“That’s correct,” Harrison said, finishing the coffee and returning the cup. “Has your uncle returned, Miguel? It’s important that I speak with him.”
“I think he come home muy temprano on the train.”
“Good,” Harrison replied. “Hasta luego.” He left the hotel. Crossing the dusty street, he made for a narrow alley.
A young soldier in a crumpled uniform with the beginnings of a beard darkening his face saw the tall man crossing the street. “I gotta tell Derry. There’s money in this’n,” the soldier mumbled, staggering slightly as he rose from the straw, his head pounding. He continued to watch through a wide crack between the clapboard sidings as Harrison made his way up the dusty alley toward the Mexican neighborhood. Then he straightened his uniform and reached for his hat and revolver belt.
Harrison reached Parilla’s house around 9:00. He knocked softly on the old wood door. “Hola,” he called in Spanish. “Is anyone here?”
“Venga, Harry,” a voice replied. “Please, come in.”
Harrison entered to find Juan sitting at the small table, a bottle of tequila and two glasses before him. The sun was shining brightly through the single window facing east, lighting the center of the room. Juan was dressed in army trousers, but without a shirt or boots on. He was alone. For the first time, Harrison noticed the tattoo on his arm. It was an eagle.
“Buenas dias,” the sergeant said. “Please, sit and drink with me. Although he looked slightly disheveled, Juan’s voice was clear and sharp.
Harrison sat and poured himself a drink from the bottle. Juan had obviously been waiting for him.
“La revolución!” Juan said quietly yet forcefully, holding up his glass. He then tossed the drink down in one gulp, immediately pouring himself another.
“To the Revolution,” Harrison agreed, taking only a small sip from his glass.
“Harry,” Juan said, “I hear you want to talk with me.”
“I have a couple of questions, Juan,” Harrison said. “And I need your help.”
“Dígame, Harry.”
“Juan, when did you get to the constable’s office the night he was killed?
“I get there right after you, Harry. You go too early, amigo, so I am late to warn you to stay away, eh?”
“I received a message from Arnold to go to his office.”
“But too early, I think. It was, how you say it, you were not to go there at that time when Daniel has business there also.”
“Did you ever think that maybe the constable had no idea that Daniel was coming to his office?” Harrison asked.
“No comprendo,” Juan replied.
“A trap set by the Indian, Carlos, to kill the constable and blame it on Daniel. Or to kill Daniel also. I don’t know.”
“I think you are too smart,” Juan said with a sigh. “Harry, sometimes it is better to mind your own business. You do not know this,” Juan said, frustrated. “Everywhere you go you find dangerous business. I try all the time to keep you alive. You are a very lucky man, amigo.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ask many questions to the wrong people, Harry. They want to kill you. But here you are, still alive.”
“You know about those people, don’t you?” Harrison asked.
“I know about some of them. It is a very big business, smuggling.” Juan sighed long and deep, then finished the remaining tequila in his glass. “I try only to mind my business, like I tell you, amigo.”
“I have to find who killed Constable Arnold,” Harrison told him. “Or Daniel and I will hang for it.”
“I think Carlos kill him,” Juan said.
“I need to know who hired Carlos. Carlos was only a pistolero. Was it Derry?”
“There. More trouble for you,” Juan said.
“But that’s why I’m here.” James told him. He looked at Juan patiently, waiting for him to speak.
“Daniel could not kill the constable that way. That’s why it was Carlos. As you say, Carlos is a killer. I know this. You must tell the deputy, Harry. So Daniel does not hang.”
“I will,” Harrison agreed. “But who paid him to do it?”
“It could be many people,” Juan said slowly.
Harrison studied him, considering his answer. “Were you part of it?” he asked finally.
“You think that, Harry? You come to take me?” Juan reached into his coat and pulled out James’ Colt automatic. “Here, señor. This belongs to you.” He set it on the table.
Cautiously, Harrison took the weapon, quickly looked it over, and then removed the magazine. It was empty. He dropped it into his coat pocket. “Where did you get this?” he asked. But he already knew.
