NINETEEN
“That man looked familiar,” the Colonel said. He and Arthur were standing at the bar in El Paso’s Toltec Club, which adjoined the hotel.
“Which man, Papa?”
“The old coot with the beard. The one who was sitting there eyeing me in the lobby when we came through. I’ve seen him someplace, or his picture.”
“Well, why don’t you ask at the desk when we get back?” Arthur said.
“I think I’ll do just that,” replied the Colonel. “He looked kind of shifty, didn’t you think? You can’t be too careful down here. There are spies all over the place. Besides, it looked like he’d dyed his hair with shoe polish or something, didn’t it?”
Arthur was grateful that the Colonel in fact had not lorded the race over him. Maybe he hadn’t felt he needed to—after all, facts speak for themselves. He must have known that flying all the way cross-country from Chicago was important to Arthur, and while his father could be bellicose and domineering, he wasn’t petty. Arthur was proud of that in the Old Man, and rightly so.
The Colonel had been furious all morning, ever since he picked up the newspaper and the lead story said that Pancho Villa had issued a proclamation saying that foreigners, including Americans—especially Americans—could no longer hold property in Mexico and their lands would be confiscated and nationalized. The Colonel was blowing his stack when he saw a second article that said the rail tracks between El Paso and Chihuahua City were still not repaired and there was no telling when they would be.
“So now I imagine we’ll have to organize a caravan of automobiles and drive ourselves across the desert,” the Colonel groused.
“Are you sure you still want to go through with this?” Arthur asked. “After all, we have the women and children to think about.”
“They’ll be fine,” the Colonel said. “By all accounts he’s still over in Coahuila—even the newspaper says it—and he can’t bother us from there. Besides, as I’ve said, I’ve met this Villa. I don’t know what’s got into him. I still don’t understand everything that’s gone on down there. I’m inclined to think there’s been some kind of mistake. Nationalize our property, by God! Who does he think he is? I’d like to see him try it! Besides, I’m going to start taking care of things right now.”
“How so?” Arthur said.
“I think the smart thing is to go straight to Wilson himself.”
“To the president? I thought you couldn’t abide him.”
“I can’t abide him. That moron Bryan, either,” said the Colonel. “‘Cross of Gold,’ and all that nonsense.”
TWENTY
John Reed was as excited as a respected and ambitious young reporter could be.
He was on the assignment of his career and knew it. War—not just any war, but revolution. As a devout Marxist, Reed quickly realized he was in the perfect place at the perfect time. Beside him in a big Oldsmobile touring car was the wealthy brunette Mabel Dodge. The Mabel Dodge, with whom he was conducting an affair, temporary as it might be. The Texas sun beat down; the sky was blue and the roads were bumpy but dry as they made their way to El Paso after a slide had blocked the rail tracks and Reed persuaded the wealthy Mrs. Dodge to spring for the automobile. They would have already been in El Paso by now if they hadn’t stopped to help the troubled airman stranded in the desert.
“You know, Mabel,” Reed remarked as they rounded a turn in the Hueves Mountains, “I don’t give a hoot in hell about getting in the war in Europe, but this—this is what wars should be about! This man Pancho Villa—a peasant who a few years ago didn’t have any other choice than to rob trains and steal cattle—and he’s now the leader of the greatest political uprising on this continent since the American Revolution!”
“What about the Civil War?” Mabel asked.
“That was different,” Reed asserted. “I’m talking about an uprising of the masses.”
“Well, that was a lot of masses in the South that uprose, if memory serves me,” she said.
“I’m surprised at you.”
“You might have given a little more thought to what Linc wrote you.” Mabel Dodge said. Lincoln Steffens had been Reed’s mentor at Harvard and, in fact, had introduced Reed to Mabel Dodge and her salon in New York. Steffens was already in Mexico, but down in Mexico City, covering Carranza’s side—the other side—of things.
