THE SUMMER OF 1913 was hot and bloody. Huerta sat tight in Mexico City, content to leave his officers to fight the growing armies of rebels while he drank himself to a stupor and ignored the ruin of his country. To the south, in Morelos, Emiliano Zapata led his peon followers against the hacendados. In the north, in Chihuahua and Sonora, Pancho Villa rode free, looting in the name of revolution. To the northeast, in Coahuila, Venustiano Carranza was organizing formal opposition to the debauched dictator.
In the United States, President Taft was replaced by Woodrow Wilson. The new incumbent, though personally sympathetic to the ideals of the revolutionaries, was under pressure from those business organizations having interests in Mexico and consequently anxious to see Huerta win. At the same time, Pancho Villa was angering the citizens of Texas and New Mexico with his forays across the border. Wilson was forced to declare an embargo on all shipments of arms from America into Mexico. It was a move that hit the rebels hard. Equally, it increased the value of weapons, no matter how they were obtained.
Onslow took his men eastwards through Sonora into Chihuahua. They stayed mostly on the back roads, wary of confrontation with both Government forces and revolutionaries. At that time it was not healthy to be an American in Mexico.
They crossed over the high, dry plain and moved towards the Rio Grande, closing in on Santa Rosaria. Jesus Sanchez had given them a note of introduction to Pancho Villa and a second sheet of floridly scribbled paper that he described as a ‘general pass’. It was a grandiose title for a piece of grubby paper that few revolutionaries would ever be able to read, and it had one big drawback: Onslow had to get close enough to show it. Without getting killed.
Ten miles out from Santa Rosaria they turned off into the hills. There had been heliographs flashing messages for some time, and Onslow guessed they concerned the foursome heading towards the village.
It was an eerie ride, like walking naked through a strange room where movement has been heard. There was that spine-prickling feeling of hidden eyes and silent guns. Guns aimed from cover. They rode with one hand on the reins, the other on their guns.
Then the Villistas showed.
Onslow was leading the way through a defile flanked on both sides by tall rock. Up ahead two men appeared. They wore wide sombreros and carried rifles. They stood silently, watching the riders approach.
There was movement behind, and when Onslow turned to look back he saw three more men closing off the rear. He took his hand off his rifle butt and held it up in the air as he moved slowly forwards.
Ten feet from the Mexicans, he halted and lowered his hand.
‘Buenas dias.’
The two men said nothing. Their rifles lifted to aim at Onslow’s chest; their faces stayed impassive.
‘I have a note from Jesus Sanchez.’ Onslow was careful not to move his hands. ‘Shall I show you?’
One of them shrugged. ‘Why? We can’t read. Your note is worthless.’
‘Jesus signed it because he wants us to bring you guns,’ said Onslow. Quickly. ‘You want guns, don’t you?’
The Mexican laughed. ‘Of course we want guns. But Americans don’t bring them to us. Your government forbids it. Why are you here?’
‘To talk about guns.’ Onslow hoped he wasn’t about to get shot down by some crazy bandit. ‘Like I told you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ The rifle lifted up to point at his face. At that range the muzzle looked very big. ‘I think we’ll kill you.’
‘Why?’ asked Onslow.
‘Because I think you’re spying on us,’ said the Mexican. ‘I think you were sent up here by one of those American companies that want to help Huerta destroy us.’
Onslow laughed. It was unexpected and it confused the bandit.
‘Listen,’ said Onslow quickly, ‘you look like a sensible man, one who knows what he’s doing. If we were spying, would we come riding in like this? Wouldn’t we spread out and skirt round you? We’d try to creep in, not ride up in broad daylight.’
‘Maybe. Maybe you didn’t know we were here.’
The rifle stayed pointed at his face.
He said: ‘Pancho Villa will be angry if you kill us. I have a note for him, from Sanchez. We sold guns to Jesus and now we think we can get more for Pancho. Why not take us to him? If we are spies, you can kill us later.’
‘He talks sense.’ The second Mexican spoke at last. ‘Let’s take them in and see.’
Onslow breathed a sigh of relief. He could feel sweat cold against his back as he realized his gamble was paying off.
The Mexicans turned away, motioning for him to follow them. Onslow called his own people up to join him and they set off in a ragged line surrounded by wary guns.
The defile opened up onto a hogback ridge. There were horses waiting there and six of the Mexicans mounted. The original pair led the way, the remaining four hanging back with drawn guns. The ridge wound westwards, giving way to a mountain meadow where sheep scattered nervously away from the horsemen. Beyond the meadow, the rock went up in long slabs of gray stone, the dull coloration broken by the green of pine trees and slick moss. The moss grew around a cleft, where a stream spilled out and meandered away to one side of the meadow. Its entry point was surrounded by trees and bushes and the cavalcade went that way. Beyond the trees the rock bulked up again, but cut, now, by the cleft. The horses splashed through the rustling water. The cleft was narrow enough to force them into riding single file between high banks of dark stone. The passageway was around fifty yards long, then it opened up into a grass-grown bowl with the stream fading into the rocks to the west. They crossed the bowl and entered a second ravine. Here, the walls pressed in close enough to make the horses nervous and killing very easy. It opened onto a wide ledge fallen out of the rock surrounding the canyon below.
