by R. W. Stone
The man gulped when he looked at McCallum. “Thought never crossed my mind otherwise,” he said quietly.
“Good. Pedro, I’ll head over to the general store and get us loaded up.”
Pedro disappeared into the barn with the liveryman and Thad turned back toward the main street. He found what he was looking for a few doors down, two buildings right next to each other. One held a hardware and farm supply store while the other was a store that sold small sundries.
Within the hour, Thad had purchased pack saddles, halters, bridles, blankets, extra canteens, ammunition, and enough foodstuffs to feed the two of them, if sparingly, for about a month on the trail. He wasn’t a bit surprised that the prices seemed about twenty percent higher than normal.
When the army goes on a spending spree, local merchants usually act like sharks in bloody water, and it’s the locals that end up being bled out. For a moment, Thad actually reconsidered whether his friendship with Al was worth all this. He shook the thought from his head. He owed Al far too much. Besides, he had given his word, and that was something he would never go back on. Although it had not been on his list, McCallum bought a pair of field glasses that he felt might come in handy.
“Looks like the army’s not the only one going to war,” the storekeeper joked.
“Just going on a hunting trip is all,” McCallum explained. He was becoming annoyed with the salesman. There used to be a time when people in the West minded their own business. Whatever a man did, where he did it, and why he did it were his own concerns, not that of strangers.
“Awful lot of ammo for a hunting trip,” the man remarked. He was obviously the curious type.
“Depends on what you’re hunting, I suppose,” McCallum answered abruptly. Before he left the store, he ordered his supplies delivered to the livery stable.
Once back out on the street, Thad met up with Pedro. He was carrying McCallum’s Winchester along with his own rifle, a Springfield caliber .45-70 trap-door carbine. He handed over the Winchester.
“What about our horses?” Thad asked.
“They are already over at the stable, jefe,” Pedro explained. “We got two good mules, and our horses will be stabled overnight as part of the deal.”
“The mules look all right to you?”
“Sí, and the man, he knows they better stay that way,” Pedro said, smiling.
“Good. Let’s go find us some place to stay. Some place with a bath. I suspect it may be a while before we’ll have a chance to have another one.”
The two went off in search of a decent hotel. Fortunately, they didn’t have very far to look. In towns like Columbus the hotels were usually the larger buildings. The sign on top of this one said Galloway Hotel. When they entered, McCallum immediately noticed that, although not new, it was clean and well maintained.
The hotel must have been considered opulent when it first opened. A large circular sofa was set in the center of the lobby directly under a big chandelier. The sofa was covered in red velvet. It would have cost a pretty penny just to have it shipped in, Thad thought as they approached the front desk.
He tapped the bell located on the front counter. A large, overweight, middle-aged man emerged from a room in back. The clerk was trying to cover his thinning hair by combing it across the top of his head, but in Thad’s opinion it didn’t work as planned. The fellow wore a black bow tie and a slightly stained white shirt with a high starched collar.
“Can I help you?” he asked, at the same time casting a rather nasty look over at Pedro.
“We need two rooms, if available, or, if not, make it one large room with two separate beds,” McCallum explained. The look on the man’s face had not been lost on him.
“Sorry, but we ain’t allowing no greasers to stay here no more,” the clerk commented rudely.
McCallum removed his pistol from its holster. He began inspecting the cylinder and, while still looking down at his gun, spoke to the clerk. “I see how it is. So, let me explain what’s going to happen.” He looked up at the clerk. “My pistol is going to accidentally go off and shoot you in the leg. Won’t kill you, mind you, but it will hurt like hell, and you may be left with a permanent limp. You’re then going to scream a lot and finally someone will call the sheriff.”
“What?” the clerk said, shocked. His voice cracked and his expression was one of fear.
“Then the sheriff and I are going to have a talk. I’m going to explain to him that I am a personal friend of General Pershing’s … which, by the way, I really am … and that this man is my friend, Pedro by name. He is also an American citizen. Then I am going to tell the sheriff to go check with the general and ask him about the man who shoved his ass into a ditch on Kettle Hill just as a Cuban fired a shot at him with a Mauser.
“General Pershing is going to reply that any man who had saved his life couldn’t possibly be a liar, and that if you had been hit, it had to have come from an accidental discharge, like I said. Then the general will tell the sheriff in no uncertain terms not to bother with such petty things in the middle of a war zone.
“Next, the sheriff will let us go and we will end up right back here in the rooms you should have given us in the first place. Meanwhile, you will be in pain while we are resting comfortably in our hotel beds. Get the picture now?” McCallum spun the pistol’s cylinder just to emphasize his point.
The clerk nodded slowly. His eyes never left the pistol.
McCallum cocked the Colt. “Well? Are there any rooms for both of us or not?”
The man nodded very quickly. “Yes, sir. As it happens I do have an unexpected opening, and I recall now that changes have been made in our policy regarding guests. It is a single room, but there are two beds in it. Very nice, I assure you.”
