Chasing Pancho Villa

by R. L. Tecklenburg

  Without speaking, the Negro directed the other, pointing to where he wanted him to sit. The other man paused briefly, frowning at the younger man, but did as he was told.

  Harrison noticed, and sensed little warmth between the two. They were not friends. The Indian concerned him more than the young Negro. Harrison wondered why they were here, and why he had yet to see the woman. Some sort of ambush? No. He was willing to trust the Mexican sergeant, a soldier in the United States Army.

  The men continued to stare at James without expression.

  “Hola Juan!” James heard a female voice say from the shadows. “Who have you brought me, eh?” Her voice was clear and melodious. Harrison turned to look. The figure, taller than her two companions, finally stepped from the darkness, moving nearer to the fire. Like the others, she wore no hat. The long curls of black hair radiated out like a midnight sun, falling to her shoulders. Her sculpted brown face was alive with emotion. He saw her dark eyes sparkle in the firelight. And, Harrison saw, they were intent upon him as she openly examined him. He was certain she was measuring him against his brother.

  But Harrison also took measure of her. Standing in the shadowy light of the fire, she was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The men’s clothing she wore did nothing to detract from her beauty or her natural grace. Tall, yet not thin, she easily filled out the tan cotton shirt and trousers. In the firelight he could see her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her rough cotton shirt. Small hoops of silver swung from each ear.

  Harrison continued to stare at her, unable to look away.

  “Señorita Maria,” Juan exclaimed, delighted to see her. They spoke in English, and Harrsion suspected that it was as a courtesy to him.

  The young woman still stood there, looking at him. Her own curiosity was evident.

  “This hombre is the brother of Capitan James,” Juan stated, motioning for the young woman to sit.

  “Of course he is,” she said, smiling at Harrison. “And does he have a name?” she asked. Her English, with its melodious Mexican lilt, was excellent.

  “Harrison,” he answered. He watched as she knelt easily in front of the fire to pour a cup of coffee. The young woman, like her companions, had an Army .45 strapped to her narrow waist. He guessed her to be about 22 years of age. “And your name, I’ve been told, is Senorita Washington.”

  She laughed from deep in her throat. “I’ve been called many things, Señor James, but my amigos call me Maria. Maria Pasquel Washington.”

  “‘Maria’ sounds almost Mexican.”

  “Yes, my maternal grandparents were Mexican. But on my father’s side…. He claimed to be related to George Washington.” She laughed again. “I suppose all Negroes claim to be related to Mr. Washington, or Mr. Jefferson, or some other famous white slaver.”

  Bright and charming, Harrison thought. He tried to picture Bartlett with her.

  “Harrison,” she repeated. “Harrison and Bart.” The young woman again studied his face. “Your brother and I were friends.” She paused. “And lovers. Does that surprise you?” She asked the question directly.

  He was surprised by her openness. “Yes.” He smiled. “I had no idea my brother had such good taste.” That’s one question answered, he thought, captivated in spite of himself.

  She turned her head slightly. “Juan, your amigo speaks graceful compliments, does he not? Like his brother.”

  Juan said nothing, simply smiling in reply.

  Maria set down her coffee cup and abruptly turned back to James. She was no longer smiling. “Señor James, you have come a long way. You wish to talk to me about your brother.”

  “I want to talk about my brother, and about how he died,” Harrison said immediately.

  “Yes,” she said simply. She crossed her legs to sit on the rocky ground, and then slowly extended her arms, palms out to feel the warmth of the fire. The young woman was in no hurry, feeling her way into the conversation.

  She stared into the cup of coffee poised on her knee. “Juan told me about Bart’s death. I could not believe it. When he brought me the news, I was devastated. But, I am afraid I can tell you very little about that, Señor James.”

  “You knew him well, señorita,” Harrison said slowly. “Do you believe he would kill himself?”

  The brush in the fire crackled and popped as he waited for an answer.

