THE CAMERA WAS a rectangular box something over two foot high and a little under two foot wide; it was less than a foot across. A crank handle fitted in low on the right side, the aperture through which the cameraman focused his shot was high at the back. The particular camera that Champion was intending to use had specially reinforced wooden sides hinged with brass. Essential for its use was a heavy tripod with a metal plate at the top, onto which the camera was screwed.
Champion fussed around while Strong strapped both camera and tripod onto a spare horse they were taking with them. He was still wearing his trilby hat and overcoat, looking so out of place that there was a steady stream of Mexicans slowly passing by, wandering in a haphazard circle, staring at him and the other Americans.
‘You goin’ to ride with that thing on?’ asked Onslow, pointing at the open coat.
‘Sure as Hell I am,’ Champion replied. ‘Only time I ever take this good old coat off is when I sleep between clean sheets.’
Onslow shrugged and left the cameraman to it. He looked the kind of man who was pretty used to taking care of himself in some tough situations and Onslow wasn’t about to try and mother him. Nor father him, either. If he got the chance, though, he’d ask him the truth of that story Parker had brought up about him walking round with a bundle of bullets still inside him.
They mounted up.
Onslow glanced from Champion to young Bill Friedman and on to Jonas Strong.
‘Let’s ride!’
The trail south led them across the River Conchos and up into the foothills of the Llano de los Caballos Mestenos. Exactly where the enemy soldiers were headed was unclear; if they were really trying to find help and bring it back to aid their besieged comrades they had one hell of a ride. Almost all of the province of Chihuahua to the west had been taken already by the Villistas; to the east Coahuila was the home province of Obregon and Carranza. What Federal troops had still avoided capture in the north of the country were either gathered together in small pockets like Ojinaga or they were retreating towards Durango as fast as they could and getting squeezed by the dual forces of the revolution as they fled.
Onslow did not believe that the federales were interested in bringing back assistance. All they were concerned with was their own safety. It had been a bid for freedom brought on by weeks of frustration, of near starvation, of losing men to Villa’s snipers or at night to the knife blades of those of his men who sneaked into the outskirts of the city.
The further the four men got into the foothills the more rugged the going became. Champion insisted on riding alongside the pack horse in so far as the trail would permit it, hoping to steady the precious camera over the difficult terrain.
The ground lay exposed to the sun, dry and cracked. The land they passed was faded red mixed with gray; dust hovered above it like the shimmering of so many gray wings. The next layer of hills was purple; those behind that sat tall and forbidding in a blue haze, their tops seeming to sway a little in the brightness of the light.
‘Back in New York,’ Champion called to Onslow, ‘where I started in this fool business, we used to wait on rooftops in the middle of the city and as soon as the damned sun came out we’d rush at the sets with great umbrellas to reflect the light onto the actors. As soon as the sun disappeared behind a cloud, we’d have to stop shooting and start waiting again.’ He narrowed his eyes at the memory. ‘Fool business!’
‘You ain’t goin’ to have that trouble here,’ said Onslow, shielding his eyes from the sun as he swung his head round to talk to the cameraman.
‘I believe that. But I guess there’ll be others.’
A mile or so south, Champion’s horse suddenly reared up and he was loosed from the saddle, one boot coming out of the stirrup, his hand grabbing for the pommel, the sides of his camel-colored overcoat flapping around him wildly.
Ten yards back of him, Jonas Strong drew the Colt Automatic from its holster on his left side and extended his arm. He fired twice at the red earth, squinting over the barrel.
‘What in the Lord’s name was that?’ asked Champion, as Onslow dropped from his saddle and quieted the cameraman’s mount.
Jonas Strong reholstered his gun and jumped to the ground. He bent low and scooped up a black-tailed rattlesnake, holding it high for Champion to see. What remained of the reptile dangled from the negro’s huge hand, its black and white skin smeared with the signs of its own destruction. The head was completely shot away.
T guess I’ll say thanks.’ Champion leant down in the saddle, offering his hand.
Strong shook it briefly, then patted the flanks of Champion’s horse. ‘It’s the animal owes me more’n you do, I guess.’
There was no further incident for several more miles and the four men and five horses were taking the shade under an overhang of rock, the saddle cinches loosened and stirrups hauled up onto the saddle pommels. Two water canteens were in use, one for the stock, the other for the men. It was Onslow who heard the sound of gunfire first, a fraction ahead of Strong. Then the two film men realized what the noise meant, a smile drifting onto Champion’s face.
‘We seem to have caught them up,’ he said, pushing the stopper back down into one of the canteens.
‘Not us,’ said Onslow, ‘but I reckon Villa’s men have.’
‘That’s fine,’ replied Champion. ‘Let’s hope we catch up to them before all the action’s over and done with.’
Onslow glanced at him sharply, then went back to tightening his saddle girth.
