El Paso: A Novel (9 page)

IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS,
after everyone else had gone to bed, the Colonel poured himself a nightcap in a very private little anteroom off his private suite on the ship. Only two or three of the
Ajax
crew even knew the room existed, and no one was let in without permission. The room was quite small, with but a single port. On the walls hung personal mementos from the Colonel’s life and career: military photos from the Rough Rider days, college baseball and football pictures, scenes from a safari, and a shot of the Colonel on his favorite horse. The only furniture in the room was an overstuffed black leather chair, a side table, and a lamp.

He sat in the chair sipping his drink and wondering what Arthur’s reaction had been to his telegram: SEE IF YOU CAN HANDLE IT.

He knew their situation was critical, but neither, to the Colonel’s way of thinking, was it grave. He was being squeezed, both professionally with the NE&P and personally. He had been extravagant lately and his personal finances were quite thin right now. But there were many ways out—the most immediate and obvious of which was to postpone the note due to National Bank of Boston. But be damned if he’d go over there, hat in hand, and reveal his predicament to those pompous bastards.

It would be all over town. Of course, it would get all over town, too, when Arthur went there—as the Colonel knew he must—but Arthur had a way of explaining things that the Colonel did not enjoy. Say what you would, the boy
could
handle it.

When the Colonel went in for a loan, he simply marched up to the president of the bank and said, “Phillip, I want you to put a million in the NE&P account tomorrow,” and it would be done, and later the legal papers would follow. The Colonel greatly delighted in this kind of power and pull. Now it would have to be explained why NE&P needed an extension on such a loan, and that would be sticky business. Questions would be asked that could lead someplace he did not wish them to lead. Arthur was far better at explaining such things, while he himself would probably just harrumph around and maybe even get belligerent and cause a row.

As far as the long-term went, Shaughnessy was confident things would work themselves out. They always had. Building the railroad up he’d experienced many reverses, yet when things seemed darkest, something always intervened to pull them through. What it would be this time, he did not know—the munitions contracts, perhaps; another wave of immigrants to whom he could resell the notion of western homesteading, just as he had to the others. Or perhaps something else he hadn’t even considered. The Colonel had always been lucky in his life.

After all, didn’t he win the railroad in a dice game in the first place?

In the center of the room was a polished walnut stand upon which sat a complicated mechanical device housed in a large glass dome; it was silent now but by ten a.m. would begin spouting out ticker tape with quotations from the New York Stock Exchange. The Colonel sat in his chair and stared at the ticker tape machine and sipped his final brandy of the night. By the time the machine began clattering out its first morning messages, the dinner guests would be shaking off their hangovers to the realization that they had become the latest victims of the Colonel’s most elaborate practical joke to date. They would have arisen expecting to look out their portholes to see Boston Harbor or at least the sight of land. But all that would greet them would be the ocean swells of the North Atlantic.

He was relishing this prospect when there came a hesitant tapping at his door. He got up and unlocked it to find the captain of
Ajax
standing there, hat in one hand and a piece of message paper in another.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the captain said, “we just received this. You told me you insist on hearing controversial news immediately.”

Colonel Shaughnessy took the piece of paper and shut the door, leaving the captain outside. He read it in disbelief, face turning beet-red, feeling first a wave of panic, then anger surge over him. He slammed his fist against the bulkhead wall and crumpled the paper in his hand.

“Goddamn it!” he spat, throwing the wadded-up message paper on the floor. He paced around for a few moments, once looking out of the lone porthole, where all he could see was empty ocean. He flung open the door to find the captain was still standing there, hat still in his hand.

“All right, damn it!” he muttered. “Turn us around. Take us to Boston. And say nothing to anyone about this!”

EIGHT

J
ohnny Ollas had spent the afternoon skinning a cow at the Hacienda Valle del Sol, Colonel Shaughnessy’s preposterous ranch in a remote part of the Mexican state of Chihuahua nearly two hundred miles from the American border at El Paso, Texas.

