TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border (61 page)

Candelario embraced him. All was forgiven, and all was well again.

“The problem is supplies,” Hipólito said gloomily. “No more bullets. No coal.”

I thought fleetingly of Franz von Papen, wondering if Villa was doing the same. Then I said, “We’ll have to see Sam Ravel and Felix, if he’s still in business. They’ll figure a way to get things across the border. They always did.”

Hipólito looked even gloomier. “Tomás, I thought you knew. Felix died last April. And Ravel switched sides. He’s supplying Obregón.”

That night on the porch of Hipólito’s house, after we let the air out of a second tequila bottle, Candelario announced that he was leaving for Columbus early the next morning. “I’m going to find Marie-Thérése and marry her,” he said drunkenly. “Yvette, too, if she’s willing.”

“You’re married already,” I reminded him.

“If the chief can have three wives, why can’t I? There must be some privileges that go with being a general.”

I pointed out that the girls would probably never leave the United States for Mexico.

“Then I’ll stay here,” Candelario decided. “This crazy lieutenant won’t find us. I’ll shave off my beard. I speak a few words of English, and I can learn the rest—I’m just as smart as Rosa. I like the United States. I like the movies. I’ll get a job on a ranch. Or I’ll open a restaurant. I have some money put away somewhere,” he said, leering.

“I’ll be your partner,” Julio said glumly, snatching the bottle. “Hipólito, stay with us. You’re too fat to fight. You’ll just get killed in Sonora.”

Hipólito rubbed his belly. “I could lose weight.”

“You’ll lose plenty,” said Candelario, “when you’re lying dead in a well. You can be a waiter in my restaurant.”

“Mabel doesn’t want me to fight, either.”

“So that settles it.” Candelario uncorked yet another bottle, took a swig and passed it to Julio. “We’re retired. We’ll all get fat and rich. If you’re not rich, Tomás, if you can’t get a job as an actor, you can always get a free meal at my restaurant. This is a wonderful idea. Why didn’t we think of it before?”

“Because you were never so drunk before,” I said.

“Are you serious? I’ve been drunk for a year, at least between battles. What else is there to do in life except fight and fuck and drink?” He peered at me carefully, as if he saw me through a haze—which was probable. “What are you trying to say, Tomás?”

“That I’m going to Sonora.”

“To fight?”

“Well, not to fuck and drink.”

“You believe this lieutenant will really come after you if you stay here?”

“That’s not it. I haven’t given up. Neither has the chief. So what if Carranza’s president? Huerta was president before him, and we licked Huerta. The revolution’s not dead. It can’t die as long as Pancho Villa lives.”

“Jesus,” Candelario muttered to the others. “He’s become more Mexican than the rest of us.”

“No,” I said, “I just remember why I joined up with you idiots in the first place. Anyway, the second place. And that hasn’t changed.”

But the next morning before the rest of us were awake, Candelario left on the train for Columbus. After we had thrown buckets of water over our heads to cure the worst part of our hangovers, Julio, Hipólito and I went to the hospital on Third Street to see how Fierro was doing. The doctor told us he had saved the leg, and he thought the bone would heal well enough so that Rodolfo could walk and ride without any trouble.

Then I went to Sam Ravel’s office in the Toltec Building. I had to try and talk him out of switching sides.

I had a garden of reasons, and I plucked them out one by one, weeds and all, and slung them across his desk. But Sam just tapped his fingers impatiently.

“Things change, Tom. That’s something you’ve got to realize … for your own sake.”

‘“Why? What do you want me to do?”

“Villa hasn’t won a battle since before the convention. He’s finished.”

“Not if he can get arms. The people will always be with him. And he’s the only one who really gives a damn about the people.”

“That’s how Hannah used to talk when she was a kid. Tom, wake up. The people backed Villa when they thought he was a hero, when they believed he could win something for them. Now they see he has feet of clay. He’s lost. Not even the
campesinos
will support him after this. I’m not supplying Obregón because I think he’s any better than Villa. I’m doing it because he and Carranza are the only ones left who can lead Mexico out of its bloodbath. You’re an intelligent man, and you’ve got a future. Don’t turn your back on it. I need you in Columbus, and that offer I made to you still goes, no matter what happened between you and Hannah. You should take it.”

I felt no small irritation at his quick change of sides—even if he had what he considered a decent reason—and even more at the fact that he thought I would go along with him.

