Chasing Pancho Villa

by R. L. Tecklenburg

  “Did you stop the mutineers?”

  “Hell no. It was too damn late by then. One hundred or more armed Niggers were marching through. They started shooting—in the air, mostly, but we lost one right there. Our boys were overwhelmed.

  “How would you describe my brother’s actions that night?”

  “He did his job,” Floyd said. “Then the major ordered him to stop them right there before they could march into town. Major Snow ordered him to stop them. A direct order. I heard it. The Major was yelling, ‘shoot them!’ But your brother refused to obey it. The Niggers marched right into town, shooting the place up. They killed civilians. Hell, even shot a couple of Houston policemen right off their horses. Fifteen people were killed. It took about three days to put out all the fires. It was a damn mess, Mr. James. And we could have prevented it right there at the gate. Our boys were armed, too.”

  “That is a tough decision to have to make, isn’t it?” Harrison said, thinking out loud.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. James. I don’t want to second guess your brother, but I think it would have saved lives to have followed that order.” Floyd stopped, turned painfully to face the civilian. “Our orders were clear, sir. We were ordered to stop them. Major Snow ordered Captain James to halt the mutineers. But….”

  “But, lieutenant?”

  “He was under orders to fire, yet he refused to obey that lawful order. Perhaps even a necessary order to protect lives and property.”

  “I see,” was all Harrison said in response. Bart’s refusal confused him. He knew that the French routinely shot mutineers, and the British hung them. They did it to preserve discipline. Had his brother failed in his duty? Had he then killed himself from shame?

  “Our most basic duty, sir, is to follow orders. Please understand that. As officers in the United States Army, we are trained from the beginning to follow orders. Even the Nigger soldiers understand that.”

  “Would the men have obeyed such an order, to shoot their own?” Harrison asked.

  “I don’t know. But they, too, are soldiers in the United States Army. To quote the regulations: ‘Obedience to orders is the vital principle of military life. The fundamental rule in peace and war, for all inferiors through all grades from General of the Army to the newest recruit.’ Sir, not only West Point graduates, but all soldiers entering the Army are instructed on this point.”

  Harrison shrugged. “Do you think his actions that night had something to do with his suicide, Lieutenant Floyd?”

  “Everything, sir. His life was the Regiment. When the color’ds mutinied, the Regiment was disgraced. The mutineers marched into Houston shooting at civilians. Your brother blamed himself for the resulting loss of so many lives.” The young officer’s hands were frozen at his sides as he spoke. He paused for several long seconds. “It was a dark stain on each of our careers,” he finally said.

  “You didn’t take your life, lieutenant.” Our careers, Harrison thought.

  “We are all different, sir. We all see things differently. And the decision was—had to be—your brother’s alone.”

  Harrison paused, thinking. “Do you think I might speak with some of his men?”

  “That can be arranged through Major Snow, sir,” Floyd told him.

  “Can you add anything else, lieutenant? Anything at all?”

  “Yes, sir. One more thing needs to be said. The men say your brother had…. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you may as well hear it from me, sir. Your brother was keeping a woman who is a Negress, sir. It was the talk of the company, I’m afraid.”

  “Does that relate to my brother’s death?”

  “I wonder if this liaison affected his decision not to follow that order,” Floyd said, now speaking in a whisper. “He traveled to El Paso, I suspect, to visit her on many occasions. The last was only several days before he died.”

  “Could you tell me something about her?” Harrison asked.

  “She is known as an outlaw—a smuggler of guns to the Mexicans,” Floyd said, looking down. “She may have been using him. These people aren’t like us, Mr. James. They will do anything to accomplish their purposes.”

  “I still don’t understand, lieutenant,” Harrison said.

  “She preyed upon his love for her,” Floyd said. “That’s what I think.”

  James remained silent.

  “One day, when the captain was gone,” Floyd continued, “I was called to the front gate. A man was waiting there—a large, older Nigger. He had a letter he was ordered to deliver to Captain James. I took it. It was from the woman—probably a love letter.”

