Leaving Yuma

by Michael Zimmer

  “I sent a man to Tres Pinos by rail last week to see what he could learn of the situation. I was hoping to bring the negotiations closer to Arizona. Three days later I received a wooden box in the mail containing the man’s head. It was packed in sand, and had a bullet hole behind his right ear.”

  I swore softly. “Then, yeah, they mean what they say.” After a pause, I asked, “You’ve got connections down here, why haven’t you gone through them?”

  Davenport considered my question for a moment, then nodded toward the next room. I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that all of those rooms along the north wall were joined by interconnecting doorways. Davenport was renting the whole side, and had the interior doors thrown open to create a cross breeze.

  We went into the room next door, where a dark-skinned man sitting in a rocking chair was covering both doors with a sawed-off, pump-action shotgun. Although dressed in the traditional garb of a vaquero—dark trousers split up the side to show off his calzoncillos, or ankle-length cotton drawers, a gray linen shirt I suspect had once been white, and a dark, short-waisted jacket—he looked more Indian than Spanish to me. A sweat-stained sombrero rested on the floor beside him, and he was armed, in addition to the shotgun, with a large-frame revolver holstered at his waist. He studied me closely as I entered the room, his eyes lingering for a moment on the manacles, then shifting back to Davenport as if awaiting instructions. I’ll say this for him, at least he didn’t jump to his feet to kowtow before the big man like Del seemed to be doing.

  Davenport, for his part, ignored the stocky Indio as he led me to a stack of unpainted wooden crates. My eyes widened when I read the lettering stenciled across the three largest boxes: M1895 Colt-Browning machine gun. Stacked beside them were another twelve crates, smaller but heavier, reading: .30 Government. Suddenly the old man’s desire to take the back way into Sabana made perfect sense.

  “This,” Davenport said heavily, “is the ransom Chito Soto has demanded of me, and which was in my power to deliver. I believe you can understand now why using the railroad is out of the question. I’m told that news of these guns is already spreading across Sonora, and that is another reason haste is so imperative. We have to get these guns to Sabana before Porfirio Díaz’s Federales learn of our whereabouts, and ride to intercept us.” He swung around to face me, pegging me solidly with those hard, blue eyes. “So I’ll ask you once more, Latham. Can you get us there … in time?”

  Excerpted from

  A Description of the Model 1895 Colt Machine Gun, Its Use and Operation

  by Colonel Robert Percy, US Army (Ret.)

  Potomac Press, 1952

  The Model 1895 Colt machine gun was the United States’ first gas-operated, belt-fed, automatic firearm. (Editor’s note: The hyphenated Colt-Browning designation is a fairly recent adaptation; its use in the Latham transcript is to avoid confusion with other Colt firearms referenced in his recordings.)

  * * * * *

  [It was] chambered in 6 mm Lee Navy, 7x57 mm Mauser, .30-40 Krag, .30-06 Springfield, .303 British, and 7.62x54 mm [Russian].

  * * * * *

  [The gun’s] heavy fore-end was largely the result of the Model 1895’s unique gas operation, which employed a swinging piston under the barrel. Upon firing, gas from the cartridge’s detonation [muzzle blast] was channeled through a port approximately 15 cm. [6 in.] from the muzzle, actuating the piston in a rearward swing [like a lever-action rifle in reverse], thus chambering the next round as it expelled the empty brass. (Editor’s note: Small changes have been made to the text of Percy’s description to clarify the gun’s operation for persons unfamiliar with military/firearms jargon.)

  When the gun was positioned close to the ground, this backward motion of the piston would often dig a small trench under the barrel, resulting in the gun’s nickname of “potato digger.”

  Feed was from the left side of the firearm, via a cloth ammunition belt carried in a box that mounted to the gun’s frame. (Editor’s note: Latham makes no mention of these boxes in his recordings, and, in fact, seems to imply that they didn’t have them.)