“And the baths are on the same floor?” McCallum asked.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk replied nervously. “And hot water, too.”
McCallum nodded and reholstered his pistol. “Fine. We’ll take the room.” He smiled broadly. “Now, where do we sign in?”
The man turned the hotel book around for them to register, and as the clerk bent over, Pedro suddenly ran his finger over the top of the clerk’s head. Then he made a face as he looked at his finger. “Very greasy, jefe.”
McCallum nodded back at him. “Must be the food here,” he replied.
Chapter Ten
Jeff Shaw finally had no choice. He had made as many excuses as he could and now he had to make the camera’s magic happen. He would have to take pictures, and he knew they had better be good ones. After all, he was supposed to be a professional photographer.
Jeff was positioned behind the camera’s tripod in an open field near a small herd of goats. All he knew for sure was that he was somewhere in northern Mexico. Back in Columbus, Jeff had been told that Chihuahua was the name of the Mexican state closest to New Mexico. What he didn’t know was that it was the largest of the country’s states. Considering how far they had traveled, Jeff had no idea if they were still in Chihuahua or whether they had crossed into some other state.
He did know one thing, however. Given the miles of open dry terrain, anyone unfamiliar with the country would be tracked down in no time whatsoever. So far, all Jeff had seen were miles and miles of open terrain with nothing but the occasional scrub tree, cactus, or small stream. There were mountains visible off in the distance, but without a map that fact was of no help to him.
After Albert Shaw, Jeff’s father, had left the military, he had spent most of his time growing his business in the city. As a child, Jeff had little opportunity to go camping, and his father never seemed to have the time to teach him things beyond the basics, like shooting.
If his father were in the same position, with his military background, he would escape and know how to survive and live off the land. But Jeff knew for certain, he couldn’t, not without help. He simply didn’t have his father�
�s survival skills.
When you have nowhere to run, are surrounded by dangerous and angry men, and you value your life, you go along to get along. Jeff was determined to do just that. The problem was how to go along, get along, and still survive.
In front of him were ten men posing with their weaponry—pistols, swords, machetes, and rifles. Jeff had arranged the men in two lines with those who were tallest in back. Of course, out of respect, he had positioned General Villa in the middle, about two paces ahead of the rest. A place of honor.
Villa was wearing his small round sombrero, a black waistcoat, black pants, a white shirt, and a small tie. He wore bandoleers crossed over his chest like sashes and had two large Remington pistols stuck, cross-draw style, in his waistband.
Jeff lifted the cloth that was located at the rear of the camera and glanced through the front lens. Objective was the description he remembered his uncle using. He reached around and removed the lens cap from the front of the camera. He then centered the image of the men in the camera’s field of view. He knew that they were supposed to be upside down in this camera’s viewer.
Also, he remembered his Uncle Jacob explaining that the older models required removing the lens cap for extended periods to expose the film plate and then replacing it, but this newer model had a cord with a sort of trigger on it. All you had to do was put the film in, remove the lens cover when you were ready, and push down on the cord’s trigger to take the picture.
Jeff fumbled with the film cassette, initially trying to put it in upside down, but then he finally managed to load the camera properly. He held up the tray he had loaded with flash powder as he had seen his uncle do. It was sort of a metal stick with a pan on top. Jeff had to guess how much powder to use.
“OK, gentleman, er … caballeros,’’ he said, correcting himself. He couldn’t bring himself to ask them to say cheese, so he simply said, “Fuego,” which he had been taught was Spanish for fire, and pushed the trigger on the cord.
The flash of smoke that went off was much louder and brighter than he had anticipated and when coupled with the word fire, it must have scared some of the men because they leveled their firearms and pointed them at Jeff.
“¡Bueno! ¡Bueno!” he yelled in Spanish. “It’s all right, don’t shoot!” he repeated in English. “Mercedes, for Christ’s sake, tell them it’s supposed to do that,” he pleaded.
“Está bien, muchachos,” she said in Spanish. “¡No disparen cobardes!”
Jeff recognized the last word cobardes, as meaning cowards. He prayed the men would listen to her and wouldn’t shoot him.
When Villa suddenly started laughing, most of the men relaxed. None of them wanted to be thought of as a weakling and very quickly they started laughing right along with him.
Jeff wiped his brow with the camera’s drape and blew out a sigh of relief through his mouth. He had survived the first part of his problem, but the hardest part was still to come. He had to get the chemical processing just right for the film to develop into a picture. He had, however, thought ahead and had a plan. Good or bad, for the moment it was all he had.
“¿Y la foto?” Villa finally asked. Mercedes started to translate, but Jeff stopped her.
“I got it. I understand. Tell him that to develop the film, la pelicula, I need a place that is dark, or else the light will spoil the process.”
Mercedes looked at him suspiciously but translated for General Villa.
“Tell him when we get to a village … if I can go inside somewhere … I can make the picture come out.”
General Villa looked annoyed but nodded his understanding.
“For your sake, it better come out,” Mercedes commented.
Jeff smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re beginning to worry some about my safety. Means you care.”
