Chasing Pancho Villa (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Columbus, New Mexico, 1000 hours, October 5, 1917

The muscular-looking, well-dressed man stood, waiting impatiently, in an interior corner of the Hotel Hoover's lobby. A hot desert smell blew in through the open windows and hung in the air, dusting everything and everyone with a thin red coat. The weather was unusually hot and dry for this late in the season. He had seen smoke rising from the Portillo Mountains just to the north on his train trip from El Paso. Probably a brush fire, he was told by the conductor

The man, not used to the heat and grit of southwest New Mexico, wiped the perspiration and dust from his face with a silk handkerchief. Until several years ago, he had lived and worked in Chicago. He decided that was a much more civilized place. Opportunities for making fast money had brought him to El Paso. But he had not anticipated the dangers and the endless intrigue with all the competing armies. Their spies and agents had begun to threaten his business.

Trying to appear occupied, he retrieved a newspaper from under his arm and pretended to read the front page. The war news didn't interest him, but a short article on the bottom of the page caught his eye. “Rioting Negro Soldiers from New Mexico to be court-martialed in November,” he read. He wondered how many soldiers remained to patrol the border, and the state of their morale.

Then he heard a name called. It wasn't his name, but rather an agreed upon signal.

“MISTER BARNES FROM DENVER?” a heavily accented voice said. It sounded melodious to the ear. “MISTER BARNES,” the voice repeated, coming closer to where the man stood.

He nodded to the young, Hispanic-looking bellboy. “Here,” he said, loud enough to catch the bellboy's attention, but not loud enough to call attention from others.

“Someone looks for you, señor,” the bellboy said. “I will get him?”

“Yes, bring him here,” the man said. He handed the young man a dime.

*

“You're late,” the man hissed to a shorter, younger, darker skinned man who had approached and was now standing only inches from him. “Were you lost?”

“Sorry, señor. Crossing the border es dangerous now,” the man responded with a shrug. His thick coarse hair was black, short, and crudely cropped off. He was dressed like a local—cotton shirt open at the neck, no jacket. The young man was noticeably out of place in the Hoover lobby, filled mostly with well-dressed white men parading around with great self-importance. The white men were mostly from Denver, Houston, or Santa Fe, conducting business with the army, local ranchers and miners, or with Mexicans who had come up from Chihuahua Province to purchase needed supplies. Everyone had something to sell, and could always find a buyer willing to pay top dollar for scarce merchandise.

“This business is muy importante, eh señor?” The shorter man's dark, cold eyes studied the taller man, whom he had recognized immediately as his contact. They both held copies of the
Houston Post
,
another recognition signal that had been arranged in advance. American? European maybe, he thought. It was difficult to tell with gringos.

“That is not your concern,” the white man responded crisply.

“Why do you call for me, eh?”

“It is a mission specially suited to your skills. You did very well with the last assignment,” the white man said quietly, looking casually around the lobby to ensure no one was listening. The white man felt uncomfortable here. He worried that he would be remembered meeting with a man like this one. But he was putting out a fire that, if allowed to burn, could eventually destroy the entire operation. Hiring this dangerous animal was a necessary part of his plan.

“The money?”

“The usual way. Half now and half when the job is done. It will be waiting for you as before, in Juarez.” The white man pulled a brown envelope from his coat pocket and slipped it to the shorter man beneath his newspaper. He scanned the lobby again. “Further instructions are inside, with the money. They're in Spanish. You can read, I assume.”

Ignoring the comment, the younger man opened the envelope and looked inside. With his thumb and forefinger, he carefully touched each bill to ensure the amount was what they had agreed to earlier. Smiling, he pulled out a single sheet of paper before stuffing the money in his shirt.

The white man watched the young Indian quickly read the note, refold it, and stick it inside his shirt. “The brother must die, too,” he continued. “Together, in some type of altercation—ah, confrontation—that I'm sure you can arrange.” He disliked the idea of being involved with killing, but knew he had no other choice. “This must be done in January.”

Today, I will help Standard Oil because they want Villa to win, he thought. In January, I sell to Carranza when he has money to pay me. A quick smile of contentment creased the otherwise expressionless face.

The young man stared at him, but said nothing.

