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

by Clifford Irving

  Candelario’s good eye narrowed. “You trust Rosa that much? Are you crazy?”

  After just a brief hesitation, I said, “Yes.”

  “Which question are you answering?”

  “Was there more than one?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to tell her what it is. You can’t say it’s rocks.”

  “I’ll tell her it belongs to the Division’s treasury. So if it goes bad between us, she won’t do anything foolish. She’ll think Villa will know about it.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea,” Candelario said. “You’ll have to send a couple of soldiers with her to protect her.”

  “But then they’ll know.”

  “We’ll have them shot afterwards.”

  “You see what gold does to a man? If you want to kill our own soldiers, why don’t you desert and fight for Huerta?”

  “You really think she can make it to Tomochic on her own, Tomás?”

  “That’s Tarahumara country all the way.”

  Candelario studied the empty tequila bottle with great solemnity. “Why not? We’ll give it to her.”

  “We?”

  “If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. When can she go?”

  “Tomorrow night. Bring your sack to my room.”

  “This is madness,” he muttered. “If I wasn’t drunk, I’d never agree to it.”

  But in the morning, sober, we agreed that it was the best solution to the problem. Candelario went out to requisition a pack mule for the gold, while I explained it all to Rosa.

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yes, mi capitán,” she said proudly. “I know a back trail through the mountain from here to Anáhuac, and from there I will cross the sierra by way of Baquiachic. I will bury the gold behind our corral and tell you exactly where.”

  That evening we rode with her to the outskirts of the city. We watched until her skewbald mare and the laden mule had vanished in the gathering chill of dusk, through the pass of San Martin that led to the desert.

  Candelario groaned. “There goes our gold. She’ll ride all the way to Guaymas and open a whorehouse. No disrespect intended, Tomás. It’s just that it’s not easy being rich.”

  “If she goes to Guaymas,” I pointed out, “we’ll be poor again. We’ll have no worries. So we can’t lose.”

  Five days passed, and I did little but think of Rosa.

  It had been a mistake to send her alone into the mountains. Anything could happen. She was only a child—fifteen years old now—but I found that hard to bear in mind because she usually acted toward me as a grown woman acts toward a grown man.

  It was a fretful but interesting time, those five days, and I began to see that the simplicity with which I had ordered my life wasn’t so simple after all. There was Hannah in El Paso; there was Rosa in Mexico. There was I, shuttling back and forth without conscience or fear of consequences. It couldn’t last, and one day I would have to leave.

  Rosa knew that—I never lied. But that vision of my easy honesty gave me no comfort. When the time came, it would give less to Rosa. The fairest thing, I thought, would be to tell her now, to send her back to Tomochic.

  But I don’t want her to go. I want …

  I don’t want …

  One day, I prayed, I’ll be old and calm and wise and not want anything, and that will mean freedom, and I’ll never be able to hurt a human being again.

  In a week we would attack Torreón, which we had been forced to abandon in order to concentrate all our forces on the border. To keep those forces busy, Villa ordered his Dorados to drill as he had seen the American cavalry do it on the parade ground at Fort Bliss.

  He sent for me. “I’m going to Juárez,” he said. “We need more supplies, and I’ve got to make sure Luz is happy in El Paso. Julio’s coming, and Rodolfo and Dozal, and you’ll come too. You’ll have a chance to say goodbye to your Jewish sweetheart.”

  “Give me another day, chief,” I said nervously. Rosa was still not back from Tomochic.

  “Why?”

  “Just one more day. I have things to do.”

  “You can meet me there,” he said, a little annoyed.

  That evening there was a knock on my door, and when I opened it, Rosa darted in, covered with dust and looking weary but pleased with herself. I hugged her for a full minute before I let her speak. I wanted her to know that she was more important to me than gold.

  “The trip was nothing,” she said, which wasn’t true, because she’d had to cross in the darkness through the sierra at more than ten thousand feet. “It was pleasant to see my mother and sisters. The first night I went out, when all slept, and buried the two sacks behind the corral.”