  “You read this personal correspondence?” Harrison was startled.

  “No, of course not,” Floyd said.

  “Then why do you think it was a love letter?” Harrison asked.

  “I could smell the perfume, sir,” Floyd answered simply.

  “His behavior became more erratic, less predictable after that. A few days later he was dead,” Floyd said.

  “A coincidence, perhaps, lieutenant?” Harrison asked.

  “A captain in the United States Army cavorting with a Negress and known gun smuggler, a bandit whom we’ve been trying to arrest for months? I don’t believe that, Mr. James.”

  “You have evidence of an affair?” Harrison asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then, lieutenant, your suspicions are just that.” Harrison said. “Unless you can prove it, I suggest you be careful what you say.”

  Floyd said nothing. They began walking again.

  “Did you speak with my brother the night he died?” Harrison asked.

  “No, I did not. Sir, I’m usually in town when I’m not on duty. At the hotel.”

  “The Hoover Hotel, lieutenant?”

  “Of course, sir. Where white people stay. The Negroes and Mexicans have their own. But the Hoover is the only decent lodging in town for us. I assume you are staying there, Mr. James?”

  “Yes, lieutenant, I am.” Harrison agreed. “I checked in this morning.”

  “Then we will probably be seeing each other,” the officer stated. “I’m afraid I must go, but if I can be of further assistance, please call on me. I’m usually in Room 212.”

  “I will, lieutenant. I certainly will. And thank you.” The two men shook hands, and the lieutenant turned to locate his men. Harrison watched him walk stiffly back across the parade field. He didn’t know how to take Floyd’s observations about his brother’s relationship with the woman. But Harrison didn’t believe it had anything to do with his death.

  Harrison waited for the sergeant to escort him from the camp. He and Sergeant Parilla did not speak on their way to the gate. Harrison was thinking about the conversations, and the address the sergeant had given him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Exhausted, Harrison returned to his room and collapsed into bed. He didn’t awaken until the afternoon of the next day. Finally feeling refreshed, he stood in the lobby of the Hoover watching the crowds of people coming and going. It was after dinner, and the variety of evening activities and the mix of people surprised him. Soldiers, businessmen, local residents, and well-dressed prostitutes all flowed in and out of the hotel lobby. No one seemed to pay any attention to the hour. Harrison’s business sense told him that contacts were being made everywhere around him. The lobby smelled of money.

  He paused at the desk, considering. Did the lieutenant say Bart was in love with a smuggler? That she may have been using him in some way? Who would know more about this woman? Bart’s first sergeant might know, he told himself. The man who had followed Bart’s every step, perhaps sharing some of his thoughts and concerns. And I have his address, James thought, reaching into his right vest pocket.

  He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket. “Señor,” he called, turning to the desk clerk. “Where is this?” He handed it to a young man.

  “Esta casa, señor?” The young clerk asked, staring at the hastily sc
rawled address. “I know this place, señor. The barrio has many bad hombres.”

  “What is your name, young man? Harrison asked. “I want to go there now.”

  “I am called Miguel. No, señor. Ahora, no. Pero mañana,” the young Hispanic man stated excitedly.

  “No, I must go now. It is very important.” James handed the young man a five dollar bill.

  “Pero señor, the barrio ees very dangerous. Very dangerous to go there at night. Too many people who don’t like anglos. Me comprende?” The clerk had been working two years at the Hoover, and this was the first time anyone had asked to be taken to the barrio. He knew it was a place filled with banditos and rebels. Maybe the rich man is crazy, he thought. And what can I do about that?

  Harrison took another five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone else.” He was determined.

  “Sí, señor.” The clerk eyed the bills. He had a pregnant wife and needed the money. Besides, this gringo’s health was not his concern. “I will go, señor,” he said with a shrug. But you must stay behind me. It is much safer, I think.”

  “Agreed,” Harrison told him.

  The clerk summoned another man, similarly dressed, to stand at the counter.