  “I was surprised to hear of the manner of his death,” Maria finally responded. “I have thought about it…about him.” Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “For him to take his own life? I am certain he did not, could never, do such a terrible thing.”

  He studied her face in the flickering light, still struck by her beauty and her easy, yet almost aristocratic manner. He sensed she was holding back. The other three talked quietly in Spanish among themselves.

  “You have reasons to believe so, Señorita Washington?” Harrison spoke quietly, but he could feel something in her denial.

  “Your brother had enemies, Señor James. He was…” She paused, considering her answer carefully. “…involved in many things. Some things I knew. Some I did not know.”

  “Things? What do you mean, señorita?” Harrison asked, controlling his impatience. Careful, he thought. Don’t push too hard. Out of the corner of his eye, James noticed that the younger, darker-skinned man had turned to look at them.

  “We were good friends, as well as lovers,” Maria began. She raised her head to look at Harrison. “And we were necessary to each other. Bart wanted to know things about the Germans in Mexico. And things about the Mexican freedom fighters, too. I wanted to know where Army patrols go, and when they go. We are traders, Señor James. We sell arms to the highest bidder, on either side of the border.” She paused, her eyes suddenly opaque. “Your brother and I also traded information,” she finally continued.

  Harrison had listened closely. “Is there more?” he asked.

  She ignored the question. “We both had our enemies: the Germans, the Mexican Army and, for me, the American Army, too.”

  Harrison nodded. “Did he help you find weapons to sell? And you gave him information about the Germans?”

  “Many on both sides of the border,” she said after a short pause, “are getting rich selling arms to the Mexican rebels and to the Mexican Army. The United States Army was investigating this. But your brother…he was not getting weapons for me, Harry. He would never smuggle arms…even to help me in my business.”

  “Selling weapons is a very dangerous and unpredictable business, or so I’ve been told,” James said. “What did he do for you?”

  Maria smiled softly, but said nothing in response.

  “I’m trying to understand how my brother died, señorita. To do that, I think I must understand what he was involved in out here,” Harrison said. “Your name has been mentioned.” he finally added.

  “The war in Mexico makes good business for me; for us,” Maria told him, responding to his question in her own way. “We sell the generals what they need. Pancho Villa wants Mausers, so we sell to him. If General Carranza wants Springfield rifles, we get them for him. In war, all things can be had for a price. I think you know this, eh?”

  “Yes, I understand the business of war,” he said, not looking at her, remembering Paris.

  “Sí. The American embargo against the Mexicans has made our business even more difficult. Now, American gun makers are afraid to sell, especially to Villa because of his attack on Columbus.”

  “I hear what you are telling me, but I do not understand how my brother was involved.”

  She sighed. “Bart’s business I cannot explain very well. He did not want others to know what he was doing. Many desperados operate around here. Spies, smugglers, and rebels. It is very difficult to tell them apart.” She paused again to consider. “You must understand the hatred between the two generals, Villa and Obregón. Obregón’s German friends are devils. Bart wanted to find their agents here along
the border.” She sighed.” “It is very complicated, this war.”

  James took a sip from this tepid coffee and considered her words.

  She smiled at him. “But your brother was also a kind and giving man. To me and to my people. He was beginning to learn our ways.” She shook her head sadly. “And then he was dead.”

  Her lovely face, for a second, changed. In that brief instant she seemed to reveal the depth of her own vulnerability and personal sorrow.

  “Sometimes, Señor James, things don’t work out the way we want them to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your brother discovered secrets that his enemies tried to hide. Too many secrets, I think.” She sighed again. “I think Bart was murdered because he learned too much.”

  “But you do not know who may have done it?” Harrison asked.

  “No, that was his business” she answered simply.

  “How did you help him, Maria? May I call you Maria?”

  She grinned at him suddenly. “Yes, Harry. I introduced him to people along the border and in Mexico. Most of them were in my business. Some knew things about the Germans or the Mexican Government. That was how I helped him.”

