by R. W. Stone
“Do you think I will like your home in America?” she asked.
“I think so,” Jeff responded. “It’s not nearly as hot and dry there as it is here.”
“Do you think your family will approve of me?” Mercedes asked shyly.
“I think they will adore you,” Jeff replied sincerely. “They will love you as much as I do.” He kissed her on the forehead, then added, “Just don’t wear the pistol when you say hello to my mother.” Jeff laughed, and Mercedes punched him playfully in the shoulder. It felt good to forget the danger they were in for a few minutes.
Jeff sipped coffee from time to time while pondering how often life makes a complete turn. One moment he is in a shop learning how to be an apprentice photographer, and the next he is on the run from an army of Mexican revolutionaries. And after his time with the Villaistas, he knew that if Villa’s men were to catch up with him, he would be shot. If Julio Cardenas didn’t torture and kill him first, that is. As for what Julio would do to Mercedes, he refused to let his mind even consider that.
The two had rested for a couple of hours before getting back on the trail. Although there was no sign of pursuit yet, Jeff and Mercedes tried as much as possible to stay off the skyline, and they closely watched their back trail. When they could, they took advantage of rocky areas, which they hoped would slow any pursuit. Generally, they traveled northwest. Jeff now made sure they slowed and walked their horses for short periods.
“Where are we headed?” Jeff asked during one of these breaks to cool the horses.
“There is a small rancho that is due … oeste … west. I have seen it several times in the past,” Mercedes explained. “We should be able to rest and eat there before heading to Rubio. It is not that far.”
“Rubio? And just what is that?” Jeff asked.
“It is one of the larger towns in the area. We may be able to find help there. If not, maybe someone there will be able to confirm whether troops from your country have entered Mexico. If that has happened, then we can try to find them, and learn the safest route to the border.”
Shaw nodded. “But won’t Villa be thinking the same thing? Maybe he will go straight to this Rubio place.”
Mercedes shrugged. “Tal vez, but I think not.”
“Why?”
“If we are lucky, they will think we are going straight norte. To the border.”
“And why don’t we, querida?” Jeff asked. “It does make sense, doesn’t it?”
Mercedes shook her head. “No, it is too obvious. I am counting on them thinking that. They will send patrols to cut us off, I think. Plus, we would never make it that way. These horses would give out long before we reached the Río Bravo. And our supplies are few.”
“We’re still deep in Mexico. Doesn’t that mean Villa controls everything around here?”
Mercedes smiled. “It may seem that way when you are with him, but no. You forget that Francisco Villa is a revolucionario, a rebel. The government still controls most of the country. Especially the large towns. And if your army has invaded, Villa is losing much popularity with the people.”
“So why don’t we just find an army group, or police? What do you call them … federales? Aren’t they out on patrol? Maybe they would help us.”
Mercedes shook her head. “You forget one thing.”
Jeff cocked his head. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Look how I am dressed. I was a revolucionaria, too. The federales are not very forgiving of rebels.”
Jeff frowned. “So, no help there, eh?”
“I am afraid not, querido.”
Shaw thought for a moment, looked at Mercedes, and smiled. “Then for now, it’s just you and me.” He started to remount his horse. “So, we might as well ride to this ranchero of yours.”
“Rancho,” she corrected after she, too, had mounted her horse. “Yes, just us two. You know, gringo,” she said, smiling, “I think I really do love you.”
Jeff Shaw looked over at her. “Think? Hell, I know it. So, what do you say? Let’s ride.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Some people might have taken the time to consider various options before undertaking such a pursuit. The captain, however, was not a cautious or pragmatic man, but rather the opposite. He was impulsive, impatient, and, at the present, furious. The thought that someone he considered to be his woman had taken off with another man infuriated him. The thought that it was that miserable little gringo sent him into a complete rage.
Cardenas was not about to take the time to consider his options. Mercedes had ridden out the west gate, so, dammit, he was riding west right behind her, with his closest allies. And he was riding hard and fast.
Still, Cardenas was no fool. Julio knew that with Mercedes’ head start, he would need an advantage if he was to have any hope of catching up with her. That was why he had ordered his men to bring spare horses.
And he was being ruthless with his men. After several hours of hard riding, he ordered his men to do a paso de la muerte, or pass of death in English. It is an old vaquero phrase for a dangerous maneuver in which the rider jumps from his horse onto another horse that is running alongside. By switching to the relatively fresh mounts and releasing the ones that the men had been riding, Cardenas could almost double the distance they could travel in the same time frame.
By 8:00 a.m. the captain and his men came across the campsite where Mercedes and Jeff had stayed.
“It is only two or three hours old, mi capitán,” one of the men indicated. Knowing this man’s skills at tracking and reading sign, Cardenas had ordered him to dismount and inspect the site. “We are catching up. At this rate, we may find them by noon,” the tracker added.
Cardenas looked over at the small pool of water and ordered the rest of his men to dismount. “Cool your horses off, and then water them. Fill your canteens and check your weapons. We ride in fifteen minutes, no more.”
The captain looked to the horizon and grinned wickedly. “I will catch you, gringo, and then I will cut off your cojones and stuff them in your mouth.”
