Chasing Pancho Villa (12 page)

Harrison shuffled and dealt five cards to each man.

The captain picked his up slowly and deliberately, without looking at them.

Let's play!” Floyd cut in with growing impatience.

“I knew when the boys from I Company stormed the Quartermaster's tent that the situation was out of control. Yes, sir,” Jackson stated. He folded and slid his cards across the table.

“One hundred fifty of 'em left camp, marched right down Washington Street like crazed monkeys,” Lieutenant Anthony added.

Harrison noticed the captain still holding his cards, as if trying to decide something.

“Negroes are good soldiers,” Jackson contradicted. “I believe that. But Houston was an impossible situation. They were treated poorly, beat up, spat upon. Not even tough discipline would have kept them in line forever. Fifty, sir.” He threw out a single chip.

Harrison thought about what Juan had told him out in the desert. “Respect.”

“The major took the mutiny personal. An insult to his pride,” Jackson said. “I Company was under Major Snow's direct command, and all of I Company, to a man, rioted. Isn't that right, Anthony?”

“Gentlemen, that is enough,” the captain ordered before Anthony could respond. “That is army business, and this is a public saloon.”

“But captain,” Harrison said. “It's certainly not my intent to interfere with army matters. But it is very important to me and to my family that we understand the circumstances leading to Bart's death. I ask you to help me. Tell me anything that may shed light on why my brother would take his own life.”

The captain stared at his cards. “Mr. James, it is all in the report I submitted on your brother's death. There is nothing more to add,” he said.

“I found your report incomplete, sir,” Harrison said directly.

Lieutenant Jackson glanced at the cold-eyed captain, then quickly looked at his cards.

“We lost our best damn NCO that night—Vida Henry,” Floyd moaned. “Sergeant Henry distinguished himself down in Mexico, chasing Pancho Villa. And hell, gentlemen, he led the mutineers!”

“I still can't believe it. Henry was so damned Army,” Jackson said.

“Yeah, Army enough to lead a mutiny,” Anthony said.

“He was a brave man and an excellent non-commissioned officer for the Negro troops,” the captain told them. He looked at Harrison. “Henry served with the 10th Cavalry at Carrizal and Torreón, then transferred to the 24th to go to Houston. I'll see that fifty,” he said, throwing in a chip. “Mr. James?”

Harrison looked at his cards. “Here's my fifty and another hundred.”

“Henry refused to surrender during the mutiny, even when wounded,” Floyd told them. “He shot himself that night in some shack in San Felipe. I'll bet twenty-five, gentlemen. A National Guard soldier found him with three bullet holes in him, the last one to the head.”

“Much like your brother, sir,” Anthony said, looking at Harrison.

“Play cards!” Floyd growled. “You going to bet or not?” He looked at Jackson.

“I'll see that, Mr. James,” Jackson said, adding his chips. “And raise fifty. Hell, for the Negroes, Henry's now the hero of Houston.”

“I'll see that and raise you another hundred, lieutenant,” Harrison responded. “What did my brother tell the Adjutant General?”

“And I,” the captain interrupted, “match that bet. Mr. James, that testimony is not public knowledge,” he answered for his subordinates. “I'm afraid we don't know. You'd have to go to San Antonio, be at the court martial, to discover what he testified.”

“To San Antonio…I see.”

“Play cards,” Floyd repeated thickly. “The bet is to you, Mr. James. I'll see that and raise you fifty.”

“You're too rich for my blood, gentlemen,” Harrison said. “I check.” He didn't force the issue, and he didn't want to raise the stakes too high and risk taking anyone out of the game. He had been observing Floyd. Beads of perspiration glistened on the man's forehead.

“Fold,” Anthony responded finally.

“I want to say, Mr. James, that your brother was a very brave man, who distinguished himself in Mexico,” Jackson said. “I think General Pershing would support my opinion, sir. I fold, sir.”

The captain also folded. “Gentlemen,” Blaine announced, “if you will excuse me, I think I've had enough.” He rose from the table.

“And I,” Anthony said, standing to leave with the captain. “Good night, and it was an honor to meet the brother of Captain Bart James.” He bowed from the shoulders, turned and headed for the stairs.

“Good night, gentlemen,” Harrison said with a nod. He watched as both men walked down the stairs.

