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

by Clifford Irving

“You’ve got to think about the future, boy. And security.”

  The future? That was tonight, maybe including tomorrow. Security meant about as much to me as a kind word to a steer during a stampede. I was lucky to be alive, I thought, after what I’d been through in Chihuahua.

  The funny thing is that Mama and Papa didn’t ask me anything at all about Pancho Villa, and pretty soon I realized they didn’t believe a word I said about what I did with him. To them he was a storied name in the newspapers and I was a footloose black sheep, and they somehow couldn’t fit the two together. Come to think of it, the juxtaposition did seem improbable.

  After supper, unable to bear my cowardice any longer, I went to see Hannah.

  Luck was with me, or else love was blind. No matter how much I dodged and shifted my gaze, she never once asked me what was the matter, or whether I’d met some other girl in Mexico to account for my uneasiness. I suppose it never occurred to her that I could stray, and when I was with her then it seemed as farfetched to me as my fighting at Villa’s side. Rosa fell out of my mind like a stone into a well, just as Hannah had done in Torreón.

  “It’s extraordinary, Tom.” Hannah sat with me on the parlor davenport, clasping both my hands. “No one ever dreamed it would happen so quickly. First Torréon, and now Juárez. How many men can say precisely what they’re going to do and then go out and do it?”

  “Villa’s one of them,” I said. “So far.”

  “And what will he do now? Will he take Chihuahua City, or will he head straight for the capital?”

  She made it sound so simple, as if the chief had only to turn his horse and his brigades in a certain direction and the Federal Army would melt away like butter in the sun. Perhaps it was so. At the time, it seemed that way.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s got to catch his breath. But he’ll move quickly, whatever he does.”

  Indeed, within a few days the rest of the army under Urbina had moved north and reinforced us in Juárez. The women didn’t come, and I was glad of it; I didn’t think I could have handled Hannah on one side of the border and Rosa on the other. Villa established his headquarters in the old Customs House, and the American reporters swarmed round. He was a famous man now.

  “General Villa,” one eager young man asked him, “do you speak English?”

  “Si,” Villa replied. “American Smelting and Refining y sonofabitch.”

  After that session he sent for his commanders. “Boys,” he announced, “I’ve just heard from the press that the Federals don’t believe we know how to fight. They think all we can do is sneak into cities at night when the defenders are asleep. So let’s show them.”

  His reasons were more profound than that, but he liked his little jokes. The Federal garrison from Chihuahua City was advancing north along the railway in eleven trains. Villa had promised the American authorities in El Paso that there would be no fighting within cannon shot of the border, and in any case he was never a man to defend a city. He chose to attack in the desert at a place called Tierra Blanca. He ordered a review of his troops on a cool November morning, and at the same time he sent Rodolfo Fierro south with orders to destroy the railway line.

  Within sight of the approaching Federals and under a constant artillery bombardment, Fierro and a squad of volunteers coolly blew up the tracks. After the parade in Juárez, our brigades didn’t return to their quarters. We trotted toward the railroad depot and entrained for Tierra Blanca.

  Villa led the first cavalry charge, and the battle lasted four days. When it was over I was exhausted, dazed, filthy with dust and covered with lice—so were we all—but the Federal Army was in flight. Three days later they decided to abandon Chihuahua City and flee for the safety of the border. Villa cut them off at a town called Ojinaga, just across from Big Bend National Park. He killed more than a thousand Federals, and not just Juárez but the state of Chihuahua was ours. All the supply lines to Texas were open, and we no longer had to worry about our rear or flanks. Controlling the vital railroad line, Villa had only to re-equip the Division and drive south, city by city, pueblo by pueblo, until he reached the final goal of Mexico City. Victory seemed inevitable, and close. The more I thought about it, the more remarkable it became. Just nine short months ago, nine men had crossed the Rio Bravo at Ysleta. Now we were nearly ten thousand.