Mercedes stared at him and Jeff thought he detected a small smile trying to break through on her face. “No. I worry about the pictures mi general wants.”
Chapter Eleven
The following morning, after grabbing a quick breakfast of tortillas wrapped around some eggs mixed with a spicy sausage called chorizo, Pedro rounded up the horses and packed the mules while Thad tried to locate a map of Mexico. Most of the more detailed ones had already been snatched up by the army, but the general store in town still had one or two old ones left over.
McCallum didn’t care much about how detailed the map was or how many names on the map might have been changed over the years. He just wanted to know where the main rivers, mountains, and towns were.
Pedro had grown up in these parts and probably knew northern Mexico better than any map maker, but since McCallum couldn’t predict the future, he figured it was a good idea to have a little extra insurance in case a serious problem arose.
The two men met in front of the hotel, mounted up, and rode south. The river dividing Mexico and the United States might be the only one in the world with two names for the same place. Entering the American side, it was the Río Grande, but halfway across it became known by the Mexicans as the Río Bravo. The river is just as wet and muddy either way, but fortunately Pedro Peralta had found a relatively shallow place to ford, and they were soon across and into what Pedro referred to as mi patria linda, which McCallum knew translates to my beautiful homeland.
Thad recognized the emotions his friend must have felt when crossing back into the country where he was born, but he kept to himself his opinions as to the beauty of the place. As far as McCallum was concerned, the countryside here was just as flat, hot, and dusty as it was on the New Mexico side. As they loped along, he hoped that Pedro’s description would materialize as they traveled farther south into the country.
After about four hours of riding the two men dismounted, loosened their saddle cinches, and then walked the horses for about twenty minutes. It was a habit McCallum had picked up in the army, one that he still practiced to this day.
As they walked along, the men searched the horizon for any sign of activity. It was then that they saw several riders approaching.
Pedro raised his hand to cut the sun’s glare and study the approaching men. “Federales,” he announced. McCallum had already guessed it.
There were four border guards and an officer. The men all wore high-pointed sombreros with a number five on them. McCallum assumed it was their unit’s designation. The Mexicans pulled their horses to a halt, blocking their path.
“What are you doing crossing into our country, señores?” the officer asked in Spanish.
Pedro glared back at him. “It is also the country of my parents, my grandparents, and my great grandparents, Capitán.”
The officer looked visibly upset. “It is teniente, not capitán. Again, I repeat, what are you doing crossing the Río Bravo?”
“Minding our own business,” Pedro replied calmly.
Thad kept his mouth shut and let Pedro do all the talking. Although he understood quite a bit of Spanish, he didn’t speak it well enough to get into a verbal confrontation. He merely continued to puff away on his pipe and listen.
“Since we are assigned this area to guard, it now becomes our business, too,” the lieutenant explained. “So again, I ask you … what is your business here?”
“We are on our way south to visit the ranch of a distant relative who raises horses. Señor McCallum, here”—he threw his thumb in McCallum’s direction—“is a horse trader and wishes to purchase some original Andalusian stock.”
Thad smiled at the lieutenant.
The lieutenant looked skeptical. “And your name is?”
“I am Pedro Peralta, Teniente,” he replied. “And as I said, this is Señor Thaddeus McCallum.”
“And what is the name of this wealthy rancher relative of yours?” the officer asked. “The one you go to visit?”
Although he was careful not to show it, Pedro was stumped for a moment. He had not been anticipa
ting that question. “His name is … Don Quixote de la Mancha,” he answered calmly, and with a straight face.
Thad was so surprised, it was all he could do to keep from spitting out his pipe. He prayed silently that the Mexican officer was not a very literate man.
“Quixote?” The officer pushed his sombrero back. “It seems to me I have heard this name before.”
“Oh, sí, Teniente, I am sure you have. My great uncle is very well known down south.”
“How so?” the officer asked.
McCallum rolled his eyes to the sky and bit down hard on his pipe stem.
“Well, for one thing he was the one who discovered the famous lost golden helmet of Mambrino.”
“Golden Helmet of Mambrino?” the lieutenant repeated dumbly.
Pedro simply nodded. “Sí. You know the one. I think it is now in the Chapultepec Museum in Mexico City. I hear he donated it to them.”
The officer stared back at Pedro, nodding. Fortunately, he was the type of man who is too embarrassed to let others know he is ignorant on a subject, so he pretended he knew what Pedro was talking about. “Sí, that must be it. Certainly, that must be where I heard the name. And now he raises horses, you say?”
“Teniente, do you speak any English?” Thad asked, interrupting the conversation.
“Sí, un poco. A little,” he replied. The word sounded like “leetle.”
“We come in peace and mean no harm to anyone, I assure you. There are no weapons in our packs except for what is needed on the long trail. Now, I ask you, is there any way we can make you and your men more … shall we say … comfortable with our presence in your country?”
McCallum had lived long enough and had been around enough to know the code for making a financial offer without it sounding like a bribe.
