The Warlords

by Matt Braun

  “Wouldn’t that please the Germans?” Parker said acidly. “A force of five hundred crossing the Rio Grande would give the Germans exactly what they want. Congress would almost certainly declare war on Mexico.”

  A moment of silence fell over the three men. The prospect of war with Mexico, until now an abstract concept, suddenly seemed all too real. The raids, even with the brutal deaths of innocent people, were incidents that would eventually result in the capture or killing of those responsible. But the idea of an organized military force crossing the border raised the specter of America waging war on Mexico for the second time in less than a century. No reasonable man savored the thought of nations brought to conflict on the battlefield.

  “There’s more,” Gordon said at length. “Our agents report that Luis Vasquez hasn’t returned to Matamoras. The logical assumption would be that he’s joined Garza—probably in Monterrey.”

  “I’d lay money on it,” Maddox said firmly. “For both of them to disappear means there’s something big in the works. Mexicans like to sit around and hatch a plot that’ll make ’em all heroes.”

  “A war council?” Parker ventured. “Perhaps there’s someone in Monterrey—another Huerta loyalist—working with Garza to organize a military campaign. The conspiracy might be larger than we suspected.”

  “Only one trouble,” Maddox said. “We won’t know anything till they make a move. We’re operatin’ in the dark.”

  Parker considered a moment. “Would it be possible to send your agents to Monterrey? Or is that too risky?”

  “Way too risky,” Maddox observed. “Martinez would be recognized by Garza and Vasquez. Vargas would tip his hand the minute he started askin’ questions in a strange town. Never work.”

  “Hoyt’s right,” Gordon said. “We have to wait until Garza or Vasquez comes back to Matamoras. Odds are they will, if for no other reason than Otto Mueller. He’s their conduit to the Germans.”

  “That reminds me,” Parker said, taking an envelope from his desk drawer. “A letter came for you from Washington. It was sent to my attention.”

  Gordon opened the envelope. The letter was from Forrest Holbrook, head of the U.S. Bureau of Investigation. He related that Victoriano Huerta and Colonel Franz von Kleist were still in New York City, and, according to surveillance agents, the men had twice met with the utmost secrecy. There had also been another meeting between von Kleist and Alberto Flores, the representative of Pancho Villa. The mood in Washington, Holbrook noted, was one of apprehension and a high state of alert. President Wilson had authorized whatever measures necessary to avert a war with Mexico.

  When Gordon finished reading the letter, he passed it around first to General Parker and then to Maddox. Parker made no immediate comment, but Maddox wagged his head with a troubled frown. “These Germans are slick customers,” he said. “Workin’ both ends against the middle with Villa and Garza. There’d be hell to pay if those two ever got together.”

  “Small chance of that,” Parker remarked. “Whatever the circumstance, Villa would never trust a Huerta loyalist. Besides, he’s too busy trying to overthrow Carranza.”

  Gordon looked puzzled. “Something about that I still don’t understand. Why does Carranza allow Garza and the Army of Liberation to operate so openly? I can’t believe he’d risk war with the United States.”

  “Actually, two reasons,” Parker said. “All of Carranza’s military leaders are corrupt, willing to look the other way if the price is right. General Nafarrate, the commander of the Matamoras district, is an excellent example.”

  “You think Garza paid him off?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Particularly with the Germans bankrolling the operation. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant Maddox?”

  “Yessir, I sure would,” Maddox said. “Nafarrate’s a bandit in a fancy uniform. He’d sell his own mother.”

  “I suppose money talks,” Gordon noted, again glancing at Parker. “You said there were two reasons they overlook Garza’s private war.”

  Parker smiled grimly. “Pancho Villa is something of a tactical genius. Nafarrate, and the commander in Monterrey, have their hands full keeping him at bay. They have neither the time nor the troops to police the border—and Garza.”

  “Even if it leads to war with the United States?”

  “I seriously doubt they believe that will happen. To them, Garza is just another rabble-rouser in a land of rabble-rousers. One more fly in the ointment.”