“I call,” Jackson stated, watching Floyd.

“What have you got?” Floyd slurred.

“Two pair, aces and nines.” Jackson said.

“You boys are too good for me,” Harrison observed.

“Beat!” Floyd growled, throwing his cards into the middle of the table. Jackson shook his head, amused. Floyd struggled to maintain some measure of decorum before a fellow officer. He muttered, examining his very small pile of remaining chips.

CHAPTER TWELVE

An hour later, Lieutenant Jackson finally quit to return to camp. “Gentlemen, it's midnight. Time to go,” he announced, throwing in his cards.

That left only James and Floyd at the table. The lieutenant was completely broke and dead drunk. Harrison knew the time was right. “Lieutenant, we seem to be abandoned here. Suppose I buy you a drink and we call it an evening?” he said.

“It seems, sir, that you have me at a disadvantage.” Floyd was at the point where he had to carefully articulate each word. “I believe I owe a debt to you, sir?”

“Perhaps.” Harrison turned in his chair. “Bring another tequila for the lieutenant and a Pabst for me,” he called out to a waiter. He turned back to Floyd. “But in exchange, I could ask you a few more questions about Bart. I would greatly appreciate your insights, lieutenant. You're a man of experience.”

“Of course, of course, Mr. James.” Floyd's head drooped while he spoke. “Your glorious brother, the great Captain Bartlett James. I, too, am a West Point graduate. Did you know that?” He took the drink from the waiter, then held it up as if toasting what he had just said.

“No, I didn't,” Harrison replied, paying the waiter. He slowly gathered up his winnings and collected the cards, folding them into the deck. His movements were precise, experienced. Harrison had played poker all over the world.

Floyd sat, half stupefied, as Harrison cleaned up the table. “I think I've gotten drunk, sir,” he slurred. But he was still able to finish his last shot of tequila. “I was right beside him for more than a year. Mexico, Houston. We were together.” Floyd stared at the table, his memory in his clouded eyes.

Harrison quietly waited for him to continue.

“Your brother often disagreed with the rest of us on how to discipline Negro troops.” Floyd eyed his empty glass. “Sir, I'm from Alabama. We do things differently there.” He paused. “You Yankees think you always know what's best for everybody. Mister James…,” he slurred, unable to form his thought.

“Does Major Snow share your opinions on commanding Negro soldiers?” Harrison asked.

“Major Snow,” Floyd ruminated. “Major Kneeland Snow…. Sir, his opinions are never strongly expressed.” Floyd shook his head. “Or, maybe he has no opinions. Easier for him that way.” He stared blankly down. “I am an officer in the United States Army and a graduate of West Point. I was trained to follow orders.” He took a deep breath.

“His order that night seems clear enough,” Harrison said, sipping his beer. “Would you say Major Snow is a good commander, lieutenant?”

“Why do you ask me?”

“You've served under him since he arrived.”

“In
my
opinion—between you and me—he's not much of an infantry commander,” Floyd said. “And he is very inexperienced at commanding troops in the field. Especially Negro soldiers. And let us say he handles criticism very poorly and, from his junior officers, not at all.”

“I see,” Harrison said. “Why do you think my brother was so preoccupied the night he died?”

“He was investigating something. By all his diligence, I'd say something important,” Floyd replied.

“Or someone, perhaps?” Harrison suggested.

“That was possible, Mr. James.”

“Do you agree with Captain Blaine's conclusions?”

For the first time the lieutenant, with bloodshot eyes, looked directly at Harrison. “Between us, James, I think he was in too much of a hurry. He's the major's man for everything these days, it seems,” Floyd stated, wiping sudden perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Then his ruling of suicide may have been too hasty?” James said. “It could have been murder.”

“Now, there you go, Mr. James.” Floyd waved a drunken finger. “No one is talking murder except you.” He ran his hands through his cropped, dark hair, attempting to pull himself together. “Captain Blaine is not an experienced investigator. Not like your brother, the great Captain James.”

“I'm grateful for your help, sir,” Harrison said. “Shall we retire?” He helped the soldier to his feet, and together they maneuvered down the stairs and left the saloon, walking clumsily through the double doors.

