Stringer and the Border War

by Lou Cameron

  Villa shrugged and said, “I wish you’d stop calling them my federates. I got my own army, see?”

  Stringer blinked, stared ahead at the shimmering horizon to the south, and asked, “Where? No offense, but we seem to be all that’s left, ah, General.”

  Villa shrugged and said, “Is not important. As long as I am still alive, my army still exists. I told you I got licked before. Last time, they killed everybody but me and Hernan. We had to work in Texas as vaqueros for a few months. Then we came back to regroup, see?”

  Stringer replied, “Not hardly. Regroup what, if they’d just wiped you out?”

  Villa’s tone was that of an indulgent adult explaining the facts of life to a child as he said, “My army, of course. Look, in Chihuahua alone we got all the land owned by less than three thousand big shots. Terrazas alone owns half of it. That leaves two million, two whole million landless peon families, and my people raise big families. You think I got to work hard to recruit an army with Diaz working as my recruiting officer?”

  Stringer whistled. It was getting harder to do that as his lips kept getting drier. He didn’t see anyone lining up around here, but he was beginning to get the picture. Felicidad had told him her kind felt they had nothing to lose, and she was one tough little gal. Villa’s army was in his heart, or the hearts of his people. All they asked for was a rallying point and he still had that white horse, after all.

  They rode in line with the truck tracks for a spell, then one of the adelitas commented on the buzzards circling up ahead. Villa said, “I see them. They would not be up there if the thing they are watching was dead. You girls better stay here and hold the horses. Stringer and me will move in on foot to see what those birds are so interested in.”

  They all dismounted. The two men left the girls with the ponies in the sparse shade of the mesquites and followed the same shade up the dry river, guns ready. Stringer had his .38 out. Villa carried his cocked Winchester at port arms while his two six-guns rode his broad hips. For close to a mile, the only sound was the crunch of their boot heels in the crusted adobe. Then they both froze as they heard a low agonized moan.

  Finding where it was coming from took some doing. The dying man, or what was left of him, had crawled into the streamside brush to get out of the cruel sun. It hadn’t really done him much good. Someone had stripped him to the buff. Then they’d cut off his nose and eyelids. Then they’d peeled the soles of his feet to turn him loose on the hot desert grit to see how far he could make barefoot. As the mutilated wretch heard them coming he screamed in terror and raised his blood and sand-caked face to stare their way, blindly, with his widely staring but sunblinded eyes. Villa said, in a conversational tone, “Yaqui. Not him, the ones who caught him.”

  Stringer raised his gun muzzle. Villa said, “No! Do you want them mad at us, too? This one’s a federale. See how white his ankles are from cavalry boots? The Yaqui don’t like federales, either. Let us hope I knew what I was doing when I turned that Yaqui girl loose the other night. Meanwhile, we’d better get back to our own girls, and those ponies.”

  Stringer protested, “We can’t just leave him here like this!” To which Villa replied, coldly, “Why not? We didn’t do it to him, and is not as if we owe his kind any favors. Los Federales have less imagination than the Yaquis, but I have seen many a peon hung out to dry after a good lashing. Forget what you might have heard about us comic-opera greasers back in Columbus, my compassionate gringo scribe. Down this way, the game is played for keeps.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The Yaqui had taken only one federate alive When they found the army truck at the end of its tire tracks, a cloud of buzzards flew up from the dozen-odd bodies they’d been feeding on. They all dismounted so the girls could hold the spooked ponies as Stringer and Villa moved in on foot to see if they could read the story.

  Stringer climbed up into the cab and found the fuel gauge and water gauge read half-full. There were extra drums of water and what Villa called gasolino in the truck bed, along with the rifles of the motorized patrol and a couple of tin cases of extra ammo. There was no food. Villa didn’t seem surprised. He said, “I see what happened. They motored past our arroyo in the dark. The Yaqui would have seen their headlamps for miles. They stopped here to have breakfast or to turn around. That is when the Yaqui hit them. The stupid bastards didn’t even hold on to their guns when got out for to piss or whatever. I told you my army is better.”

