by R. W. Stone
“Pedro?” Thad said. His friend was removing his gun belt.
“Don’t worry about the Americano,” Pedro said to the big man. “All you have to worry about is this little cockroach.” He then handed his gun rig to Thad.
A crowd was beginning to form, made up of a few people from inside the hotel and some passersby from the street. McCallum watched for any sign of a weapon being drawn among those in the group, but seemed satisfied that, at least for now, this would be a contest of strength or, in his friend’s case, ability.
“Any particular rules?” Pedro asked.
“Chinga tu madre,” the man replied, uttering one of Mexico’s worst curses.
“Not likely,” Pedro replied quietly. “All right, then. No rules it is.”
The man rushed Peralta and grabbed him in a front bear hug.
Given his size, Thad considered intervening for a moment. Pedro saw him out of the corner of his eye, and shook his head, so McCallum reluctantly holstered his Colt.
The man had wrapped his big arms inside Pedro’s arms and around his chest. He was completely capable of crushing Pedro’s ribs, but in his rush, he had left Peralta’s arms free.
There is a soft notch under the front of a person’s throat that leads downward into the thorax. Regardless of a man’s muscular strength there is almost no way to toughen this spot against a blow, a fact about which Pedro was aware.
Even though the wind was being crushed out of him, it took almost no effort for Pedro to shove the tips of his fingers in and down into that throat notch.
The other man choked, released his grip, and stumbled backward. Pedro arched his back slightly to relieve the pain before squaring off to face his opponent.
The man spit and again rushed the small vaquero. This time Pedro waited till the last moment, then simply sidestepped while kicking straight forward with the inside of his boot. It was the same type of kick children in Mexico use to play their form of fútbol that Americans call soccer.
Peralta’s boot connected with the big man’s shin so hard he went face down into the dirt. The sound of the kick connecting was so loud that for a second McCallum wondered if the man’s shin had been broken.
To his credit the big Mexican was no quitter and tried quickly to get up. Even though he gained his feet, he hobbled as he moved toward Pedro.
“¿Suficiente, amigo?” Pedro asked, giving his opponent an out.
Instead of replying, the man suddenly lunged, grabbing Pedro by the front of his vest in an attempt to head-butt him.
However, Peralta knew what was coming and, after clamping his arms over the other man’s grip, turned his upper torso sideways to avoid the blow. The twisting motion threw the big man off balance to his left, and as he tried to regain his stance, Pedro loosened his arms and quickly grabbed the man’s thumbs, prying them off his vest.
Actually, he did more than pry. He bent the thumbs of his adversary backward until they both snapped. As the man bent forward in agony, Pedro raised his knee up and struck the man squarely in the face. The big Mexican passed out in the street.
Peralta walked back to his friend and retrieved his holster. He had hardly even worked up a sweat.
In all their time together, McCallum had never found out exactly where his friend had learned to fight so adeptly. McCallum had been taught by many good army self-defense instructors, but the training was mostly straight boxing and wrestling. He had seen several demonstrations of Indian wrestling tactics and once saw a display given by a visiting Japanese officer of something called jujitsu. Pedro’s fighting abilities in combat were similar to those styles, but as often as Thad had tried to find out more about his friend’s past instruction, all he could get out of him was that he had learned how to fight from his grandfather. McCallum always thought that Pedro’s grandfather must have been one hell of a man.
Pedro turned to the crowd and told them to go home. Then, pointing to his friend, he said loud enough for all to hear, “Este Americano es mi amigo y es un buen hombre.” The implication was clear—mess with him and you mess with me. The crowd immediately dispersed.
* * * * *
Once it was dark, McCallum and Peralta went to meet the Apache. Thad did not like dark alleys, nor did Pedro. Before heading to the back of the hotel, both men checked the cylinders of their revolvers. It was done as a reflex rather than a deliberation. McCallum looked over at his companion.
“Ready?”
Pedro nodded. “Sí, jefe. Vamos.”
The two men entered the dark passageway behind the hotel. It was long and unobstructed. Suddenly the Apache materialized as if he had just passed right through the wall. The two were startled and both took a step back. The Apache said nothing.
Thad was the first to speak. “You have the information we seek?”
The Indian nodded. “Some of my people and a few Yaquis I know have seen the large group of Mexicans you seek. They travel to the south of us.”
“Can you show us exactly where they are?” Pedro asked. “As I said, we will pay you for your troubles.”
The Apache considered the offer for a moment, then nodded.
“I will ride with you until the Mexicans you seek are found. No more.”
McCallum smiled. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning. Let’s say we meet over at the livery stable.”
“It will be so,” the Apache replied. McCallum glanced over at Pedro who nodded his approval. When they turned back, the Indian was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Standing in front of a line of three Dodge touring cars, Second Lieutenant George S. Patton addressed his first sergeant. “Ten men, correct?”
“Yes, sir, just as you requested,” the sergeant replied.
“You bring Murphy along?” Patton asked.
The sergeant smiled. “Once I explained how he had no choice in the matter, he was glad to volunteer.”
