellies tonight. That is all I have to say.”

  I saw Roja slowly shake his head. I could imagine what he must be thinking. Yellow Boy, Jesús, and I divided up the night watches. I had the last one before dawn.

  I couldn’t sleep before my watch. My brain ran at high speed, considering what I should do with Camisa Roja even as I heard him snore across the fire that was turning to gray ashes. He knew, and I knew, I wouldn’t murder him in cold blood. How did I assure myself that I’d never need to worry about him coming after me? Why did I no longer feel any anger for him killing Rafaela and for twice trying to kill me?

  It occurred to me, Wanting to kill Roja is like trying to take revenge against the wind when it blows down your house or the fire when it burns you. He’s a force of nature. He had no personal passion when he killed Rafaela or when he tried to kill me on Villa’s orders or came after me to protect Villa. With Rafaela and me it was just . . . being a soldier, just protecting the tribe, just doing a job. Like branding cattle.

  My mind wandered across all the times we’d crossed paths during the last year and settled on that last terrible day in San Pedro de la Cueva when Villa was ordering lineups for the firing squads and threatening the priest. I’d arrived there just as he kicked the priest. In a fury, I nearly jumped him then, but a hand in a red sleeve had reached out and grabbed me and held my arm like it was in a steel trap. I couldn’t get near Villa and didn’t jerk away from that tight hold until Villa murdered the priest. I pounded Villa a few good licks until someone in a red shirt rang my bell with the butt of a Mauser. In my case, Red Shirt had knocked me out before Villa’s men could shoot or hack me to death with their swords. It was the first time I’d considered he’d saved my bacon that morning. Of course, I knew instantly who it was even though I hadn’t consciously made the connection before—funny how our minds work—I suddenly felt much more relaxed. Come first light, I could settle a debt of which I hadn’t been aware of until then . . . and feel reasonably certain Camisa Roja and I would never cross swords again.

  When the jagged eastern mountains turned blood red just before being outlined in fiery gold, I saddled a dorado horse, filled a canteen from the spring, and tapped Roja on the bottom of his boots with my rifle. He jerked up, instantly awake. I cut the rope around his feet and motioned with my head for him to go to the horse tied in the wash. When he took the reins of the horse, I nodded down the wash for him to start walking. Little David and my pistol ready for instant use, I walked to the left side of Camisa Roja and the horse. Birds in the trees began to chirp, as the cold morning gray turned to light gold.

  We reached the trail from the pass into the llano stretching toward Casas Grandes.

  “Stop here, señor. I give you life and cancel all debts we hold with each other. It’s the right thing to do for me, maybe a foolish thing for an Apache. If I see you again, one of us will die. Go to Villa. Serve him well. Serve him as you always have. I seek no more revenge. Life is too short to have the bitter taste of revenge on your tongue, and last night I realized I owed you a debt.

  “Some say life is like a card game. We have to play the cards dealt us. Most of my cards have not made winning hands. Perhaps someday I can say I won a hand that makes it all even, but I’ll never know unless I play the game. Do you understand what I have told you?”

  “Sí, Doctor Grace. I understand very well.”

  “Hold out your wrists.”

  I cut the cord that tied his hands. As he rubbed circulation back into his wrists, I put his pistol back in his holster, dropped six cartridges into his coat pocket, and said, “It’s a long ride from here to Casas Grandes. There’s enough water in the canteen to get you and your horse across the llano to the next well. You know this country. You lived in it in your vaquero days. Now ride to your general and hope you never see me again.”

  He started to mount, saw his rifle scabbard was empty, and motioned to it. “A soldier without his rifle is—”

  I shook my head. “You’ll get another fine one from the general’s stash. Be gone.”

  Mounted, he smiled and gave me a little, snappy salute with his fingertips off his sombrero. “Muchas gracias, Hombrecito. Adiós, and good luck.” With that, he galloped off down the winding canyon road into the morning light, a shadow disappearing in the distance against the rising sun.

  EPILOGUE

  I didn’t know it at the time, but my life would continue to intersect with many of the lives I’d touched since I’d finished medical college, particularly with Jesús and Yellow Boy. I only wanted to settle into a normal medical practice. I didn’t know I’d find the need to write yet another volume to tell you of future adventures and lessons of life, but I have more to tell.

  For now, I’ll just say I followed the newspaper stories about Villa, and I knew Quent had pretty good sources in Mexico sending him reliable information. He kept me informed of what he knew. After Villa struck a deal with Presidente de la Huerta around 1920, he basically became a hacendado, and retired to the Hacienda El Canutillo, about fifty miles from Parral. Jesús and I talked about going down there to see him, but we decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie and not tempt fate.

  I first heard about Villa’s assassination from Quent. He rang me up from El Paso. You know how you remember every detail about what you were doing on days when you hear shocking news. It was Saturday about noon, July 21, 1923. I had just finished setting a child’s broken arm when my nurse told me there was a telephone call from Mr. Peach in El Paso. He was excited and didn’t waste time, as usual, with polite amenities.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes. That you Quent?”

  “I just got word that our friend Villa was assassinated yesterday and is being buried today.”

  I was stunned but not surprised. I said, “I knew it! I knew something like this was bound to happen. Where was he killed?”

  “Parral. Evidently ambushed. He was driving, had his secretary and three bodyguards with him. My source says he was hit nine or ten times and died instantly. One bodyguard got away, but the other two and the secretary were killed. It was a set-up all the way.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “No, not officially, and Obregón swears he had nothing to do with it. None of the actual shooters were identified. The story goes that after the ambush, they casually got on their horses and rode out of town. My source says General Calles, the Carranza general who smoked
Villa at Agua Prieta, was behind it. If I get anything else firm, I’ll let you know. Got to run. Adiós.”

  As the months went by, Quent passed along what he learned, and it became clearer that Villa’s murder was a political assassination. Obregón was implicated, but no one was ever convicted of the murder.

  ADDITIONAL READING

  Harris, Larry A., Pancho Villa and the Columbus Raid, Superior Printing, Inc., El Paso, Texas, 1949. Reprinted from the original publication by High Lonesome Books, Silver City, New Mexico, as: Pancho Villa, Strong Man of the Revolution.

  Katz, Friedrich, The Life and Times of Pancho Villa, Stanford University Press, Stanford, California, 1998.

  Tompkins, Colonel Frank, Chasing Villa: The Last Campaign of the U.S. Cavalry, High Lonesome Books, Silver City, New Mexico, 1996.

  Torres, Elias L., Translated by Sheila M. Ohlendorf, Twenty Episodes in the Life of Pancho Villa, The Encino Press, Austin, Texas, 1973.

  Welsome, Eileen, The General and the Jaguar: Pershing’s Hunt for PanchoVilla, ATrue Story of Revolution and Revenge, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, Nebraska, 2007.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  W. Michael Farmer’s in-depth historical research and southwest experience fill his stories with a genuine sense of time and place. His first novel, Hombrecito’sWar, won a Western Writers of America Spur Finalist Award for Best First Novel in 2006 and a New Mexico Book Award finalist for Historical Fiction in 2007. His other novels include: Killer of Witches, The Life and Times of Yellow Boy, Mescalero Apache, Book 1, 2016 winner of a Will Rogers Medallion Award and a New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards finalist; Blood of the Devil, Book 2 in The Life and Times of Yellow Boy; Mariana’s Knight: The Revenge of Henry Fountain; and Knight’s Odyssey: The Return of Henry Fountain, Legends of the Desert, Books 1 and 2.