Across the Río Bravo

by R. W. Stone

  “Sounds good to me, jefe. Hasta luego,” Pedro replied.

  McCallum examined the room for a moment. He always read any new room he entered. It was an old habit, usually unnecessary, but on occasion it had saved him from the occasional surprise, especially back in the Pinkerton days.

  It was a typical hotel room. Along the left side of the room was a single four-poster bed with a white and red quilt on it. Above the bed on the wall was a rather crudely painted mural depicting a waterfall with what Thad assumed was a deer in the background. Either that or it was a funny-looking dog with antlers.

  To the right of the bed was a cabinet with a ceramic basin and a large mirror above it that rotated front to back. There was also a small, rose-patterned towel hanging on a small rod off to the side of the cabinet.

  On the other side of the room was a decent-sized wardrobe. McCallum stood to one side as he opened the door. One time, back in St. Louis, there had been a surprise guest hiding inside a similar wardrobe, intent on separating McCallum from any cash he might have on hand.

  The result had been a poor one for the would-be thief who was promptly taught how to do an acrobatic circus-like act right out the hotel window. Sadly, in that incident, there had been no safety net on the ground beneath Thad’s fourth-floor room.

  Fortunately, this time the room and its closet, while showing age, held no surprises. McCallum hung his hat and holster on a rack near the door, removed his boots, and flopped on the bed. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A map was spread out on the long wooden table that had been set up in a tent. Bent over the map was General John J. Pershing. Standing next to him in the tent were his aide-de-camp and two civilian guides.

  “Are you sure about this information?” Pershing asked.

  “As sure as you can be in this country,” the taller of the two guides answered. His name was E. L. Holmdahl. “To date, the contacts we share have been accurate, but one never knows. Honestly, General, some of those we work with may be closet Villaistas. Remember, Villa has been on the run from his own government for years without getting caught. He’s like a damned Robin Hood,” Holmdahl explained.

  “Well, I’m sure as hell not the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Pershing replied angrily. “I would have burned the whole of Sherwood Forest right down to the ground.” The general pointed to a spot on his map. “This ranch here … has anyone checked it out yet?” he asked.

  The other men in the tent glanced over the general’s shoulder. They all shook their heads. “No, sir, not yet.

  “Well, maybe Villa is there right now, or perhaps he’s visited it recently. Maybe his army is headed that way,” Pershing opined. “Regardless, we need to send a patrol to check out this ranch. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Will do,” Pershing’s aide replied smartly.

  The general thought for a moment before he said, “Let Georgie Patton lead it. We need a young lion for this one and he’s been itching to get into combat.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “And have him take these two guides along with him. If you have no objections?”

  The two men shook their heads, indicating they were willing to help.

  “Tell him to take those Dodge cars. Might do him good to get off a horse for once.”

  The aide laughed while the two civilians nodded. It was well known among the headquarters staff that Patton came from a very wealthy family and had practically grown up riding polo ponies and dressage horses. George Patton was a cavalryman to the core and a personal favorite of Pershing’s because of his enthusiasm and raw determination.

  After writing out the general’s instructions, the aide placed them in an envelope and sealed them. He then turned and saluted, lifted the tent flap, and disappeared into the army’s camp.

  At the time Second Lieutenant George S. Patton was to receive his new orders he was in Troop C of the Thirteenth Cavalry. When Pershing’s aide found him, Patton was standing outside his tent, practicing with a model 1913 cavalry saber. This model of sword would later become known as the Patton sword, because of his input in designing it while he was assigned to Fort Meyers.

  Patton had been an Olympic-level fencer, having finished fourth in the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden. He also finished sixth in the equestrian events, and would have won the pistol competition had it not been for a controversy regarding his shot placement. While most competitors in the games used .22-caliber pistols, Patton chose to compete with a .38 revolver. He claimed that due to the size of the holes it produced, some of his bullets went through the same hole.

  Although such a level of accuracy is possible, and although a total miss was highly unlikely with Patton’s level of proficiency, there was no way to prove it. The judges at the time ruled that his shots had missed the target and subsequently he lost the event. The soldier took the loss as a sportsman and as a gentleman, and was well respected for his conduct by his competitors.

  “Lieutenant Patton, I have orders for you,” Pershing’s aide announced, handing him an envelope. “Right from the general.”

  “Finally,” Patton replied, tossing the sword onto the cot inside his tent. “Hopefully it’s some action. It’s already May and all I’ve been allowed to shoot at was a damned rattlesnake and a couple of mangy coyotes.”

  The aide smiled back at him. “Open it and see for yourself, Georgie.”

  Patton took a moment or two to review the orders and nodded. “Great. But just where the hell is this San Miguelito Ranch?” he asked.

  “Supposed to be somewhere near Rubio, Chihuahua,” the aide replied. “Guess you’ll have to find a map. Also, General Pershing has a couple of civilian guides he wants to go along with you. Mister Holmdahl and a friend of his. I believe they know where this place is.”

  “We sure Villa’s men are there?” Patton asked.