  Once out in the clear, almost cool night, Harrison followed the younger man down dark, dusty alleys, through narrow passageways, and across neatly scrubbed brick patios. After walking several blocks, he found himself in a neighborhood made up of single story, one and two room adobe houses. There was a stench of garbage and decay hanging in the air. Except for the occasional barking of a dog, this neighborhood was quiet, with an almost unnerving silence. Lacking street lamps, he carefully navigated this way through the dark maze behind the clerk. The smell of horses, gasoline, and burnt corn mixed with that of the garbage. Smoke from low stoves and fireplaces stung Harrison’s eyes.

  Eventually, the young man reached the address written on the slip of paper. Harrison stood in the shadows of a stable several feet away and watched as the young man paused in front of a small adobe house. He then turned and walked quickly back past where James was standing

  “Aquí, señor,” the young man whispered to Harrison as he went by quickly, disappearing into the deep shadows.

  Harrison stepped forward and knocked at the door.

  “Quien es?” a male voice asked through a crack in the door. In the stillness, Harrison thought he detected the sound of a slide action on an automatic pistol. He instinctively thrust his right hand under his coat.

  “Harrison James,” he announced quietly. “I’ve come to speak to you again, sergeant.”

  The door swung slightly open. Standing there ready to greet James was Sergeant Parilla. Even in his bleached white woolens, the Hispanic sergeant presented a military bearing. The Army .45 in his hand was pointed to the ground. “Welcome, Señor James,” he said simply. “How did you come?”

  “A young man. He showed me the way.”

  “Miguel?”

  “Yes, Miguel.”

  “Miguel does not like to come to the barrio. He is like his father, I think. Afraid of his own people,” Parilla said sadly, squinting beyond Harrison into the darkness.

  “Hasta luego, Miguel,” he called into the night.

  The man’s greeting reassured Harrison. Behind Parilla, in the shadows of the room lit by candles, he could make out a woman with an infant in her arms. The child was crying fitfully.

  “Come in,” the sergeant said, and turned to the woman. “Consuelo! Tequila, por favor.” He smiled at the child. “Mi hijo, Juanito.” Both men looked at the frightened child. Sergeant Parilla gently stroked the child’s tear-streaked cheek. Almost immediately, the baby stopped crying.

  The young woman obeyed her husband, but did not speak. She poured tequila into two small transparent glasses without looking at James, then placed the baby in a small crib in the corner of the brick adobe room. The filled glasses remained there together on the table.

  “I hoped you would come, señor.” The sergeant gestured slightly. “This is mi casa, where I am el jefe…the boss.” He motioned for James to sit in a simple wood chair. His pride in his home and family was obvious.

  Harrison sat down at the table and looked around the small, freshly plastered room. The walls were painted white. The floors were of a simple brown tile. “You have a very handsome family,” he said, smiling at the woman. Woven tapestries, brightly colored with simple pastoral scenes, adorned the white walls. There was no stove, but a simple adobe fireplace was built into the far wall. He saw that cooking utensils and earthen pots surrounded the opening. Embers of an earlier fire still glowed under the grate. The sparsely furnished room was very clean, almost spotless. He turned back to Parilla. “I have questions which I think, sergeant, you can perhaps help me with.”

  “Por favor, señor, call me Juan. For, it is Juan to the hermano of Captain James.” He handed a glass of tequila to his visitor and took one for himself. “My wife, Maria, and the little one is called Juanito,” he said with great pride.

  “Please call me Harry,” James said, nodding at Consuelo. He smiled at the child.

  The woman, who Harrison saw was much younger than her husband, was very pretty, with long dark hair and eyes that watched him cautiously. She did not speak, but smiled and curtsied when introduced to him.

  The sergeant lifted his glass. “To su hermano. A fine officer and a very brave hombre.”

  “To my brother,” Harrison replied softly, surprised by the sergeant’s obvious sincerity. He emptied the glass with one, quick jerk of his wrist.

  Both men sat silent for a moment.