As they were preparing to leave, the tracker spoke up. “Capitán, I believe I know where they are headed.”
“Where?” Cardenas asked.
“There is a rancho called San Miguelito that is not all that far from here. It is in the direction in which they are headed. I know it well. There are no other such places around here to rest or get help.”
Cardenas grinned with satisfaction. “Bueno. San Miguelito, it is then. We know where we are headed. But, all of you, keep your eyes open for any sign that they may have changed direction. And,” he added to the tracker, “if you are wrong, I will do to you what I have planned for them.”
The man gulped and nodded seriously. “Sí, Capitán. It must be the place, but I will make sure I do not lose their trail.”
“Mas te vale,” Cardenas warned. In English, it meant “you’d better.”
Knowing the pair’s destination made it easier and faster to follow them. There was no reason to constantly stop to verify their trail. Before the fifteen minutes were up, Julio Cardenas ordered his tracker on ahead. Remounting several minutes later, he and the two other men followed at a gallop.
Cardenas felt confident that by the end of the day he was going to get the satisfaction he had wanted since the first time he had encountered that gringo.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, although they were hopeful of having made a clean getaway, Jeff Shaw and Mercedes Valdez de Guerrera were riding as if the hounds of hell were on their tails.
“How long till we get to this ranch?” Jeff shouted over to Mercedes.
Mercedes looked around and reined her horse back from a gallop into a fast jog. “It should only be about an hour or two away. I think we will make it safely to San Miguelito.”
Jeff slowed and pulled his horse up alongside hers. �
��Sure hope you’re right, sweetheart.”
“Our horses are tiring,” she advised him.
“Do you think we can exchange our horses for fresh ones at this Miguel place?” Shaw asked.
“Rancho de San Miguelito,” she reminded him again. “Sí, I believe so, but if not, at least it is a place where we can rest them a while, get water and food. Maybe someone there knows about the location of the American Army.”
Jeff smiled. “Sounds good to me. I know you rode with Villa, but the sooner and the farther away we get from him and his army, especially his boy Julio, the better I’ll like it.”
“I ride with you now, mi amor, and am happy to do so.” Then she added, “But if we ever do meet up with Julio, I wouldn’t let him hear you refer to him as a boy.”
Jeff considered what Mercedes had said. “If we do meet up with him again, I doubt either one of us will live long enough to apologize for the insult.” Then as they dismounted to walk their horses, he asked her how she ever came to be associated with someone like Julio Cardenas.
Mercedes thought for a few moments before replying. “When I was younger, I lived with my family in a small town outside of San Luis Potosi. My papa ran a small saddle shop in the town, but just about everything was owned by the alcalde … the mayor … and his son, José Padilla. I was just a girl when José Padilla started showing an interest in me. I was studying with the cura, the priest, at the mission school. That is where I learned English.”
“Must have been a pretty good teacher if you ask me,” Jeff observed.
“He was. Anyway, José wanted my papa to promise me to him in marriage. He owned the building where my papa’s shop was and threatened to close the shop when Papa could not pay the higher rent he was demanding. My papa loved me dearly, but he had my mama and brothers to worry about, too, and was being pressured all the time by this man. My papa became desperate. He asked me to at least consider the offer of marriage, but I said José was too old for me and I did not love him. I was very afraid because it is the custom to allow the father of a young girl to decide on who was to be her husband.”
“So, what did you do and how does Cardenas fit in?” Jeff asked.
“Well, I soon realized I had no choice in the matter. But I could not and would not marry such an awful man.”
“Yet you became involved with Cardenas?” Jeff was trying to understand.
Mercedes gave him a look that made him realize the stupidity of his question. “He did not appear so at first.”
“Sorry, that was wrong of me to say. Go on,” he apologized.
“I got help from the people at the mission against their better judgment. They gave me supplies and a horse and I fled away from the village. I was on the trail for what seemed like a very long time. I wanted to go to La Ciudad de Mexico … Mexico City, as you call it … but after a week or so I was out of food and very scared. Also, my horse was becoming lame. Then one day a band of riders approached. I feared for my life. A woman alone on the trail is never safe.”
“Especially around those men,” Jeff observed.
“I lived with those men for years. Please try to understand.”
Jeff nodded. “I’m trying, but you are so sweet, I have trouble making the connection.”
“When the men rode up, the leader took one look at my condition and offered me his arm and pulled me up behind him on his saddle. He ordered the rest to leave me alone.”
“Let me guess … Julio Cardenas.”
“Sí, and he was very respectful of me at first. He was also very powerful and all the men obeyed him and left me alone. He then introduced me to el caudillo.”
“Pancho Villa?” Jeff inserted.
“Sí, yes,” Mercedes replied. “And he began to talk of la revolución and his vision for the future of our country. He can be a very inspiring and convincing man, and I became a follower. I believed in what he said, but, truthfully, as hard as it may be to believe, I think that even though I was living with rebels and taking part in dangerous raids, I felt safe and alive. How could that not be better than being alone on the trail?”
“I get that. Obviously, I know the feeling.”