  The aide shook his head. “Nope. Haven’t got a clue. This one’s by guess and by golly. We just don’t know for sure, but I can tell you that the reports I’ve seen indicate it’s likely there will be some sort of action. Truthfully, I just don’t know what kind, if any, or how much, or how bad it will be.”

  The young lieutenant reread the orders, folded the papers, and put them in his breast pocket, smiling. “I’ll need a couple of hours to pick the men and horses. We’ll probably need some pack mules, too. You riding with us?”

  The officer shook his head. “Sadly, not this time. It’s all your show. Oh, and, Georgie, you won’t be riding any horses this time.”

  Patton looked both surprised and disappointed. Any visions of a glorious cavalry charge had suddenly faded away. “Then how the hell are we supposed to get there? Swim?” he asked.

  “Well, you’ll be riding all right, but the general wants you to take your men out in those three new Dodge touring cars. Wants to see how well they hold up on patrol,” the aide explained.

  Patton groaned. “Cars? What is this … the cavalry or the New York taxi cab service?”

  Pershing’s aide shrugged. “Got to think modern, Lieutenant Patton. You get to be the first one to replace saddle sores with tire marks. Now take ten men and those two guides and find us some Mexican rebels.”

  “If they are out there, I’ll find the bastards. You can count on it. If the goddamned cars don’t get a flat or run out of gas, that is!” Patton replied angrily.

  The officer laughed. Patton was already creating quite a reputation for his rather colorful language. “I always did appreciate your confidence, Lieutenant. Just don’t forget to take some extra gas and a spare tire or two. I think those cars have a rather big trunk, don’t they?” He flipped Patton a friendly and casual salute.

  Patton returned the salute in like manner, and joked, “Maybe I’ll get a chance to notch this pistol of mine, after all.”

  For a time, Patton had carried a model M1911 Colt semiautomatic pistol
until it accidentally discharged through his belt. Since then he had replaced it with a Colt .45 single-action revolver.

  Unlike his fellow officers, George Patton came from a very affluent family. He had bought a custom upgraded silver-plated version and had its wooden grips replaced with ivory ones.

  Patton had originally asked the man who sold him the pistol about having pearl handles put on it. But the salesman insisted that, although they were slightly more expensive, ivory grips were preferable.

  “Ivory provides the shooter’s hand a better gripping surface with less slippage,” the salesman had said. “Besides,” he added, “only a pimp from a cheap Louisiana whorehouse wears pearl handles.”

  Patton loved that line so much that he made it his trademark response whenever anyone asked him about his fancy pistol.

  The aide turned to leave. “Good luck, Georgie. And remember to bring me back one of those big round sombreros.”

  Lieutenant George Patton was never one to avoid self-promotion whenever possible. “Hell, I’ll bring you back the fellow wearing it and dump the body at the general’s tent flap. You can pick it off him yourself,” he bragged.

  The aide just shook his head in amusement before returning to his duties.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thad McCallum was ready to meet Pedro for dinner. He briefly considered leaving his Winchester rifle in the corner of his hotel room but decided against it. There were two reasons. First, he didn’t completely trust hotel rooms and didn’t want his favorite rifle stolen. More importantly, he reasoned that a firearm is only good when you have it available to use.

  Although the hotel was pleasant enough, he was in a foreign country with people unknown to him all around. He picked up his rifle and, tucking it under his arm, locked the door and went down the stairs to the main lobby.

  Pedro was waiting for him in the hotel bar. No matter the situation, it always seemed Thad’s friend was ready before he was. Pedro motioned for McCallum to join him. “Have a beer, jefe?”

  McCallum nodded and Pedro said something to the barman who leaned under the bar and brought out a bottle of beer. Thad held it up to the light. “What, no worm in it?”

  Peralta shook his head. “They only put the worm in mescal. You know that, jefe.”

  “Worm’s too good to waste on just plain beer, I guess,” Thad joked.

  “Salud,” Pedro said, raising his bottle in the typical Mexican toast.

  “To your good health, my friend,” Thad replied, clinking his bottle against Pedro’s. “Now let’s get something to eat, and then go find this lad before I die of old age.”

  “Well, then, we better hurry, I think,” Peralta said.

  “Oh, screw you and the horse you rode in on. You’re almost as old as I am,” Thad remarked.

  “My point exactly,” Pedro said.

  Thad finished his beer and the two men went to the dining area and chose a table against the far wall.

  Pedro ordered tortilla soup and a plate of cheese enchiladas with refried beans. McCallum decided to stick with steak and potatoes. While the food was being served, Thad noticed one of the waiters leaning on a table at the far end of the room. The man had a dark complexion like most do south of the border, but his features were different. When he walked past their table later, McCallum caught the man’s arm. The waiter didn’t seem startled and simply turned to face him. The man’s face was expressionless, but his body was clearly tensed.

  “Chiricahua or Mescalero?” McCallum asked quietly.

  The waiter looked at him in as if sizing up an opponent. After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Both.”

  “How so?” McCallum asked in the Apache language.

  The man relaxed. He was obviously surprised. “You speak our language?” It was more a question than a statement of the obvious.

  McCallum nodded back at the man. “How so?” McCallum asked again.

  “Father was Chiricahua, and mother was of the Mescalero band,” he explained.