Reed kept his hands on the wheel and glared down the road ahead. He had Steffens’s number, all right. Steffens didn’t like Villa because Wall Street did, at least for the moment. Reed thought it ridiculous to conclude that because Wall Street slightly favors somebody, you automatically take the other side. He figured Steffens was just jealous, and doing his redder-than-thou thing.
“Linc’s been a good friend to you—you know that. And I think you should at least value his advice,” Mabel said.
Reed felt blissful in the south Texas sunshine, and full of radical politics. He was not only covering the revolution for the Metropolitan, one of the leading socialist magazines of the day, but also for the New York World, which would give him a huge national following. In his mind, he’d already built up a legend around Villa that would make Robin Hood look like a cheap sheep thief. If Lincoln Steffens thought Pancho Villa was merely a capitalist tool, Reed was there to prove him wrong.
They reached El Paso late in the afternoon and checked into separate (but adjoining) rooms in the Toltec Hotel. He found the city teeming with correspondents, munitions salesmen, pitiful refugees, and spies of all descriptions. Outside a dingy shack stood a line of several hundred Mexican soldiers. Inside, an agent for a portrait company was taking orders for colorized enlargements of their snapshots and photos. All in all, the air was fierce with electricity, as if a storm were brewing over the horizon. Reed took Mabel Dodge down the dusty main street that led to the international bridge. There, as the sun sank over the western mountains, the two of them gazed across the shallow muddy Rio Grande at their first view of Mexico. In the distance was Juárez, its church steeples and adobe walls pink in the fading light. Giant ancient mesas framed the valley, lined southward like a fleet of great battleships in the darkening desert. On a plain outside the buildings of Juárez some Federal troops were on mounted parade, passing in review in front of a cadre of officers.
“That’s quite a pageant,” remarked Mabel Dodge.
“Those people will lose this revolution,” Reed declared. “They are conscripts of the Mexican government and haven’t any heart in what they’re doing. Revolution is foreign to them. But Pancho Villa’s people, they have something at stake.”
“You be careful going over there,” Mabel told him.
“I’m not a child, Mabel,” Reed said expansively. “I am a foreign correspondent for the New York World.”
Mabel looked into the hazy distance while fumbling in her purse for a cigarette, and thought: You’re a child in many ways, Jack. You’re a beautiful writer and a handsome man, and I like sleeping with you. You see things with such pure, honest passion. It’s one of the reasons why I like you, but I do worry for you sometimes.
“This is more important than you understand, Mabel,” Reed continued. “This is what we’ve all been waiting for. I believe it is the prelude to world revolution. That war in Europe will destroy all the monarchies, and there’s nothing left to take their place but pure, honest socialism—the dictate of the proletariat. Just consider it, Mabel, world revolution! And here I am!”
“Yes, Jack,” she said. “Here you are.”
TWENTY-ONE
“A fine kettle of fish!” bellowed the Colonel, pacing the parlor of the family suite at the Toltec Hotel. In the five days they had been there, he had found out everything there was to know in El Paso about the situation across the border. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much, and not good news, at that. First, even though the telegraph and phone lines into Chihuahua had finally been repaired the rail tracks were still torn up at least to within fifty miles of Juárez, where a big trestle over a ravine h
ad been blown up. Villa’s whereabouts were still put somewhere in Coahuila but the rumor mill had him at places hundreds of miles apart. All in all, the Colonel and his party were in the dark.
“Hell with this,” the Colonel said. “I didn’t come all the way down here to squat in this garish establishment. So tomorrow we’re on our way.”
Arthur, Beatie, and Strucker sat in tufted chintz armchairs watching while the Colonel paced. Strucker puffed a cigarette from a long carved ivory holder. Xenia had taken the children for a stroll, escorted by Bomba.
“I’ve got all the cars arranged,” the Colonel announced. “Five Packards and a truck. Bomba, myself, and the children will ride in one. Arthur, you, Xenia, and Beatie will ride in another. Two more will be for the bodyguards I’ve arranged, and the last one for spare parts. The truck will be for luggage. You must tell Bomba what baggage you will need to accompany you. When the track’s repaired, the train will follow us down with everything else.