  Stringer set the choke, made sure the gears were set right, and got out to walk around to the front of the tall beast and give the crank an experimental jerk. The engine caught on his second try. He said, “Nothing like starting warm.” But Villa just looked dubious and asked, “For why are you starting the engine? I was hoping the Yaqui had lost interest in this part of the world.”

  “Don’t be a chump,” Stringer said, “This truck is watered and gassed. We can outrun any mounted Indians or, hell, cavalry, as soon as we load the girls aboard.”

  Villa brightened but asked, “What about the horses?” and Stringer almost said something dumb before he reconsidered and said, “Sure. Why not? We may have to blindfold ‘em and have the girls hold them down on their sides. But it ought to work.”

  It did, after some effort. Horses just didn’t like to ride trussed like calves in the back of even a big motor truck. But they quickly made up the time lost, once they got rolling. As Villa rode beside Stringer in the passenger seat, he announced that he meant to add a motor corps to his army, as soon as he could steal more army trucks from the federales. He said, “War sure has gotten interesting since I started out back in the nineties. Hey, what do you think would happen if I led a motor brigade into Columbus and taught them not to be so fresh?”

  Stringer kept driving as he said, flatly, “Don’t. You’ve already got a Mexican army to fight. How would you like the U.S. Army chasing you as well? I can promise you they will if you ever raid on our side of the border, Pancho.”

  Villa shrugged and muttered, “Shit. Nobody can catch me here in Chihuahua. Is rough enough country for me to find my way around in!”

  Stringer was beginning to wonder if his would-be guide might not have a serious point by the time they’d driven a few more hours. Chihuahua seemed to just extend forever, looking much the same, until Villa, who must have had a map in his head, suggested they turn up out of the dry river bed, explaining, “Is a village ahead. Maybe five miles. A big gringo cattle company owns the land. We’ll find out when we get there who owns the people. More better we roll in unexpected, from the chaparral, no?”

  So they did. It wasn’t easy, and if the motor truck hadn’t been rolling on solid rubber tires they’d have never made it without a flat as they crunched over several varieties of sticker-bush bearing wicked spines. Stringer was trying to navigate by the distant purple mountains that ran north to south. Villa seemed to navigate by some inner compass. So they almost wound up lost and it was pushing sunset when they finally spotted an adobe church tower ahead, almost where Villa had promised it would be. Stringer slowed down, asking, “What’s the form? Don’t you think it would be safer to park out here a ways and scout in afoot?”

  Villa shook his head and said, “Keep going. If the people don’t like us, we’ll want to leave even faster. We got surprise on our side. Let’s keep it that way.”

  So Stringer drove right into town, hoping nobody would be sophisticated enough to aim the first shot at the driver.

  The villagers had obviously heard them coming. Not even a chicken was out in the open as the motor truck rolled in with its motor roaring and two ponies kicking in the back. Then Villa said, “Stop. Is not in enemy hands. Perhaps there is something to be said for absentee landlords after all, no?”

  Stringer followed his gaze to where someone had scrawled, “Viva Villa” in red paint on an adobe wall. But he left the engine running, just the same, as Pancho Villa stepped out on the running board to fire a pistol in the air and bellow, “Hey, where is everyb
ody? I am Villa! Where the fuck are you?”

  Then all hell broke loose. Even the village priest rushed out of the church to greet them, though he managed to refrain from crowing like a rooster. As the joyous crowd surrounded the truck, Stringer cut the ignition, muttering, “This must be the place.”

  It was. Paper lanterns were lit and strung across the plaza before the sun was all the way down. Meanwhile, someone had gotten the horses out of the back, and a dozen tough looking village youths had helped themselves to the rurale rifles and lined up at attention in hopes Pancho Villa would notice them. Villa did, after he’d had some tortillas and beans washed down with pulque to show he was a man of the people. Nobody else could stand pulque. As Stringer and the girls went on eating at the trestle table erected in front of the church, Villa sort of strutted back and forth in front of the line of kids, as if deep in thought. Everyone else was jabbering away, until he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and bellowed, “Atención!” Then you could have cut the silence with a knife.

