Across the Río Bravo

by R. W. Stone

  “But they wouldn’t know that, now, would they?” McCallum asked.

  Shaw and Pedro both shook their heads.

  “So, what would an army of revolutionaries need with a photographer?”

  “If it was Villa, he likes the attention,” Pedro explained. “He is the sort who wants the whole world to see him.”

  “Villa?” Thad asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Sí. Pancho. His real name is José Doroteo Arango Arámbula,” Peralta explained. “They call him Francisco like his abuelo, his grandfather. Pancho is short … you know, a nickname … for Francisco.”

  “So, who the hell is he?” McCallum asked.

  “He was the caudillo of the state of Chihuahua. A very powerful man,” Peralta said.

  “Caudillo?” Shaw asked, puzzled.

  “Sí. It means leader. Like a governor would be here.”

  “And you think this Villa fellow was behind all this?” McCallum asked.

  Peralta nodded his agreement. “He was very involved in the revolution but now he does not like President Carranza and so he formed his own army, La Division del Norte. Some say he has between five hundred and a thousand men following him. Villaistas they are called. Now they fight to overthrow Carranza.”

  “So why would he want to attack our town? Why attack Americans? We ain’t done nothing to him,” Shaw asked angrily.

  Peralta thought a moment. “Our president, Señor Wilson, he used to support Villa, but then he stopped sending guns and switched over to Presidente Carranza’s side. Maybe Pancho is angry? You know, maybe he felt betrayed by the gringos and wants the venganza … revenge. Or maybe it is simply that he needs guns and bullets for his men? Maybe.”

  “Good a reason as any,” McCallum commented.

  “And Jeff?” Shaw asked.

  “Maybe Villa wants pictures of his exploits?” Pedro replied.

  “Your nephew,” McCallum asked. “He the clever type?”

  “What do you mean?” Shaw asked.

  “Well, I was just thinking. If it came down to life or death, he might have pretended to be more than he really is. You know, to buy himself some more time. What do you think?”

  “Makes sense, jefe,” Pedro remarked, nodding.

  “Let me get this straight,” Shaw said. “You think Jeff was taken along with this Villa fellow to document his army’s fight for the revolution with photographic pictures?”

  Pedro nodded and Thad shrugged.

  “Brady practically documented the Civil War,” McCallum pointed out. “No reason not to believe that Villa might want Jeff to do the same thing.”

  “But he hardly knows how to work the camera,” Jacob countered.

  “Well, if he wants to stay alive, he better be a quick learner,” Thad replied grimly.

  “Looks like somebody’s gonna be riding south, eh, jefe?” said Pedro.

  McCallum sighed deeply, his stomach was beginning to ache. He reached for a licorice in his pocket. His dyspepsia was acting up again, as it often did when he was stressed.

  “And we know who that somebody is gonna be, don’t we, Pedro?” he said, looking at his friend.

  “Good thing one of us knows how to hablar Español,” Pedro pointed out.

  McCallum turned to Jacob Shaw and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pedro’s right. It looks like we’re going to be headed south into Mexico. If there is a chance in hell of getting the boy back, we’ll do our best. I owe Al and Maggie that much.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Jacob replied. “Wish I could go with you, but with this shoulder I’d be more hindrance than help,” he said, rubbing his wound again.

  “No problem. Never even thought to ask,” Thad replied. “By the way, you need to move that arm even if it hurts. Not enough to open the wound, mind you, but if you let it set too long, the muscles will tighten up and whither on you. Got to keep ’em exercised. Might hurt at first, but you’ll regret it later, iffen you don’t.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that,” Shaw said.

  Thad looked around the shop. “Would you happen to have a picture of the lad we could have? Might come in handy identifying him when we catch up with them.”

  Shaw nodded. “Matter of fact I took a few of him just last week.” He walked over to his desk and rummaged around in one of its drawers before finding the photograph he was looking for. “Here, take this one. Hope it helps.”