“I’m not going to be intimidated by some tinhorn bandit. We’re American citizens on legitimate business,” the Colonel continued.
Arthur realized his father was mostly talking to himself.
“The trip ought to take no more than three days—two nights on the road. There are good hotels in Chihuahua City—at least there used to be. But who knows what’s going on down there—I’m taking no chances. In addition to the baggage, the truck is equipped with tents and a field kitchen. Ah Dong is coming along and he’s out buying our food supplies as we speak. Why, it’s going to be a real adventure, camping out on the open plains under the stars. There’ll be fresh Texas steaks cooking over a roaring fire. And beans. Just like the cowboys do it. You’ll see—we need to breed a little of the Boston out of all of us—except for the beans!”
Arthur shook his head slowly. As usual, it would do no good to argue with the Colonel when he was in this mood. Besides, the Colonel had actually been to war and he had been to Mexico, while Arthur had been to neither. Nevertheless, his handling of the affair with Ajax had been emboldening. But that had been a fait accompli, not a face-to-face knock-down-drag-out. Arthur wondered how he’d handle that, and then figured he’d find out soon enough.
“Don’t shake your head that way, Arthur. I know what I’m doing,” his father proclaimed. “That’s why I own a railroad.”
“I’m sorry I can’t go along,” Strucker said. “It sounds like an excellent expedition.” He was wearing a gray mohair sport jacket with green felt tabs and his hair seemed slicked back more than usual, as if he were using some kind of wax. He had changed his ascot to puce.
“If you change your mind, there’s still time to let me know,” the Colonel told him.
The German nodded graciously. From what he had learned, the Colonel’s party would be traveling far away from the troubles, and besides, he’d concluded it would probably be best to first see Carranza before trusting his mission with a man such as Pancho Villa. He could always catch up with the Colonel later if he needed to.
During this conversation, Beatie remained silent in her chair with a puzzled, inquisitive expression on her face, as though she didn’t quite comprehend what was being said or, at least, was too stunned to appreciate it. At last she raised a tentative hand in the air, almost like a schoolchild wanting to ask a question.
“But John,” Beatie said, “I don’t understand. Where shall we go to use the facilities? How—”
“Ah, Mother, you leave that to me,” the Colonel replied majestically. “You just leave everything to me.”
TWENTY-TWO
Ambrose Bierce and his little party had sneaked down across the border in the dark of night. They crossed the Rio Grande unnoticed about ten miles west of El Paso, plunging into the dusty scrub desert under cover of starlight, passing only a few lonely adobe huts lit inside by dim candles. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year on the high plains, and the first night they camped out in a thicket of mesquite.
Cowboy Bob was naturally curious about his mysterious traveling companion who called himself Jack Robinson, but the hundred dollars he’d been paid to take Bierce to Pancho Villa, along with Bierce’s taciturn manner, inclined him not to ask too many questions. He did, however, once inquire what Bierce’s occupation had been.
“I have spent my entire life making idiots feel uncomfortable,” was Bierce’s blunt reply. “It has been my life’s work. And now I am retired, and living a life of leisure.” After that, Cowboy Bob didn’t ask anything else.
“I been thinking about a new plan, Mr. Robinson,” Cowboy Bob said. “Tomorrow, we’ll head down to the Arroyo Blanco trestle.” The five of them were stretched out around the dying embers of a fire. “It’s about forty miles from here, southeast.”
“And when we get there?” said Bierce.
“We wait for the train. I imagine somebody will have fixed the tracks by then. It’ll take a lot longer to rebuild that trestle. But I don’t intend to ride a horse all the way down to Chihuahua City if I can help it. That’s sort of beyond the call.” What Bob counted on was that even with the trestle out, the train from El Paso would run up to the river, then they could cross over and catch a Mexican train that would have run up from Chihuahua.
“Is that where you think Villa is?” asked Bierce.
“Probably, in Coahuila, maybe, or somewhere near it. It’s kind of his headquarters, unless the Federales have kicked him out again. Anyhow, there are plenty of people in Chihuahua who’ll know where to find him.”