Paddy, standing behind the bar, silently watched them leave. Then he motioned over two men who had been standing at the far end of the long bar. “Ye see that civilian with the lieutenant, lads?” he asked.

“Sure do Mista' Derry,” Charlie answered. “We knows 'im good. Somethin' not right 'bout 'im. That so, Jonesy?”

“Yup. Charlie and him don't see eye to eye on Niggers. Right, Charlie? He's gonna teach 'im a lesson.”

“Charlie looked at his partner and nodded. “At the right time.”

“What more would ye be knowin' 'bout him since the other night?” the bartender asked.

“His name is James from Illinois. He tol' us that,” Jonesy said.

“Hell, I be knowin' that, now, private,” Derry said.

“We caught 'im up out in the desert with a Mex sergeant from the Nigger battalion. Easy ride to the border out there where nobody would see ya,” Charlie added. “He's up ta somethin'. Don't know what. Jus' don't smell right is all. Jonesy?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“Would it be the same Mexican who comes in regular then, lads?” Paddy asked, thinking.

“Yeah, the same. You know'd him. Name's Parilla, First Sergeant Parilla.”

“Well now, that's surely int'resting how Mr. James gets 'round with the boys from the 24th so it is,” the bartender said thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed.

“If ya want us to, we'll keep an eye on 'im fur ya, Mista Derry,” Charlie offered.

“Ye'll not be needin' to, lads,” Derry said suddenly. “Here,” he added with a smile, drawing two beers. “On me own nickel. As for the squire…well, things have a way of takin' care o' themselves.”

“Thank ya, Mista Derry,” Jonesy said.

*

Two young women walking together, arm-in-arm, passed the two white men as they crossed the street. “Hi boys,” one of them said. “Want to have some fun?” One of the women was darker skinned, while the other was a dark haired, dark eyed, white woman. Both were very slim and very young. The thick make-up and seductive dress could not hide their youth. Harrison guessed that neither was older than 17 or 18.

“Ladies,” Harrison said, and nodded in passing.

“Like the whores, don't ya, James?” Floyd commented, patting the civilian on the back. “Don't blame you, don't blame you at all.”

Harrison ignored him. “How does a young officer with, shall we say, excellent tastes, support himself comfortably out here on the frontier?” he asked casually as they resumed their staggering walk down Broadway toward the hotel. Their boots made soft, crunching sounds as they walked along one side of the street, James supporting Floyd. The buildings they passed were dark and silent, except for the occasional flickering of light from a window or lamps in a saloon down a side street. Broadway was now deserted. The gas lamps were spaced too far apart to provide much light. They walked mostly in shadows.

“What else do you do? To help meet expenses, I mean,” Harrison asked.

Floyd laughed. “Sir, I believe you are prying.” He stumbled and Harrison pulled him upright.

“I'm a businessman, lieutenant. I'm always interested in making money.”

“There's money to be made out here, James. And it isn't in the army.” Floyd smiled drunkenly. “But your brother wasn't interested in such things. He was an army man through and through.”

“I'd like to know ways to make money out here,” Harrison said. “Maybe I could take advantage.”

“The embargo,” Floyd mumbled. “It doubled the prices the Mexicans pay for guns and munitions. But they still need them: Mausers, Springfields, machine guns—it doesn't matter.” Floyd began an exaggerated whisper. “A lot of smuggling goes on right around here, between El Paso and Columbus. Out there in the desert.” He pointed to the southwest.

“Interesting,” Harrison said. They had stopped in the middle of the street. “Would you know much about smuggling?”

“Everyone has their price.” Floyd smiled. “Let me tell you a little secret,” he said in his drunken whisper. He half swung from James' arms. “You're closer to the gold than you think. It's right up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “But I'm not saying more. I'm drunk.”

KRACK! KRACK! Two shots, and brilliant muzzle flashes lit up a darkened alley across from them. Harrison heard two bullets snap by his ear. He felt a tug on his arm as Floyd jerked, his body thrown to one side, falling in the dusty street. Harrison pulled his pistol and fired three quick rounds where his memory told him he had seen the muzzle flashes. Pieces of wood broke away from a corner building as his bullets walked upward from the recoil of the automatic.