“I find it in the desert that night,” Juan told him. “I look for you. I find only the pistola.” He pulled an Army .45 from his belt and pointed it at James. “This one is loaded. So please, put your other weapon on the table where I can see it.”
Harrison slowly placed the .38 on the table. “As a soldier, you must help me turn the murderers over to the law.”
Juan laughed heartily, surprising James. “Laws are paper with lots of words. They can be twisted by anyone with a sharp tongue. I know. I see this. I saw how the law worked in Houston.”
“But it can work, Juan. You have to believe that it can.”
“Do you believe that, amigo?” he asked, looking directly at James.
The two men faced off. Neither flinched.
“Remember our talk out in the desert after we see La Senorita?”
“I remember, Juan,” Harrison said.
“Now I ask you to respect what I do. Me comprende?”
“You ask for my respect?” James said, surprised. “A long time ago, you said you didn’t know why President Wilson chased Villa. Well, perhaps he did it to bring him to justice. Justice for the families of the innocent people Villa killed in New Mexico. Isn’t that possible?” he asked.
“Was that justice, Harry? Or was it revenge?”
Derry entered the house before he could respond.
James looked to Juan, then back to the bartender. “Derry,” he said.
“Aye, lad. Ye wouldn’t take my advice,” he said.
“Maybe I should have,” Harrison said grimly.
“Too late for you, me foin bucko.” Derry grinned.
“Amigo, you know too much now,” Juan said.
“Shoot the bastard, Parilla,” Derry growled at Juan. “A thousand dollars to shoot ’im.”
James did not take his eyes off the .45 pointed at his chest. “Why Juan?” he asked. “Where’s your respect for me?”
“I’m a good soldier,” Juan answered. “But, señor, I must feed my family, buy shoes for mi Juanito. The Army, it does not pay so well. Señor Derry say he will pay me,” Juan said, looking hard at Harrison. “Remember what we talk about the first day we meet? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“What kind of work did Floyd do for you, Derry?” Harrison wanted to know.
“The lad sold information, he did. He tells me that 10 Army machine guns be sellin’. Then I be meetin’ with the young Peck. A good thief that un. Brownings. So I be hirin’ ’im,” Derry said with a smile.
“Did my brother find out about this business of Floyd’s?”
Juan smiled. “El Capitan knew about it.”
“But he never caught him, did he?” James said.
“No, he never catch him.”
“Did he kill Floyd?” Harrison pointed at Derry. “And the constable?”
“You should ask Señor Derry, amigo,” Juan said, looking to the bartender. “Like I tell you already, I do not know everything. Too many hombres that want to kill each other, eh? That is part of the business of smuggling.”
“Help me bring him to justice.”
“Justice?” Juan leaned forward, suddenly intent. “We talk already about justice. The white man wants revenge. He wants to punish, not to find justice.”
“Grover Burns found it, Juan,” James told him.
“Señor Derry, tell him what he wants to know,” Juan said, still pointing his automatic at Harrison.
“’Twas in me own best int’rests that Floyd be killed,” Paddy said. “Poor lad. He was greedy.”
“Was it also in your best interest to kill the constable?”
“Sure, that was na me. An important man in El Paso done it.”
“A big smuggler in El Paso?” Harrison asked. The pieces finally fell into place. “Jackson Smith is his name?”
“Aye, ’tis,” Derry said, proud to show how much he knew. “The Injun needed help settin’ things up, so I fixed his game, I did. An’ he paid me good.”
“Why kill the constable?”
“The constable was on ta ’im,” Derry said. “An’ the constable weren’t a constable at all, see? He worked for the Bureau of Investigation. They figured ’twas too dangerous to let ’im go on breathing.”
“Why involve Daniel Washington in the shooting?” James asked.