  I didn’t fight at Ojinaga. Before he left, Villa said to me, “I don’t need you under arms right now, Tomás. Stay in El Paso and help my brother. I’ve told him to drive a harder bargain than before, and the Jews will need someone to complain to. They like you, so be sympathetic and suggest some sort of compromise between what Hipólito asks and they offer. They’ll agree, and we’ll be better off. That’s the way to do business, according to Mr. Carnegie and Rockefeller. They should know. I’m always willing to take advice from men as smart as I am.”

  I didn’t say no. I always worried that my luck might run out one fine day on some battlefield. Hipólito had also been ordered to take over all the gambling in Juárez and get it going again—the revolution could use the money. He told me to come into Touche’s and try the wheel anytime I needed extra cash. “I guarantee,” he said, “that you won’t lose.”

  He rented a little furnished house on Montana Street in El Paso and then went out and bought three new suits: a gray worsted, a blue serge and a black velvet. He had always wanted to be a real businessman and an entrepreneur—it was certainly more elevating than helping to arrange for the slaughter of prisoners. I had always suspected he was a revolutionist more out of loyalty to his brother than from deep conviction, but I didn’t love him any the less for it … we all find our fate, if we’re patient enough. He also found a young woman named Mabel Silva, a cashier at the Hidalgo Cinema, and within a few weeks they were engaged. I was glad for him.

  So for the next months, well into the new year of 1914, I lived in a back bedroom in Hipólito’s house in El Paso, while Pancho Villa and the rest of the Northern Division took Ojinaga and then skirmished southward, clearing up the last few pockets of resistance that lay north of Chihuahua City.

  A big article appeared in Collier’s magazine; it called the revolution “Villa’s uprising.” That didn’t please Carranza. And then General Pershing invited Villa to a meeting in El Paso to take place in January of the new year. The chief accepted immediately and got word to me that he wanted me to be there as his interpreter.

  I spent every minute of my spare time with Hannah, and kept working for Hipólito as a go-between to Sam Ravel and Felix Sommerfeld. Our orders now were for supplies by the trainload, and we signed for everything from five carloads of canned Maine sardines to wide-brimmed Texas scout hats with which Villa wanted to equip the whole Northern Division. We couldn’t hope to get the men to wear matching uniforms, but if everyone wore the same kind of hat instead of an assortment of straw sombreros it would help to keep our boys from picking each other off under the belief that they were Redflaggers. Both sides already carried the red, green and white Mexican flag, so there was confusion enough.

  In the day, when I wasn’t inspecting our consignments, Hannah and I went riding in the desert and ate ice cream out of silver cups in the Elite Confectionery, and at night we spooned on the parlor davenport until I thought my Levi’s would pop. She became inflamed so quickly that I couldn’t do anything about it, but I didn’t dare to think of going all the way with her before we were married. I knew she wasn’t that kind of girl.

  Still, there were nights when she seized my pecker with such dedication that I thought, I may be crazy, but I swear she wants it. She would twist under me on the davenport until I felt every tuft and bone of her vulva pressing into the muscle of my thigh, and then she’d see stars and go off like a rocket in her own way. I was always looking out for her mother on the staircase. It wasn’t satisfactory—after Rosa, I certainly knew better—but it was all we had.

  One night I was so excited, and her virginal body was so reckless under me, that I couldn’t help myself. I bl
urted: “I want you, Hannah. God, I want you…”

  “No, Tom! Please!”

  I apologized right away, but it put her in a bad mood and I went home that night with a dry bandanna.

  Most of the time she liked to talk about the future, just like my father, and she prattled on happily about the wedding and what part of El Paso we’d live in, and which of her girlfriends would be bridesmaids, and whether we’d go to New Orleans or Niagara Falls on our honeymoon, while I just nodded and slipped in a word of approval every now and then. I didn’t truly mind, because I loved to listen to her voice and see the flush rise to her cheeks when she talked about things that moved her.

  “You do love me, don’t you, Tom?”

  “You know I do.”

  “When do you think it will all be over? When do you think we can get married?”

