by R. W. Stone
“I know you and your men have come a long way and work hard, but now we all need to get on with our jobs,” he added.
“Sí, that is true,” the Mexican replied.
McCallum took out a wallet. While traveling he always carried two in case of robbery. The one he kept hidden carried a substantial stash of cash, while the other, which he brought out on occasions such as this, consisted of a much smaller sum, which he replenished as he went along.
“Now it isn’t that we have a lot of money,” he assured the lieutenant, “but this should take care of things and set your mind to rest that we are harmless. Wouldn’t you agree, Tiente?”
Pedro confided in almost in a whisper. “Jefe has always been a generous man.”
The officer looked back at his men uncomfortably, but nodded and winked at McCallum. He quickly took the folded cash McCallum was holding out.
“Vaya con Dios, mi Teniente,” Pedro said in farewell.
“Adiós,” the officer replied. He turned back to his men. “Vamos, muchachos. There is nothing more here.”
With that the men turned and rode away, heading to the nearest town, McCallum guessed, where the money would make its way into the hand of some lucky cantina owner. When they were out of sight, McCallum let out a sigh of relief and turned to his friend.
“Don Quixote? Are you kidding me?” he said to Pedro. “You trying to get us killed on purpose?”
Pedro shrugged sheepishly. “It is my favorite book and I was reading it again before we left the ranch. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment.”
“Christ, Pedro, a million names in the damned country and you come up with that one. Good thing for us you didn’t claim we was visiting Benito Juarez or Hernán Cortés!”
Pedro shrugged. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
Thad just shook his head. “Pedro, you always was the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I ever met. Golden Helmet of Mambrino, my ass.” Then McCallum and Peralta both broke into raucous laughter.
“Well, jefe, any thoughts? Where do we go now?” Pedro asked after several minutes, wiping his brow with a large, red-checked kerchief.
“Hell, Pedro, it’s your homeland. Your guess is as good as mine, and probably a damned sight better. So, what do you think? And for heaven’s sake please don’t just say south.”
Pedro laughed, and then looked around for a moment or two while considering the options. “Southeast or southwest, jefe, your choice.”
McCallum pushed his hat up and scanned the horizon again. “How am I supposed to know where they are?” he asked aloud.
“I don’t know, either, but you got to think like Villa would, I guess.”
“And how’s that exactly?” Thad asked as his horse bobbed its head up and down, trying to flick a fly off its ear.
“Try to think like a revolucionario, jefe. Sooner or later Villa’s going to want to hit a railroad train. If we ride diagonally from here, eventually we should cross some tracks,” he reasoned.
McCallum nodded. “Makes sense. Trains carry all sorts of things that would be valuable to his army. Military trains carry supplies and weapons that he can’t get in small towns, and trains are easier to attack than garrisons. Even civilian trains would be attractive. They’d be full of passengers loaded with money and jewelry that Villa can use to finance his activities.”
“And General Pancho, he likes the publicity,” Pedro added. “Robbing trains is always good for a page or two in the newspapers. It scares the hell out of people and the reporters, you know, they love that sort of thing.”
“They sure do,” Thad agreed. “So, what if we go east and he’s heading west?” he asked more to himself than to Pedro.
“Then we wait until we hear something, or maybe we head in the other direction later,” Peralta said, and smiled. “Either way we’ll meet up with him soon enough, I think.”
“Great,” Thad mumbled, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. “You got a preference, my friend?”
Pedro just shook his head. “No, jefe.”
“Good. Southeast it is then.”
Both men lowered their hats, tightened their cinches, and headed out. It promised to be a long, hot, and dusty ride.
Chapter Twelve
Anyone else might have felt the days were passing with a certain degree of monotony. Jeff was far from feeling anything of the sort. Two things kept him from being bored. First there were the occasional moments of fear and terror, such as when Villa located a town or a government patrol to attack, or when the men got drunk and began shooting at everything and everyone in sight. The second factor was the constant companionship of his translator and instructor, Mercedes. Dangerous as Julio Cardenas was, Jeff still couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
Jeff was a quick learner and had always had an aptitude for language and the arts, so it was no surprise that he was picking up Spanish quickly. Of course, he wasn’t letting anyone else know that. Especially not Mercedes. The moment Villa thought he had learned to palaver well enough in their language, he would end Mercedes’ lessons. And Jeff wanted as much time with her as possible. In fact, as is often the case with young men his age, fascination was quickly turning into love. To a degree, she was all he could think about, except perhaps for considering ways to help him survive or to escape.
Close proximity for long periods often creates a romantic effect on members of both sexes, and Mercedes was no exception. Of course, she was no stranger to romantic advances. No girl of her age with her looks would be. Surprisingly, however, she found Jeff Shaw somehow strangely different. The Americano always treated her with the utmost respect and with none of the usual machismo she was so accustomed to from the soldiers.
Mercedes couldn’t help but realize that Jeff was nowhere nearly as possessive, jealous, or demanding as Julio was. Not by a long shot. For added measure it certainly didn’t hurt that Jeff was a good-looking man in any girl’s book.