The target was an alley immediately in front of them on the same side of the street. Harrison, crouching, rushed toward the opening, firing two more shots. When he reached the alley, he found nothing. Whoever had fired at them had disappeared back into the Mexican section of Columbus. Still crouched and alert, he scanned the area carefully. Something glistened on a wood barrel. Shell casings. He smelled them. Fresh. .45 caliber. The shots had been too close together to be anything but an automatic.

Harrison returned to the motionless form sprawled out on the street in the shadow of the sidewalk. He checked for a pulse, but Floyd was dead. His face and skull were partially exploded from the large caliber bullet.

“Police, police!” he yelled. “Over here. A man has been shot!” He bent down again to retrieve his hat. The second shot had ripped through it, piercing the corner of the brim directly above his left ear. The rounds were intended as killing shots to the head. Only an expert marksman would try for headshots in semidarkness.

A crowd gathered, seemingly out of nowhere. They all pressed around Harrison and the dead soldier. “Call the sheriff,” he ordered, still kneeling beside the dead man. He scanned the faces of the civilians and soldiers. “Anyone see what happened? he called out.

No one answered.

Finally, the constable and a deputy arrived. “Stand back now,” the constable said. “Who saw what happened here?” Again no one answered. The deputy pushed back the group of soldiers and townspeople. “See anything, boys?” he asked. “José, see if you can get a statement from anybody,” he ordered. “Then clear the street.” The constable bent over the prone figure of the lieutenant and mechanically checked the throat for a sign of life. He knew the man was dead.

“You with the lieutenant when he was shot?” he asked, looking at Harrison.

“That's right.” Harrison was tense and shaky.

“Let me see your gun, please.”

He handed over the weapon and the spent shell casings he had recovered.

The constable smelled them, then he handed his weapon back. “Nice pistola you have there, amigo. Colt automatic?”

“Thirty-two caliber.”

“I'll keep these as evidence.” The constable held the spent shell casings up to the dim light.

“From a .45.” James said.

The constable dropped them in the pocket of his old dark woolen coat. “Had yourself a gunfight I'd say.” They watched as two men covered the body. “José, get a call in to the MP's out at Furlong, pronto,” he ordered. “Tell 'em to get their arses in here right away.” Then he turned back to James. “What'd you say your name is? I already know who he was.”

“Harrison James. And you, sir?” Harrison studied the police officer briefly. A shaggy mustache hung over the constable's thin lips. He had not shaved in several days, and wore his hair long and uncombed. Flecks of gray around the temples highlighted the dark mop of hair. The lawman wore his silver badge prominently on the lapel of the old jacket. An older .45 caliber Colt revolver hung from his hip in a brown, weathered leather holster.

Seems to know what he's doing, Harrison thought. An easy manner about him. But the man leaves no doubt that he's the law in Columbus.

“Constable Amos Arnold. You said James? From Chicago?”

“From Chicago,” Harrison confirmed, surprised. “You know of me?”

“I knew your brother. He was a good man. I heard you were in town. Conducting your own investigation, I heard,” the constable said.

“He was my brother,” Harrison said.

The constable nodded. “Let's go back to my office. We can talk.” It sounded like an order. The two walked several blocks back down Broadway, passing the “Last Chance.” They entered a small adobe brick building, painted yellow with a red tile roof. A simple sign out front said “Police Station.” A large window on each side with four vertical iron bars in front of the glass framed the thick wood door, which had a small peep hole cut in about a man's height.

Harrison followed the constable inside, then around a high counter stacked with papers in the first room. A case with four rifles and a shotgun was fixed to the wall. Arnold nodded to another deputy seated behind the counter. Then they passed through a doorway into an office right off the cellblock. “Sit down, Mr. James.” He pointed to one of two chairs. “Tell me what happened.” The constable folded his arms and sat on the edge of his desk.

Harrison described the ambush in detail, including the events occurring from the time Lieutenant Floyd and he left the saloon.

Arnold made notes on a yellowed piece of paper. Finally, he looked up. “Walking down a dark street. Kind of risky, ain't it?”

“Constable, I didn't expect to be shot at,” Harrison said. “Are you saying you have a dangerous town here?”

“No, Mr. James, not saying that, exactly. Just have to be careful where you go that late at night.” He looked again to his notes. “I figure I have what I need for now,” Arnold said. “You'll be staying at the Hoover, of course