Across the Río Bravo

by R. W. Stone

  “So, we split the difference and ride south,” McCallum said more to himself than to his friend. “What about the three men who were eyeballing us?” he asked.

  “No one knows. They’re not from around here. Probably just riding through looking for work.” Pedro put tobacco, rice, and a couple of cans of peaches in one of the saddlebags, and then mounted his horse. “Good news is, there is a blacksmith at the far end of town,” he added.

  Before mounting, Thad stretched his back and groaned.

  “You all right, jefe?” Pedro asked, concerned.

  Thad moved a small barrel close to his horse and used it as a step.

  “Nothing losing twenty years wouldn’t fix. Apparently, I’m as all right as I’m gonna be at my age. Damned rheumatism kicks in now and then is all. I’m fine, so stop acting like an old lady and let’s go find the damned farrier.”

  Peralta knew by now not to argue when his boss was in one of his moods, so he just nodded and put a soft spur to his mount.

  At the end of the pueblo the two men found the local blacksmith. He was a short, bearded man with bare arms the size of tree trunks. He wore a leather apron and had a gray towel stuffed into his back pocket that hung halfway down his leg.

  Pedro explained the problem as the farrier got right to work, lifting the black’s hoof. He smiled and shook his head. Thad knew enough Spanish to recognize the compliment the man was paying Pedro for the fix he’d made.

  “Necesito mas o menos una hora,” the man said, explaining it would take an hour to perform the necessary work.

  “Might as well hang out here,” McCallum said, sitting down on a nearby chair that had been made from a large, cut-down rain barrel. He took out his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe.

  Pedro chatted casually with the blacksmith who was named Alfredo. He had learned the trade from his father and had lived his whole life in the same town. Once he determined the blacksmith had no information that could be of any use to them, Pedro left him to his work and sat down next to Thad and rolled a cigarette.

  When Alfredo finished his work, he told the two men he thought there would be little danger in riding the black with the pad and the new shoes he’d fashioned. They had a slight lift and he had shaped the hoof to keep the sole off the ground and protected.

  Both Thad and Pedro agreed the man had done a great job. The horseshoe nails were well seated and everything was trimmed smooth. Thad gladly paid the man’s asking price and tossed in a good tip.

  Then they mounted and were ready to ride. Out of habit both men looked back as they left town, making sure they weren’t being followed.

  Five hours later the two men were riding through a small but deep gully. As they rounded the bend of the relatively narrow passage, they found themselves facing a group of six mounted Mexicans. Three of the men were the ones McCallum had spotted back in town.

  Neither Thad nor Peralta took their eyes off the group as they reined in their mounts.

  “Revolutionaries? They with Villa?” Thad whispered.

  Peralta looked them over and shook his head. “Bandidos,” he whispered, undoing his holster’s restraint thong from off his pistol.

  “Buenos días, caballeros,” one of the men said, greeting them.

  “Buenos días,” Pedro replied. “We’d like to pass through, if you don’t mind,” he said in Spanish. Thad subtly patted his holster to make sure his gun was free.

  The three men they had seen in town shook their heads, smirking.

  “Not without paying for passage,” the man closest to McCallum declared to Pedro. He presented himself as the group’s leader.

  “He says we have to pay to go through, jefe,” Peralta translated out of the corner of his mouth.

  Thad nodded his head. “Uhn-huh. I know. Ask him what his price is. How much?”

  Pedro hadn’t taken his eyes off the group. “¿Cuanto?” he asked.

  The leader, not one of the three from town, looked back and forth between the two men facing him.

  “Why are you riding with a gringo?” he asked Pedro.

  Pedro looked annoyed and, ignoring him, merely repeated his question. “¿Cuanto?”

  The bandit smiled and rubbed his chin. He was a short, stocky man with a short unkempt beard. He was wearing a dirty leather vest and had an old Colt in his holster which he wore cross-draw style.

  “I’ll tell you what, muchacho, you both can pass for the low price of your mules and horses. Then you can walk right on through.” Several of the men snickered when they heard the price.

  “Jefe …” Pedro started to say.

  “I got it already,” McCallum replied angrily. “Tell him I need a moment to make a counteroffer,” Thad said, moving his horse forward a step or two. He then stopped and, while Pedro translated, Thad slowly removed his riding gloves and tucked them into the left side of his belt. He then carefully pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch.

  “There are six of them, jefe,” Pedro reminded him in almost a whisper.

  “Uhn-huh,” McCallum grunted. “Tell him he can have just one mule.”

  While Pedro began negotiations with the man, Thad began tamping down the tobacco in the pipe bowl. His gestures were slow and deliberate.

  The Mexican leader began shouting, and the men shifted in their saddles.

  “No good, jefe,” Pedro said. “He says all or nothing, and that includes our weapons.”

  McCallum nudged his horse forward another step and stopped, facing the band’s leader. “Pedro, tell him I need just a moment to think about his offer.” Then the old trooper put his pipe in his mouth and bit down. He returned the tobacco pouch to his coat pocket, and then, with his right hand, reached slowly into his vest pocket. He pulled a match out with methodical care. Thad stuck the match on his belt buckle and raised it to his pipe.

