The Rift Page 23
The third day after crossing the border, the column entered La Acenscion. The town was crowded on market day. But when the soldiers entered, the crowds were silent. Only the sharp commands of the officers and noncoms, the steady clop of walking horses and the rattle and creaks of supply wagons could be heard. Farmers without shoes, vaqueros on nervous horses, government clerks, shopkeepers, women and children, all with sullen faces watched with smoldering eyes as the gringo soldiers passed. Then a shout. “Viva Villa.” Then another, “Viva Mexico.” Some soldiers looked sharply for those in the crowd who shouted.
A tall young man suddenly bolted from the crowd and stood before the advancing column. His suit jacket held above his head, he screamed. “Go home, gringos. You do not belong here. This is our country, you have no right here.”
Tompkins had hoped to stop in the town. He had hoped the people would understand and help. He knew he was foolish to think that was possible. He turned to Sergeant Cline.
“Sergeant, let’s move the men out.”
As the man shouted at the soldiers but spoke to the crowd, the horses began to move faster, breaking into a canter, closing the distance between them and the agitated young man. As he continued to shout, his eyes lighted with awareness that the gringo soldiers were going to run him down. Almost as the horses’ great chests were about to slam him to the ground and under their pounding hooves, he leaped to the side, still screaming as the long column passed.
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Second Lieutenant William Housman could not believe his good fortune. Finishing near the top of his class, he had been granted his request to join Pershing’s expedition to find Pancho Villa. Billy knew Mexico, had traveled through the Sierra Madres and crossed the deserts and grasslands with his father. He knew the language from the servants at home and on his trips through the Southwest. He knew Mexico was a dangerous country for North Americans. The colonel who conducted the briefing he received when he arrived in Columbus spoke of Mexicans terrorized by the bandit Pancho Villa, and the helplessness of the Mexican people to do anything about it. President Venustiano Carranza was after Pancho Villa, but did little to prevent his raids on American property and American citizens. He said nothing of the Mexican hatred for the gringos.
Billy remembered reading the accounts of Pancho Villa written by John Reed in the Metropolitan magazine when he was at West Point. In the stories, Villa was treated much like Frank and Jesse James, heroes of the common man. In the stories, Reed painted the man as a simple peasant dedicated to justice for the peasants. Under the banner of Liberty and Land, he fought the corrupt governments of Diaz and Huerta, and took the land from the great haciendas and gave it to the peasants. Joining his Northern Army with the Southern Army of Emiliano Zapata, they defeated the military dictator Huerta and occupied Mexico City. In 1914, as the two revolutionaries sat together for their photos in the government palace, Pancho Villa was the most powerful man in Mexico.
In 1914, Pancho Villa was also a hero to Americans. The New York Times had called him the Robin Hood of Mexico. Raoul Walsh, a young Hollywood director, had created a sensation with his movie, The Life of General Villa, in which the general played himself. But Billy’s father described him very differently, as a man who was a Bolshevik bent on taking private property and killing innocent people. Whatever Villa was, Billy thought, he could understand why such a man was a hero in a country where people were so poor that he had difficulty describing their condition to his fellow cadets. He knew the people deserved better but he doubted that Villa was the answer. Whether he was or not, he had attacked United States soil, and for that he was being hunted down. From a hero in 1914, the United States in 1916 saw him as their number one enemy.
As they moved through the villages and towns on the way to Nueva Casa Grande, Billy could feel the hatred in the faces of those who watched. He looked toward the general who was leading the cavalry toward the blue hills where Pancho Villa was said to be. The granite face was always the same. What the young man did not know was that Black Jack Pershing had seen it all before, in the faces of the Sioux in Montana and the Moros in the Philippines. The burden of power is the hatred by the subjugated. It is a burden that Pershing bore so well that he was chosen to remind the Mexicans of just who they were dealing with.