  * * * * *

  Tripods were adjustable for elevation and free traverse movement … with a rate of fire of approximately 400 rpm [rounds per minute]. The gun weighed 16 kg [about 35 pounds]; standard-issue tripods added another 28 pounds to the load.

  Session Four

  The sun was down but it was still light out when I left the Moralos Hotel and made my way across the plaza to the stables. Spence McKenzie already had the Berkshire under wraps when I got there, and was sitting on the passenger sideboard, smoking a cigarette. Squinting at me through a haze of smoke, he said, “The old man about done making threats, is he?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Spence shook his head ruefully. “I’ve been workin’ for the ol’ boy nigh onto two years now. ’Tis a fair job when he’s away on business, though stressful when he’s close by. That thing he said about shootin’ Pedro in the foot, he means it.”

  “I figured as much.”

  Spence sighed and leaned back against the automobile’s door, sheathed in canvas. “When are we leavin’, did he say?”

  “It appears we’re waiting for more mules. He told Buchman he sent a man to Nogales a few days ago to pick up a couple more head.” I glanced inside the livery’s main entrance. It looked cool and inviting, but was empty.

  “They’re out back,” Spence said. “Four stout mules and a half dozen saddle horses, minus what Davenport’s man took with him to Nogales. The old fool’s hired four of us to handle his pack string, as if two weren’t twice as many as we needed.”

  I squatted in the dirt nearby and Spence tossed me the makings. “Who’s he got?” I asked, stripping a piece of paper from the pack and shaping it with a forefinger.

  “Luis Vega and Carlos and Felix Perez. I think them Perez boys are cousins, though I wouldn’t swear to it. Do ye know ’em, by chance?”

  “I’ve heard of Vega.”

  “Aye, a good man, that one. The Perez boys hail from over around Chihuahua. Showed up in Tucson about a year ago. They’re good packers, or so they’d tell ye, although I don’t believe I’d turn me back on either of ’em.”

  I nodded as I put the finishing touches on my cigarette. After pulling the drawstring closed with my teeth, I returned the sack and the little bible of papers to Spence. He offered me his cigarette to light my smoke from.

  “You said he’s got four packers,” I remarked casually, wanting to feel him out, to know what kind of man I’d be sharing the trail with.

  “Aye, I’ll be the big chief when it comes to the mules, though I kinda wish I hadn’t told the old bugger I used to pack for Crook against the ’Paches.”

  I looked up at that. “You rode with Crook?”

  “Packed for him and Miles both. I was with Lawton when he went into Mexico after Geronimo in 1886. All the way to the Sierra Madres and back, and not a mule lost out of me own string, although I’ll allow ’twas a hard trip for man and beast alike, and more than a few that didn’t come back from those high, godless peaks.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll be damned. I was just a kid, living in Holbrook, when troopers from Fort Bowie brought the last of the Apaches up there to ship them to Florida. I remember the soldiers held the Indians outside of town, afraid some of the good citizen of Holbrook might start taking pot shots at them if they were brought to the depot. They might’ve, too. Folks around there sure did hate the Apaches.”

  “A lot of ’em still do.”

  I nodded absently, recalling that early September day when Pa took me and my brothers out to see the defeated warriors. The soldiers wouldn’t let us get too close, but even from a distance we could recognize some of the more important figures. There were several, like old Nana, and I think Peaches was there, but it’s Geronimo who stands out vividly in my mind, sitting with quiet dignity in the bac
k of a wagon, guards on every side and throngs of gawkers feathering the nearby hills for a better view. It was like a circus had come to town, and it shames me still to remember the way the old warrior stared out over our heads into that vast land he had to know he was leaving forever. It was as if no other creature existed on earth but him, and I felt like an intruder watching him, no better than a peeping Tom.

  “Well, ’twas a sorry business, for sure,” Spence acknowledged after an awkward silence. “It did end the Apache Wars, though. I doubt there be a soul alive today in Arizona who doesn’t believe the old bugger would’ve jumped the reservation again if he’d been allowed to stay.”