  The outlaws appeared a little confused by his actions. They had expected the two men either to react angrily or surrender quickly. McCallum’s request for a short delay to think had them both puzzled and a little curious.

  Peralta had been in a similar situation with Thad once or twice before and quickly realized what his friend was up to. He shifted in his saddle to keep a better eye on the bandits.

  Thad McCallum stared at the Mexican leader as he lowered the match to the pipe bowl. There was no wind blowing and the little gully was as quiet as a cemetery. Peralta hoped it wouldn’t be his final resting place.

  Thad held the match to the pipe bowl, puffing on the pipe for what seemed to be an eternity. He then lifted the burning match, his eyes never leaving the Mexican leader, and continued to puff, creating a halo of smoke around his head. It appeared as though he was so intent on making sure the bowl was lit properly that he had forgotten all about the match.

  The outlaws were mesmerized by his actions as the flame worked its way down to the end of the match and burned his fingers.

  The tension was broken when McCallum let out a loud yell: “Ouch! God dammit all to hell.”

  Several of the bandits started laughing as McCallum shook his hand up and down to cool his burned fingertips. His arm went up and down in an exaggerated and painful manner as he continued cursing. Down … up … down … and finally up.

  When Thad’s hand was on the upswing, it held his Colt pistol. McCallum began firing before anyone realized what was happening. Anyone except Pedro, that is.

  At the same time McCallum had pulled his gun, Pedro had drawn his. In unison, both began fanning their revolvers. Pedro went for the men on his right, while Thad was working his way over from the left.

  The two friends were outgunned six to two, but they both carried six shot revolvers whereas two of the Mexicans were armed with single-shot rifles that they had been carrying muzzle down and partially across their saddles.

  In any given situation action is usually quicker than reaction, something
McCallum had learned long ago. The only way to counter this effect is to be the one to start the action in the first place. The outlaw group’s leader had been taken by surprise and was the first one down, taking a .45-caliber slug from McCallum’s Colt Peacemaker right in his throat.

  Peralta’s shots knocked down two men, and then as one of the bandits raised his rifle at him, Pedro threw himself from his saddle to get out of the line of fire. Rolling on the ground, he felt a shot stir up the dirt right next to him. Still rolling, Peralta returned fire on instinct. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his target drop his rifle and fall sideways from his horse.

  Another outlaw was blown backward out of his saddle by McCallum’s shooting, and once Pedro stood back up, he turned to face the remaining outlaw. The man fired at Pedro but, without enough time to aim, his shot missed. The final two shots from McCallum and Peralta put the man down to stay.

  “You OK, Pedro?” Thad asked.

  “Sí, jefe. But it was close.”

  “No choice to it. Out here without our livestock and packs we’d have been as good as dead anyway.”

  Pedro nodded in agreement. “Too bad, but better them than us.”

  “That’s for sure, Pedro, that’s for damned sure.” McCallum removed his hat and wiped his brow with his kerchief. His pipe had not left his mouth during the fight.

  “Should we break out the shovels and bury these men, jefe?” Pedro asked.

  McCallum shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I suppose it is the God-fearing thing to do,” he replied. “But we dig only one hole for these buzzards. They can all go to hell together. No way we’re digging six separate graves. I’m getting too old for this horseshit.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  By now Jeff had become quite proficient at taking and developing pictures and, except for the occasional encounter with Captain Julio Cardenas, he had begun almost to enjoy his adventure, especially his time with Mercedes. They had been riding for several days now, and Jeff was wondering if Villa had a destination in mind.

  Riding with a rebel army that is supposedly fighting to liberate a country was a heady thing and Jeff still found himself occasionally caught up in the rhetoric. Easy, that is, until they arrived at their next temporary base one day in late April—a large hacienda that the Villaistas would be occupying for a while according to one of the men.

  The hacienda was big by anyone’s standards. It was owned by an American who had taken up residence some years prior after he had married a local girl. He later had become a citizen of Mexico.

  The owner, Marc Richardson, was a mild-mannered liberal sort of fellow who had always provided aid and comfort to any of the rebels in the area who happened by his hacienda.

  When Pancho Villa showed up with his army, the rancher was completely taken aback. Providing a meal and a straw bed in the livery stable for a small number of men was one thing, but supplying food and water for as many as a hundred men as well as their horses would put a marked strain on his ranch, especially during a drought year.

  After being told to get ready to take some photographs, Jeff Shaw began going through his equipment in the yard in front of the main house. The setting provided a panoramic view of the surrounding area, which pleased Jeff.

  Usually, Marc Richardson was somewhat timid, but first and foremost he was a businessman. He couldn’t help but protest such a large intrusion onto his ranch. Both he and his wife, a middle-aged but still very attractive woman, approached the rebel general on foot.

  Watching his men as they dismounted, Villa remained in the saddle on his favorite bay horse. Behind him stood Mercedes and several of his more trusted officers, including Julio Cardenas. The rest of Villa’s army was fanned out around the yard, many still mounted.