  She described the location of the adobe hut and the exact hiding place. “I worked many hours to bury it, mi capitán. “

  “Good girl. In case you forgot, I’m a major now.”

  “May I not still call you mi capitán?”

  I loved her then and knew it beyond doubt.

  Chapter 14

  “And every tale

  condemns me for a villain.”

  When I reached Juárez, Villa’s caboose was parked as usual in the railroad yards. I found him at Hipólito’s house, and we went together to see Sam Ravel in order to discuss the movement of supplies. Felix Sommerfeld was away in Columbus.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Villa said afterwards. “When one Jew agrees to something, you can count on the other as well. They’re brothers,” he added instructively. “If not by blood, then by wallet.”

  The following day, after Villa had been to see Luz Corral in her new house on North Oregon Street, Juan Dozal appeared at the railway caboose, bringing word from an Englishman named William Benton who wanted the favor of an audience. “It has something to do with his land,” Dozal explained. “He found me in a whorehouse last night, so naturally we couldn’t discuss it at length. He wants to come this evening.”

  Villa scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “I know of this Englishman. He owns a ranch south of Juárez. He always had the protection of Luis Terrazas, but now he’s out of luck. He has a bad temper, and he’s a stubborn man. Why should I meet with him? Nothing good can come of it.”

  “He was very pleasant in the whorehouse.”

  “Most men are, Juanito.”

  Villa frowned and started to shake his head. At that point he was one breath away from saying no. That would have been the right decision. But how was he to know it? How were any of us to counsel him? He should never have come to Juárez in the first place; but who can know the future?

  It seemed to be of minor significance, whether or not he granted an audience to an aggrieved English landowner in Chihuahua. History often turns on such casual shakes or nods of the head, and I’ve sometimes thought that the earth may only be what it is because of a series of unconnected and casual nods. But perhaps that’s not so, perhaps our natures are condemned to find a way of expressing themselves … and if we say no to our fate on Monday, we’ll find ourselves saying yes on Tuesday.

  “All right,” Villa said, sighing, as though surrendering to something. “Tell him he can come. But he’ll have to leave his pistol at home.”

  In the late evening Juana Torres broiled tenderloin steaks in the kitchen of the caboose. Villa picked a few bits of well-done meat off every man’s platter and made that his dinner. At eleven o’clock Dozal arrived with the man he had described as an Englishman—Mr. William Benton.

  Benton was about fifty-five, a wizened, sunburned man with small snapping eyes. The first thing I noticed was that, contrary to Villa s request, he wore a gun belt and pistol. He, too, was in the grip of his nature—and his doom. But Villa said nothing about it, so I relaxed.

  Benton spoke perfect Spanish, though with an odd accent. He had lived in Chihuahua for thirty years, he told us, and he had paid hard cash to Don Luis Terrazas for his ranch and some tin mines. He had built the place up from nothing until it was worth twenty times what he’d paid for it. />
  “I know your ranch,” Villa said impatiently. “Hacienda de Santa Gertrudis.”

  “No, no. Ye dinna know it. It’s called Los Remedios, near Santa Ysabel.”

  “What’s the difference? One ranch is just like another if it’s owned by an Englishman.”

  “In the first place,” Benton bridled, “my ranch is nae like any other. And in the second place, damn it, I’m a Scotsman. From Aberdeen.”

  Villa laughed harshly. “All Englishmen drink whiskey until they’re red in the face. All Englishmen in Mexico look down their long noses and live off Mexican oil.”

  Benton had a short pug nose. His dark eyes seemed to grow almost black.

  He raised his voice. “General Villa, pay attention to me. I don’t live off bloody oil! I made that blasted desert bloom like the Scottish highlands. And then this so-called general of yours, this Urbina, came around last week and told me he was taking over. And he’d do me a bloody great favor and let me manage the place!”

  Villa asked, “Did he offer you a price for your land, as he was ordered to do?”

  “You think I want any of this two-faces junk you people hand out? What am I supposed to do if you bloody well lose your damned revolution? It won’t even be good for toilet paper, man.”