  “Likely he would have,” I agreed, but I thought Spence was right, too, when he called it a sorry business, shipping that proud old man and his followers out of the territory like so much cattle to market.

  Over by the cantina a tall man in a knee-length leather duster was standing beside the Wagner motorcycle, pulling on a pair of gloves with flared gauntlets. He was wearing what looked like a leather helmet, and had goggles pushed up on his forehead. His boots were tall, disappearing up under his riding coat—additional protection from cactus, I supposed.

  Spence and I watched as he straddled the machine, still up on its rear axle stand. He fiddled a moment with a pair of controls mounted to the top of the frame, then started pedaling like his life depended on it. After a few seconds, Spence chuckled. “That boy ought to get hisself a bicycle. He’d be a mile down the road by now, and no less exhausted.”

  I didn’t reply. I’d come to the livery to have a look at Davenport’s mules, but I was wishing I’d gone to the cantina, instead. I would have liked to have talked to that guy, find out who he was and where he was going. But mostly I wanted to ask him about the Wagner, and why he was riding that instead of a horse.

  He kept pedaling vigorously until the whole bike jumped like it was coming apart, and a burst of blue-gray smoke spurted from its exhaust. The engine sputtered to life, its deathly rattling quickly smoothing out—as the Berkshire’s had under Spence’s skilled hands—as the rider made his adjustments. After disengaging the chain that ran from the rear wheel to the starter, he shoved the shifter into first gear to tighten the large, leather primary drive. When he was ready, he pushed the cycle off its stand, rolling crookedly until he was able to pick up some speed. With a shout and a wave to the knot of well-wishers who’d followed him out of the cantina, the cyclist hauled back on the throttle and roared east into the desert.

  “Where do ye suppose he’s headin’?” Spence asked reflectively.

  “I don’t know. There’s not much out there except cactus and scrub until you get to Nogales, but that’s a good long ways away.”

  “Do ye reckon he’ll make it?”

  “I guess he’s made it this far,” I replied. I hated to think what would become of him if he broke down out there, though. Grinding my cigarette out under my heel, I pushed to my feet and headed for the livery. “You say the mules are in back?”

  “Aye, ye’ll find ’em. The old man’s are the only ones out there.”

  I walked down the center aisle, then out the back door. The mules and horses were all in one corral, feeding on hay that had been recently forked into the lot. Leaning against the top rail, I studied the remuda in the softening light. Someone had chosen well, I thought, watching the animals mill around the piles of loose hay. My attention kept coming back to a chunky bay mare with three white socks and a narrow snip down her muzzle. She must have sensed my interest, because, even as she continued to eat, she would move around behind the other animals, always keeping two or three of them between us.

  Her obstinacy brought a smile to my face. I liked a smart horse. They weren’t as easy to manipulate as a dumber mount, but I’d never been the kind who needed to assert my authority over any animal. It’s better to work in partnership with a horse if you can, especially in the desert, where a lot of times your life depended as much on your mount as it did finding the next water hole.

  If not for the manacles I would have tried to rope her out of the bunch and work with her a little, just to introduce myself and see how she responded, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle a reata with twelve inches of chain between my wrists, and decided it would set a wrong example if I tried to catch her and failed.

  “Mañana, chica,” I called softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The light was dimming rapidly as I made my way across the dusty plaza. The cantina’s front door had been thrown open at sunset to welcome the cooling evening breezes, and the soft light and gentle strumming of a guitar seemed to beckon me. I paused in the door, breathing deeply of the familiar odors, and for a moment I experienced a vague sense of loss. Four years gone forever, thanks to Del Buchman’s treachery.

  Candles flickering from sconces driven into the adobe walls created pockets of light and shadow. The hard-packed dirt floor had been recently swept and sprinkled. The guitar player was sitting at a table across the room with his feet propped on an empty chair, a clay mug and bottle of mescal within easy reach. There must have been twenty or more others scattered around the room, most of them sloped forward over their tables or leaning back in their chairs, the day’s weariness etched across their features. The majority of them were men, but there were a few women, mostly wives sharing a drink with their husbands. There were no whores. Archuleta had never employed any, and Moralos had never been large enough or successful enough to attract independent hookers.