  McCallum took the picture and put it in his shirt pocket. He and Pedro put down their coffee cups and reassured Shaw they would do everything they could to find his nephew. Then they left the shop.

  “What now, jefe?” Pedro asked once they were outside.

  “Well, it looks like the soldiers aren’t the only ones who’re gonna prepare an expedition,” Thad said, thinking out loud. “But we’ve got to move fast. We’ll need supplies, a couple of good pack mules, and maps.”

  “Where we gonna find maps of Mexico here?” Pedro asked.

  Thad thought that over. “Our friends in the army will surely be thinking the same thing. They’re bound to have what we need. The trick is going to be to get them to give us one.”

  “Why don’t we just ride with them? You know, go along with the army expedition?”

  McCallum shook his head. “If I learned one thing in uniform, it’s that nothing in the army gets done today. With Pershing in charge, they are bound to do this up big. And that means complicated. They’ll take a lot of time to plan and prepare before they finally mobilize and move out.”

  “And that’s gonna take too long?” Peralta wondered.

  “I ask you, which moves faster, a single horse or a herd of buffalo? I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts this expedition is gonna make a herd of buffalo look tiny by comparison.”

  “There is safety in numbers, they say,” Peralta pointed out.

  “If this was your son, would you want me to wait?” Thad asked his friend.

  Pedro shrugged and shook his head. “No, jefe, I guess not.”

  McCallum sucked on another licorice. “Well, there’s no time like the present, so where do we start?” he asked.

  “Horses and mules come first. Then we buy supplies, eh?” Pedro said.

  “OK, let’s go find a stable,” Thad replied.

  Chapter Eight

  It had been a couple of days of hard riding, usually with the dust from a hundred riders blowing back over Jeff Shaw’s buckboard. Each night Jeff was separated from his wagon and guarded by two men with rifles.

  As much as he thought about it, he could find no way of escaping. He certainly couldn’t get away on a wagon. There simply wasn’t one with enough speed for him to escape successfully. And even if he could somehow evade his guards and steal a fast horse, Jeff had no idea where he was or how to get back across the border.

  Not only that, Jeff knew his chances of finding food and water along the way were slim to none. Even if he did stumble into some small town, he didn’t think it was likely they would help him. In fact, he thought they would turn him right back over to these men, whoever they were. Then things would only get a lot worse.

  So far Jeff had been treated all right. He hadn’t been abused so far and had been offered food and water. Obviously, the leader, the one they called El General, liked the idea of having a photographer along. It made sense that to stay alive Jeff would have to keep the general happy. Unfortunately, that meant taking good pictures—and not just taking them, but developing them as well.

  Jeff had all the photographic supplies he needed, but not the experience. Up till now he had helped his uncle develop only a very few pictures. Jeff prayed he could remember all the steps and in the right sequence. He spent almost all his time going over everything he had observed his uncle do back in the shop.

  When he awoke the third morning, instead of being led back to
his buckboard as had been the routine, Jeff was taken to a clearing where there was a group of the bandits milling around. The general was standing in their midst. He turned and addressed his prisoner.

  “All right, gringo, time to earn your keep. Take our picture,” he ordered in Spanish.

  It was obvious to Jeff that he was being addressed, and he had caught the gist of what was being requested of him. He had to think fast.

  “I’m sorry but I don’t understand you,” he said in English. When in doubt, play dumb, he thought. Jeff shrugged and shook his head.

  Exasperated the general threw up his hands. “Gringos estupidos.” He turned to one of the men standing next to him. “Go get me someone who speaks his barbaric language.”

  One of the other men gestured at Jeff, pointing his hand like the muzzle of a gun. It was a universal sign anyone could understand. “Why don’t we just shoot the son-of-a-bitch, General?” the man said in Spanish.

  “No, Julio,” the general answered. “Not yet. Just wait till they find me someone who speaks his damned language.”