Ahead of the column Billy could see the Apache trackers who claimed to know every dry riverbed, canyon, watering hole, and potential hiding place in northern Mexico. The American soldiers had spread the word that enormous wealth would come to the poor who would lead them to Villa. In every small village, the people talked of the blood money offered by the gringos. To many, such money was cursed, for to betray a man of the people, was a sin. To others not bothered by conscience, they knew that Villa was often a cruel man, and betrayal could mean death to whole families, even villages.
As the horses moved across the dry land, the men grew quiet. Only the sounds of creaking leather, the hypnotic sound of hooves on the sand, and the sometime sounds of metal against metal broke the silence. The men, though charged to be on the alert in hostile country, had taken to daydreaming, to drifting away to some pleasant place out of the glaring Chihuahua sun.
The sharp bite of the early morning air made Billy think of late spring in the high valleys west of Denver where the Housman family had their cabin. Looking across the valley, the mist still clinging to the dewy grass, he thought of home. They were camped outside the village of Bachinava. Rumors were flying about Villa being in the area. Moving on the double, Billy responded to the summons by the commander of the Seventh Cavalry, Colonel Dodd. When Colonel Dodd found out that Lieutenant Housman spoke Spanish and had traveled in Mexico, he requested that he be attached to the Seventh. Billy came to attention.
“Lieutenant Housman reporting, sir.”
“Lieutenant Housman, I want you to take one of the Apache scouts and head southwest. There is a good chance Villa is in Guerrero.”
Dodd was a tall, wiry man over sixty years old who some of the veterans swore could out ride any of the tough men under him. He stared at Billy as he spoke. Billy tried to look into those fierce eyes squinting under bushy brows, but found his own darting from side to side. As they moved, Dodd’s eyes seemed to move with them.
“Captain Foulis tells me those aero planes of his can’t make it over these mountains to recon the area.”
Billy could hear the contempt in the old soldier’s voice. Foulis had promised so much from his JN-2s, but they had been a disaster for Pershing. Unstable, unreliable, unable to fly over 12,000-foot mountains in the Sierras, they were no more than an irritant to Colonel Dodd. He tried to find someone who had been through the mountains between Bachinava and Guerrero but could not. Being able to move quickly through the mountains could be the difference between catching Villa and not. The lieutenant was his best hope.
“You job, son, is to work your way through those mountains and find anyone you can talk to who can help you find a way to Guerrero. We need to be there before light tomorrow. I want you back here by noon, is that understood, Lieutenant? You understand, I am asking you to cover the thirty miles to Guerrero and back by noon, don’t you son?”
“Yes, sir, I do, Colonel.” In the short time he had been with Colonel Dodd, he had come to know that being a young lieutenant was not an easy thing. Billy had no way of knowing whether the colonel enjoyed humiliating young officers, but he seemed to make a habit of doing so.
“See the sergeant major. He will see that you get a reliable scout.” The colonel watched the tall young man walk away. He wondered if he could cut the mustard.
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The major’s office looked out on the parade grounds of Fort Sam Houston.
Billy had been at the fort for three days, isolated from the soldiers who moved about the camp. His meals were brought to him. Twice a day, Private Bitters would knock on his door, telling him it was time to exercise. Billy could not miss the look of disdain on the face of the private, who stayed three paces from the lieutenant, who had be
en provided with a poorly fitting uniform. When he was escorted into Major Somersville’s office, he saluted. The short, round officer with wire rimmed glasses looked at Billy for a moment. “Tell me, Lieutenant Housman, what happened after you left the Seventh Cavalry camp that day?”
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“The man they picked to go with me was B-25, a White Mountain Apache. It was a strange name. No one seemed to know why they called him that. At West Point, we had studied the campaigns by Miles and Crook in their expeditions to defeat Geronimo. In my mind, I had this image of Apaches. Small people, able to run all day without water or food. Thin, wiry, cunning, capable of great suffering without complaint. I pictured the Apache scouts as wearing their typical loose fitting clothes and leather sandals or without shoes. I had all of this in mind until I saw Sergeant Chicken, Es-Ki-Ben-De, Skitty Joe Plitt, B-25 and all the others. First thing you notice is that they’re not small and wiry, but short and thick. They don’t run about on foot but never are off their horses. They were not mean-looking, but pleasant. Instead of stoic, long sufferers, they complain about everything, ask for everything, and badger you to write letters back home for them. Instead of being dressed in Apache outfits, at least as I had imagined, they had the standard army issue down to leggings and campaign hats.