  “Well, now that we’ve occupied Chihuahua City, Villa says that Mexico City’s the key, the seat of power. But before that we’ve got to take Zacatecas, which is on the way. And then we have to deal with Don Venus, and Zapata down in Morelos.” And I would go on, mapping the upcoming campaign and lecturing about strategy and the peculiarities of the different generals, and not really answering her question. But who could tell?

  “By the summer, do you think?”

  A little impatience crept into her tone, and something else too. I began to realize that during the winter her revolutionary zeal had started to wane. Her hero, Ricardo Flores Magón, had been bypassed by Villa and the other generals, and after the last few battles she had heard some disturbing reports about how the revolutionists were stripping the pueblos of food, carting off the women … even killing prisoners.

  “Do you know anything about that, Tom? Is that possible?”

  “Well, the people know that an army’s got to eat. Most of the time they’re glad to share with us. Sometimes we loot… sure. I mean not me. but the fellows who don’t know any better. They’re dirt poor, you know—well, of course, you know. Sometimes, yes, hell, they grab whatever’s in sight.”

  “And the rest? The women? Killing the prisoners? Some people are starting to say that Villa may be a great general, but he’s also a brute. An animal! He has three wives, they say!”

  “The poor fellow,” I murmured.

  “Oh, Tom, it’s no joke. He sets an example for his men, and they set it for all of Mexico. If he simply takes what he wants and shows no mercy to those he’s vanquished. It’s uncivilized! The revolution will end in tragedy.”

  I asked her again, for she needed cheering up, why she thought our honeymoon would be more memorable if we went to Niagara Falls instead of New Orleans.

  The day after that conversation, on a fine January morning, I took the train south with a load of coal to talk to the chief about his arrangements to meet the American generals. The winter sky was a crisp blue, and the soldiers in the rattling railway car sang cheerfully.

  Candelario was waiting for me at the depot in Chihuahua City.

  “I’m glad to see you,” I said. “I was going to look for you. What’s happened to the women? Why is it taking so long?”

  “That’s your fault,” he yelled. “All the trains are going north to the border to bring back supplies! There are none left to go to Jiménez. Tomás, what am I to do? I miss Yvette and Marie-Thérése. I’m a simple man—when I get used to something, I crave it. Don’t be so damned conscientious. Delay some shipments! We won’t fight anyway until this damned meeting in El Paso is over.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said cautiously. But it suited me fine for Rosa to stay in Jiménez for the time being; I didn’t want to complicate my life any further.

  So when I met with the chief in his headquarters suite at the Fermont, a five-story pink-colored luxury hotel in the center of town, I said nothing. After we had discussed the timetable for meeting General Scott and General Pershing, Villa decided to show me the city. I had never been there, he pointed out, and Chihuahua City was practically home to him. He didn’t seem in a hurry to head south and retake Torreón. I wondered why, and he told me.

  “Because, Tomás, winning battles may be the only purpose of a war, but not of a revolution. We have to take time out to show the people why we fight, and whom we fight for. “

  Outside the hotel, at the curb, stood a shiny green Packard touring car that he had requisitioned somewhere along the line, complete with a villainous-looking chauffeur named Martin Lopez. But Villa called for two horses.

  “I need to get into the saddle. I’ve been here two weeks and my ass is getting soft like a woman’s. Riding in a car always makes me think I’m sitting in a movie theater. You see only what the car lets you see.”

  It was a warm day, with fleecy clouds hanging over the mountains. Chihuahua was a pleasant city with wide streets and pretty parks, and it had been left more or less intact as a result of Orozco’s hasty withdrawal. Thousands of its citizens, including the police force, had fled with the Federal Army, fearing Villa’s wrath for sins real or imagined, so Villa had put the Northern Division to work. Whole battalions were delegated to run the streetcars and telephone exchange, the electric plant and the slaughterhouses. He told me he had lowered the prices of bread, meat and milk, so that not only his soldiers but the poor of the city could eat well, at least for a while. We passed the Plaza Hidalgo, and there on the grass, before a crowd of shirt-sleeved citizens, a military band in brilliant purple uniforms was playing a pretty one-step named “Tierra Blanca,” in honor of the battle.