  As the whole tiny town paid close attention, Villa intoned, “Bueno. In case you don’t know yet, Los Federates just gave me a good whipping. Some of my people may have gotten away. But don’t bet on it. So what have we got here? A gaggle of geese armed with guns they don’t know how to use, and a whole damned federal army hot on my heels, that’s what we got! You muchachos better run home to your mothers before you get hurt. Do you all want to die for nothing?”

  A skinny kid with a new rifle and a ragged shirt that looked older than he was shouted back, “No! We wish for to die for Mexico!” and that inspired everyone else to yell things like “Viva Villa!” or “Kill the rich bastards!” But, after they’d begged and pleaded a while, Villa raised a hand for silence and gruffly said, “Very well. You poor, dumb bastards get to form my honor guard. Now, I want any of you stupid cockroaches who own a gun to go get them and fall in with these heroic insects. You will probably all get killed. Even if you don’t get killed, I promise you nothing but a harder life than you are already living. No uniforms. No pay. Nothing but the joy of killing other dumb bastards until we win or die!”

  An old gray peon who looked too wise to talk so foolishly called out, “I have a gun. Is a muzzle loader. But it shoots straight, and any life led by a man is better than the life of a slave!”

  That occasioned more yelling. As Felicidad poured tequila for Stringer she murmured, “What did I tell you? Maybe we are cockroaches. Maybe we are just as hard for to get rid of, no?”

  Stringer didn’t argue. Later, after his adelita had found them a place to bed down in the alcalde’s house, they lay sated for the moment in each others’ arms while the fiesta outside kept on going. Someone was strumming a guitar. It was almost drowned out, as boisterous voices picked up the tune to shout as much as they sang the corrido of defiant silliness, beating time with bare heels or clapping hands as they serenaded their own helplessness, or Villa’s strength.

  In the silence of their cozy love nest, Felicidad murmured, “You would have to be one of us to understand, Stuarto. The words must seem crazy to you, no?”

  He patted her bare shoulder to reply, softly, “Not really. Once upon a time a British officer made up a silly ditty poking fun at the Yankee Militia. It caught on with us after Yankee Doodle sent Pitcairn’s redcoats reeling back to Boston one long, hot April day. I guess “La Cucaracha” ought to serve as well as a marching song, once it catches on.”

  Felicidad didn’t answer. That last climax, coming as it did after a long, hungry day followed by all that food and drink, had apparently been too much for her. Stringer just lay there listening, until he was heartily sick of hearing about a poor ragged-ass cockroach who didn’t have any marijuana, wanted some damned marijuana, and meant to just keep marching until he got some marijuana.

  He eased the adelita’s head off his naked shoulder. When she simply rolled her bare behind his way and sank deeper into the sleeping mat with a contented sigh, Stringer rolled the other way and groped on his duds, boots and gun-rig. He’d had as hard a day, but he couldn’t have fallen asleep this early if his life had depended on it, and his job, if not his life, depended on him getting back to file the story before it was cold.

  He knew a whole grandstand full of people, including other newspaper men, had witnessed the disastrous fight near the border. Sam Barca might forgive The Sun being scooped if they got to run a human interest Sunday feature on it. But not as ancient history, damn it!

  He found Pancho Villa still holding court at that table set up in front of the church. Villa waved him over and said, “Sit down. They just found some gringo liquor for us. Was the property of some ranch manager who better not show up if he knows what’s good for him. I just sent word to my followers on the surrounding haciendas. Nobody around here has ever followed me before. So I got to make sure I have more than enough green guns when we hit that silver mine up the river.”

  Stringer sat down and helped himself to some bourbon. Then he said, “Don’t include me in any silver mine raids. I’m still trying to get over that battle up north. Way up north, and I’d just as soon not follow you any farther south, Amigo.”

