Across the Río Bravo

by R. W. Stone

  ACROSS THE

  RÍO BRAVO

  ACROSS THE

  RÍO BRAVO

  R. W. Stone

  Copyright © 2017 by R. W. Stone

  E-book published in 2017 by Blackstone Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5047-8858-8

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5047-8857-1

  CIP data for this book is available from

  the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  DEDICATION:

  This one is for Dr. Zack Morgan,

  one of the finest men and closest friends I’ve ever known.

  “Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence.”

  —Calvin Coolidge

  Preface

  In 1870 a boundary treaty was signed between the United States of America and Los Estados Unidos de Méjeco. This treaty was intended to settle all disputes relating to the Río Grande, or as it is known south of the border, El Río Bravo del Norte.

  The Native American tribes who had lived in the area for generations before a white man ever arrived there were not invited to participate in the negotiations, were not included in the final decision, or even remotely considered in the treaty.

  The border between Mexico and the United States now runs from Imperial Beach, California, in the west, to Brownsville, Texas, in the east. The present-day border serpentines its way along a designated course right through the middle of the river at its deepest channel.

  Geographically the Río Bravo flows through the state of Texas, which borders four Mexican states—Tamaulipas, Nuevo León, Coahuila, and Chihuahua. New Mexico borders two Mexican states, Chihuahua and Sonora, while Arizona borders Sonora and Baja California. The state of California borders only Baja California to its south.

  Regardless of any of the imaginary lines drawn on a map, the Río Grande is one of the most historically significant waterways in the world. It has been depicted one way or another in countless books and movies. It even has a John Ford/John Wayne movie named after it. To Western aficionados it is almost as if the river has a personality of its own.

  Proudly, by the turn of the twentieth century, the United States of America had not been invaded for a hundred years. Not since the War of 1812 had her borders ever been violated. On March 9, 1916, however, a Mexican revolutionary led remnants of an army called La Division del Norte on a raid across the border into the small American town of Columbus, New Mexico. They attacked the nearby fort, stole horses and supplies, burned part of the town, and ultimately killed nineteen people before fleeing south, back across the border.

  The raid was seen as an affront to American sovereignty, one that at the time the American federal government refused to tolerate. A mighty army was assembled, and one of the true heroes of the Spanish-American War, John J. Pershing, now a brigadier general, was appointed to head a great expedition.

  This general was tasked with following the Division del Norte into Mexico, destroying it, and capturing or killing its leader. There was no doubting the orders given to General Pershing. He was to teach the Mexican leader and any other rebel who dared violate US territory a swift lesson in American politics.

  Prologue

  An early morning mist hung in the air surrounding the peaceful town. Hidden within the fog were over a hundred bloodthirsty men who comprised the makeshift army that was preparing to attack.

  The men thought of themselves as revolucionarios, soldiers of the Mexican revolution. They followed an inspirational leader that they all believed was a hero, one who, it was hoped, would someday become the savior of their nation. In truth, their general, while certainly brave enough, was an unscrupulous, egotistical fanatic. Although he portrayed himself as a humble and patriotic man, he was, deep down, personally ambitious to a fault and capable of coldly calculated and horrific acts of unspeakably barbaric cruelty.

  This army followed their leader, a man who, although born a farmer, had gone into banditry by his sixteenth birthday. The man claimed he was forced to do so to hide from corrupt authorities. The real reason though was that he had shot a rancher who supposedly accosted one of his sisters.

  His skills as a fugitive bandit, his fighting ability, and his knowledge of the land later allowed him to achieve great success as a rebel fighter in the uprising against the president of Mexico. He eventually rose in stature sufficiently enough to command an army of rebels that at one point numbered in the thousands.

  Such leaders are often desirable in the fury of battle, but when political tides change and peace becomes more attractive, their warrior skills are later perceived as a threat to the very same group that had loyally supported them.

  Such had been the fate of this general and sadly his last battle had been a disaster. With fewer troops now and with his former supporters turning against him, he had decided to seek a quick and easy victory for his diminishing army.

  It mattered little to him that he was attacking a town of innocent men, women, and children. It mattered little that the attack would be unprovoked, without warning, and engaged primarily against civilians. And it mattered even less that he was attacking a town on foreign soil.

  The general had divided his troops into a two-pronged attack by well over a hundred men against a small American town that had absolutely nothing to do with his revolution. The soldiers had been briefed very little, but it wouldn’t have mattered how much they had been briefed. The average revolutionary cared very little about anything except the final outcome of the cause, while the rest of the soldiers cared only about survival and personal comfort.

  As far as most of the men were concerned, the end justified the means. Besides, who cared what happened to a town full of gringos?

  The town below was asleep as the rebel army poised for the attack. Machetes had been sharpened, guns had been cleaned and oiled, and rifles were loaded. Little did anyone know it at the time but this was to be a defining moment in history.