  “You see how the people smile, Tomás? This isn’t music to make them forget their troubles. It’s to remind them that the soldiers are their servants.”

  As we left the park a small boy, dressed in rags and chewing a piece of sugar cane, followed us. He stayed in the shadow of the horses and just looked up, his large brown eyes fastened on Pancho Villa. Finally, when the chief noticed him, he reined up and peered down. The boy must have been eight or nine years old.

  Villa leaned from the saddle and snatched the sugar cane. He bit off a piece and began to chew it with his stumpy red-brown teeth.

  The boy said nothing.

  The chief laughed. “Aren’t you angry, boy?”

  “No, señor.”

  “And aren’t you afraid?”

  “No, señor.” In fact, the boy was utterly calm and unblinking.

  Villa frowned ferociously. “The bandit Pancho Villa is going to steal all your sugar cane! Watch out! Don’t you know that Pancho Villa came into the world to rob and kill?”

  “I didn’t know that. Are you Pancho Villa?”

  “Yes,” Villa said solemnly. “And now I want you to tell me why you followed us through the street.”

  “Señor Villa, I like to look at you.”

  “And why do you like to look at me?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy murmured.

  “Will you sell me this piece of cane? How much did it cost you?”

  “Two centavos, señor. You can keep it if you like it.”

  Villa reached into his pocket and took out a peso coin, which he flipped so that it spun brightly in the sunlight. The boy caught it in the air.

  “What will you do with the money? Buy more cane?”

  “Give it to my father.”

  “Ah, you have a father. A mother too?”

  “Not anymore, señor.”

  “And why are you out on the street? Doesn’t your father send you to school?”

  “No, señor, he can’t do that.”

  “Can’t? What do you mean, can’t?”

  “Because I help him in his store. He sells bananas and mangos. He is all alone except for me. This is the siesta hour—I don’t have to work.”

  “So you don’t go to school at all?”

  “No, señor.”

  Villa turned to me across our horses, his voice high and quivering. “Listen to me, Tomás. This child, without knowing who I am, follows me down the streets of Chihuahua and even wants to give me what he eats—this bit of can
e that cost him two miserable centavos, which is certainly all he had. Can you tell me why? I’m not handsome. I’m not dressed in the fine uniform of a general. Why does he do such a thing unless he senses in me the soul of a man who struggles for the salvation of just such children as himself? There is no other explanation.”

  Villa’s eyes shone like emeralds. “I dedicate my life to this boy, and that’s why I fight. He will be a better man than I. But to do that,” he suddenly shouted, so that the boy flinched, “he must go to school! He must read and write! To make him work is a crime, a crime worse than murder! If you kill a man, you put him out of his misery. If you make a boy such as this work, if you keep him from school, you doom him to that misery.” Villa turned back to the boy.

  “Go tell your father,” he said, “that Pancho Villa orders him to send you to school tomorrow. If he doesn’t follow that order, he will be shot. Do you understand? Will you swear to tell him?”

  The boy didn’t reply and didn’t so swear, which I could well understand.

  “All right,” Villa said, sighing. “Where is your father’s store?”

  “Not far, señor.”

  With one powerful arm Villa hauled the boy up into the saddle. He sat snugly behind the horn, in front of General Pancho Villa. Despite the boy’s worry, I could see the sparkle in his eyes. The world must have seemed to lie at his feet, and be glorious.

  We rode down some narrow dirt alleys to a part of the city that shouted its poverty and degradation. The shutters were closed, so Villa dismounted with the boy and pounded with his fist on the closed door. After a few minutes it opened to disclose a weary-looking Mexican in a frayed shirt and torn trousers. His shop with its mangos and other fruit was about as big as a large closet. Two hammocks were slung in the back from hooks on the walls, but if they hadn’t been slung at angles they wouldn’t have fit.

  Without wasting any time on pleasantries, Villa said, “Señor, I am General Francisco Villa. What is your name?”

  Looking confused, sleepy—wary, too—the man gave his name. “At your orders, my general.”