  Villa’s eyes sparked. “You Englishmen don’t—”

  “I’m a Scotsman!” Benton cried. “Are ye deef?”

  “What are your political sympathies, señor?”

  “If you win,” the Scotsman growled, “that’s fine with me. If Huerta wins, I can live with that too. I speak my mind, and I’m afraid of no one. I sell my cattle to the highest bidder. No man alive can ever say I cheated him.”

  “Be assured I won’t say it, either, señor. I’m going to pay you a fair price for your ranch and your cattle,” Villa said, “and whatever the hell else you’ve got lying around in Santa Gertrudis. Then you can go home to London and get drunk in your club like the rest of them. And weren’t you told by Juanito to leave your pistol behind tonight?”

  “You re a bandit and a fool!” Benton jumped to his feet, flushed. “And I was a bigger fool to come here! Do you think you can rob a Scotsman and get away with it, Pancho bloody Villa?”

  I don t think he meant to pull out his pistol. But in his rage his hand dropped to the butt. He gripped it tightly, probably more to control his itch than anything else.

  Villa thought otherwise. The gun belt around his own thick waist was stuffed with gleaming steel cartridges that looked like miniature torpedos. The handle of his pistol protruding from the scuffed holster gleamed with the polish of use, as if the warmth of his palm had given it a permanent sheen of sweat.

  In one swift motion he laid the long blue-black barrel on the table, pointed at Benton’s stomach. His eyes were narrowed, and when I saw the green light in them I knew he was out of control.

  “Disarm this man,” he said coldly to Julio.

  Benton’s eyes flickered and blazed. But he was no killer. He let Julio pry his fingers from the handle and take the pistol.

  “You Englishmen!” It was Villa’s turn to rave. “You think you can do what you please in Mexico! You count Luis Terrazas as your benefactor—that Spanish pig! I’m sure you never cheated him, but I’d like to hear the tales told by your campesinos. You came here to threaten me! No, señor! You can’t do that. The man is not born who can do that to Francisco Villa.” He wheeled on Julio and Fierro. “I won’t waste a good bullet. Take him out and execute him.”

  Benton cried, “You wouldn’t dare!”

  I thought it time to get my two cents in. “Chief, he wasn’t going to shoot,” I said sharply. “And his friends will know he came here.”

  Julio agreed with me. His long face twitched. He said, “It’s a bad thing, chief.”

  Fierro and Dozal said nothing. Villa kept his angry gaze fastened on Benton, who returned it in kind—but he spoke to me and Julio. “You don’t understand these things, either of you. The harm is done. Do you think I can let a man live to boast that he called me a fool and then drew his pistol, and I did nothing?”

  He spun around on Fierro. “You heard me! Take him out of my sight! Execute him.”

  “Here in Juárez, my general?” Fierro asked carefully.

  “Handcuff him,” Villa said. “Go down to Samalayuca. Julio, take some soldiers to dig a grave. Tomás is right. We don’t need an uproar.”

  “Wait, chief.” I broke in again. “You can’t do this.”

  He glared at me. “What do you mean? What can’t I do?”

  “You can’t shoot this man in cold blood. He’s not an enemy. He’s not a prisoner. He didn’t try to cheat you the way Wentworth did. He hasn’t fought against us. You just can’t do it.”

  The glare turned Villa’s face the color of cream. I had learned that when a man’s face turns red with rage, there’s usually little danger of his taking violent action. But when his face turns pale, he is out of control. And this wasn’t any man—this was Pancho Villa.

  “You go too far, Tomás,” he said.

  I hated this. I hated my fear, but I hated even more what Villa had declared he would do.

  “I can’t let you kill him,” I said.

  Villa smirked, but not a drop of color flowed back into his cheeks. “Because he’s an Englishman, Tomás? Because he’s white like you?” His cold voice cut like the blade of a knife. “Is that it? You don’t mind killing Mexicans, even unarmed Mexicans, but you object to killing one of your own kind. Is that what you tell me?”

  Perhaps it was partly true. But only partly.