Johnny Ollas did not often occupy himself in cow-skinning, but he needed a new set of chaps and this was the most convenient way to get them. Around Valle del Sol, Johnny Ollas was something of a
gran hombre.
In addition to being a cowhand, he aspired to be a great matador. A decade ago, the Colonel had decided to enter the bullfighting business by acquiring one of the premier stud fighting bulls in all Mexico; Toro Malo was his name.

Toro Malo weighed nearly sixteen hundred pounds, large for a fighting bull, and had so far sired four hundred ninety-eight progeny, the sale of which had earned the Colonel nearly three hundred thousand dollars. Toro Malo now occupied a pasture to himself and was in the sole charge of Johnny Ollas, who loved the old animal like a pet.

Johnny Ollas was also the personal ward of the Colonel himself. Three years after Shaughnessy purchased the ranch from the Mexican government—at the going rate in American money of fifteen cents an acre—the manager had found a naked day-old baby boy lying in a drainage ditch, surrounded by dogs.

Word was that the mother had fled to Texas in disgrace after having the illegitimate child. The manager brought the baby to Valle del Sol, and during one of the Colonel’s visits there he took compassion on the infant and instructed the manager, an Oklahoman named Callahan, to see to it he was reared and schooled in a proper fashion.

Manager Callahan took this task upon himself and he and his wife raised Johnny Ollas along with the rest of their brood—even named him after Colonel John Shaughnessy, his patron. From then on, the Colonel always took an interest in Johnny’s development, and on his annual visits to Valle del Sol he spent time with the boy and over the years grew quite fond of him.

Several years earlier, Johnny had taken a wife, Donatella, whom everyone called Donita. She was a true beauty whom Johnny had met in San Miguel de Allende, where he had gone to buy saddles. She was a Creole of Spanish descent, of a social class well above an orphaned Mexican ranch hand, but, despite her parents’ objections, Donita became taken by Johnny’s handsomeness and charm and the rumor that he would one day become a great matador.

But it had not all worked out the way she wished. First, she discovered that being a bullfighter meant being away most of the time, and often Johnny did not take her with him. In a way, this was a relief, because she found herself increasingly fearful when she watched him in the ring. But neither did she like being left alone for such long periods. She felt it would be better if he stayed on at the ranch and she was certain that if he did, one day the Colonel would make him ranch manager. That was a good, solid job. Being outspoken, Donita and Johnny could be heard arguing on many occasions, and it was generally agreed around the hacienda that she usually had the better of it.

That morning, lying in bed, he had wanted to make love, but, still angry over one of their arguments the night before, Donita had pushed him away. In any case, Johnny had gone to skin his cow in the courtyard of Valle del Sol when the warning sounded that rustlers were on the premises.

Johnny Ollas the matador was no
pistolero
and so did not respond to Callahan’s call for arms to rout the cattle thieves. Nobody, especially not Callahan, thought less of him for this. Matadors, even aspiring ones, were considered to be above rough gunplay.

When Callahan’s party saddled up and rode out to drive off the rustlers, they had no notion of encountering anything but ordinary bandits. Even while the revolution raged up and down Chihuahua, there were always some outlaws who conducted depredations in either Villa’s name or one of his generals’, but nobody much believed them because Villa was a certified hero to much of the population.

From time to time Callahan had to ride out against cattle thieves and his policy was to go in force and with unmistakable determination. Usually, when they saw Callahan’s men coming straight at them, the thieves ran off. But this time, when Callahan saw the second party of men—Mix’s—emerge from the fold of ground, he became wary, which was why he split up his posse. He had not, of course, counted on the machine guns.

By the time Callahan got everybody back to the ranch it was nearly sundown. The machine gunners had hit seven horses and three men. The horses had to be destroyed; the men were injured but not badly. Women were tending the men’s wounds and the conversation was heated in the plaza of Valle del Sol when word came that more trouble was on the way.

Callahan climbed to the bell tower and his heart began to pound. Spread out across the plains, coming toward him, were hundreds of horsemen, in large formations, carrying flags and banners. He knew the hacienda was about to be paid a visit by some part of Pancho Villa’s army, a very sobering thought, and it made him wish he’d stayed in Oklahoma.