“Everyone must wait until El Presidente has the money,” the white man said, a hint of contempt in his voice.

The Indian nodded, well aware of what the gringo was talking about. His people had been smuggling for years along the white man's border. After all, it was their border and had nothing to do with his people.

“Why do you want to kill this hombre? Did he insult your family?”

“That's none of your business.”

“I usually kill Mexicans. I hate them and nobody cares, eh? But don't worry. I will do this for you.”

“That's good. If you have problems, you know how to contact us.” The white man knew it was time to leave. His eyes moved constantly about the lobby, searching out enemies. “Oh, one more thing,” he said to quickly wrap things up.

“Amigo?”

“When you complete your job you must disappear again. In Mexico. No one must ever know that you worked for us. Is that clear?”

“I understand this. But what about his people? And your own Federales? Will they not investigate? Look for me, maybe?”

“His knowledge will die with him,” he replied. “Remember. The rest of the money will be waiting for you in Juarez after the job is completed. At the same place.” The man turned away to signal the meeting was at an end.

He walked across the lobby, mingling with other white men from out of town in their dark wool suits with starched collars.

The Indian had no interest in following the gringo—it might be dangerous. And he had what he wanted—his money and a mission.

CHAPTER FOUR

The train racketed on into the night. The rhythmic sound of the wheels rolling over ribbons of steel echoed in the darkness, hour after hour. Its mind-numbing rhythm was mixed with the snores and coughing of passengers asleep or dozing in the coach.

Unable to sleep, the smell of perspiration and body odors from the overdressed and unbathed packed into the railcar began to overwhelm his senses. Having lived in France among the wealthy, Harrison James had forgotten how others were forced to live. Tobacco smoke hung in the stale air, clinging to other odors. He knew if he opened the window, smoke and cinders from the firebox funnel would drift in. The train's frequent stops had been helpful, but they were still an inadequate relief from what he considered to be almost insufferable conditions. Suffocating in the old wooden coach, he now wished he had waited for better accommodations in El Paso.

No babies cried. Harrison thought that seemed strange, but he was grateful for the fact. Leaving Chicago 36 hours earlier, he had fought his way through throngs of women and small children. Now, his car was filled with sleeping men in brown wool uniforms. The impeccably cut gray suit he wore seemed completely inappropriate. He tried again to sleep, leaning back against the headrest of his seat. But sleep was impossible.

The steel beast hammered its way through the western corner of Texas and into New Mexico. Day turned to night, light into darkness and then back again. James had already seen 1200 miles of America pass by his grimy couch window.

For most of the last eight hours he had watched the grassland turn into barren and empty plain. Looking out the dust-covered window at the gathering darkness, James couldn't tell if the horizon was five or fifty miles away. Distances became illusion as objects seemed to shimmer and move about. But in the moonlight, he thought he could see faint outlines of mountains far to the north.

Harrison's thoughts returned to the darkness of his car as the train chugged across the arid scrub land. Irritated, he opened the window slightly to allow the cigarette smoke to escape from the stuffy carriage.

Harrison struggled against his own deep sense of loss. He would never see Bart again, and, to make matters even worse, the meeting with his mother hadn't gone well. They never did.

He considered his brief stay with her. He remembered walking up the wide marble steps, somberly observing the acres of neatly trimmed lawn and well-manicured gardens surrounding the great mansion. Its three stories seemed to lean over him threateningly, their blank windows reflecting the emptiness he felt inside.

As children, Bart and he had only limited contact with their parents. They had been raised by servants, under the supervision of Jonathan, mother's most trusted servant and confidant. The love Harrison had for his brother was the only nurturing experience inside those great walls. For his mother he felt nothing. She had given him nothing that he could love.

Harrison also knew that it had been different for Bart. His brother, younger by five years, had always strived to please his mother, and she had responded by lavishing her attention on him. Bart was everything she had wanted in a son. But Harrison was never jealous of his little brother. He understood.

Thinking about his mother, Harrison sighed long and hard. He tried not to blame her. That was always difficult and now that Bart had died—perhaps by his own hand—it had become impossible.