“Smith wanted to blame the shootin’ on ’im and his sister. They’d hunt the woman down, too, he figured. Then he’d take over their weapons deal.” Derry sighed. “Ever’body wants to git rich. But ’twas Smith’s idea to support both generals. He be a man ta hedge his bets. Then the constable figured out Smith’s game, boyo,” he added, grinning. “Smith’s ideas be too bloody big fur ’im, now.”
“What’s your game, Paddy.”
“Oh aye. Ye can die knowin’,” he replied. “Smith be people not like ma self. Sure, I like the money. But I do na want the bloody English to win the war in Europe. I hate the Limey bastards. I be jus’ a small business man now. But others who believe the same, they be powerful an’ have money. They knows that if the Americans be fightin’ the Mex here, it’ll take ’em longer to git ta France. Jus’ a couple a months an’ maybe the English get whipped good. Ye git ma meanin’, bucko?” Paddy asked.
“I think I understand what side you’re on,” James said slowly.
“But seein’ it way too late,” Derry grinned. He looked at Juan. “Now kill ’im.”
Juan sat motionless. “Remember what I tell you earlier, Harry,” he said.
“Shoot ’im, ye bloody fool!”
Juan ignored him.
Paddy looked over to Juan. Harrison sat still. He felt beads of perspiration break out on his face. He inhaled deeply, preparing to make some move. He measured the distance to his loaded gun, still lying on the table.
“I have killed many men, Señor Derry. But I am not a murderer,” Juan said calmly.
“Shoot ’im. Like we agreed,” Derry ordered. “Or I be givin’ the green ta another man. One wid some guts in ’im.”
“Juan, I mean to take this man in,” Harrison said. “He’s responsible for killing one man and helping kill another.”
“For us, Harry, justice comes from this.” He held up the weapon. “But it is to survive only.” He looked at Harrison. “You and I, amigo, we are not so different.”
“Aren’t we?”
“I think I let you do it your way.” Juan motioned for James to pick up his .38. He lowered his .45.
“No,” Derry yelled. He lunged for the revolver.
James snatched it before the other man could.
The bartender went for Harrison’s throat.
The adobe room seemed to erupt as the .38 caliber exploded. The bartender, only inches from James’ face, was shot in the chest. The force of impact threw the heavy man backward against the door. Blood splattered across the adobe wall.
Numb, Harrison slowly got up from the table, gun in hand. He stood staring down at Derry.
Powder smoke hung in the air, burning their eyes and nostrils.
Juan stood up. “Put your pistola away. It is done,” he said softly. “Justice has been served, no?” He holstered his own automatic.
James stuck the .38 back into his belt, his ears ringing.
“Amigo, it is over for you,” Juan repeated. “Now you go back to your world.”
“I’ll bring the deputy here,” Harrison said. He walked out the door and down the street. On the way, he passed Charlie and Jonesy. Standing in the shelter of an old porch, they watched him pass, their heads turning slowly, mouths wide open.
*
Harrison went immediately to the constable’s office and turned himself in to the deputy. They returned to the adobe house where Juan waited. The door was wide open. He sat at the table dressed in his Army uniform.
It was midday before the deputy completed his investigation. Two of his men took the corpse away, wrapped in an old blanket. Harrison and Juan told the deputy that Harrison had shot Derry in self-defense. Harrison was not charged with any offense. He explained that, because of their smuggling activities, Paddy Derry and Jackson Smith had hired an associate to kill Lieutenant Floyd and the constable. There was no mention of Juan’s knowledge of smuggling. Their statements cleared Daniel of murder charges.
The deputy telegraphed the Police Department in El Paso. A warrant was issued immediately to arrest Jackson Smith.
When finally the deputy was convinced he had the truth, he released them. “Stay around until the investigation is closed,” he said to both men. “There may be a trial.”
“I must travel to Palomas on personal business,” Harrison told him. “It’s important.”
Juan smiled.
“If you cross the border, you must post a thousand dollar bond, Señor James,” the deputy replied.
“I will wire my bank in Chicago immediately. But I can assure you, I’m good for it,”
*
Later that evening, after receiving his reply from Chicago, Harrison promptly posted his bond. A short time later, he stood in the wide doorway to the stables with the old man and Mr. Jones.