  “I see,” Harrison said, but wondered if he should believe her. There must be more, he thought.

  “Your brother was a fine man. Bart would have become a great officer in Europe in the big war. I could see this. It was what he wanted. He told me.”

  “Did you love my brother, Maria?” Harrison was surprised at himself that he asked.

  She looked straight into his blue eyes. Then tears suddenly formed and ran down her cheeks. She did not stop them. “Yes, Harry, I think I loved him,” She responded in her own time. “Since I was a young girl I’ve cared for myself—for my brother and myself—here in this land. What we do, we do to survive. Bart began to understand. I loved him for that.”

  “Maria, bastante,” the black man blurted out. “No habla más! Nosotros no asesinamos el soldado!” He spat. “If this gringo wants to know about the dead soldier, he must pay for it, yes?” He said it in English to ensure that Harrison understood.

  It was the way he said ‘gringo.’ Harrison raised his head slightly, resting his right hand close to the holster beneath his jacket. Juan, noting the movement, grew alarmed.

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet, hermano,” the young woman scolded him angrily. “Harry, please forgive my brother. He is suspicious of all whites.” Again she looked over at her brother, anger reflected in her eyes.

  Then she turned back to Harrison. “We lost an amigo, Vida Henry, in Houston during the battle with the whites. He fought to gain our people freedom as Americans. Do you believe that, Harrison James? That he died for us?”

  Harrison said nothing. He was fully alert and flushed with sudden anger.

  “Maria! He is a white man…., a fucking gringo,” her brother hissed in English. “You’ve told him enough. We go now!” His companion did not speak, but watched Harrison, his rifle pointed down, but in Harrison’s direction.

  “Mind your tongue,” Harrison said coldly.

  The young man suddenly jumped up to confront him from across the glowing embers of the fire. With his right hand, he grabbed hold of the hilt of his knife.

  But Harrison was already moving. His hand slid easily into his jacket. His palm squeezed against the ivory grip. He lifted the safety with his thumb, but kept his finger off the trigger. He was ready to draw and shoot if either man made another move.

  The others watched, frozen.

  Harrison waited for the younger man. In the light of the fire, he noticed the boy’s free hand tremble slightly.

  The Indian rose to stand beside the black man, rifle in hand. But, very carefully, he had positioned the barrel so that it pointed at the ground.

  James watched both men without expression, still waiting.

  “Enough!” Maria yelled at her brother. “Sit down! Now!” She was certain that the white man would kill her brother if he had to. “Daniel!” Maria demanded.

  Pausing briefly, Daniel did as she ordered. Both men sat down.

  Harrison spoke to the Indian while his hand remained on his pistol. “Lay the rifle down crossways, pointed away from the fire. Or I’ll kill you.”

  The Indian did as he was told, his whole being radiating hatred.

  “Señor, please. They will not do this again. Please, don’t draw your pistola,” Maria said.

  During the confrontation, Juan had not moved from his spot. Now he stood up slowly. “I get mesquite for the fire,” he announced, and disappeared into the darkness.

  “I am sorry, Señor James,” Maria told him.

  “I understand, señorita. But I will shoot them if I have to,” Harrison replied, still keeping a close eye on both men.

  Finally, he relaxed his guard, but kept his hand in his lap, close to the automatic.

  “We are at war,” Maria said slowly. She wanted the white man to understand her. “My brother and I are also of the people fighting for a place in our own country.”

  “Señorita Washington, you said you were a trader,” Harrison began slowly. I have information of value to you. It is about one of your competitors. In El Paso. I am willing to cut a deal—information for information. Think about it.”

  She looked at the white man, holding his gaze. “We will be in touch, Harry.” Then she rose quickly.

  Her two companions also stood.

  “We must go now. It is very dangerous. This close to the border, army patrols are everywhere.”