  “So we won’t get any help from the Mexican government? Garza is our problem.”

  “I would say that sums it up rather nicely.”

  Gordon, with no little irony, felt like a Gypsy with a crystal ball. The future was all too clear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Late that morning Augustin Garza stepped off the train in Reynosa. Despite the sweltering heat in the passenger coach, he wore a jacket to conceal the pistol stuck in the waistband of his trousers. The breeze from the river was a welcome relief.

  Luis Vasquez waited on the platform outside the depot. He waved to Garza with a wide grin and moved through the crowd of passengers hurrying off the train from Monterrey. Garza pulled him into a backslapping abrazo.

  “Hola, Luis,” he said. “Cómo esta usted?”

  “Muy bueno,” Vasquez replied. “All is well in Monterrey?”

  “Si, muy bien. Hinojosa has established an excellent training camp on his ranch. He feels confident we will have at least three thousand men by early September.”

  “That is truly good news, mi coronel. And what of transport for the troops?”

  Garza laughed. “Carranza’s army is led by corrupt patriots. Maurillio Rodriguez, who controls the railways in Monterrey, will provide the trains we need. His greed made him cooperative.”

  Vasquez had horses hitched outside the depot. They mounted and rode toward a broad plaza, which was a mile or so south of the Rio Grande. Reynosa was directly across the river from Hidalgo, Texas, and some fifty miles west of Matamoras. The town cathedral was built of quarried pink stone, with figures of the twelve apostles carved in baroque style on the façade. Crowds of people moved through the stalls of open-air vendors on the plaza.

  “What of the raids?” Garza asked, as they approached the plaza. “Everything happened as we planned?”

  “Just as you ordered,” Vasquez said. “We burned down three ranches and killed five gringos. All of our men escaped without injury.”

  “So you were able to elude the army patrols?”

  “These Americano soldiers are like blind men once the sun goes down. They are helpless in the dark.”

  “Let us hope it remains so on the night we invade Texas. Who is the jefe we talk with today? Remind me of his name.”

  “Benito Sarajevo.”

  Vasquez led the way across the plaza. They reined to a halt before the municipal building, opposite the cathedral, and left their horses hitched outside. Benito Sarajevo, the mayor of Reynosa, was short and slim, with spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He looked up from his desk as they came through the door of his cluttered office. He peered at them over his glasses.

  “Que quieres?” he said waspishly. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Garza gave him a riveting look. “I am Colonel Augustin Garza, commander of the Army of Liberation. You have heard of me?”

  “Si,” Sarajevo said. “I have seen your handbills and know of your raids over the river. Why are you here?”

  “We are building a camp outside town. There will be many men there, and you will hear of this. You may think it wise to inform the authorities.”

  “What is this camp for?”

  “Do not concern yourself,” Garza said. “Nor should you feel obligated to speak of it to anyone. Comprende?”

  Sarajevo sat rigid and erect. “I do not take orders from you, señor. Get out!”

  “Luis, explain it to him.”

  Vasquez pulled a pistol from beneath his jacket. He placed the m
uzzle between Sarajevo’s eyes. “Your silence will buy your life, little man. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sarajevo blinked behind his spectacles. “Si,” he whispered in a shaky voice. “Yo entiendo.”

  “Think of it as a blessing,” Garza said, motioning Vasquez aside. “We will bring business to your merchants, for supplies are needed and there are men to feed. Everyone prospers, es verdad?”

  “True,” Sarajevo agreed quickly. “Prosperity is a good thing.”

  “Tell the people of your village not to talk of our camp with outsiders. Anyone who speaks of our presence should do so with his rosary beads in hand. Do you take my meaning?”

  “Sin falta,” Sarajevo said, bobbing his head. “My people will cause you no problems, señor. I will see to it.”

  “I knew we could count on your cooperation. Muchas gracias.”