  While he was fluent in Spanish, in times of stress Marc Richardson reverted to his native English. “You are welcome to our ranch, General, to water your horses, rest a bit, but then you must be on your way. We simply are not equipped to handle this many … men. We are sorry.”

  As soon as the man had begun speaking in English, Mercedes started translating for Villa.

  “I’m sure you understand, General,” Richardson concluded, shrugging. His wife remained at his side, nodding, as he explained the situation, but glancing nervously at the band of soldiers closing in on them. She began to tremble.

  “Understand?” Villa suddenly roared in Spanish. “I understand very well. You do not support the revolution. You are just like all the other hacendados.”

  That last word in Spanish meant land baron, and had become a smear that was practically synonymous with the very reason for the revolution. The negative aspect to the word hacendado implied, however falsely, that any large ranch owner must be guilty of corruption, and must have gained his wealth off the backs of hardworking innocent peones. The fact that such ranches produced herds of cattle or large crops and gave jobs to many who would otherwise starve was irrelevant. To the uneducated masses, they were robber barons.

  Jeff, who had remained in the buckboard, was struck by the general’s sudden eruption of temper and total change of personality. Shaw was suddenly very scared for the first time in many days.

  “¡Gringo pendejo!” Villa cursed. “You come to our country, steal our land, take our women, and rob our people.”

  Richardson threw his hands up in protest. “Mi general, you know that is not true.” He began backing up with his hands raised as Villa deliberately drew his pistol. Then he fired four shots into the unarmed rancher’s chest.

  Richardson slumped to the ground as his terrified wife screamed.

  “You killed him, you coward! You are a murdering pig!” she yelled back at Villa.

  The general looked down at her and turned to some of his men who were standing nearby. “Take this whore away and teach her what we think of those of our women who prostitute themselves to foreigners.”

  Several of the rebels looked at the woman and grinned cravenly. They looked to Villa for a final confirmation.

  Villa nodded. “You understood me perfectly. Now get her out of my sight. Do what you want with her. ¡Andale, muchachos!”

  Seven of the men rushed the terrified woman and dragged her into the main house as she kicked and pleaded.

  Her screams could be heard from the second floor for the better part of an hour.

  Jeff watched as the men came out of the house, laughing. He wished he had never seen or heard of Mr. and Mrs. Richardson.

  Mercedes didn’t know what to say or do. She was stunned. She had seen her general angry and on occasion behave fiercely in battle, but she had never known this side of him. It was right then and there that Mercedes made up her mind that she no longer wished to be associated with such a cold-blooded villain. However, she knew that she could not simply resign and leave. She feared that to even have such thoughts could lead to a fate similar to that of Señora Richardson.

  Later that afternoon General Villa ordered his men to line up in the front yard near a rustic well so that Jeff could document the heroic battle to liberate this hacienda in the name of Villa’s homeland.

  Reluctantly, Jeff did as requested, but when the time came for him to sight his camera on Pancho Villa and his group, he wished to God that instead of pushing the flash button on the camera he was pulling the trigger of a rifle.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Since their encounter with the gang of bandidos in the cañon, Thad McCallum and Pedro Peralta had been riding due south for over three weeks. They had seen little except miles and miles of more miles and miles. It was hot and dusty and both men were in a rough mood.

  That evening the two men made camp in a small grove of trees. They loosely hobbled the horses and mules in a particularly lush area so the stock could graze as much as they wanted without wandering off.

  Later, after a dinner of beans, boiled rice, tortillas, and some canned peaches, the two sat
and enjoyed a cup of trail-brewed coffee.

  “Guess the older I get the more impatient I become,” McCallum commented out loud as he lit his pipe. It was directed as much to himself as to his friend.

  “How so, jefe?” Pedro inquired.

  “Well, for one thing, back when I was working for the Pinkertons, I could go on the trail of someone for months and not give a second thought about what day it was or how soon I had to get back.”

  “True, jefe, but you weren’t tied down back then. Now you have a ranch and your crew to worry about.”

  McCallum thought it over and nodded. “Maybe you’re right, but, even so, it’s been weeks and there’s still no sight of Villa’s army or the boy. Surely by now we’d have seen or heard something. Anything.”

  Pedro shook his head. “No, jefe, not necessarily. It is a big country and Villa, he is constantly on the move. Remember, the Mexican government is looking for him, too. He knows if he stands still, the federales, they will find him. Plus, the gringo army is also in this now. Pancho Villa may be many things, but he is no fool. If he knows the American military has moved into Mexico, he knows they are after him and that they won’t stop until they get him.”

  Thad agreed. “Yeah, you can say that again. Black Jack Pershing ain’t got no back-up in him whatsoever.”

  “Neither do you, jefe, neither do you. So, stop worrying. We will find this boy, one way or another.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the one way or another that I’m worried about, Pedro,” McCallum replied.

  “Surely when you were a detective you must have felt like this many times, I’m thinking.” After all these years, Pedro knew most of his friend’s stories by heart, but he was trying to draw McCallum into a conversation that would take his mind off their worries. “Didn’t you ever have a case that took longer to finish then you expected? A man you couldn’t catch?” Pedro asked before taking a sip his coffee.