Patton chuckled. “Is he sober?”
“So far he is.”
“Beats me where he finds the stuff.”
“Well, sir, he may actually be making what he can’t buy.”
The lieutenant nodded. “There’s one reason I want him along,” he said, pointing at the cars. “If it is mechanical or electrical, Corporal Murphy can fix it, and these cars are both. I don’t want to be caught out there in the middle of Chihuahua with a flat tire or a broken engine. Not with Villa’s army running around.”
“Maybe we should take more men?” the sergeant suggested.
“Might do so if we knew what we were up against. But we don’t. That’s why the general requested just a small patrol to check out this ranch for signs of enemy activity. It’ll probably end up being nothing, but if we encounter anything significant, we can always skedaddle on these fine mounts.”
“If they’re still running, that is,” the sergeant joked. “Sir, what’s the name of this place again?”
Lieutenant Patton pulled a map from his back pocket and spread it out on the hood of the first car. “Here it is, right here. A little way outside of Rubio. It’s called the San Miguelito Ranch. Don’t know much else about it. The locals claim to have knowledge of rebel activity in the vicinity.”
“So, we’re either the eyes or the bait?”
“You got that right, Sarge. By the way, how much ammo we got with us?”
“Every man has a sidearm and a rifle with thirty rounds apiece.”
“Not a lot, but it should suffice,” Patton commented.
“Well, sir, it’s a funny thing about that. From what Corporal Murphy tells me, it seems that one of the cars has a spare case of .30-40 Krag rounds in the trunk and a crate of dynamite sticks.”
“Is that so?” Patton asked.
“Yes, sir. Apparently, someone at the motor pool must have confused the boxes with the ones their tools come in. Does the lieutenant want me to se
nd them back?”
Patton chuckled. He knew how the army and its noncoms worked. Things tended to appear and disappear from time to time, depending on the whim of the men in charge. And contrary to popular belief that wasn’t the top brass, it was the noncommissioned officers.
“No, it’s probably just an honest mistake,” Patton said. “Don’t see as there’s any sense in making the motor pool officer look bad. Especially not because of a simple oversight.”
The sergeant smiled again. “I knew the lieutenant would feel that way. The stuff is in your lead car. The others are carrying extra water canteens and rations.”
“Get everyone mounted up, Sergeant,” Patton ordered. “I’ll ride up front with Murphy and one of the guides. You take the next car and have the other civilian ride with you. The rest of the men will divide up evenly in all three vehicles.” Glancing down at the Dodge car, he kicked a tire and muttered, “I still wish we were mounted on Thoroughbreds.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It had been quite a while since Jeff had been kept under guard during the day. After all this time, General Villa was certain there was no way the gringo could escape by himself and he knew none of his men would ever risk betraying him. Besides, the gringo posed no threat to himself or his army. It stood to reason, therefore, that there was no sense in wasting resources guarding him closely.
Jeff Shaw, however, spent every waking moment planning an escape for himself and Mercedes. He knew he would have no weapon unless Mercedes managed to obtain an extra pistol or rifle for him. Even if she did, their only chance of successfully escaping lay in quickly putting as much distance between themselves and the hacienda as possible. The trick would be to get a head start.
Jeff had determined the best way to do that was to create a diversion. If it were big enough, it might buy them the time necessary to make good their escape. But what kind of diversion could he make?
Then, while stowing his camera equipment after another one of the general’s requests for a photograph, Jeff accidentally spilled one of the developing chemicals. That little mistake was relatively inconsequential except for the fact that it reminded him of the time he had made a similar error at the shop and started a fire. Although it had been a small one, the fire had been difficult to extinguish because water didn’t help. In fact, water seemed to make it worse. He remembered that his uncle had scattered some sort of powder over it, which had snuffed it out.
Jeff searched through the photography supplies, hoping he had the chemical in the wagon. If he could start a fire, he could use that as a diversion. Maybe he could even create a small explosion. But he would have to time the reaction so he could be away from the wagon when it went off. And then he would need time to meet up with Mercedes before all hell broke loose.
Creating the diversion became all he could think about. Once he had devised the outline of a plan, he was ready to discuss it with Mercedes. She suggested using the powder to create a trail of burn fuse once he had explained the chemical’s flammable properties. The question was how to keep the powder from being noticed or scattered or extinguished by men, animals, or the natural elements once it was in place. Using a fuse of some sort seemed a good idea, but Jeff knew that he needed to come up with something else. After Mercedes departed, he worked on figuring out some other method.
He laughed to himself when he realized the solution had come to him in a flash. As he was checking the camera, his eyes settled on the cable to the mechanism that triggered the camera. If he could rig the trigger to some sort of battery or something that would create a spark, it might just do the trick. All he had to do was splice together some longer wire to create an electrical ignition rather than a wick or powder fuse.
Jeff spent the afternoon testing his trigger idea. He would use the chemicals to wet down the wagon bed. At the very least, the wood of the wagon would ignite, providing a small diversion. But if his idea of using a trigger was successful, the chemicals would create a large flash or possibly even an explosion, and the fire would burn hot and be hard to extinguish.