  The sleepy town was Columbus, New Mexico, and the people living there were about to be attacked by an invading army from across the border. An army led by General Pancho Villa.

  Chapter One

  The old trooper sat astride a large black stallion perched atop a high grassy knoll. He had left his ranch and come up to this nearby place to ponder things. Here it was quiet. Here it was shady, and the view of the surrounding area was magnificent. It was a calm and peaceful place. It was a good spot to relax and contemplate the future.

  The man puffed on a well-worn, full-bent, hand-carved, briar wood pipe. It had seen so much use it now seemed almost a part of him.

  Looking out over the landscape, there was one thing that kept returning to his thoughts. It was the same question many have asked of themselves at such an age: How the Sam Hill did I ever get to this point in my life? To the old man, it seemed like it was just yesterday when he had stood, ramrod straight, on that distant Cuban battlefield. Through the smoke that wafted up from his pipe, he could almost visualize his army unit’s flags billowing. When the wind blew across the knoll, it made the tree leaves rustle and that somehow reminded him of the music from the military band that had played on the parade ground back on that glorious day.

  Even after all this time the words of the commanding officer of his regiment still resonated in his mind: For conspicuous gallantry, above and beyond the call of duty, it i
s my honor and privilege to award to Sergeant Major Thaddeus McCallum this medal …

  A tear began to form in the corner of the old man’s eye as he recalled his comrades from the old unit cheering: Hip, hip, hurrah! Hurray for Thad McCallum, the Iron Sergeant!

  That of course had been back in 1898 when the Spanish-American War had finally come to an end. Even though handing out medals had been the order of the day, there was just cause for Sergeant Thad McCallum to take pride in his.

  McCallum had more than earned his honors in battle, but by the time his tour of duty was over, he couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold in store for an ex-soldier. Back then the forty-five-year-old had known little else of life other than a twenty-five-year hitch in the military.

  Long ago, traits such as gallantry and camaraderie were things to be admired, but almost eighteen years had come and gone since that day on the field of valor. As far as McCallum was concerned, it seemed that these days the country had all but turned its back on such patriotic ideals.

  The old trooper recalled the last tavern he’d been in. A sign in the window had proclaimed: No dogs, coloreds, or soldiers allowed. He had shaken his head when he read the sign, noting sadly that the army hadn’t even made the top of the list.

  As for the others, hell, as far as he was concerned it had been Lieutenant Black Jack Pershing’s Tenth Cavalry’s “colored” buffalo soldiers who had taken the brunt of the fire on San Juan Hill during the war.

  Of course, there was never a doubt in his mind that Colonel Teddy was a true hero and as brave as they come, but the truth was his Rough Riders were white and were therefore more “colorful” to the newspapers than the Negro soldiers. McCallum realized there was no way those black troopers would ever be recognized by the press for their truly heroic fight. But he and the other soldiers who fought there knew what had happened.

  Crawling up Kettle Hill with Roosevelt was certainly hell on earth, but once they reached the summit, the Rough Riders could clearly see that the soldiers of the Tenth who were assaulting San Juan were facing even worse counterfire. That didn’t stop the Buffalo Soldiers, though. They climbed straight up, right through Spanish Mauser rifles and German-built, rapid-fire guns as if being propelled from behind by an unstoppable force.

  Their attack was so inspiring, the Rough Riders turned their own machine guns back on the Spanish and then charged off Kettle Hill and over toward San Juan Hill to help win the day. Those who remained standing at the end of the fight didn’t feel much like cheering. At the time, it didn’t even feel much like anyone had truly won. Far too many of their troopers were on the ground, dead, and the only color that mattered that day was blood red.

  The big black horse shook his head and snorted, snapping the old man out of his reverie. He sighed, and then rapped the bottom of his pipe against the palm of his left hand. Turning the pipe over, he emptied the dottle from its bowl. He slowly placed the briar pipe back in the soft deerskin tobacco pouch he always carried, and then returned the pouch to his coat pocket.

  “What to do, boy? That’s the question.” He was speaking to his horse, but clearly the words were meant for himself. In another pocket, there was a letter that had recently arrived for him at the post office back in town.

  This far out in the western countryside such things as telephones and postal couriers who made deliveries riding those new-fangled motor carriages were still considered rarities. The letter in question contained a rather difficult request from Albert Shaw, an old friend from way back when. McCallum had served with Al for many years until an accidental discharge from an inexperienced recruit’s rifle crippled Shaw’s left leg. The corporal had been a true friend and on more than one occasion had pulled Thad’s fat from the fryer.

  McCallum took out a pair of spectacles and put them on with a frown. Although he could still see long distances practically as well as an Apache, for some reason he now had problems focusing on objects that were close. Being far-sighted they called it. He detested having to wear these glasses that were a constant reminder of his age. Besides, they pinched his nose and ears.