  Outside, Garza and Varquez rode south from the plaza. An hour or so later, they turned west along a rushing stream and soon came to a copse of trees bordered by broken limestone hills. Miguel Barragan and Juan Cross, along with the cadre of raiders, were clearing brush and constructing scattered fire pits for cooking. Everyone briefly stopped work while Garza moved among them, shaking hands and congratulating them on the recent raids. The men treated him with the respect reserved for a commander who led them into battle with no thought for his own safety.

  Vasquez then took him on a walking tour of what was to be the staging area for the invasion of Texas. He explained that he had chosen the site for its proximity to the railway line, which was slightly more than two miles to the east. The trains from Monterrey could be stopped south of Reynosa, and the men marched to the bivouac encampment along the stream. There was ample water, graze beyond the hills for a horse herd, and the location was removed from farms and ranches in the countryside. All things considered, it was the best site he’d found to suit their needs.

  “You have done well,” Garza complimented him. “We will camp here for two days, three at the most. No longer than it takes to organize our brigade for the attack on Texas.”

  “We will need horses,” Vasquez said. “How do we go about buying so many mounts without arousing suspicion?”

  “I have arranged that with Hinojosa. The horses will be purchased from distant rancheros in Nuevo Leon and trailed here. We cannot have three or four thousand mounted men seen on the road from Monterrey.”

  “Caramba, that never occurred to me! Carranza’s troops would believe Pancho Villa was again on the march. You think of everything, mi coronel.”

  “I try, Luis.”

  Late that afternoon, one of the men, a cook in his former life, prepared supper for the raiders. The meal was simple fare, suitable for cooking over an open fire, all of it purchased at the plaza in Reynosa. He served tortillas, frijoles, and cabrito, kid goat roasted on spits. The men devoured everything, hungry after a day of hard work in the blistering sun. Coffee, sweetened with lumps of brown sugar, was their dessert.

  Dusk found them grouped around fires, seated on handwoven wool serapes that served as bedding during the night. Garza sat talking with his commanders, the men smoking and sipping coffee as darkness settled over the land. Barragan was in his early forties, a hard man who rarely smiled, and Cross, his mixed-blood son-in-law, looked more Negro than Mexican. Vasquez listened as Garza finished briefing the two men on the training camp outside Monterrey.

  “We will have a brigade of cavalry,” Garza said. “I plan to cross the river in early September, and we will destroy everything in our path. Thousands of Tejanos will join our ranks when our strength becomes known.”

  “And the Americano soldiers?” Barragan asked. “They have now been reinforced, and even more are stationed on the upper Rio Grande. How do we overcome their numbers?”

  “We will hit and run, Miguel. Strike where they are weakest, and choose the time and place for battle. We will defeat them with the guerrilla tactics of light cavalry that lives off the land.”

  “I wish the attack was tomorrow, mi coronel.”

  “Tomorrow will come soon enough.” Garza glanced across the fire at Cross. “Tell me, Juan, have you been talking with the Negro people? Will they join our cause when we invade Texas?”

  “I am sure of it,” Cross said earnestly. “Their hatred of gringos is no less than ours. They await only a signal that we will wage war in strength.”

  “Then we must give them hope in the days ahead. Until the brigade arrives, we will take the fight to our enemies. Even more raids than before!”

  Garza told them how death would be visited on Texas.

  Garza returned to Matamoras the next afternoon. As he stepped off the train, he marked the date at July 15. He felt he’d accomplished a great deal in the month since his first meeting with the Germans. Soon, he told himself, the Army of Liberation would truly be an army.

  Outside the depot he brushed past a street vendor selling cigars and cigarettes to people on the platform. The train station was busy, and one more vendor hawking wares failed to arouse his attention. He moved through the crowd, unaware that the vendor followed a short distance behind. He walked toward the plaza.

  A short time later he approached the house on Calle 5. He thought of it as a headquarters more than a home, and he’d left one of his men to speak with those who inquired about the Army of Liberation. For now, though, he was intent on a shave and a change of clothes before he called on Otto Mueller at the consulate. He hurried through the door.