“You want me to work for you against Villa? No, Sam … if that’s waking up, I’ll stay asleep.”

“But you were going to quit last December! You were going to marry Hannah after the new year. What the hell ever happened to make you stay down there?”

“I got more involved,” I said, keeping it simple.

“And you don’t even ask about Hannah?”

I couldn’t explain all that to him. Besides, I had already heard from Hipólito that she was well and thriving, and that my fleeing to Mexico hadn’t ruined her life or driven her to a convent. I may not have loved Hannah anymore, but I respected her ability to survive and track down whatever it was she wanted in life.

“Will you see her?” Sam asked.

“It’s over between us,” I said.

“She talks about you an awful lot. If you wanted…”

“I don’t want.”

We shook hands, even though he was going to supply bullets to men who would try to kill me with them. I suppose he didn’t think of it that way, if at all.

“If you change your mind, Tom, let me know.”

“I won’t change my mind. Take care now, Sam.”

“I’m sorry about all this.”

“Well, business is business, as they say.”

His handsome smile faded a bit at that. I regretted the remark right away—we had been through a lot together, horse-trading and jawing over bottles of brandy and cigars. I had always respected the man, and he had helped to save my life by the Stanton Street Bridge.

But I didn’t apologize. There are some things you can’t do and still lock eyes each morning with that fellow in the shaving mirror. I had started to get a glimmer that when things busted apart at the seams, what kept you whole inside your own skin was a blind—some would say senseless— loyalty to the people who counted on it. There certainly wasn’t much else that lasted.

When I woke early the next morning, I heard Candelario’s raucous voice. I pulled on my boots and stomped into the front room. He was drinking coffee with Julio, and their blanket rolls, saddlebags and rifles were piled by the door. Julio was stuffing cartridge boxes among the socks and shirts in his war bag. Mabel Silva was in the kitchen. I smelled eggs frying in butter.

“What’s going on?”

“Ah, Tomás!” Candelario sighed. “When did the course of true love ever run smooth? I found the ladies at Doña Margarita’s whorehouse. They say business has picked up—the cavalry has been reinforced at Camp Furlong. Yvette looks well, although Marie Thérése has grown a little too thin. We spent a pleasant night. I fucked them both, vigorously. But they both declined the pleasure of marrying me, and they won’t come to Sonora. They seem to have lost faith in the chiefs future. They send their love and many kisses. Do you want them from me, or do you take my word for it?” He grinned, showing his broken teeth.

I pointed to the blanket rolls. “What are you doing now?”

“The train for Arizona leaves in an hour. Hipólito’s gone to the bank to get the rest of his money.”

“I thought you were all staying in Texas.”

“Amigo, we were drunk, didn’t you know that? It sounded like a good idea at the time. And how could we let you go alone? Besides, none of us are good for anything but fighting.”

“You drink pretty well too,” I said.

“I fuck even better. Not that it does me much good.”

“You had me scared the other night,” I admitted.

“You? That’s hard to believe, my friend. Doubting, yes. Scared, never. I know you too well.”

We stabled the horses, piled into Hipólito’s Cadillac and bumped across town in the sunshine to the railroad station. When we got near it, turning into Dallas Street, we heard the rumble of horses’ hoofs on pavement and the dragging of boots. Hipólito hit the brakes.

“What’s
that?”
Candelario muttered.

The cross street was blocked by policemen and wooden barricades. Beyond them a mass of Mexican soldiers marched in ragged formation toward the station; they wore sombreros and cartridge belts and carried the usual varied assortment of rifles, and they were singing “La Cucaracha.” A crowd had gathered.

The clop of hoofs grew louder, and when we looked beyond the soldiers we saw hundreds of horses and mules being herded down Wyoming Avenue toward the staging yards. Vaqueros were cracking bullwhips; horseshit steamed on glistening tar. I couldn’t count the men, but within our view there must have been at least a battalion.

“Who are they?” Julio murmured.

“How should I know?” Candelario scratched his beard so vigorously I thought he had discovered a nest of fleas. “But we should ask. Tomás, you go. Speak English. Be clever.”

Quickly I jumped out of the car and trotted up to the nearest barricade. A red-faced copper in a blue uniform stood there, waving his billy at the crowd to keep them in check.

“Are we being invaded?” I asked. “Which one is Pancho Villa? How come the army’s letting these chiles march through town?”