“But over time both Pancho and Julio have changed,” Mercedes explained. “You see, at first we had great victories and everything was good, but then the government men in power made deals, and money became harder to come by. An army needs money for supplies, and we had less and less.”
“So, what happened?” Jeff asked.
“Well, we began to lose battles and the men became angered.”
“And Julio?”
“At first I thought he was kind and considerate, but I began to realize that he was simply being protective of me because he considered me to be his property. Also, both Pancho and Julio began to enjoy the battles more and more. They became more … what is the word …?”
“Bloodthirsty?” Jeff replied.
“Sí, very bloodthirsty, very vicious. Julio seems to enjoy pushing around his soldiers and making them fear him. I know I am more afraid of him now than I was when I first met him.”
“And then I came along?” Jeff asked.
Mercedes smiled. “Sí, mi amor. Then you came along.”
“You do know that I would never treat you badly or hurt you like he does, don’t you?”
Mercedes tapped her pistol and laughed. “You’d better not!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Stop the car, Corporal Murphy,” Patton ordered. He held his arm outside the car window, just as he would if on a horse-mounted patrol. The two motorcars behind them quickly came to a stop.
The sergeant got out of the second car along with his guide.
“Ten-minute break, Sergeant,” Patton ordered. “If the men’ve got to answer the call of nature, now’s the time to do so.”
The sergeant grinned. “Yes, sir.” He turned to the men getting out of the two cars to the rear as they stretched, not used to being cooped up in a car. “You heard the man. Piss break. And water up if you have to, but make sure you get it done in ten minutes.”
Patton laughed to himself and began spreading his map over the hood of his command car. He gestured for the two civilians to approach. “What do you think?” he asked them.
“About forty-five minutes to the ranch, I reckon,” one of the two men replied. The other, who was looking over their shoulders, began to nod in agreement.
“Thank you,” Patton replied. “Take ten before we ride on.”
The lieutenant reached into the Dodge to retrieve a pair of binoculars that were inside on the seat. Patton used the field glasses to survey the horizon, then handed the instrument to the sergeant. “See anything that looks like bandidos, Sarge? Anything out of the ordinary?”
The soldier took the binoculars and scanned the surroundings. After a few moments of studying the landscape, he shook his head. “Hell, Lieutenant, your eyes are as good as mine. Better probably, but I don’t see anything, either.”
“Damn,” Patton griped. “I was hoping to run into a few of the bastards. It’s about time we got a chance to grab ’em by the nose and kick ’em in the pants.”
The sergeant shrugged. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with just riding around all day in a nice comfortable car, and then going home without getting shot at.”
Patton shook his head. “You never get ahead in this man’s army by playing it safe, Sergeant. Remember … ‘L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace!”
The sergeant looked at him, not understanding. “Sorry, sir, but I don’t speak no Mex.”
Patton smiled. “It’s not Spanish, it’s French. Fredrick the Great first said it. It means ‘Audacity, audacity, always audacity.’ One of the benefits of a West Point education, Sergeant.”
The sergeant, while an expert in combat, was a man who probably couldn’t even spell audacity. He looked back
blankly at his commanding officer. “Audacity? Frederick the Great? Right, sir.”
The sergeant glanced toward the patrol. “I think I’ll get the men mounted up.” He turned to the rest of the soldiers, shouting, “All right, you doughboys, everyone in the cars! Mount up! We’re wasting daylight!”
Lieutenant Patton got back in his Dodge and turned to the corporal. “All right, Murphy, you know the way. Move out. Let’s see if we can find us some damned revolucionarios.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
If anything will get you killed, it is complacency and assumption. Once the Rancho de San Miguelito was in sight Mercedes and Jeff settled their horses into a walk. On the one hand, it made sense not to press the horses, but part of their rationale for walking them was the belief that Villa’s men could never overtake them after so many hours on the trail.
“The rancho’s just ahead,” Mercedes said, pointing off into the distance.
“You know, querida,” Jeff said smiling, “I think you did it. I think we’re going to make it, after all.” The words were barely out of his mouth when a bullet whistled right by his ear.
“Damn,” he swore. “What the hell?”
Mercedes glanced back over her shoulder in time to recognize Julio Cardenas and three, maybe four other riders galloping over the crest of the last hill she and Jeff had crossed.
“Ride, Jeff! Fast!” she screamed. “Head for the rancho!”
Shaw didn’t need any encouragement. He spurred his horse into a full gallop right behind her. He may have been young, but he was no coward. He wanted to protect the woman he loved. If any rifle bullet was to going to hit someone, Jeff wanted to make sure it would be him, not her, so he did his best to shield her.
Off in the distance, less than a half a mile to the southwest, Thad McCallum and Pedro Peralta had heard the shots. Instinctively both men spurred their horses toward the sound of the gunfire. When they crested the next hill, the two men pulled to a stop as they saw the hacienda. Thad reached back into his left saddlebag and pulled out the pair of binoculars he had bought. He shook his head in disbelief. “It couldn’t be!” he exclaimed. He stopped himself from taking out the picture of Jeff from his pocket for the time being.