It had been four years since he was home. He had returned on that occasion only to bury his father. He was not surprised that his mother had not changed during his long absence in Europe. She remained slim, her silver hair piled high on her head, beautifully coifed and jeweled. When he arrived, she greeted him in a formal gown of deep blue. She came down the stairway slowly. Like a queen, he thought, a true blueblood. Her eyes were the first things he always noticed about her. They had remained young…and very hard.

At first, like Bart, he had made excuses for her snobbishness and cold, calculating behavior. “It was because she had a childhood of poverty, growing up in the tenements of Chicago,” they told their friends. The family secret—that she was a downstairs maid their father had fallen madly in love with—could never be revealed. But now, after all these years, it didn't seem to matter to anyone but her. She had with great cruelty, cunning, and spirit created her own kingdom within Midwestern high society. In her world she ruled supreme. But, Harrison knew, in her soul, mother would always be that scheming, grasping maid.

“You might have taken your hat off upon entering my home, Harrison,” she said when she reached the bottom of the stairs. They were the first words she had spoken to him. “Perhaps the people you know in Europe have more unique customs.”

She'll never change, Harrison thought, feeling the chill.

“Your brother is buried,” she stated directly, staring into his eyes. “I laid him to rest in the family plot last week, beside his father.” She stared at him with distaste. “Tonight we will talk. Rest now,” she ordered and abruptly turned to walk away. “Jonathan will take your bags up.” It was pointless to try to continue the conversation, so he followed the butler up the curved staircase. His old room was at the far end of the hallway, next to Bart's. The door to Bart's room was closed and, he discovered upon trying to open it, locked.

“Your mother has the only key,” Jonathan stated, flatly. And that was that.

Sitting in his room that evening, he looked over the many photographs adorning the wall and dresser. Most were of him and Bart. The last photograph of the two of them together was on the nightstand next to the bed. It was taken only four years earlier at their father's funeral, just before Bart had gone to Washington to work in the War Department. He took the photo from the frame and folded it carefully into his jacket pocket.

*

In the darkness of the train, James touched his chest pocket to make sure it was there.
That's all
I have left of my brother, he thought.

*

“Harrison,” his mother said later that first night, following dinner, “I have heard of your dalliances in Paris, Monte Carlo, and Madrid. Also of your gambling and fighting. Have you no shame?”

“I'm sorry, mother. Do I embarrass you?” he had asked sarcastically.

“You're a disgrace to our family,” she stated coldly.

“To our family?”

“Yes. And the women you choose to associate with. Prostitutes. They're women of no class or reputation. Why couldn't you have been more like your brother?”

“Do you really think we're any better than they? Money, mother—that's what makes the world go around. You of all people understand that,” he said, grinning at her.

“Harrison,” Jonathan hissed from across the table. But too late.

She ignored the comment, turning to look out the large window onto her lawns. “Beautiful, aren't they, Harrison?”

“Mother, we have important matters to discuss,” he said. He was determined to talk about business, knowing that was the only thing she really understood. “You remember the problems with the government, don't you? You should. Your activities nearly destroyed the company.”

“You are exaggerating, as usual,” she responded, finally turning her attention back to her son. “Only a simple misunderstanding. Too much trouble over nothing.”

“Nothing, mother?”

“The problem resolved itself, Harrison.”

“Resolved itself? You violated an international agreement on neutrality and disregarded the directives of the President of the United States. But for you it's only a minor misunderstanding,” he said, suddenly white with anger.

“Eight months later we were in the war,” she told him. “As it turned out, we were actually contributing to the war effort. The French needed those munitions, but never got them. And we were forced instead to do business with bandits and revolutionaries.”

“Bandits and revolutionaries? What do you mean?”

“Our man in Texas—Jackson Smith. You remember him. He negotiated with buyers in El Paso willing to pay cash. They were Mexicans who worked with Standard Oil. They agreed to get our munitions to a Mexican bandit called Villa. They took everything off our hands.”

James was stunned by her matter-of-fact reply. “You don't know anything about him? What does he intend to do with the munitions? Use them against our army?”

“No, Harrison. That bandit will use them against other Mexicans. Does that matter?”

“It matters,” James stated, incredulous.

“Yes, of course it does.” She gave him a smile of satisfaction. “We were paid in cash, Harrison.”

“Where is Smith now, Mother?”

“He no longer works for us,” she said, looking away.

