TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border

by Clifford Irving

  Villa sat up so smoothly that you couldn’t see where the leverage came from. He wore a pair of crisscrossed cartridge belts over his khaki shirt even while he had been dozing, and a Springfield rifle lay on the far side of the cot. One paw of his, the one hidden from my sight, grasped a black pistol that had probably been pointed at my belly the whole time. Villa was a big man, and when his face moved into the patchy light I saw that his eyes weren’t green at all, but more the color of mustard.

  “How are you called?” he asked me.

  “Tomás Mix, Señor Villa.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Twenty-two, señor.”

  “Tomás rides as well as Rodolfo,” Julio muttered from behind me. “And of course he speaks English. That’s useful, chief.” He had to be on my side whether he liked it or not, because he had brought me here, the wisdom of which he might now be wondering about.

  “Are you prepared to die?” Villa asked me.

  “I don’t see that I have any choice,” I said. “Better later than sooner, that’s all. And let it be quick.”

  “You must have some Mexican blood,” Villa said. “Have you ever killed a man?”

  I shook my head.

  “Could you?”

  That stumped me for a moment. Here I was, setting a torch to my flimsy bridges and fixing to become a revolutionist with the bandit Pancho Villa, and I knew as much about bloodletting as a hog does about Sunday. “I could learn.” I said. “I guess I could learn pretty damned fast if the man I had to kill intended to kill me. “

  “You know how to shoot?” His eyes were still locked steadily on me, but I knew he wasn’t angry anymore and he didn’t dislike me. Later I would learn that Pancho Villa usually made his decisions about men in a few seconds and rarely changed his mind. He trusted his instincts as few others had the courage to do.

  “I’ve fooled around with a gun,” I told him. “I know you don’t pull the trigger with your big toe. But I don’t claim to be a Joe Lane.”

  Villa frowned. “What is a Joe Lane?”

  “Fellow with the rodeo up in Dallas. Puts on a shooting exhibition. He can slip a pistol bullet into an empty cartridge at twenty yards. Dead center, so that it’s all joined up again.”

  “That’s impossible,” Villa said flatly.

  “Impossible? No, sir. He’s the best shot in Texas.”

  “At twenty yards? With a pistol?”

  I didn’t want to be thought a liar. “Hell, chief,” I said, “I’ve seen him do it a dozen times.”

  I bit my tongue, and now there was nothing in the world I wanted more than a change of subject, because what I had told Pancho Villa wasn’t precisely true. I had lied, then got carried away trying to prove I wasn’t a liar, and I had told a worse lie to do it, which I guess is the way of the world. The truth was I’d only heard that Joe Lane could do that stunt back in his prime, before he took to a diet of Tennessee sour mash.

  Villa jumped furiously to his feet, and that made me jump up too, bewildered by his intensity. “We’ll go outside,” he said, with heat. “I tell you, it’s impossible!”

  He had made a decision, and we trooped out the door into the blistering sun. I heard black-browed Candelario address the unlikely fat fellow who had been standing guard in his blue suit, calling him Hipólito; I realized then that he was Pancho’s older brother.

  Pancho Villa himself, in the light, looked to be a man of about thirty-five, barrelchested but with a good spring to his rolling gait. I had always assumed he was older, but I should have realized that revolution was a young man’s game. He snappily told Julio to stay with the horses and marched the rest of us around to the back where there was nothing but barrel cactus and a busted-up stone wall. The desert of Chihuahua shimmered in a yellow light. It was hot enough to slip hair on a bear, and you would have had to prime yourself to spit. I felt uneasy. I had figured out what Villa was going to do. It would either make a fool out of him or a liar out of me.

  He led us through the dust to the stone wall, where he pulled a brass cartridge from his belt, put the flat end into his mouth and began to work it loose. Under his bushy mustache I could see that his teeth were stained the color of rich topsoil. He finally separated the cap from the powder, letting it spill to the ground in a thin gray stream. Candelario farted gently. A single black buzzard sailed aloft, silent as sin, in the bone-white sky. Nothing else moved. Not even Villa, who just stood, arms akimbo, studying the shadows of the wall.