“How do you know he’ll welcome us?”
“I don’t,” said Cowboy Bob. Until recently, Cowboy Bob used to scout for Villa’s army. But with the Americans closing off the border and all, he assumed that Villa wouldn’t be exactly happy to see too many Americans. In the old days, Villa kind of liked Americans—even had three or four of them on his staff. Had some French and an Englishman, too, and even an Italian. Bob thought it made Villa feel important, having those sorts of people around.
“You think it would help if I brought him a present?” said Bierce.
“Maybe. It’s kind of their custom down here. What sort of present?”
“I have something in my bag. Bought it in El Paso. I thought he might like it.”
This piqued Cowboy Bob’s curiosity even more but since Robinson didn’t volunteer any more information, he let it drop.
“What do you suppose Villa really wants out of this business?” Bierce asked.
“That’s a good question,” answered Cowboy Bob. “He’s got this notion of a revolution where the poor people run things instead of the rich folks in Mexico City. It’s gotten to be kind of like a religious zeal with him, like he was a savior or somethin’.”
Bob had known Villa in the old days, too, when he used to run stolen cows across the border and sell them to the ranch Bob worked for, and Villa hadn’t given a damn about much of anything back then.
“Well, that’s the thing about revolutions,” Bierce said. “Their only purpose is to elevate the poor to the same level of stupidity as the wealthy. Does Villa enrich himself personally in the process of this revolution?”
“He ain’t broke, if that’s what you mean. Got good horses, good clothes, good guns. I mean, he’s a general, if that’s what you call it. As far as does he have a stash? I got no idea. But if I was him, I sure as hell would.”
“How’s his English?”
“Not good, not bad,” Bob said. “Speaks it so you can talk with him pretty well. I don’t think he writes it or reads it much, though.”
“And vices?”
“Women and cigars are about it, if you leave the killing aside. He don’t drink. Never seen him touch a drop. Somebody said he use to in the old days but he quit. I guess it didn’t agree with him or something. He eats a lot of ice cream. Absolutely loves it. That and lemonade.”
“I’m going to give him a sidearm,” Bierce said, and produced from his kit a small shiny two-barreled pearl-handled derringer, finely engraved and extremely well
made, to the point that the screw covers on the handles were inlaid cut diamonds.
“Well, well, Mr. Robinson,” said Cowboy Bob. He was stunned. It was just the sort of gift that would put Villa in an expansive mood. He cradled the pistol in both hands as though he were holding a sacred relic.
“Made in London,” said Bierce. “Carry it in your pocket or wherever. I supposed you could wear it in a hatband.”
“You’re a pretty intuitive feller,” Bob said, using one of the few complex words he knew.
“Does he have a sense of humor?” Bierce asked.
“Well, yeah, if you can call it that,” Bob said.
He remembered the time Villa had caught four Federales who had been murdering, raping, and stealing at a village over in Sonora, and lined them up for the firing squad, but at the last minute decided they weren’t worth the bullets he was going to shoot them with. So he told them all to do a left face. Then he fetched some big old buffalo rifle about .65-caliber with a barrel four feet long and positioned himself in the line behind them and killed them all dead with one shot that passed right through one to the other in the heart. It looked to Bob like falling dominoes. Villa had seemed very pleased with himself after that.
“Well, everyone needs a sense of humor,” Bierce observed. “War and cruelty apart, it’s no longer a laughing matter to be a member of the human race.”
“I reckon not, Mr. Robinson,” Bob said. “Not where Pancho Villa’s concerned.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Now, folks, this is what it’s all supposed to be about,” the Colonel crowed. He gazed toward the looming Sierra Madre towering so high in the distance the stars themselves seemed to crown the peaks. Behind him in the hard desert scrub a crackling fire warmed the evening chill and the aroma of savory beefsteaks wafted over the campsite. The Colonel was wearing polished leather boots, riding breeches, a pith helmet, and had a large revolver strapped around his waist in a hand-tooled leather holster he’d picked up at a gun store in El Paso.