Next, Jeff began to consider how long to make the trigger mechanism. He knew he would have to be far enough away from the wagon so he wouldn’t be hurt, but close enough to assure its success. Since the trigger didn’t rely on combustion, he could bury the cable and it would still work. But he would have to make sure that no part of the cable was visible. If it were discovered, yanked free, or cut, their chance of escape would drop to zero.
Still, the biggest impediment to their escape as far as Jeff was concerned was Julio Cardenas and his obsession with Mercedes. There was really no telling when or if they would have a chance to try their plan.
* * * * *
An opportunity arose the very next day. When he returned to his wagon after washing up and getting coffee, Mercedes came to tell him that Cardenas and several of his closest allies had just ridden out for the day and weren’t expected back until late that night, at the earliest. After discussing what they would need to do, step by step, they agreed to meet behind the stable after Jeff triggered the explosion. Mercedes promised she would have everything ready for them.
After making sure that no one was paying attention to him, Jeff used the leg of the tripod to burrow a small trench several inches deep in the soft dirt between the wagon and a tree a short but sufficient distance away to protect himself when he caused what he hoped to be an explosion. He walked back and forth, dragging the tripod leg, two more times between the wagon and the tree, before playing out the cable and kicking dirt over it to hide it.
Finally, after inspecting his work to ensure that nothing would seem out of the ordinary to the casual observer, he buried the trigger mechanism in the brush behind the tree, and went for a walk.
The afternoon seemed to drag on forever. Over and over, Jeff ran through scenarios in his head that could hinder the plan as he walked around. He felt certain luck was on their side since Cardenas was away from the hacienda.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The night had been a restless one for Thad McCallum. He was unaccustomed to the notion of failure, but it seemed he was no closer to finding his friend’s son. Even if they did find the lad, McCallum had no plan for freeing him from the army that had seized him. If Jeff Shaw were even still alive that is.
After a fitful sleep, he awoke and dressed. Thad had a morning routine that continued even after his retirement from the army. It included everything from stretching exercises to the order he put on his clothes. He felt most comfortable when he could carry out his everyday routine, no matter where he was.
When he was fully dressed, he squared off in the hotel room’s mirror and put on his old campaign hat. As a final gesture before leaving the room to join Pedro, he carefully checked his sidearm and rifle, then he took a deep breath and went downstairs.
The two men stopped at the small restaurant that was located just off the lobby on the first floor and had a cup of coffee. Neither wanted to waste much time on a big breakfast, so McCallum dropped a few coins on the counter while Pedro grabbed a few of the sweet cakes on display. They weren’t as sugary as the donuts served up north, but they were soft and warm and went well with their morning coffee.
When McCallum and Pedro showed up at the livery, their horses had already been saddled and were ready to go. The Apache Skinyea was mounted, silently waiting for the pair. The two mounted, and the trio rode out.
“Talkative sort, ain’t he?” Thad commented to Pedro after several hours of riding.
“Must not have anything to say,” his friend replied, chuckling.
“Let’s just hope he knows where he’s going and isn’t leading us out into an ambush,” Thad said, then lit the tobacco in his pipe.
* * * * *
The three men traveled for the better part of three days without seeing any sign of Villa’s army, or anyone of interest. On the third night, the men made camp under a large oak tre
e. McCallum was cleaning his plate of refried beans when he turned to Skinyea. McCallum’s displeasure was more than apparent.
“How much farther do you reckon we have to go before we find Villa and his men? I’m getting a little tired of just riding around this godforsaken country on a wild-goose chase.”
“Not his fault, jefe,” Pedro offered.
“Well, let him answer the question, anyway,” McCallum said sharply.
“White men never did learn the virtue of patience,” Skinyea replied.
McCallum tipped his hat back. “That’s probably true, but didn’t you ever learn to answer a direct question with a helpful answer?”
“One more day, maybe two,” Skinyea said emphatically.
McCallum seemed skeptical. After a moment, Pedro asked how he knew this.
Skinyea looked at the two men and replied, “Many years ago, my people roamed the Southwest, on both sides of the Río Bravo. We owned this land. Then the Mexicans declared war on us. They did horrible things to our women and killed many of our children. The white men came next and fought us, too. Finally, they got together with the Mexicans and divided our land along the river. The thing is, they decided this without asking the Apaches. It was our land and we weren’t even asked to take part in the talks. It was a treaty, as they say.
“Then it is the Americans on one side of the river and the Mexicans on the other. We fought for our people and our land. The white soldiers killed our chief, Mangas Coloradas, and cut off his head. The great chief Cochise realized the futility of fighting a people who number more than the stars in the skies, and made peace.
“Some chiefs, like Geronimo, refused to join the peace agreement and continued to raid into Mexico. They felt we had only made peace with the United States, not the Mexicans. The peace Cochise made was kept by his people. The problem was that whenever a white man was killed, regardless of who did it, the Apaches were still blamed. If horses were stolen, even if by another tribe, it was blamed on the Apaches.
