Chasing Pancho Villa (17 page)
Mr. Jones drove him back to Columbus in the black Dodge motorcar. Well after dark, he left Harrison in the alley beside the Hoover Hotel. Walking in the front door, Harrison was still thinking about Maria's request to rescue one of the mutineersâa Grover Burns who Maria claimed was Mr. Jones' nephew. Maria believes the young man is innocent.âthat he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Do I have what it takes to defend someone charged with mutiny and murder? he wondered. But if not me who then? For him, that was even more disturbing. In the hotel lobby he saw the same nighttime activity he had seen on his arrival.
Harrison crossed the lobby quickly and hurriedly went up the two flights of stairs to his hotel room. When he reached the door to his room, he saw that it was slightly ajar. Stepping quickly to one side, he drew his automatic and thumbed off the safety. In one motion, he slammed the door back against the wall. Crouching low, he swept into the room with the .32 straight out in front of him.
Even in the dim light from the hall lamp he could easily see that the room had been ransacked. The thin mattress was overturned. The three dresser drawers had been torn from the piece of furniture and hurdled to the floor. They lay on top of each other. His grip sat on top of the mattress, open and emptied of its contents. Harrison's few pieces of clothing were scattered about the room. Both pairs of trousers had been completely shredded. He stood, momentarily stunned by the destruction. Then he reached for the bag. The letter and telegrams from the Army to his mother were there, but Maria's letter was gone. On the floor Harrison saw the photograph of Bart and him together. Whoever it was had only taken the letter. He dropped the grip, turned, and stalked out of the room and down the stairs, fighting to contain his rage. His eyes were blue ice.
An older desk clerk, seeing the tall man marching toward him, felt a sudden chill. “Where's Miguel?” Harrison demanded.
“No se, señor.” The clerk trembled. He was used to handling angry guests from thirty years of service in hotels. But this tall man's hard stare and contained power made him shake with fear.
“Get him!” Harrison ordered. “Now!”
“SÃ, señor.” The clerk hurried away. A few minutes later he returned with Miguel at his side.
“Señor James. Una problema?” Seeing the gringo's expression, Miguel was very apprehensive.
“You don't know?” Harrison pressured him. “Someone tore up my room. Things were stolen. You knew I was out, Miguel.”
“No, no, señor. Not me.” He looked anxiously at the tall, angry gringo.
“You see who comes and goes. Maybe, Miguel, you saw someone come who doesn't belong here. The man who could tell me about this would be rewarded. The man who keeps silent may become silent forever,” Harrison said grimly.
The young man was now frightened. “Come, Señor James.” Miguel led him to a private alcove.
“Two soldiers,” the young clerk whispered. “But they have no, aahhâ¦.” He pointed to his shoulder.
“They were enlisted? They had nothing on their shoulders?”
“SÃ, Señor James,” he answered eagerly. “One man, a shorter man, ask about you. He say he has informacion, muy importante, for you from the colonel. Only for you. Muy importante sobre el tenente. El otro was tall like you, señor. Lo siento. Lo siento muchisimo. I take them to your room so the short man can put a message.” Miguel motioned with his hand.
“Under the door,” Harrison finished.
“SÃ, under the door. Then they leave. I see them leave, señor. They put it under the door,” he repeated, still shaken. “We all leave together.”
“When did this happen, Miguel?”
“Muy temprano. Maybe at 5:00 esta tarde. Before I go to mi casa para la comida.”
“Gracias, Miguel.” Harrison gave him a dollar bill, then turned to stalk out of the hotel.
“The bastards,” he muttered. Short and tall. Charlie and Jonesy, of course.
Looking for money?
he wondered. Then why take only the letter? James was walking directly up Broadway, and could smell gas from the street lamps in the cool, crisp air.
Harrison entered the police station. “Where's the constable?” he asked the deputy sitting at the front desk.
“Un momento, señor,” the young Hispanic said. He immediately turned from the counter and went to the rear office.
“Mr. James.” The constable greeted James from his open doorway. Motioning for James to follow, Arnold let him into the sparsely furnished adobe room. Harrison noticed wanted posters nailed to one wall and the dried, aging whitewash pealing from walls and ceiling. “Sit down,” Arnold said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. “Now how can I help you?” He sat down behind his desk.