Callahan’s apprehension was well founded. Johnny Ollas was among those standing in the courtyard when Villa’s vanguard rode in through the walled gate. Fierro rode in first, just behind two guidons with red and white serpent flags on lances. Next came Pancho Villa himself with half a dozen bodyguards and staff, their horse’s hooves clattering on the brick pavings. The women of the hacienda gathered nervously on the balconies and beneath the columned porticos that surrounded the courtyard. Among them was Johnny’s wife, Donita.

No one was quite sure what to do with the arrival of the famous Pancho Villa.

Callahan, the manager, stood in the courtyard with the rest, waiting for somebody else to make the first move. The Villistas’ horses clopped around on the paving stones while the general surveyed the hacendados for a leader. Finally Señora Parnadas stepped forward, twisting a handkerchief in her fingers. She was the house manager of Valle del Sol, a sort of mother figure to everyone, who arranged the meals and housekeeping duties, and she had been there longer than anyone could remember.

“May I get you something, General?” Señora Parnadas asked.

“Do you have any lemonade?” Villa answered.

“I can make some,” she said, turning with instruction to one of the women to start squeezing lemons.

“So who was it led those
cabrones
against my men?” Villa said loudly.

Everyone knew. No one wanted to say. No one dared meet Villa’s gaze. At last Callahan reluctantly stepped up. “General,” he said, “I ordered my people to go after cattle rustlers.”

“And who are you?”

“The ranch manager for Mr. Shaughnessy,” Callahan replied, figuring that his minutes on earth might be fast ticking away.

“Well, we are not cattle rustlers,” Villa informed him. “We were requisitioning beef for my army. I am governor of Chihuahua and I can requisition beef when I need it for the revolution.”

“We didn’t know it was you,” Callahan said. He knew it sounded feeble, but it was true.

“You should have asked.”

Since he hadn’t been shot by now, he figured he could be a little bolder, but was careful not to sound argumentative. A maid brought a large glass of lemonade to Señora Parnadas, who handed it to Villa.

“
Gracias
,” responded the general, taking a large swig, then returning his attentions to the man before him.

“My men haven’t had any fresh beef in a while,” Villa said. “It is not good for an army to be underfed.”

Callahan had the feeling the general might be toying with him, but, emboldened merely by being alive, he plunged ahead.

“General,” he said, “all these years you’ve left us alone. All us Americans down here, we wish you the best. We don’t want to get in your way. If you want some cows, we can let you have them.”

Villa had a way of twisting his mouth to the side so you couldn’t tell if it was a grin or a grimace. Callahan thought it was a grimace.

“You want me to send my boys to cut out some of the herd for you?” Callahan offered.

“I didn’t know your hospitality would be so generous,” Villa said. “We were all looking forward to having a big beef supper tonight. Just a little while ago I promised this to General Fierro myself.”

“Well, then,” Callahan said hopefully, “let me get my people working.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Fierro interrupted. He had been glaring at Callahan all during the conversation. “You see, on the way here we picked out a very fine beef for our dinner. He’s old and tough, like us. We’re not used to your good grain-fed cows. We been fighting and on the march too long.”

General Fierro motioned one of his aides to come forward. On his saddle horn the aide carried a large burlap sack. He walked the horse slowly until he came up beside Callahan, then pulled out a knife and slit the sack open. The severed head of a bull tumbled out of the sack and onto the paving.

“In the bullring,” Fierro sneered, “they just cut off the ears and the tail. We in the army cut off the entire head.”

It took Johnny Ollas a moment or so to realize what this was. It hit him like a kick to the gut. “You bastards!” he roared, bursting through the crowd. “No, no!” He lunged for Fierro but was cut down by a savage flat-of-the-blade saber blow to the back of his head from one of Fierro’s men.

There was stunned silence in the courtyard. Women clapped their handkerchiefs to their mouths. Everybody knew how Johnny cared for Toro Malo, how even as a kid he’d get dressed in the middle of a lightning storm and lead him to the safety of a barn. How he always used to say he didn’t understand how the old bull could produce such fine fighting stock, since he was really as gentle as a lamb. How proud he was to show him off to visiting ranchers. In fact, even though Johnny killed bulls for part of his living, he had grown so attached to the beast he would never have thought of meeting him in the bullring.