While his inexperience and infatuation were clearly obvious to her, the more time she spent working with him, the more endearing those traits became. The only thing that surprised Mercedes was how such a bright and capable young man could be so slow and thick when it came to learning such a simple language. She often had to get close, roll her lips, and repeat even the simplest of words for him over and over.
Whenever General Villa stopped to make camp, Jeff practiced his photographic techniques. It was in a small village that he had developed successfully the photograph he had taken of Villa and his men. Villa had been pleased. Jeff’s confidence grew and he began taking more photos, and then developing them in the wagon in a makeshift darkroom he put together. So far, his best success had been a picture of Mercedes. She had insisted in posing with her holstered pistol, her rifle, and crossed bandoleers of bullets. Her hat was resting on her back, held in place by a thin strap. The wind was picking up as Jeff had focused on her head and shoulders, effectively cropping out the weapons.
The result was a portrait of a beautiful woman with her hair blowing in the wind. As soon as Mercedes saw it, she instantly realized how Jeff truly saw her. Not as a guerrilla soldier, or some campesina, but as a real woman. Even as hardened as she had become, Mercedes couldn’t help but be touched.
The two of them were on the edge of the camp, talking and smiling at one another, when Julio Cardenas walked up behind her. Looking over her shoulder, he took note of the picture and grunted. Reaching over, he grabbed it right out of her hand and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
“Hey!” Jeff yelled angrily. “Give that back.”
Realizing the danger in which he was putting himself, Mercedes put her hand on Jeff’s chest and pushed him back. “No! Leave it be.”
“Like hell, I will,” he replied, sticking out his hand toward Cardenas. “La foto, it’s not yours.”
Cardenas smiled wickedly, and then spit on Jeff’s extended hand. Al Sh
aw had tried to teach his son one important lesson about fighting: Don’t ever go looking for trouble, but when it finally comes and you have to hit someone, try to put them away with the first punch. Hit first and hit hard. You can’t count on getting a second chance.
Jeff remembered those words and proceeded to throw his best haymaker. He hit Cardenas squarely on the jaw with all his might. Julio stumbled back a step or two, but to Jeff’s dismay, he didn’t even come close to going down. If anything, he just looked meaner. Slowly the man pulled out a large, wicked-looking Bowie knife from his belt.
“Julio, no!” Mercedes pleaded.
Cardenas merely shoved her off to the side. Jeff had learned enough Spanish to understand what Cardenas was saying to her. Roughly it translated to, “I’m going to carve this damned gringo into little pieces like I should have done in the first place.”
Shaw might have taught his son to box a little, but knife fighting was something totally different. Often, in a close match, both the winner and the loser end up with wounds to various, and sometimes numerous, parts of their body. In this case Cardenas was not only bigger, stronger, and more experienced, he was also the only one armed.
As much as Jeff wanted to run, he wouldn’t. Certainly, not in front of the girl. As Cardenas started forward, Jeff desperately looked around for something to use for protection or as a weapon. He needed something to keep Cardenas at bay, be it a chair, a shovel, or anything with some weight to it. Quickly he spotted the camera’s tripod. Fortunately, Jeff had already removed the camera, so he rushed over and snatched it up.
Jeff pushed the tripod out in front, fending off the angry soldier’s arm, much like a lion tamer would use a stool or a chair to avoid getting clawed. The idea worked for a moment or two, but the difference is that lions don’t grab and hang onto the chair.
After a couple of failed attempts to slash his opponent, Cardenas got smart. He feigned a thrust with his knife, and when Jeff parried his thrust, the movement pushed the tripod right into Julio’s other hand. One strong pull was all it took to yank it free from Jeff’s grip.
“Ahora te mueras, gringo,” he said, sneering wickedly.
Jeff knew what he meant. “Now you die.”
Just as Cardenas prepared to attack, he heard a loud angry shout. At the sound of that voice Cardenas hesitated and glanced back over his shoulder.
“No, Capitán Cardenas. ¡Dejalo! Es un orden,” General Villa shouted, ordering his man to stop.
Jeff was never so grateful for anything in his life. Cardenas on the other hand was furious.
“Gracias, Mi General,” Jeff replied quickly, trying his best to stay on Villa’s good side.
Cardenas started to explain something, but Villa merely held up his hand. He wasn’t interested in details; he just wanted his photographer to remain in one piece. That much he made very clear to his second in command.
Cardenas was not satisfied, but he knew better than to argue with Villa, so he started to leave. He had only taken a few steps when Jeff suddenly told him to stop.
“He has my photograph,” he explained nervously to the general.
“¿Asi es? Julio, ven aca,” Villa said, indicating with a gesture of his hand that he wanted to see the picture. Once he saw it, he looked over at Mercedes and began to laugh loudly. “Ahora entiendo.” Even though Jeff had understood Villa, the leader turned to him and said in English, “I understand.”
Villa studied the two men for a moment, then he smiled, handing the small portrait back to Jeff. The look that followed in Julio Cardenas’ eyes was something to remember and to fear.
Jeff nodded his head at Villa as he tucked the picture inside his shirt.
Mercedes shook her head and stormed off. She’d had enough of male egos for the day.