  After a minute he bent, worked the empty cartridge between two stones, and with the butt of his pistol gave it a single tap. He walked back to the hut and we trooped after him—twenty long paces.

  But hitting that target would still be like hunting for a whisper in a big wind. Señor Villa, I prayed, shoot straight.

  He raised the pistol quickly to chest level, didn’t bother to use the sights, steadied a split second, then fired. The gun made a light, dry snap; chips of stone sparked off the wall. There was a little echo and the bitter whine of the ricochet. Hipólito Villa and Candelario ran to the wall, spurs jingling, while Pancho Villa hooked his left arm through mine and said softly, “Come on, Tomás!”

  Candelario squatted, then bellowed, “You did it, chief!”

  Villa’s face was nearly blank, but I caught the flicker of a redtoothed smile. We reached the wall and peered down. I couldn’t believe it: the right edge of the cartridge had been shattered to pulp by the bullet.

  “I didn’t hit it exact center,” Villa said glumly. “Almost, but not quite. You see? I told you, it can’t be done.”

  Candelario beamed. “Try it again, chief.”

  “Why break your balls trying the impossible?” Villa still held my arm in his warm grasp. “Now tell me the truth, meester”—and again I saw the green flicker in his eyes—”this man in Dallas … did you really see him do this thing? This thing which I’ve just failed to do?”

  I could have kept lying, I think, and got away with it. He wasn’t angry. But it seemed I was being given a second chance. He hadn’t really failed, and suddenly I didn’t want to fail, either. I swallowed hard. “No, sir. I heard about it, but I never did see it. I lied. He’s an old man. They say he could do it when he was young.”

  “You won’t ever lie to me again, will you?”

  “No, señor.”

  “I believe you.” For a minute, Villa contemplated. “You know,” he said, quite seriously, “I think if I practiced I could do it. But since this other gringo sonofabitch didn’t show up, we’re short of bullets. I might have done it with one shot when I was younger. It’s not that I’m old, but I’ve been with a woman. Last night, and the night before … I can’t count the nights. Days too. You see, I lay my life bare to you, as with all my friends. When you spill your juices, it unsteadies your hand. I like women too much—that’s one of my principal faults. I respect women and therefore I often marry them, but most of all I like to fuck them. Sometimes I can’t help myself … do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, chief,” I murmured.

  “Try to stay away from women, Tomás. Sometimes, of course, it’s impossible, but if you try and succeed you’ll be a better man. Bullfighters have told me the same thing. They ought to know. Now, what’s bothering you?”

  I had been thinking about the shooting and finally voiced my puzzlement. “You didn’t aim,” I said.

  “Aim? No … ah, wait. I understand! You’re a good American cowboy. You ride, but you don’t shoot. That’s something we’ll have to fix. Come along! This won’t be a waste of bullets.”

  Together we walked through the dazzling light to the thin strip of shade behind the hut. The others tagged along, interested. Villa handed me the cartridge belt and pistol, still warm from his grasp. The butt fit snugly in my hand, and I strapped on the belt.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Take a shot. Give us your best.”

  I sighted carefully down the barrel at the cartridge case, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. There wa
s more kick than I had expected, and the pistol jerked up into the air. Candelario trotted down to the wall and inspected the target.

  “About a hundred yards into Chihuahua, chief.”

  “Awful.” Villa rested a fleshy hand on my shoulder. “I like you. I don’t want to see you get killed. Actually, it’s a wonder you’re still alive, telling lies and shooting as badly as you do. Now pay attention. I’m going to share a secret with you that’s worth more than a million dollars. It could mean the difference between life and death to you. Don’t you think your life is worth more than a million dollars?”

  “You bet your ass I do,” I said.

  He guffawed, showing red teeth. “What a fool this is! Listen, my friend, I’ll tell you another secret which might save your hide equally well. This is Mexico! Your life isn’t worth more than ten pesos here. That’s the price I would have to pay some down-and-out pelado, some nobody, if I wanted to hire him to kill you—which of course I’d never do, because if I wanted you dead I’d simply shoot you myself. And there would be no one in this world to object. You understand?”