She was lying, but James didn't press it. “Do you want to know what I do to keep you and your business associates out of jail, Mother? How much I must pay legal staff here and in France?”

“You?” She said with contempt. “I met personally with Senator Albert Fall from New Mexico. He resolved the problem for us. With no assistance from you, I might add.”

“In return for what, mother? A deal with a Mexican rebel?” James asked. “You're fortunate the Germans and Butcher could come up with no proof it was our company that made the deal with the French. Mother, you were trying to circumvent international law and the President of the United States. Not even I could have gotten the company out of that mess.”

“The matter was resolved,” his mother said.

“I think the American declaration of war took care of it.”

“That cargo would have been important to our war effort, but when the government finally released it from impoundment, the owners decided they needed to get rid of it quickly,” she said. “What could I do? We are only brokers, Harrison.”

“Get rid of the evidence, eh?” he asked. “Mexicans bought it, you said? “

She looked directly at him and smiled. “The consignment was not purchased by an American company, nor a French or English company either. Its destination was across the border. That is all I needed to know,” she said with finality.

“You better stay on good terms with Senator Fall, mother. The problem may not be over,” Harrison warned.

*

Randolph James had wanted his sons to be tough and independent like him. He believed the only way to accomplish that was to treat them accordingly. He expected his old friend from his Nevada days—Jonathan Strong—to take care of it. Jonathan followed his orders, but, not having his own sons, he tried in his own way to give the boys the love they never received from their parents. In addition, he did all that he could to teach them to be good, decent men.

Jonathan prided himself on his successful parenting, and Harrison and Bart had thought of the old man as their grandfather. He had been a member of the household for more than thirty years. But Jonathan, James had discovered, had one great distraction—he was in love with their mother.

He thought a lot about that, remembering when he had first learned of Jonathan's feelings for his mother. It was eleven years ago when Harrison had graduated from Harvard. The two came to attend the ceremony without his father. He had—quite by accident—caught them in an embrace. The two did not know of his discovery, but months later he spoke to Jonathan. Harrison had promised never to betray them and, in appreciation for his silence, Jonathan kept Harrison abreast of his mother's activities.

*

“Where is Smith now, Mother?” he asked with growing irritation. “And what is he up to?”

“You don't need to know.”

Harrison sighed, knowing she would avoid answering all his questions. “Is turning a profit all that you live for?”

“Silence,” she rapped out in a voice of steel. The word echoed through the large house. “Who do you think you are? We didn't make these wars, Harrison. They want wheat, so we get them wheat. They want explosives, and we find them. That is the business your father started, and it's also the one that's given you a spoiled, pampered life.” Her chin was set and Harrison felt the cold from her eyes freeze into him from across the table.

He knew the conversation was at an end. “Mother, if you could only see the suffering your business affairs now cause.”

“Harrison, you may leave the table.”

“No. And I didn't come here to argue with you over business. I came because of Bart. Tell me what happened,” he said.

“We're both distraught, Harrison. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning. I'll answer your questions about Bart then.”

“But…”

“Harrison, do as your mother asks,” Jonathan said. He still stood behind James' mother. His right hand rested on her shoulder. She reached up and laid her hand on top of his.

He did as Jonathan asked, but later caught the trolley to Market Street for an evening of entertainment.

She was right, he thought. This is my beautiful, empty life.

*

“Harrison, gather your wits,” his mother stated the next morning over breakfast. She spoke as if they had not clashed the previous evening. “A telegram from the Army stated that Bartlett had committed suicide. Evidently, some sort of riot among Negro soldiers in Houston—your brother's soldiers—involved him,” she continued. “The Army has a Major Snow who wishes me to believe Bartlett committed suicide as a result of that riot. Read this.” She gave him the telegram:

Dear Mrs. James, Captain Bartlett James died on Saturday, September 2, 1917. Investigation concluded the captain died by a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his quarters here at Camp Furlong, New Mexico. Arrangements for transporting the body will be forthcoming. My deepest condolences, Major Kneeland Snow, Commanding, Second Battalion, 24th Infantry Regiment, United States Army.

She then handed him a newspaper clipping from the
Chicago Herald
she had retrieved from somewhere in the folds of her white silk morning dress.