There was a trail leading down from the ledge. A machine-gun Onslow recognized as a Maxim was dug in to one side, surrounded by sandbags and manned by three Mexicans. It was sited to fire down the ravine, and when he looked back Onslow saw riflemen posted along the whole length of the upper ground.
The trail was wide enough for three horses to move abreast and ran down the side of the canyon so that it was in full view of the ground below all the way down. The canyon was wide and grassy; fed by a secondary stream, there were pines growing all around. Towards the northern end was a large corral with upwards of fifty horses browsing the grass. There were tents and shacks spread out along the stream and a second machine-gun pointing up the slope. Two more covered the approach from the stream to the downfall of the trail.
The whole area was alive with people. There were men in concho-studded pants and wide sombreros, mostly wearing bandoliers and carrying rifles. There were peons in cotton smocks and palm-leaf hats tending patches of vegetables and a mixed herd of sheep and goats held off against the western flank by busy dogs. There were women in a mixture of clothes. Some wore simply cotton skirts and loose-fitting blouses of the peasants; others had guns strapped about their waists; a few affected baggy cotton pants and bandoliers, like the men.
Onslow was taken over the stream to the largest of the tents.
It was a grand affair, bigger than the shanties, with a wide awning spread out on poles over a plank floor. There was a table and some chairs set out on the planking, and two men with bolt-action rifles standing at something like attention to either side.
The two Mexicans reined in and shouted at the guards. The message was relayed back inside the tent and a man appeared. He wore a sombrero and a tight jacket, hip-hugging trousers with silver buttons down both legs and a gunbelt in the same style. He wore a big moustache and cold eyes. He looked bored as Onslow was introduced and waved for them all to wait on their horses.
He came back out of the tent with another man dressed in worn trousers that had tarnished conchos on the legs, a waistcoat covering a dirty striped shirt and a string tie tugged down from the neck. He wore a gunbelt with a Colt automatic swung round behind his right hip. There was a gold watch-chain looped over the right side of his ample stomach, disappearing into the pocket of his vest. His face was round and full-fleshed, the first layer of a double chin forming under his wide jaw. He was smiling, stretching lines down from his broad nose to the corners of his mouth. He had, like most Mexicans, a heavy moustache. He also had a thatch of untidy black hair and narrow eyes, the kind thinned out by years of staring over sunbaked landscapes. They were dark and amused, matching the grin on his fleshy lips.
Onslow sensed a coldness behind the smile.
‘Welcome,’ said the man. ‘I am Pancho Villa.’
‘Cade Onslow. I got a note from Jesus Sanchez.’
He reached inside his jacket, then froze as four rifles swung round to cover him.
‘Don’t worry!’ shouted Villa. ‘If he brings a note out, it’s all right. If not—kill him.’
Onslow grinned back and held out the note. Villa studied it, his lips moving as he read the words.
At last—at least it felt that way to Onslow—Villa smiled and waved him down from his horse.
‘Jesus says you sold him guns. That you can get more.’
‘I reckon so,’ said Onslow. ‘You interested?’
Villa laughed. ‘Of course. We are always interested in guns. What kind can you offer? That we can’t get ourselves?’
The last part belied the smile because the voice got cold and angry, like there was doubt about the deal.
‘What kind do you want?’ said Onslow. ‘We delivered machine-guns and rifles to Jesus. Explosives, too.’
Villa stared at him for a moment, then said: ‘Come inside. We’ll talk over a drink. Bring your friends.’
They sat down round the table under the awning. Villa called for food and drinks and they settled down to discussing business.
‘What can you do?’ asked Villa. ‘Now that your government has banned the import of weapons?’
‘Take them,’ answered Onslow. ‘And bring them to you.’
‘Take them? My friend, I have done that. The result is this stupid ban. It also means extra patrols along the border. How can you take them?’
‘We’re Americans,’ said Onslow. ‘We could cross the line easier than you.’
Villa laughed, interrupting. ‘I cross when I want. Where I want. You need a better argument than that.’
‘Sure,’ said Onslow. ‘But you’re Mexican, we’re not. We know the procedures and we know the arms dumps. Fort Davis is one. If we had the uniforms, we could walk right in there and lift a whole stack of guns. Planned right, we could go in and take enough weapons for you to fight Huerta or anyone else. I reckon we could get them back to you without no one knowing it was a Mexican operation. They’d figgered the guns got stolen by arms dealers.’