  I nodded unhappily. I understood all too well.

  “Cheer up,” Villa said. “We’re going to be friends. I’m going to teach you many things. Now pay attention again. Listen closely. First calm yourself. Look at the target. Shut everything else from your mind. Love it a little. Not the way you would love a woman, but the way you would love part of yourself … like a hand, or your cock. Between you and the target there must be no distance, because distance is an illusion. I spit on distance. Is it nonsense to you, or do you understand?”

  His voice droned, yet soothed, and I had the feeling as I stared at the target that it had moved closer to me. I saw the cartridge clearly. Villa’s voice came from very far off.

  “Wrap your middle finger around the trigger. It will feel strange, but do it. Remember, there is no distance. You don’t have to aim. The bullet will find its way. Raise the pistol and fire.”

  I did as he told me and squeezed off a second shot.

  “Son of a whore!” Candelario sounded amazed. “Only four inches to the right!”

  Villa beamed at me. “Well done, cowboy! You’ve learned in five minutes what it took me five years! If you go out there every day with five rounds and a clear head—and if you haven’t fucked a woman the night before—you’ll become a marksman.” He clapped me on the back, and I don’t think he could have been more pleased if his own shot had lodged dead center instead of clipping the cartridge’s edge. I was feeling pretty frisky myself. “If you’re loyal to me,” he said, “you’ll never have anything to fear. I like you, and my friends like you. Candelario! What do you think of this boy? The truth!”

  “He’s lucky,” Candelario replied.

  Villa considered that for a moment, then nodded vigorously. “We need men who are lucky,” he said. “In fact, we need every man we can get. So!” He turned back to me. “Do you still want to join us? Do you have any idea what we’re fighting for?”

  “Land and liberty,” I said. I had read that in the Herald.

  “Good! Very good! Listen—” He grasped my shoulders. “For nearly four hundred years the people of this miserable country have been slaves. First to the Spaniards, who stole our gold and gave us religion. Then to the rich Mexicans, who stole our land and gave us pulque. If the revolution triumphs, the poor will get everything back that they lost. Then—so that they can keep it!—their children will learn to read and write. The little Señor Madero explained all that to me before those bastards, Huerta and Orozco, killed him. So now we follow Señor Carranza, the First Chief, and we’re blessed with a common enemy. Huerta controls the Federal Army—it’s the same army that Diaz used to keep the people in line. They’re professional soldiers, which means that the people are their natural enemy. Orozco, on the other hand, has a volunteer army, the Redflaggers, that he pays in silver. Their task is to kill revolutionists. Their flag is red, and so are their hands, with the blood of the people. They’re mercenaries, by their own choice. To them we’ll show no mercy.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “A lot,” he said grimly. “The pay is good.”

  “And how many men do you have in your own army, chief?”

  “Five here. That’s counting you and me. Four waiting for me across the river in El Paso. That’s … let’s see …” He counted rapidly on his fingers. “That’s nine.”

  “That’s all? I thought you already had an army!”

  “I’ll get one.”

  “Nine men?”

  “With nine men, loyal and brave, I can recruit nine thousand more. Then I’ll need horses for them to ride, trains for them to travel on, food for them to eat, rifles for them to shoot and bullets to put into the rifles.” A pop-eyed smile lit up his face. “None of this will be very difficult. The people know me. They’ll follow me. Look how easily I convinced you to do it, and you’re a gringo.” His eyes grew a shade more solemn. “I need men like you, Tomás. You’re young, but you’re clever and you want to learn. Moreover, as Candelario said, you’re lucky. Once we have a real army, you’ll have the rank of captain. If I forget, remind me.”

  A captain! I hadn’t counted on that at all, but it made me feel wonderful.

  Chapter 3

  “He may at pleasure whip,

  or hang, or torture.”