“I'm reporting a robbery,” Harrison said, sitting down. Arnold, who James judged to be about his age, was heavier and deeply tanned, but appeared to be in fairly good condition. Just like at their earlier meeting, he was dressed in loose fitting cotton trousers, but with a rumpled dark jacket covering a white cotton shirt open to the middle of his chest
“A robbery? Where?” Arnold asked calmly.
“Someone broke into my hotel room, goddamnit. Completely tore up the place.”
“You know who did it? You saw them?”
James was still angry and impatient, in spite of his attempt to remain calm. “I have suspects.”
“Who are they?”
“Two cavalry soldiers from the army camp. I've met them before and know they're trouble. Charlie, and the taller one is Abraham Lincoln Jones.”
“They take valuables, money?” Arnold asked.
“Valuable correspondence.”
“Deputy,” the constable called. “Take Mr. James' complaint.”
“Yes, sir.”
“José will do the paperwork, Mr. James. I can assure you this matter will be investigated.”
“Thank you.” Harrison said, frustrated. “One more thing.”
“Yes?” The constable asked patiently.
“Have you found out anything about Lieutenant Floyd's death?”
The constable went to close the door. He came back and sat down again. Then he pulled a brown file from a desk drawer and quickly skimmed through the papers. He closed the file and returned it to the drawer.
Harrison waited, holding onto his appearance of calm.
“The Regimental Commander, Colonel Sizemore, I thinkâ¦. Yes, Colonel Sizemore has, based on the recommendation of Captain Blaine, investigating officer, determined that the deceased died from an accidental shooting. Looks like the Army is satisfied, and their investigation is concluded.” He sat watching Harrison
“Do you believe it was?” Harrison asked, very softly. Blaine, he thought. Snow's right-hand man.
The policeman sighed. He turned to slowly gaze up at the dirty, smoke stained ceiling before his eyes finally came back to rest on the man in front of him. “If the Army thinks it was accidental, why should I think otherwise?”
“You know why. Only two shots were fired at us. One aimed at me. The shots were deliberate. It's all in my statement,” Harrison said.
“Yes, it was. And that information was given to the military police.”
“And the army concluded their investigation without even interviewing me?”
“Seems to be the case,” Arnold said, still watching James closely.
Can this James help me?
he wondered.
“They can't decide that way based on the facts,” Harrison protested angrily.
“Are you are suggesting that they made a mistake?” The constable leaned forward across the desk, hoping for more information.
“More than that,” Harrison answered. “They're concealing something.”
“The whole regiment?”
Harrison considered his answer for a moment. “There was no love lost between my brother and his commanding officerâMajor Snow. That stemmed from the Negro soldiers' riot over in Houston.”
“Speculation,” Arnold replied. “It takes a lot of hate to commit a murder, don't you think?”
“When careers and pride are involved?”
“Even then. But I'm interested. What else do you think, Mr. James?” the constable asked.
“There's the matter of smuggling army weapons to Mexican rebels. I'm told a lot of those guns are crossing the border from Camp Furlong and armories in this area. Suppose there were Army officers and men involvedâthere would be pay offs, bribery, and my brother or the lieutenant could have discovered who they are. Then they were killed because of it.”
“And if horses had humps they'd be camels, Mr. James,” Arnold said flatly. “Right now the United States Army says the lieutenant's death was an unfortunate accident. You say it was murder. Bring me something I can use. Get me proof.”
“I don't have any proof,” Harrison replied, frustrated. “But I'll get it.”
Arnold listened closely. He had decided that Harrison James was no fool.
“I can assure you, constable, that I will not give up until I do,” James said softly.
“I'll be waiting,” Arnold replied.
They shook hands, and Harrison left.
“The deputy will write out your burglary complaint before you leave,” the constable said.
Harrison walked back down Broadway to his room. He decided to trust the constable. A good man, he thought. He walked past the saloon, distracted, when two soldiers came charging out the double doors. The shorter man crashed into James. All three stumbled out into the dusty congested street.
“Get outa the way,” Charlie snarled in Harrison's face.