  “My name is Thaddeus McCallum and this is Pedro Peralta, my blood brother.”

  “My name is Skinyea,” the Apache replied. McCallum had noticed over the years that some Indians were reluctant to refer to themselves directly, but not this one.

  “Means cañon, doesn’t it?” McCallum asked.

  The man nodded. “How you speak Apache?”

  “You speak English,” Thad observed, and then continued in English himself. “When I was younger my army troop was assigned to your tribe’s area. I also became friends with a white man named Thomas Jeffords. You know this name? Tom Jeffords?”

  The Indian nodded. Jeffords was well known throughout the Southwest by whites and Indian tribes alike. In the late 1860s Jeffords was the superintendent of an independent mail line that was about to be incorporated into the Pony Express.

  After several of his mail riders were killed by Apaches, Jeffords decided that something had to be done to end the bloodshed. He proceeded to learn enough of the Apache language to get by, and then saddled up and rode alone into Cochise’s camp.

  It is said that when Jeffords finally came face-to-face with the head of those fearsome Chiricahuas, he unbuckled his gun belt and holster and handed them to Cochise. As the story goes, he requested that the Chiricahua leader have one of the women hold them for him while Jeffords was in their camp and that he could retrieve them when he was ready to leave. The implication of course was that he expected to be allowed to leave.

  They say that Cochise was so impressed with the man’s courage that he granted Jeffords safe passage though Apache lands. Their friendship later lead to the famous meeting of Cochise with General Oliver Howard in 1871 and the subsequent peace treaty of 1872.

  To his dying day, General Howard always credited Jeffords with being the one who was primarily responsible for bringing peace to the region. Jeffords was later appointed Indian agent for the Chiricahua Mountain area.

  A truly remarkable man, Tom Jeffords was later a stagecoach driver, a deputy sheriff for Tombstone, Arizona, and a gold prospector. He lived out his last twenty-two years in the Tortolita Mountains north of Tucson, Arizona, dying in 1914.

  The waiter nodded back at McCallum. “I was friend of Cochise.”

  “And I was friend of Jeffords,” Thad said, before continuing. “My friend Pedro and I are seeking a friend who was taken by a band of outlaw Mexicans. It is said they are many and powerful. The outlaws are led by a man called Villa. Pancho Villa.” McCallum spoke quietly since he had no way of knowing the sentiments of the hotel patrons. “You know this man?” he asked.

  The Apache’s eyes were expressionless as usual. After a moment or two he grunted. “Villa, sí. This man is well known by many men.”

  “The reason we are trying to find this young man who was kidnapped is that his mother is sick and would like us to find him. We do not know where he is or who we can trust. Could you help us?”

  Pedro added, “We will gladly pay you for your troubles.”

  The Apache looked around the room before speaking. The room was not crowded and no one seemed interested in them. “I will ask what you seek among my people. Meet me behind the hotel in the place where it is dark between the buildings. I will be there when the sun goes down.”

  The Apache Skinyea then picked up the empty plates from the table and headed toward the hotel kitchen.

  After they finished their after-dinner coffee, the two men rose to leave the room when Pedro was bumped by a large man. As far as McCallum could see, there had been plenty of room to get by. He concluded the shove must have been intentional.

  Even under duress Pedro Peralta was a relatively calm individual and never purposely sought out confrontation, so it was only natural that, whether it was his fault or not, he would be the one to apologize.

  “Perdón, señor,” Pedro said.

  The m
an looked down at Pedro with disgust. “You dress like a vaquero, but you eat with gringos and kiss ass with Apaches. Go screw yourself, cabrón.”

  In this situation, Thad tensed at the word gringo. It is an oft used Mexican slur that is believed to date back to the Mexican-American War when the invading American soldiers all wore green uniforms. The sound of “green goes” eventually became part of the Mexican lingo. Thus, gringos.

  While it may have been a common word, it is often not what is said that is significant, but rather how it is said. Besides, Thad knew that the Spanish word cabrón was a much worse slur. He also knew that south of the border even a person as mellow as Pedro would never tolerate a stranger calling him a bastard.

  Instinctively, McCallum undid the thong from his pistol’s hammer and looked around, trying to determine if the large man was alone. He was twice Peralta’s size, but McCallum wasn’t overly concerned. He knew his friend’s abilities. Pedro knew two things extremely well: taming horses and doing the same with people.

  “Stranger,” Peralta said in Spanish, “were you speaking to me? I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite understand what you were saying. You see, I do not know how to speak stupidly like you do.”

  Deep down Thad groaned. There would be no avoiding a confrontation now.

  The big Mexican filled with rage and was about to attack when he felt a pistol barrel up against his back.

  “Not here, muchacho, outside,” Thad said quietly.

  “When I’m done with this cockroach, you’ll be next,” the man growled at Pedro.

  “I doubt it very much, but we’ll see,” Pedro replied. “Now, outside. We wouldn’t want to make a scene in such a nice dining room.”

  The large man walked slowly through the door. McCallum kept the pressure on the man’s back with his pistol until they were well out into the street.

  “Very brave of you, gringo, especially when I have no gun,” the man growled.