  “The man is innocent,” I said. “I won’t let you do it.”

  “You’re a fool. That means,” Villa said, “that you’ll have to die with him.”

  “You’d regret that, chief. I’ll regret it even more, but afterwards you’ll know you were wrong. You’ll know I was right, and you’ll hate yourself for the rest of your life.”

  That speech took all the courage I had. I didn’t think there was anything more I could say after that.

  I caught Julio’s eye. He was staring at me in undisguised horror. He believed I was already a dead man.

  Behind him, in the shadows of the hissing lamplight, Fierro regarded me with cool, impersonal eyes, but there was a flicker of anticipation in their depths. I suppose he thought he would receive the assignment, and nothing would please him more. He would keep his vow and the love of his master at one stroke. At his side, Juan Dozal looked at me scornfully.

  “Give me your pistol, Tomás.” Villa had still spoken coldly, with just a touch of regret. “Carefully.”

  I took a deep breath. “What about Benton, chief?”

  “I’ve given my orders about Benton. I can’t change them.”

  “Then I can’t give you my pistol.”

  I thought he would shoot me then. I had driven him too far, and for a moment he no longer knew who I was, no longer knew I was a man who had fought at his side at Torreón and Chihuahua, a man to whom he had entrusted the Division’s gold and had called his illegitimate son and promoted to major in front of General Pershing. He would remember eventually, but then it would be too late.

  “Disarm him too,” he said, giving the order to Dozal. Now his voice quivered too. “Take him with you to Samalayuca. Get rid of him. Julio, stay with me.”

  Dozal moved swiftly. I was in too much of a daze to resist. And resistance would have been impossible. I hadn’t known what I would do, but I knew what I couldn’t do, and that was shoot Pancho Villa.

  I had been bluffing, and the bluff” had failed—I had asked to die, and my wish was about to be granted. Dozal slipped the pistol from my holster as easily as a child is robbed of a toy.

  The world seemed to grow darker. I moved in a trance, out the door of the caboose, with Dozal, Fierro and Benton following me. A few strangled sounds came from Julio’s throat, but he knew that if he objected he would become a victim of Villa’s wrath as well. There were no goodbyes. Benton never said a w
ord. He was a braver man than I. He had accepted his fate. It was crazy—all of it was crazy.

  But it was happening.

  Still in that trance, I let myself be led to the other end of the railroad yard. In the darkness Fierro talked to some men, and five minutes later Benton and I were shoved into another caboose attached to an engine.

  The door slammed shut and was locked from the outside. The pitch-black caboose stank of rotting meat and old piss. I sank down in some damp straw, and almost immediately the engine shivered into life and began hauling us out of the Juárez yards, south toward Samalayuca.

  I couldn’t see Benton’s face. He was crouched only a few feet away from me, but he might as well have been on the other side of a wall.

  “Be brave, laddie,” he said. “Ye did the right thing. Ye have to die now, but so do we all. Yer bloody general will pay.”

  I stared into the inky darkness. I felt neither courage nor fear, and I experienced no sense of satisfaction. I felt only a drowsy sadness, as if I were dead already. I didn’t want to talk to Benton. He meant nothing to me, I realized. I had thrown away my life in the cause of conscience; I had failed the simple commandment of survival. Was that the right thing? I began to wonder. But it was too late.

  An hour later we reached Samalayuca. The caboose jerked to a halt … the engine sputtered and then shuddered to silence. A bolt rasped from outside, and the door of the caboose slid open. A moon gave a bit of light now, and the charcoal gray outline of a sombrero and a man’s head appeared at the door.

  Dozal’s voice said cheerfully, “Get out, señores.”

  Standing by the track, I realized that we were not in the railroad yards, but at a lonely part of the desert near the sleeping town. Stars blinked down. The stars were beautiful. I would never see them again.

  Fierro and half a dozen soldiers stood to one side, while Dozal shepherded us at pistol point to the shelter of some tall saguaro cactus. The cactus was a lovely, ghostly silvery green in the moonlight.