  After a few minutes a woman pushed through the crowd. Jeff couldn’t help himself. He just couldn’t take his eyes off her. He noticed that most of the other men were staring at her, too.

  The young woman was about five foot six and had long dark hair and eyes that burned a hole in Jeff’s heart. He figured her to be roughly about his age, or perhaps a year or two younger. She was wearing a long brown skirt with high leather riding boots and a white blouse. Like many of the men she wore crossed ammunition belts over her chest and a single holster around her waist. She looked as though she knew how to use the pistol it held, but as far as Jeff was concerned, the wide belt just accentuated her thin waist and made her all the more attractive.

  “Mercedes, you speak English. Tell this one I want our picture taken,” the leader ordered.

  “Sí, mi General Villa,” Mercedes replied. The girl turned and looked at the prisoner. “You have a name?” she asked in English. As much as she resented Americanos, she couldn’t help but notice he was a good-looking man.

  Jeff smiled at her. “Sure do. It’s Jeff.”

  “Jeff,” she asked, pronouncing it more like “Yeff.”

  “Short for Jeffery,” he said. “Jeffery Shaw, er … señora,” he said, using the Spanish word for madam.

  “It’s señorita, not señora,” she replied, flipping her hair back over her shoulder.

  Jeff smiled broadly. “Even better. So, you’re not married. Fine with me … señorita.”

  Mercedes Valdez de Guerrera was accustomed to such flirtations from other men, but her boyfriend, the one the general called Julio, wasn’t pleased with it. Not at all.

  Julio Cardenas was one of Pancho Villa’s most trusted captains and was closely protective of his girlfriend. He didn’t speak English but he could read body language, especially when it was so blatantly obvious.

  “Let me shoot him now,” Cardenas said to Villa.

  Villa just smiled and shook his head. He raised his hand up. “Maybe later.”

  Mercedes couldn’t help but feel a little flustered at Jeff’s display of relief when he learned she wasn’t married. Still, he was a gringo and she had work to do.

  “General Villa wants you should take their picture now,” she said.

  Jeff had already thought this out. “His name’s Villa, eh? Well, I can’t. Not right now,” he replied.

  Mercedes looked at him with surprise. “What? You refuse to do so?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Please tell the general I want to. It’s just that I need to check the equipment. I didn’t pack the wagon. Your men did. And after so many days in the buckboard with all that dust and bouncing, I need to make sure everything works and nothing has been damaged. That will take a while. Once that’s done, I can set up the camera, take the picture, and then finally develop the film.”

  The Mexicans seemed annoyed as Mercedes translated.

  “Please tell General Villa that I want to do it right,” Jeff pleaded. “To get good pictures, you know.” He tried once again to think like his father, a man with far more experience with such things. “I’m sure after his great attack back there, he will want to cover more ground in case there are Americans following him. Maybe once we get more settled, I can do as he asks. Till then I want to care for my things, so I take photos worthy of such a great man. Tell him that, señorita, please.”

  Again, the señorita translated. Villa seemed to accept what she told him. He nodded.

  “Mercedes,” the general finally ordered, “let him check his supplies and camera when we next stop. In the meantime, I want you to stay with him in the wagon and teach the fool to speak like a Cristiano. Tell him I want him to take pictures of our campaign and I want that to happen soon.” Next to him Julio Cardenas grunted in anger. He was clearly upset by Villa’s decision.

  When Mercedes explained Villa’s orders to him, Jeff smiled broadly.

  “Might take a while to learn Spanish, señorita. You’ll have to spend a whole lot of time with me. I’m afraid I’m a pretty slow learner,” he said happily.

  She shook her head. “For your sake, you better learn quickly. Pancho Villa is not a man of … how you say? … patience. And my boyfriend is not, either.”

  “And just who is the lucky man?” Jeff asked.

  Mercedes pointed at Captain Cardenas. “He’s the one making the sign at you of the throat cutting.”