‘Who would obviously sell them in Mexico,’ said Villa. ‘And so they would send soldiers to look for them. Right now I think it might be better to let your President Wilson settle his business and take our own guns.’
‘No.’ Onslow shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work that way. We can take them if we got Army uniforms. US Army, that is. We take them and bring them over the river. We’ll bring them to wherever you want. So long as it’s us that does it, there’s nothing can come back to you. With the embargo on arms deals, the American Government can’t risk sending troops over to chase us. That’d upset Huerta. They’ll not risk that.’
Villa downed a glass of tequila and spent some time brushing his moustache. Finally he said:
‘You make sense. At least I have nothing to lose. If you can get these guns I’ll pay you for them. If not …’
He shrugged.
‘If not,’ said Onslow, ‘you don’t need to worry; it’s our risk.’
Back in their own quarters Strong asked Onslow why they were risking a trip back to the States.
‘Money,’ grunted Onslow. ‘Without money we’re no better than a pack of mercenaries. If we can find the guns for him, then we’re something.’
‘I thought you wanted Montoya,’ murmured the big Negro. ‘Wasn’t that the original reason?’
‘Sure.’ Onslow’s eyes got cold and hard. ‘I want Montoya, But that means we have to reach him. If we got Villa on our side, it’ll be a whole lot easier. Villa can help me find him.’
‘Us,’ corrected Strong. ‘I’m in this with you.’
‘Yeah,’ Onslow nodded, ‘of course you are. But getting to Montoya is likely to take some waiting. I ain’t forgotten him, Jonas. I swear to God, I’ve not.’
He broke off, staring at the fire. Remembering.
Yates McCloud got sent ahead into Fort Davies because he was the best choice. Onslow and Strong knew too many people in the fort to risk going in blind, and Jamie Durham couldn’t be trusted on his own: he was still taking morphine and might crack up if his supply got cut off.
McCloud came back five days later.
By then Onslow and the others were shacked up in a village north of Santa Rosaria, in a place called Caliente. McCloud found them there. He brought morphine for the Kid and news for the others.
Fort Davis was well-guarded. It had howitzers and machine-guns inside the walls; Lewis guns mounted on all four corners. There was a regular guard on the perimeters, crossing over at each corner with the matched patrol. The guards were changed every four hours. Two men stood duty outside the gates.
There was a railroad from the fort to the border, crossing south of Santa Rosaria at a place called Nazce. Since the arms embargo came into force the line was closed off.
The rails were still operational, spanning the river across a trestle bridge with border posts on both sides. Onslow decided that was the most likely point to cross over. He wasn’t sure why, except that it was one of those fast decisions that sounded right when he said it and mostly worked out right in the doing. He discussed it with Jonas Strong.
‘How much stuff you figure to bring over?’ The big black man was as practical as ever. ‘Will it need a train?’
‘The amount doesn’t matter,’ said Onslow. ‘Getting it out fast does. The way I see it is that we take a train, head it for the bridge, an’ have Jamie blow the thing after we’re across.’
‘What about the Mexican side?’ said Strong. ‘You think they’ll let us ride through?’
‘Villa can look after that,’ said Onslow. ‘If he takes the border post enough in advance for Jamie to mine it, we can ride home free.’
‘Getting inside the fort could be a problem.’ Strong sounded like he didn’t trust the plan. ‘How do we do that?’
‘We don’t,’ said Onslow. ‘We pick up a train after it’s left,’ We just take it over and run it through.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Strong. ‘I just hope you’re right.’
They got uniforms from the Villistas.
The revolutionaries had taken enough from their raids to furnish outfits for all the gringos. They didn’t fit too well, but they did fit. At least in darkness and without too many questions asked.
Onslow got a captain’s outfit. It gave him an unusual feeling: he wondered if somebody he had known had worn it. Strong was dressed up as corporal; McCloud and Durham as troopers. Before they set off they got timetables from the railroad and the Army. They knew when the fort was at its most vulnerable, and when the through-trains were running. They arranged for Villa’s men to open the closed line and spied out the bridge.
They set a date for the Villistas to occupy the border post on the Mexican side and give the Kid time to plant his charges.
They arranged a date for the rendezvous. And a week before that fell due Onslow and Strong and McCloud crossed over the river and rode up to Fort Davis.
They waited round long enough to be sure of the date. Then they went and hid themselves in the lonely scrubland flanking the tracks. It was a place near to a waterhole: the train had to stop there to fill up. It was only five miles from the branch line.
It was a long gamble, but water and hate was on their side. Those things and money.
And Linda, duty, and loyalty.
Whatever their individual reasons, they waited.