“Well, if it isn't my two new friends,” Harrison answered. “Did you gentlemen find what you were looking for?”
“Looky here, Jonesy. If it ain't our old buddy.” Horses and motor cars swerved to avoid them. “Don't know what you're talkin' 'bout, Harry.”
“Charlie,” Harrison said quietly, “you boys are a couple of common, thieving bastards.”
“Watch yur mouth, ya rich Yankee sumbitch. Or I'll have ta teach ya a good lesson. Real good, eh, Jonesy?” Charlie reached into his half unbuttoned tunic, but before his hand could pull the object from inside his belt, Harrison snapped a left jab square into his face. He followed it with a right hook to the shorter man's belly. Blood gushed from Charlie's nose as he bent, gasping for breath.
Before Jonesy could respond, Harrison had his automatic stuck in Charlie's neck.
Jonesy froze, his eyes wide.
Charlie tried to pull free, but before he took a step, Harrison slapped his pistol barrel down on the broken and bloodied nose. “That's for pure satisfaction, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie squealed in pain. Jonesy's face turned pale, but he did not move.
A crowd began to gather along the wood sidewalk, but everyone carefully kept his distance.
Scanning the soldiers and whores collecting at the saloon door, Harrison saw no one who looked dangerous.
Paddy had been watching the action with interest through the grimy front windows of his saloon.
When Charlie finally staggered upright, James quickly pulled a small caliber Smith and Wesson revolver from inside his woolen tunic. It was an older weapon, worn from use.
“I wonder what your commanding officer would say about his troopers carrying concealed, non-Army issued weapons?” Grabbing Charlie's ear, James twisted. “Maybe I should tell him about it. Or maybe keep it. What do you think, Charlie?” Harrison twisted the ear again.
Charlie squealed louder.
Harrison then searched the shaking Jonesy, while covering Charlie. He did not find a pistol, but discovered an eight-inch hunting knife tucked in Jones' trouser belt. He inspected it carefully, and then dropped both weapons in his coat pockets. “Let's go,” he told them.
Charlie spit blood into the dusty street. “Where ya takin' us?” he gasped. He could not quite cover his fear.
“Should I be mindin' 'em fur ye, squire?” Paddy said from the doorway of the saloon. “Take the lads out of yer road?”
“No,” Harrison responded, without taking his eyes off the two.”We'll take a walk to the police station, you bastards.” He spun Charlie around and stuck his pistol into the middle of the man's back to nudge him along. Jonesy walked beside Charlie, careful to keep quiet.
“We don't care 'bout no civilian cop.” Charlie's voice quavered. His nose was spewing blood as he spoke. “Do we, Jonesy?”
Jonesy did not answer.
Charlie suddenly stopped in his tracks. “You think you got what it takes ta shoot a man in the back?”
Jones said, “Christ, Charlie, don't.”
Harrison raised the muzzle of the automatic to the back of Charlie's neck, releasing the safety with a loud click. “Goodbye, Charlie,” he said quietly. “Say hello to the Devil.”
“Jus' let us go, then,” Charlie whimpered, his voice barely audible. “Be smart now. We didn't do nothin'.” Charlie tried to stop the flow of blood from his nose with the back of one hand.
“You have something that belongs to me, Charlie,” James whispered. “I want it back. Now.”
“What's that?”
“Bang,” Harrison said.
“We don't have it no more. I swear on my mother's grave,” Charlie pleaded. “I swear. Tell him, Jonesy.”
“That's right,” Jones said woodenly.
“Where is it then?” Harrison twisted the barrel a little so Charlie could feel it.
“I sold it to a captain,” Charlie said eagerly
“Which captain?”
“A capt'n of one of them nigger companies. I swear,” Charlie told him.
“Now why would you break into my room just to steal a letter, Charlie?” James twisted harder.
The capt'n tole us. Said he needed ta know what ya was up ta. Ev-i-dence,” he said. “Right, Jonesy?”
“Yeah, that's right. An' he paid us good money. He tol' us to keep quiet,” Jones added, now also eager to please.
“Let us go,” Charlie pleaded. “We didn't hurt ya none.”