  “Now, amigo, your questions. Here, ahh, how do you say? There are no ears. More private for talk. You want to know about the captain?” Juan poured another drink for each of them.

  Harrison felt the warmth of the tequila rising from the pit of his stomach. He stifled a belch.

  Juan observed Harrison closely. “Es bueno, no?”

  “It’s very good,” James said. But he sipped cautiously at his second glass. “Sergeant Parilla….”

  “Juan.”

  “Juan, I’m trying to learn more about my brother’s life here…” Harrison paused, “So that my family can understand how he died. So that I can understand. It has been very difficult for us.”

  For a few seconds, Juan did not answer him. “Señor Harry, I understand these things. It is difficult to comprende when men like su hermano die,” he said, then stared into his own empty glass. “So much trouble in our regiment. It is bad, very bad.”

  “Tell me about those problems, Juan.”

  “Houston was no good for the Negro soldiers. It was no good to go to that place, at Camp Logan. Better for the soldiers to stay in the desert. I think that white people in Texas fear…. In their fear, they hate people of color. They want to keep the old ways.” He sighed.

  “Are the problems here also?” Harrison asked.

  “Señor Harry,” Juan paused to consider his words carefully. “Things here are no better. The men are angry and afraid. They think there will be more punishment. And the guns….”

  “Yes?”

  “The guns, señor. Machine guns disappear. The machine guns the Army take to Mexico are gone. The major watches everybody, but still he cannot find how this was done.”

  “Your Lieutenant Floyd suggested to me that my brother may have been involved with a gun smuggler. A woman, he said. Do you know anything about that?”

  For a second, Juan was blank faced, his eyes hard. He frowned. “The lieutenant say that, eh? Be careful with that man, Harry.”

  “Why?”

  “I cannot say nothing more. He is my lieutenant, comprende? But remember what I say.” Juan cautioned. “There is a woman who sells guns in Mexico.” He paused. “You brother knew her. He had respect for her.”

  “What kind of woman is she?”

  “She loves her people,” was Juan’s only resp
onse. “They respect her too, Harry.”

  “Did she steal guns from the army?” Harrison asked.

  “Others, I think, steal machine guns from us. Not la Señorita Washington. The captain would tell me this.”

  “How can you steal something as big as a machine gun and not have someone see it?”

  “Claro. But the men, they see nothing. They know nothing. Private Peck say he lock all the guns up. But the thief, he take them anyway. Six machine guns gone.”

  “Who is Private Peck?” Harrison asked, recognizing the name.

  “Your hermano’s orderly. He keep the records for me. Guns are locked in the quartermaster’s tent. This is on the major’s orders.”

  Harrison nodded that he understood. “My brother wrote of him in his letters.”

  “Sí. Peck was in Mexico with us. Two years in the regiment, Señor Harry.”

  Harrison sipped at his tequila. “Tell me, Juan. How did my brother act the last few days before he died?”

  “Señor Harry, the captain was all the time alone, in his tent or away in other places. He was in his thoughts, I think. He worry much about the trial in Texas. The officers from Washington ask him many questions.”

  “What about the other officers? They were also questioned about the riot, weren’t they?”

  “Sí, Harry. They ask everybody about the troubles in Houston. They want to know where all of us were, what we do. Those kind of thing.”

  “Major Snow and the officers from the other companies—where were they during the riots?”

  “Ah, Harry, the other officers try to stop their men from mutiny. That is what I know. Some did and some did not. But Major Snow….” Juan ran a palm over his short hair, thinking.

  “Yes?” Harrison asked.

  “I do not know. He gives orders for them to stop, but the men, they get their Springfields and go to town. My friend Vida Henry lead them.”

  “I see. Did my brother try to stop them?” Harrison watched Juan refill his glass.

  “Captain James say, he say to me, ‘Sergeant, order the men to prepare to fire!’ I order the guard to load and prepare to fire. The captain say ‘Sergeant Parilla, fire only when I give the order. Not before!’” Juan took a sip from the glass, then a deep breath. “He never give that order, Harry. But I understand why.”