  Thad unfolded the letter and read it again:

  I sent our boy Jeff to learn the photography trade from my brother who lives in Columbus, New Mexico. The problem now is that my wife Margaret has taken seriously ill and the doctors aren’t giving her much hope for the long term. I’d like Jeff to come home to be with his mother, but despite two letters and a telegraph I haven’t had a single reply from him.

  I know it is a lot to ask of you but since you live in the same state as my brother Jacob, I thought perhaps you might travel down to Columbus and locate Jeff for us.

  Understand, I normally would not impose on our friendship in such an unreasonable manner, but I simply cannot leave Maggie alone under the circumstances.

  We both are becoming very concerned about the lad. Although Jeff is rather inexperienced about some things, he is good and honest and I can’t imagine him ignoring our pleas. Especially not where his mother is concerned.

  “Damn,” McCallum muttered. He wiped his brow. “Not Maggie.”

  Thad McCallum had been best man at their wedding and had never seen a more beautiful bride. Hell, if she hadn’t been so in love with Al, he might have asked her himself. Thad smiled sadly at the thought.

  Marriage hadn’t been in the books for the old soldier. Too many different posts, too much time in the field, and too little money saved to offer a decent woman any hope for a happy life together.

  Oh, there had been opportunities, especially for a tall and good-looking young man, but nothing ever worked out. Right man, wrong woman, or wrong man, right woman. Who knew? As he remembered her, Maggie was as good a prospect as he’d ever met, but she had taken one look at Corporal Shaw and fallen head over heels in love. Maybe it was just as well, Thad reflected with a shrug.

  McCallum slowly refolded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He did the same with his glasses, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Thad finally collected his reins. “Guess it’s time for you and me to take a little trip,” he said, nudging the black gently with his right spur. “So, we might as well get on with it, boy.”

  Chapter Two

  Pedro Peralta nodded his head while he listened to his jefe, the Spanish word for “boss” that Pedro always used. To be completely honest, McCallum never fancied himself as Peralta’s boss and he certainly didn’t treat Pedro like an employee. He had been together with Thad on their ranch for almost eight years now and had helped rebuild the place after McCallum had purchased it.

  Pedro had grown to be as much a part of the ranch as Thad. He was a friend, confidant, and colleague, but try as he might, McCallum couldn’t get Pedro to stop calling him jefe.

  After retiring from military service, Thad had wandered for a time trying to find just the right job for his own future. He had enough retirement pay to last him for a while, but not enough for the long term. The government had never been particularly generous about such things.

  McCallum knew there was no way he was going to punch cows for the rest of his life and the thought of clerking or banking gave him dyspepsia. He finally ended up in front of a Pinkerton agency in Denver, Colorado, where the idea of having some freedom of movement with a sense of public service appealed to him. The possibility of a little adventure now and then didn’t hurt much, either.

  For ten years, the detective job took him all over the Southwest. While much of it was investigative, some was undercover work, and there was also a fair share of tracking down wanted criminals. The adventure part certainly hadn’t disappointed him, especially if you defined an adventure as moments of excitement and terror, during which time you wished it wasn’t happening to you.

  McCallum thrived in the game and sincerely appreciated the commendations he occasionally received from his two bosses, Robert and William Pinkerton. The founder, Allan Pinke
rton, had left both sons in control of the agency.

  His past cavalry training had made McCallum well suited for the agency’s paramilitary duties, especially for the field work in which he excelled. Ever since the Pinkertons had first caught the government’s fancy, there was no shortage of city types who would work for them, investigating con artists, blackmailers, and petty thieves.

  The problem however, was that on more than one occasion the agency had to pursue leads into the rougher outlands, and it was in the backcountry that McCallum had originally honed his skills. Eventually he ended up in charge of the whole Southwest division and in turn received a substantial salary for his duties.

  About ten years into the job the great-grandson of Allan Pinkerton took over the company. Like any bureaucracy with a new boss there is always a flexing of muscle and a desire to innovate. Younger men were envious of the older division chief and it wasn’t long before McCallum got fed up with responding to constant memos, criticisms, and ridiculous instructions from the higher-ups who simply wanted to try something new or different, even if it made no sense whatsoever.

  It didn’t matter much that he had been, and technically still was, one of their most successful agents. Under such circumstances there is always a “what-have-you-done-lately?” attitude, so it wasn’t very long after the new management took over that the disgruntled detective began to look around for a change of scenery.

  That decision eventually took him south to a small ranch north of Deming, New Mexico. At the time, Deming was a relatively new town and McCallum reasoned that with the growth of any settlement the need for supplies and livestock would also increase.

  There was no way a man like Thaddeus McCallum would ever end up running a general store, but if he had learned anything during his years in the cavalry it was horses. He decided that it made sense to start breeding, training, and selling them. He hoped it would make for a nice living.