  The front room served as the headquarters office, and his man was seated at a crude wooden desk. Another man rose from a chair along the wall and moved forward with a sad smile and an outstretched hand. Garza was at first surprised, then shocked, when he recognized the man as Aniceto Pizana. He thought his friend looked haggard, somehow aged.

  “Valgame Dios!” he said, accepting the handshake. “I did not expect to see you here, Aniceto.”

  Pizana lifted his arms in a weary shrug. “Much has happened since we last met. I have come to join your fight for freedom.”

  “You are welcome, compadre, most welcome. But your eyes tell me things are not well. Verdad?”

  “Si, muy malo.”

  Pizana went on to relate details of the raid on his home. He explained how he’d been falsely accused by John Scrivner, a neighboring rancher, and the gun battle that followed with the Texas Rangers. His youngest son had been grievously wounded, losing a leg to a surgeon’s knife, and he was waiting for the boy’s recovery before moving his family to Mexico. He had escaped after his vaquero was killed and made his way across the border, hiding by day and traveling at night. He was here now to enlist in the struggle for liberation.

  “I want to fight,” he concluded, his eyes fierce with hate. “I will give my life to drive the gringos from Texas.”

  “Dios no se acobarda,” Garza said. “God does not flinch. Nor will we in our fight for liberty. We will avenge your son’s loss.”

  “I serve at your command, mi coronel. How can I assist in the cause?”

  “Aniceto, I hereby commission you a capitán in the Army of Liberation. You will lead a company of men in our war on the yanqui imperialistas.”

  Garza got him quartered in a bedroom at the rear of the house. While he was shaving and changing clothes, he briefed Pizana on the pact with the Germans, and how, very soon, a trained army would march on Texas. He explained that Luis Vasquez would return in a week or so, and they would then plan a series of raids across the river. He left Pizana reeling with the possibilities for revenge.

  Shortly before three o’clock, Garza walked around the corner to the German Consulate. His mind was on more weighty matters, and he again failed to notice the street vendor who trailed him on the opposite side of Calle Morelos. A servant admitted him at the door of the consulate, and he followed the hall to Mueller’s office. Mueller looked up from his desk with a sharp frown.

  “Well, Herr Garza, you finally grace us with your presence. Where have you been for the last week?” />
  “Monterrey,” Garza said, seating himself in a chair. “I told you of my trip before I left.”

  “Yes, but you said nothing of being gone so long. What have you to report?”

  “The training camp outside Monterrey is now operational, and railroad transport has been arranged to the border. We will have a brigade of at least three thousand men by early September.”

  “Mein Gott!” Mueller barked. “September is six weeks away. We need action now!”

  “There is a Mexican proverb,” Garza said calmly. “Un cabello hace sombra. Even a hair casts a shadow.”

  “Do not try my patience with riddles. What is your point?”

  “Today you see a shadow and tomorrow you will see an army.”

  “Indeed!” Mueller said with heavy sarcasm. “September is not tomorrow.”

  Garza ignored the gibe. “I have just come from Reynosa, where we are clearing a staging area for the attack. The brigade will be transported there by train—in September.”

  “Your army crawls like a centipede to war, Herr Garza. What are your plans in the meantime?”

  “Vasquez and our men will return from Reynosa before too long. I intend to conduct more raids into Texas.”

  “You and your raids,” Mueller said in a sour tone. “Germany expects more for its financial support.”

  Garza stared at him. “I will need arms and munitions for four thousand men. No later than one month from today.”

  “A moment ago you said three thousand men.”

  “The shadow of the hair grows larger, señor. We must plan for four thousand.”

  “Very well, you will have your arms.”

  “Gracias.”

  The conversation ended on that note. When Garza was gone, Mueller began drafting a report to Colonel von Kleist. He labored to put the best face on the situation, all too aware that von Kleist would not be pleased by further delay. As he wrote, he silently cursed Garza and the plodding pace of the Army of Liberation. He thought it small wonder the Mexican Revolution dragged on endlessly.