Again, General Villa ordered Cardenas to leave Jeff alone, but the lad knew that he would never be safe as long as that soldier was nearby.
Chapter Thirteen
Pancho Villa’s men broke camp two days later, and the army headed out. Jeff had no clue as to what plans the general had made, but there was a distinct excitement in the air among his soldiers. At the same time, Jeff felt a palpable nervousness.
For almost a week the army moved due south. Although they had no way of knowing it, they were almost on a parallel track with the route McCallum and Peralta were taking. Finally, Villa ordered a halt in a stand of trees overlooking a valley. Jeff could see nothing except the valley floor and empty railroad tracks running across it.
Jeff was puzzled until he saw a small patrol ride down into the valley. He watched them as they stopped at the railroad tracks. From his location, he couldn’t see exactly what they were doing at first, but, watching, it didn’t take long for him to realize they were loosening the track.
Jeff addressed the next soldier to ride by his wagon. “A train is coming, right? Um … ¿Viene un tren, verdad?”
The soldier laughed and nodded his head. “Sí. ¡Viva la revolución!”
Jeff nodded back with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. As much as he tried over the next several hours to think of something to do, he knew it would be either futile or downright suicidal for him to try to do anything to warn the train.
General Villa had spelled out the plan to his officers. A rider had previously brought him information regarding a government shipment of guns and ammunition that was being shipped by train. It would be manned with federal troops riding the rooftops of the train cars and they would be equipped with several machine guns.
Because of the machine guns, Villa knew a straight, head-on attack on horseback would surely fail and result in a great loss of life among his army. One thing was certain about Francisco Villa—he was clever. He had spent the last several days waiting while a small group of his men had been scouting ahead, looking for just the right place for a surprise attack on the train. This was the location on the tracks they had felt to be most advantageous to their attack.
At one point during the night Cardenas rode past Jeff Shaw’s wagon and ordered him tied up again. Jeff glared at him as the captain rode off. It had no effect on Villa’s right-hand man, but, given the circumstances, it was the only way he could express his hatred. Jeff knew it was all he could do, short of getting himself killed on the spot.
Julio Cardenas rode into the valley with fifty men and scattered them on both sides of the tracks behind trees, rocks, and in gullies and ravines. He let his men know that if any of them were spotted, the whole unit would suffer, and not just from the guns of the federales.
Their horses were led away by ten of the soldiers. The captain scouted around and was satisfied that when viewed from the direction the train would be coming, the entrance to the valley looked like a peaceful, empty stretch of land.
Villa was betting that after an uneventful night riding the tops of the railcars without a rest, the soldiers would be tired and not paying that much attention to the land around them.
The best thirty marksmen in Villa’s army were positioned higher up the valley wall, approximately five hundred yards from the tracks. Fifteen of them were stationed hidden on either side of the tracks. Those on the valley wall would practically be shooting level with the train-car tops.
From his vantage point Jeff could only sit and watch. He was perched on his wagon seat, arms and legs securely tied. Given the time it was taking to prepare for the attack, Jeff figured the supply train would be passing through the area at an early hour. Even though it would be unlikely that he could be heard at that distance, a bandanna had been tied around his mouth to ensure he would not attempt to warn the train. To Jeff it seemed that Captain Cardenas’ orders had been carried out to an extreme by the soldiers, who seemed more afraid of the captain than of the upcoming battle.
Jeff had no watch, but when he heard the train enter the valley, he guessed it was around five or six in the morning. The train was running fast, making
good time, but the early morning fog in the valley and the dim light of dawn made it almost impossible for the engineer to see that the tracks had been altered.
The engine hit the gap that had been created by loosening the pins and shifting the rails at full speed. The first five cars veered off the tracks, which sent the following cars swerving, tilting, and, in some cases, turning over, which resulted in the end section of the train fishtailing. Federales were thrown from the top of the train upon impact and many inside were slammed into the walls. Almost immediately the revolucionarios began firing from their hiding places.
Villa waited almost a full ten minutes for his marksmen and other shooters to battle against the guns firing back from the train. Then, with a mighty yell, the rest of his men charged on horseback from the opposite end of the valley.
Jeff watched in horror as men hacked at the federales with their machetes and gunned down the government soldiers who attempted to escape. He had assumed that any civilian found on the train would be treated as a noncombatant. After all, General Villa professed to be a liberator, and therefore civilians should be treated accordingly. Jeff was shocked to learn that this was not to be the case.
Atop his wagon, Jeff had a clear view of the attack. As men, women, and children spilled from the train’s compartments, they were gunned down. It was a bloody massacre.
Jeff watched helplessly for almost two hours as bodies were searched and stripped of personal possessions. Wagons were brought in and the train was emptied of boxes of supplies. Finally, when the shooting and the screaming were over, the silence gave way to loud shouts of victory. Over and over the Villaistas in the valley shouted: “¡Viva Villa, Viva Méjeco!” and “¡Viva la Revolución!” They were joyful and triumphant while Jeff Shaw was feeling sick to his stomach at what he had just witnessed, and fearing he would have to document with photographs this massacre later in the morning.