  A slim man in a high-peaked sombrero leaning against the rear wall caught my eye, but I ignored him and walked to the bar. Jorge Archuleta came waddling down the business side of the counter, a broad grin plastered across his sweaty face, his eyes nearly lost above plump brown cheeks.

  “Ah, Latham, my old friend!” Jorge exclaimed, swinging his bulk around to face me across the bar. “It has been a long time, hombre.”

  “Four years,” I said.

  “Sí, I remember.” He nodded toward the far end of the bar. “You were standing there when the lawman called Buchman put the shotgun into your back and took you away in chains.” He glanced at my wrists, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Now he brings you back the same way?”

  I chuckled softly. “Some things don’t change, amigo.”

  “Still, four years is a long time. I hope you have not been wearing these bracelets since you last left us.”

  “No, I just came back for a visit, and to have some of your fine Cerveza Grande.”

  The fat man’s eyes sparked with unexpected anger. “Ay chihuahua, that beer is no more, my friend. Bandits have taken over Sabana, and hog the beer and mescal for themselves.”

  “All of it?” I asked in surprise.

  “Sí. I have mescal that is locally produced and very good, but no beer. Not in over a year.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have the mescal,” I said, propping my elbows on the bar and making no effort to hide the manacles. I knew everyone had already seen them, and those who hadn’t had probably heard about them. Moralos was a small town, and gossip travels fast, no matter what the language.

  Bringing out a clay jug stoppered with a piece of corncob, Jorge splashed a hefty dose into a clay tumbler of the same dull color—locally made, I assumed, like the mescal.

  Raising the stubby mug in a salute, I murmured, “Arriba, abajo, al centro y por de dentro,” which means “Up, down, center, and in.” I threw back a healthy shot, then worked hard to suppress a shudder. Lowering the mug, I stared at its contents as if I’d heard a voice from within calling my name. Across the counter, Jorge grinned knowingly.

  “You see, Latham, it is not good as what you used to bring me from Sabana.”

  “It isn’t as good as most burro piss,” I stated hoarsely. “Who’s taken over Sabana, and what happened to the Federales who were stationed there?” I asked it casually, like I’d never heard of a man named Chi
to Soto, or an Army of Liberation, but I figure Jorge already suspected an ulterior motive in my question. There were too many gringos in Moralos not to know something was going on.

  “Chito Soto controls Sabana. He took over the town more than a year ago, and told the Federales that they could either join his forces or be executed as enemies of the revolution. Then, to prove his seriousness, he stood the captain and two lieutenants against the wall of the church and shot all three of them in the head.” He touched a spot behind his right ear. “Here.”

  I remembered Davenport telling me about the man he’d sent to Tres Pinos, and how his head had come back in a box with a single bullet wound in that same location. “Sounds like a mean son of a bitch,” I said. “Where did he come from?”

  “He claims to be a major in Castillo’s army, but I don’t think so. I think he is a thief who masquerades as a leader in a revolution that does not exist. They say that for two days after he took over the Sabana Valley, the rivers there ran red with blood.” (Editor’s note: Despite smaller insurgencies in prior years, including, apparently, the Castillo Revolution, the historically recognized Mexican Revolution, led by Francisco Madero, did not begin until 1910.)

  “Wait a minute, who is Castillo?”

  Jorge gave me a puzzled glance. “You have not yet heard of Adolpho Castillo?” He chuckled. “Do not worry, hombre, you soon will. Adolpho Castillo is el general uno of the Army of Liberation, or at least that is his claim. Personally I think that, like Soto, he is merely another bandit, although it is said that his hatred for Porfirio Díaz is a wonder to behold. Like lava from Colima, it scorches everything in its path. Fortunately for you, amigo, Castillo is far to the south, in the mountains of Durango, where he hides from Díaz’s Federales.”

  “What about Soto? How many men does he have?”