  Juan returned with a handful of wood. He began to feed the fire one branch at a time, appearing to pay little attention to the conversation.

  “You are the enemy, white man!” Daniel growled before his sister could silence him again. “Everywhere in this world, you are the enemy!” He spit into the fire. Then he spun around to disappear into the darkness, the young Indian close at his heals.

  “We will talk again. Maybe to trade, eh?” Maria said. She followed her brother into the night. “Juan….hasta luego, amigo,” she called with a wave of her hand. A few minutes later, he heard the creak of leather, then hooves fading in the distance.

  “Hey amigo, thanks for the help,” James grumbled sarcastically. “There were two of them.” He knew the Sergeant was watching from the darkness, but who did he have his eyes on? The two young men, or him?

  Juan smiled, saying nothing.

  “At least I’ve met Maria and her smugglers.”

  “What smugglers, señor? I am a sergeant in the Army of the United States. I know of no smugglers.” He continued to build the fire. After a last cup of coffee, each lay down in his bedroll.

  “Buenas noches, amigo.” Juan said. Then turning on his side, he went to sleep.

  Harrison lay there awake, listening to the other man’s steady breathing, punctuated by an occasional snore. He considered the meeting with Maria and her brother.

  *

  Early the next morning, traveling in a northeasterly direction from the campsite, James and Parilla had left the mountains and were again down in the desert when they saw a cloud of dust. It was far to the east when they spotted it against the morning sunlight, but it was moving steadily toward them.

  “A patrol,” Juan said, pointing. “Be careful what you say to them,” he cautioned. “Remember, we are having a camping trip to see this beautiful country of New Mexico.”

  Harrison nodded.

  Within an hour, eight cavalrymen were upon them. The patrol deliberately intersected their route of travel. A young officer rode forward of the others. His troopers halted behind him in line, obediently waiting for orders.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the officer called out to the two men.

  “Good morning,” Harrison responded calmly.

  “First Sergeant Parilla, sir. Can we help you, lieutenant?” Juan asked, recognizing the young officer from Camp Furlong. The troopers sat on creaking saddl
es, heavily armed with pistols and rifles.

  “Looking for smugglers,” the lieutenant responded, casually looking over the two. He wondered why they were out riding in the desert.

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Harrison interjected. At that moment, he saw his two acquaintances from the train. They grinned at him.

  “Do you know you’re close to the border, sir? And may I ask your business?”

  “We’re just out riding and enjoying the country, lieutenant.” Harrison answered. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Did you cross the border?”

  “No, we haven’t.” James pulled up the reins. He motioned around him with his hands. “A fine place…New Mexico.”

  “And the sergeant?”

  “I hired him to be my guide, lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant looked Parilla over carefully. “You picked yourself a good guide, mister?”

  “Harrison James, from Illinois. Yes, sir. Thank you. I always try to have the best, wherever I travel.”

  “Mr. James. We’re looking for two known smugglers in particular. Two Negroes. They’ve been running guns over the border to the rebels down south of Juárez. Have you seen any riders at all during your sight-seeing trip?” The lieutenant knew this man was not a smuggler or a bandit.

  “Selling guns is against the law here?” Harrison asked innocently.

  “They’re violating a United States embargo against selling weapons to the Mexicans. One of them, Pancho Villa, is an enemy of the United States, with a reward on his head for murder. But that doesn’t stop some people from smuggling guns.” The young officer seemed conscientious and sure of himself. He paused to look the two over one last time.

  “We weren’t really looking, but we didn’t see anyone,” Harrison told him.

  “A tall woman and a man. There may be a third rider with them, but we don’t know who he is. They were spotted crossing the border. We’ve been tracking them since yesterday evening.”

  “We didn’t see anyone, lieutenant,” Parilla agreed.

  The soldier decided the two were telling the truth.

  “Lieutenant, sir.” Charlie had moved up alongside. “Request permission to speak with Mr. James, sir. I know’d him.”