“Sergeant Casey, who had seen a lot in thirty years, knew a lot about Apaches.
One evening, he sat down next to me and started talking.
‘I can remember when Apaches were a lot different, Lieutenant. The old colonel, he remembers, too. When the Apaches were free men, food was hard to come by. They had to hunt for it, raid settlements and other Indians for it. They had to be tough just to stay alive. When we put them on reservations, all that changed. Then their food was delivered to them in bags and cans, sometimes we butchered sides of beef for ‘em... For a while, people like Geronimo and Cochise fought giving up their freedom for food, but they all fell in line. They grew fat and lazy. Taking away who they were, people like Geronimo just gave up. He started making appearances in side shows, selling souvenirs, and got himself a ranch. He died just seven years ago and lived to be eighty years old.’
“The sergeant spit some tobacco juice from the swollen cud he was chewing and looked over at me. ‘Yeah, thirty years ago, them Apaches were a lot different. Mean sonsabitches. Hard to find and even harder to kill. B-25’s going with you, huh?’
‘Yes, he is, Sergeant.’
“I remember he looked at me, making eye contact.
‘Just remember, son. He’s a reservation Indian. Not a bad tracker, but don’t put too much faith in what he tells you. He don’t know much firsthand like those fellas that rode with Geronimo.’
“B-25 and I started out of the valley going south climbing toward a pass we could see from the camp. As we climbed, we could feel the air grow cooler and the horses begin to labor. All around us were stands of junipers, oak, pine, and cedar. As we continued to climb, we dismounted and led the horses. The wind had begun to blow harder and we could hear it through the openings in the rocks. Snow flurries began to fall, biting at our faces. I pulled the poncho from the back of my saddle, hoping it would provide some warmth. We had climbed almost an hour when I began to think of the distance to Guerrero. The camp was still in sight where we were, and there was thirty miles from Bachinava to Guerrero.
“B-25 was along for two reasons. One, he spoke Apache, and there was a possibility that he might be able to communicate with Apaches in these mountains, and that they might know a way to reach Guerrero. The second, which I only suspected, is that the colonel didn’t trust me finding my way back. One of those times when you find out what the army thinks of lieutenants.
“My mood lifted when we reached the top of the pass and in front of us was a high valley which stretched at least ten miles to the south. I took out my glasses and began scanning the valley, looking for the most logical path to take toward Guerrero. B-25, who also had a set of glasses, pointed to smoke almost halfway across the valley. We were an hour out of Bachinava.
“‘Corporal, would you say that is a village out there.’ “‘Yes, sir, it is.’
“‘How far would you say?’ “‘Five, maybe six miles.’
“‘How much time to get there?’ I had silently agreed with his estimate. “‘Maybe one hour, a little more, a little less.’
“We had been traveling almost an hour, and still did not see the village. I had set our reckoning on a peak on the far side of the valley. When we descended onto the valley floor, we came upon a trail with fresh horse tracks. The trail appeared to lead to the same village we had seen from the top of the pass. The valley floor, covered with mesquite, and tall grass, was not as flat as had appeared from the pass. Instead, it was a series of shallow arroyos containing mostly dried streams. We had traveled for most of an hour when we dipped into an arroyo with a slow-running stream. The trail into the stream bed showed considerable use. As the horses hurried toward the fresh water, I could see the cut in the opposite bank where the trail ran out.
“B-25 was leading the way as we approached the stream. The stream bed was almost thirty yards across; I guess the stream became a river after the rains. B-25 walked his horse to its center and stopped. As his horse drank, the Apache stood in his saddle, searching the far side of the arroyo. My horse was still approaching the stream when B-25 began to gesture to me, trying to conceal his signal by holding his hand close to the side of his horse. He was pointing back the way we came. I understood. I wheeled my horse, who fought being taken away from the water, digging my spurs into his sides as I did. I heard the crack of one rifle, then several as my mount raced toward the steep trail out. As I reached the far side, I felt the hot pain pierce my side. I grabbed the saddle and held on as my horse struggled to get over the edge, out of the line of fire.