  Villa looked sincerely puzzled as he replied, “You got to. The mine is a day’s ride south. I need some money. I need the guns and dynamite they’ll have there. Most important, I need a real victory to make up for losing that battle with Los Federales. Don’t worry, I got my start raiding silver companies. The peons forced to work upstream for starvation wages won’t fight us. They never do. The people here tell me there is only a small guard detachment and a few gringo mine managers. They won’t be expecting us. The government just told everyone I have been killed by its brave troops, far, far away. We will cut their telegrafo wire before we move in and…”

  “Stop right there!” Stringer cut in, explaining, “It’s not my fight. I ride for the ‘Frisco Sun and I’m paid to publish everything I know. So, do you really want to let me in on how you mean to rob an international trust’s silver mine, Pancho?”

  Villa looked just as innocent as he answered, “Sure. I told you I liked you because you told the truth about me. I want you to report my victory just as it happens. By the time anyone on the others side can read your newspaper, me and my army won’t be anywhere near the gringo silver mine. I just want it known that I am not a cowardly bandit who shoots pigs and chickens and runs away from men. So listen, here is my plan…”

  “Damn it, Pancho,” Stringer cut in again, “I just told you I can’t afford to spend any more time down here with you. If I thought my tagging along would make a difference I might be willing to lose my job Por Mejico Libre. But it won’t. So it’s time I headed back and… about that army truck…”

  “I need it,” said Villa, flatly, adding, “Is part of my plan. There are always two-faced ones in every village who hope to better their lives by carrying tales to the other side. So we got to get up to that mine faster than a raton can push his caballo. Is plenty room in the back for the few soldados I picked up here. Maybe I can recruit some more closer to the mine. Either way, it will be close and I need surprise on my side, see?”

  Stringer tried, “Okay, if you’re taking the truck you ought to be able to spare me a pony. Just one lousy pony and maybe four canteens?”

  Villa shook his head gravely and said, “No. I like you too much to let the Yaqui have you. You would never make it on your own. Besides, I need you to drive the motor truck. I don’t know how. These others here, can barely ride a horse.”

  Stringer swore, Stringer pleaded, he even tried to get Villa drunk. But the stocky Mex was adamant, too intent on the big win he needed to feel the effects of mere booze, or even wed the alcalde’s daughter this time. When Stringer asked him about the girls they’d already married, Villa shrugged and told him, “They’ll catch up in time, if we win. If we lose, they’ll find some other band to follow. I have enough trouble moving my men around. Is the duty of an adelita to get there the best way she can. Do not pester me about pu
ssy when I am planning more serious matters, you gringo Don Juan. When a man is winning, he has no need for to look for women. They flock to winners as the tumble weed piles against the fence. Is only the losers who have to jerk themselves off. You will see, if you ride with me just a little further. After we improve our fortunes at that silver mine, you shall be free to ride home in style. There is a railroad from the silver smelters to the main line. After we finish plundering the place, I mean to load my army aboard the company train and strike at Durango next. Nobody will expect us to hit that far south, and they got lots of nice banks in Durango. But you can catch a train north to El Paso if you don’t want to watch us rob banks. We won’t rob any trains until you are safely on your way. I told you I liked you.”

  Stringer didn’t answer. He left the rest of his booze right where it was and got up to find a private place to ponder. There had to be a better way to get back to the states. He dismissed a heap of notions as he sat on the church steps away from the crowd, rolling Bull Durham as much to keep his hands from shaking than from any real desire to smoke. Stealing a horse would be easy enough, he knew, and he doubted Villa would follow him. But the federale the Yaqui had worked over had sure looked miserable. Stringer idly wondered if he was dead by now. How long could a guy last, and how far could he wander, with the soles of his feet peeled off like that, even if he could still see?

  Stringer knew the Mex authorities wouldn’t treat him a whole lot better if they caught him robbing silver mines with outlaws. For, bandit or liberator, Villa was an outlaw to the Diaz regime. One of the nicer ways Mex lawmen treated outlaws was by forcing them to dig their own graves, gut-shooting them, and burying them alive. That might not smart as much as being tortured by Yaqui, but it wasn’t anything Stringer really wanted to experience first hand. He finally finished rolling his smoke, and as he struck a match on the stone steps to light it muttered, “I don’t see why Villa’s being so optimistic. We’re sure to get mowed down by the company guns if we hit a mine in bandit country with a lousy handful of green kids!”