“The horses are ready, Señor Harry,” the old man said simply.
“Thank you,” Harrison answered, handing him two hundred-dollar bills. “For your troubles, señor.” He stepped into the saddle and, with the silent old black man beside him, headed south again toward the border. Riding down Broadway, they rode toward the Last Chance Saloon.
Harrison pulled up on the reins as they passed the saloon. Surprised, Mr. Jones also stopped. A blond woman out front was painting on the window. They watched her write “Sal’s” in front of “Last” in large black letters.
“Looks good, Sal,” Harrison called. “Damn good.”
The woman turned, still holding the large paint brush, and smiled back at the riders. “Thanks, Harry. The place’ll be all mine someday.”
*
Riding the stallion through the open wood gates, Harrison saw the only person in the world who mattered to him. Maria stood on the veranda, waving. Before his mount had stopped, he was out of the saddle and racing toward her. “Maria, Maria,” he called. They embraced.
“Oh Harry, my love,” she laughed through her tears, “I was so worried that I would have to go to London and Paris alone.”
Then they both began laughing.
*
Later that evening, in the solitude of Maria’s great study, James wrote:
Mother, I have reached the end of my investigation. I proved Bartlett’s integrity, dedication to duty, and his love for the United States Army. I learned that he was a man highly respected by his friends and his enemies. He was a man of great courage and loyalty, and a man who believed in justice. I found his murderer, and attended to the situation. My mission is now completed.
Goodbye,
Harrison
POSTSCRIPT
Defeated again, his few remaining soldiers demoralized, Pancho Villa finally was forced to make peace with the Mexican Government in 1920. He retired to his Rancho Canutillo in Durango State. The political violence in Mexico, however, continued. On July 20, 1923, Francisco “Pancho” Villa died in a bloody assassination. The identity of his killer was never discovered,
although most people suspected that General Obregón was behind it.
The 24th Infantry’s colored battalion stayed in Camp Furlong for the duration of the war. Major Kneeland Snow resigned as its commanding officer and returned to civilian life. Private Jeremiah Peck, arrested for theft of government property, never went to trial. On the morning he was to be shipped out to Fort Sam Houston, Private Peck was found dead in his cell, hanging by a knotted bed sheet from the bars of his narrow window. The coroner immediately ruled it a suicide. Harrison, who heard about it sometime later, knew the “suicide” was very convenient. Peck never had an opportunity to implicate any others in his crimes.
Captain Blaine was court-martialed. He pled innocent to both charges against him. But, after considerable deliberation, the panel of presiding officers determined that there was sufficient evidence to convict him of espionage in wartime and murder. The earlier ruling that Captain Bartlett James had committed suicide was overturned.
Having attended the court martial proceedings, James returned six months later from Las Palomas for the hanging. The evening before Blaine was scheduled to be executed for spying, he asked for James to see him in his cell.
James stood in front of the dark steel door looking through the small opening at the condemned man. Blaine stood and walked slowly to the door. “I killed your brother,” he confessed without remorse. “I had no choice.” Blaine looked blankly through the small opening at James. He then turned to slowly walk back to the cot.
“I look forward to tomorrow, Blaine,” was all Harrison said, his voice cold as ice. Then he left. Blaine was hanged at Fort Sam Houston on December 6, 1918, after all appeals had been exhausted. The execution took place on the same gallows as that used to hang the Negro mutineers a year earlier.
Harrison asked himself if Blaine’s execution was a measure of justice for Bart. He was troubled by the question, until he saw that Blaine was also dead. That would have to be enough.
*
Eventually, the white cavalry units at Camp Furlong were ordered to France. Both Charlie and Jonesy, now transferred to the infantry, saw action during the Allies’ 1918 summer offensive spearheaded by General Blackjack Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force Americans’ long-awaited offensive succeeded in driving the Germans back, accomplishing the first major breakthrough on the Western Front since 1914.
Chasing Pancho Villa Page 27