  Jeff stopped smiling. “Great. Thanks for the warning.”

  Over the next several days Jeff went through the wagon, making a big show of carefully checking the camera and all the equipment and supplies. As he examined each piece, he went over and over in his mind every step his uncle had taken while developing the photos. He also spent a lot of time listening to Mercedes as she tried to teach him Spanish.

  Truthfully, he was mesmerized by her face and felt faint whenever she slowly rolled her lips while asking him to repeat words after her. She has great lips, he would think to himself every time he looked at her.

  Jeff learned he was not traveling with a band of outlaws but rather with an army of revolutionaries who called themselves La Division del Norte or the Northern Division. Pancho Villa was their leader.

  Wish the general needed a surveyor instead of a photographer, Jeff thought to himself one morning as he puttered with the equipment. Nobody ever knows how or what the hell they’re really doing. One man looks through a mounted telescope and a second holds a tall stick. I could fake that all day and night. Now, instead, they’re going to expect camera flashes and real damned photographs.

  “I wouldn’t need much to make a picture of you come out well,” Jeff said to Mercedes that day when she appeared at the wagon. She seemed to soften a little and, despite herself, was flattered. Unconsciously she played with her hair, twirling it around her finger, but her answer was still as blunt as ever.

  “You are not here to take pictures of me. You must take a good one of Villa and his army, and soon or they will line you up and shoot you,” she warned.

  “Right,” Jeff replied glumly.

  Chapter Nine

  After getting directions to the Columbus livery stable, Thad and Pedro found its caretaker out front. Thad asked him if there were any mules for sale.

  The man was leaning on a pitchfork, near the barn’s door. He was a short, bandy-legged type with a scruffy triangular chin beard.

  “Well, sir, it’s like this. What you ask is gonna be kinda hard now that the army’s in a buying mood.”

  McCallum thought about that for a moment and, taking an educated guess, replied, “Of course, any good stockman always holds back some when the market gets like this.” He looked over the man’s shoulder into the barn. “That way he can pawn off the rough, unbroken ones, the weak, and the cold bloods when the buyers are hot. Then, later, he will sell the stro
nger ones and the purebreds for a higher price when good stock is even more scarce.”

  “That so?” the liveryman said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “What of it?”

  “Well, if that were the case, and there was good stock held back, we’d be interested in buying two pack mules,” McCallum said.

  The man just stared at him without saying anything.

  McCallum knew that look. He’d been a horse trader for too long not to. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wallet from which he retrieved several bills. “If that were the case, that is. And then only for good solid stock.”

  The man’s eyes dilated when he saw the money and he cracked a small smile. “Might be there still are some around, like you say.”

  “So, are we gonna pussyfoot around all day, or are you gonna make a quick profit?” McCallum asked.

  “Well, you know … like I said … the army’s paying pretty good,” the stableman remarked, still eyeing the cash.

  McCallum nodded. “All we need is two mules and we will pay you well. But before you get too greedy, know this. My friend here has raised and trained horses and mules all his life. You try to put anything over on us and my next stop is going to be the veterinary’s office.”

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Well, I expect it won’t take too much of this,” he said, thumbing the bills in his hand, “to bribe him into quarantining this place for something like … say hoof and mouth disease.” It was a total shot in the dark. McCallum didn’t even know if the town had a permanent veterinarian.

  The liveryman looked uncomfortable. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “It’d be a lot of money for a poor old horse doctor. You so sure?” Pedro asked.

  The man set his pitchfork against the side of the barn and acted like he was thinking things over. “OK, OK. Might be I still have a few big mules out back that might serve your purpose. Young ones, too.”

  McCallum handed the money to Pedro. He turned to the stableman and nodded. “Fine. Pedro will pick out the two we want and pay you a fair price. A good but fair price, if you catch my drift. Don’t even bother trying to shine him. Pedro knows more horse-trading tricks than I know ways to break a man’s ribs while making it look like an accident.”