“Uncle Sam’s orders, lad. A free ride for them on the El Paso & Southwestern.”

“But who are they?”

The Mexicans, he explained, were part of a brigade under the command of a General Manzo, who fought for Carranza.

I must have looked horrified. “It’s all right,” he said. “Carranza is President of Mexico.”

The soldiers were headed for Arizona, where they would cross the border to reinforce the town of Agua Prieta. “Pancho Villa’s going to attack it, see? They’re running an excursion train to Douglas this afternoon so the folks can watch. Got any plans? You should go. It’ll be a hell of a battle. You’ll never see anything like it again.”

Maybe not. But I understood now. Obregón had been unable to send men westward on the Mexican side of the border—Villa had succeeded in blocking the passes. So Carranza had prevailed on Wilson to use a simpler route: through the United States on the El Paso & Southwestern.

Villa, unless he knew about it, was riding into a trap.

I went back to the car and told the others.

Candelario shouted, “This President Wilson goes too far!”

“We can’t get on that train,” Julio groaned. “Someone will recognize us.”

In a vision, the idea came to me, the idea that would seal my fate. I blurted to Hipólito, “Can you get hold of any dynamite?”

“Probably. What for?”

“We can dynamite the tracks between here and Douglas.”

“Tomás! That’s brilliant!” Candelario whacked me on the shoulder. “But why the tracks? Let’s blow up the train!”

“You clown, there are Americans on board. We’ll just do the tracks.”

“Do you know anything about dynamite, Tomás?”

“What is there to know? You light a match to the fuse.”

Candelario said, “Dynamite is complicated stuff. We don’t want to blow ourselves up. We want this to
work. “

“We’ll buy it at Heid Brothers.” Hipólito suggested. “They’ll tell us how to use it.”

“Yes,” I said, “explain to them that we want to blow up the El Paso & Southwestern.”

We all looked at each other, nonplused.

“You three go to Heid Brothers,” I decided. “Buy some wire and fuses. Plenty of dynamite too. Put it in the wagon, then get the horses and meet me back at Montana Street.”

“Where are you going?” they asked.

“To see Rodolfo. Trust me.”

I took a taxicab to Third Street and found Rodolfo sitting on the edge of his bed in the hospital ward, fully dressed except for his boots, his ankle in a cast, and looking grim.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t like it here,” he said. “I’m bored.”

“Well, I’ve got a problem. This might perk you up.”

I had remembered that he was an expert with explosives—he had blown up the tracks at Tierra Blanca to keep the Federals from getting too close to Juárez. I told him quickly what we planned to do. He listened carefully, eyes averted, while he stroked his black mustache.

“It can be done,” he said, when I had finished. “It’s simple, if you know how.”

“Then tell me.”

“What kind of dynamite did you tell Hipólito to buy? White powder? Frozen? Nobel’s or Pyrolith?”

“What?”

“Tomás, they’re all different. Different density, different blasting caps. Dynamite contains nitroglycerin. Out in the desert, where it’s hot, it can explode before you’re ready to have it explode. Did you tell Hipólito to buy slow or fast match fuse?”

I shook my head slowly.

Rodolfo sighed and said, “Hand me one of my boots. Let me lean on you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with you.”

“You can’t ride, Rodolfo.”

“Why not? It may be uncomfortable, but I can do it. It’s better than sitting around here all day. I can be back by nightfall if we don’t go too far.”

“What will the doctor say?”

“Fuck the doctor.”

He had grit, no doubt of that. He was a big man and he leaned heavily on me, one arm thrown over my shoulder, and we got outside to the street where I had kept the taxicab waiting. He clamped his teeth shut and held tight.

An hour later, with a wagonload of dynamite, we all trotted out of town. Rodolfo’s foot in its plaster cast dangled awkwardly out of the stirrup. He never complained. I despised the man, but still I had to admire him.

We kept an eye out for Lieutenant Patton and any other cavalry that might be patrolling the border, but no one crossed our path. The empty desert stretched along the railroad line south of the river, the long yellow ridges wavering in the heat. The sun burned fiercely down. This was part of me: the naked desert, the drumming of hoofs, light flashing off lifted rifles, even the tightness in my chest. The crisp air filled my lungs, and if we hadn’t cautioned ourselves to silence I would have let out a war whoop.