“As I reached the far side, I jumped to the ground, grabbing the Springfield as I did. Despite the pain, I threw myself on the ground, swinging my rifle up to save the man who had saved my life. As I hit the ground, the Apache scout’s horse came galloping by, screaming from wounds somewhere on his body. The saddle was empty. Almost on the spot where B-25 had warned me to go back, I saw the prone body of the scout. He was lying with his face down in the hardpan stream bed. His rifle lay several feet from his body. He must have unsheathed it as he was hit. I remember thinking that B-25 had saved my life.
“The firing stopped, and I could see no movement on the other side of the stream. It was quiet now. Across the stream, I could hear the faint sound of a dog barking. Do the men who fired know where I am? Do they know I have been hit? As my mind began to consider the possibilities, I shifted my body to look down stream. As I did, the pain shot through my body like an electric shock. I winced as the scenery in front of me started to undulate. Don’t pass out, not now, I kept telling myself. By good fortune, the mount I had chosen was standing where I dismounted.
“The pain was a lot worse, now. I turned and crawled back to where my horse stood, hidden from the men on the other side of the stream. At first, the horse shied at the smell of blood, then held his ground. The bullet had pierced my side just below my waist. Reaching up, I grabbed the bridle and worked my way to the saddle bag and removed the medical kit.
“I could see there was a hole in my right trouser leg just above the joining of the leg and the torso. I could sense the wound in the back was higher. I must have been hit when I was in the stream bed, or just at the base of the arroyo wall. Whichever way I moved, the pain would make me dizzy. I would stop until my head cleared, then begin again. Slowly, I worked my trousers and underwear down toward my knees, feeling them stick from the blood coming out of both the front and back of the wound. As I was preparing to dress the wound, I looked at my horse’s eyes. They were filled with terror, much like horses caught in a fire. “‘Steady, boy, steady.’ In as even a voice as I could manage, I tried to sooth the big gelding. It seemed to help as he slowly dropped his head and his ears began to twitch less. Slowly, I removed the dre
ssing from the kit. I cleaned the wound and dressed it the best I could.
“I dressed and strapped on my pistol belt, placed the Springfield in its scabbard. I had to get back to camp. It was almost noon. The colonel said to be back by noon. I somehow pulled myself in the saddle and turned northeast. I could see the pass we came over. It looked so close; the day was cool and clear. ‘Come on, boy. We have to get back.’ I thought about what I would tell the colonel. I imagined his reaction. Were we stupid to expose ourselves as we did? Shouldn’t the fresh tracks have warned us? Should we have covered each other in so exposed a position? When I think back, I guess I am lucky to be alive. B-25 wasn’t. So lucky, I mean.
“As I walked my horse along the trail, something told me I better get off the trail. I pulled my horse behind a clump of mesquite, deciding to wait to see if I was being followed. As I watched the trail, my head began to spin. The trail I was watching seemed to be moving up and down, like a small raft on a great ocean. I did not hear or feel myself falling.”
This time the gelding did not stand, but trotted off in search of water, inexplicably to the northeast, away from the stream not twenty minutes behind. Ten minutes after the gelding trotted toward the mountain pass, three Villistas rode past not ten yards from where Billy lay unconscious, heading toward the pass in search of the lone gringo soldier.
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He looked at the major, who was watching him, the eyes searching his. “Please continue, Lieutenant.”
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“I awoke in the darkness. A small candle was sitting on a table in the center of the room. I was lying with only my underwear. My pistol belt was gone. My boots, my shirt, and pants. At first, I thought there was no one in the room. Then I began to make out shapes. They were very still, watching me. There were three people in the room. An old lady, a man dressed as a priest, and a girl, younger than me. I wondered if I was still dreaming.