  A Yaqui Indian woman cooked our meal inside the hut. Like most Yaquis she was a nutty-brown color, flat-nosed and silent; I judged her more young than old. As she passed close to Villa, on the way to the little fire she had built on the broken dog irons, he gave her a friendly pat on the rump. It occurred to me then that she might be the woman into whom he had spilled his juices the night before, so that his aim at the cartridge was just that hairbreadth off. She was cooking frijoles, with some bits of brown meat simmering in a pan, waiting to be rolled into the tortillas. The smell of meat in that tiny space set my mouth to watering. From the pocket of his dirty shirt Candelario produced a crumpled pack of Sweet Caporal cigarettes which he offered round. Hipólito dug a bottle of mezcal from a dark corner, and it passed from one man to another. Although that frontier scamper juice could draw a blood blister on a rawhide boot, I took a healthy swallow.

  I had always heard that Villa didn’t drink alcohol, and it proved to be true: he let the bottle pass by him. They were talking idly about a man named Urbina who was waiting somewhere to the south in Durango to join up with them, when we heard the hoof beats of trotting horses outside. Everyone fell silent.

  “Just two,” Villa said, even before Julio went out the door. Then the hoof beats slowed, and I heard a Mex voice say something indistinctly. Hipólito peered out, black and bulky against the white light that would have fried us if we had let it beat its way inside.

  “It’s Rodolfo, with some gringo.”

  Looking over his shoulder, Candelario cried, “That’s Wentworth! The bastard who didn’t show up at the cantina!”

  “Be easy,” Villa ordered. He had the natural instinct to keep men calm, and then they looked to him to point them in the right direction.

  A moment later a short, middle-aged American wearing rimless eyeglasses and a dusty tan business suit fumbled slowly through the door, followed by a big Mexican in a heavy brown-and-gold sombrero that could have shaded two smaller men. It brushed against both sides of the doorway. The American was busy rubbing his ass, which I guessed was saddlesore—he didn’t strike me as a horseman—and he tried to restore his lost dignity by busily slapping the dust from his jacket.

  The Mexican, Rodolfo Fierro, looked about thirty years of age. He was over six feet tall and sturdily built, with a neat mustache, gentle brown eyes and a handsome face. He wore the outfit of the charro, the gentleman rider—tight black pants, glistening hip-high black boots and a loose-fitting blue-striped cotton shirt. It occurred to me that if you took any of the men surrounding Pancho Villa, including his brother, down Commerce Street in Dallas, the citizens there would give y
ou a wide berth to avoid infection by this plague marching their way—for they were the most ferocious lot I’d ever seen. Except this man.

  I could have brought Rodolfo Fierro into my mama’s sitting room for coffee and biscuits and not been ashamed. He looked like the Mexicans I had seen in the movies, plucking languidly at a guitar and crooning “La Paloma” to shy señoritas on grilled balconies. This man, I decided, was civilized.

  In the light of later events I would think back often on that meeting, stunned by my perceptions.

  “Chief,” Rodolfo Fierro said liltingly, and even his voice had a musical quality, “I found Señor Wentworth in El Paso, and I was lucky enough to persuade him to come visit you. He wants very much to explain why he isn’t able to provide the rifles and bullets he promised you. He’s tried to explain it to me, but since I’m only an ignorant railway worker turned revolutionist, I don’t truly understand. I know he’ll do better with you.”

  He offered this with such soothing politeness that I thought, Good grief, how did this big sweet fellow fall into such rough company? Candelario was right. I was a pendejo.

  As an El Paso merchant, Wentworth knew the lingo, and he launched right away into his defense. He had the rifles, new Mausers; and he had ammunition for them. But they were in bond at a warehouse, and his partner—well, not exactly his partner, but a man with whom he was doing business, a man named Felix Sommerfeld—had gone off with the papers and the keys. Sommerfeld was seventy miles away in Columbus, New Mexico, and wouldn’t be back for at least a week. It was all Sommerfeld’s fault.

  “I know this Sommerfeld,” Villa said. “He’s a Jew. I’ve dealt with him before.”

  “Then you know how difficult he is.” Wentworth spoke with a new righteousness. “Not to be trusted.”

  Villa nodded. “I trusted him two years ago. Would you believe it, Señor Wentworth? I asked him then for three hundred Springfield rifles.”