Champion got his wish, but only just. By the time they caught up to the fighting the Villistas had pinned the federales down into a narrow arroyo and had them more or less at their mercy. Onslow and Strong clambered up onto the incline where the rebels were lying and explained to their leader what Champion and Bill Friedman were going to do. The Mexican didn’t like it—in truth, he didn’t really understand it, but he knew better than to cross the major-gringo who was such a friend of Villa.
Onslow beckoned Champion and Friedman up the rocky surface, sending Strong down to assist them with the camera and tripod.
The rebels were keeping the government troops in hiding with sporadic rifle fire, patient now that they had them cooped in and knowing that it was only a matter of time.
‘Will you look at that!’ exclaimed Champion as he scrambled to the edge of the incline. ‘Billy boy, get that camera loaded and rest it right there on that flat rock. Never mind the tripod for now. Come on, don’t stare at it, let’s shoot it.’
It was already shot.
It consisted of half a dozen horses, butchered in a cross fire and sprawling now in the full heat of the sun, flies buzzing greedily around their still-bleeding wounds with a ravenous intensity so that the air seemed to be full of their sound. Between the horses, in some cases with a limb stretched over them, were what seemed to be four men, but there could have been five. All appeared to be dead—there was no movement.
‘Some of the horses,’ said the Mexican leader matter-of-factly to Onslow, ‘they gallop back past us and away. These here they would have used to ride out if they could.’
He smiled and stroked the ends of his curving moustache with pleasure. ‘Now they will not ride away on anything. We shall wait here until they make their escape. Then we shoot them down like their friends. Like their horses.’
He pointed to the sky. ‘We take their guns, their valuables, their gold teeth...’ He tapped at one of his own near the front of his mouth. ‘... and then we let the birds come down from the sky and have their feast, no?’
Onslow didn’t answer, but glanced at Champion to see if the cameraman was listening and if so what he thought. But Champion was busy behind the bulky camera, his right hand at the handle, Bill Friedman crouched behind him as if at any second he expected an unseen assailant to send a bullet into his body.
Onslow pointed down into the arroyo. ‘How many?’ he asked.
The Mexican signaled with his fingers: six.
Onslow looked along the ridges, checking. There were thirteen of Villa’s men, himself and Jonas Strong bringing the number to fifteen.
‘Why don’t they surrender?’
The Mexican smiled and stroked his moustache again.
‘Ask them. Call down to them.’
The Mexican snorted and shook his head. He bunched backwards along the rock and dropped down to where their own horses were tethered. He fished into his saddle bags and came up with a bottle of tequila, two-thirds full.
‘We will drink to victory, no,’ he grinned when back with Onslow again.
Behind them, the film in the camera was being changed.
Champion had had enough of shooting dead bodies; he was standing there, impatient, his trilby hat stuck sideways on his head to keep the sun from his eyes and to allow him to look through the lens aperture. He flicked the finger and thumb of his right hand, making small clicking sounds. His lips were pursed together as though he were whistling, but Onslow could hear nothing.
‘We drink?’ asked the Mexican and offered Onslow the bottle.
Onslow declined with an abrupt shake of the head.
The Mexican shrugged his shoulders, his eyes showing offence. He swallowed at the tequila, cursing the gringo inside his head for being a stubborn pig. Yanqui Mercenaries.
He slurped the bottle from his mouth and shouted down into the arroyo. ‘Hola! Soldados! Throw down your guns and come out with your hands in the air. Surrender to us. We will not harm you.’
He drank some more of the tequila and repeated his offer.
Champion hovered behind his camera, waiting.
There was movement down in the arroyo and then something flickered from behind one of the rocks—a white handkerchief or bandanna. Onslow glanced at the Mexican next to him, the man’s finger nestling inside the trigger guard of his rifle.
‘Throw out your guns!’ he shouted. ‘Come out with your hands high!’
A pistol landed on the rocky floor of the canyon and skidded across the ground. A man came slowly, cautiously after it, his hands and arms first, his head bent low, back bent as though still stooping in cover. A second weapon followed—a rifle this time—then its owner. A third. A fourth.
They stood there in their disheveled, dusty uniforms and only gradually did they raise their heads upwards to look at Villa’s men.
‘The rest of you!’ shouted the Mexican leader.
‘They are wounded. They cannot walk.’
The Mexican’s face turned into a scowl. ‘Liars! You are tricking me.’
‘Would we have thrown down our guns if this were so?’
The Mexican smoothed the ends of his moustache and considered the matter.
‘You want to send someone down to check?’ asked Onslow.
‘Don’t tell me how to do what I am doing!’ snapped the Mexican angrily. ‘I know what to do. I am a good soldier. A good fighter. I am a better man than you with your fancy guns.’ He stared at the Mauser automatic in its wooden holster strapped to the left side of Onslow’s chest. He smiled and set the bottle to his lips, taking the fiery liquor down until it was all but gone. Then he swung back his arm and hurled the bottle as hard as he could into the midst of the waiting federales. The men scattered away from the missile and as they did so one of the riflemen along the ridge opened fire, thinking it was an attempt to escape.
The first shot was followed by a second and a third and then there was answering fire from where the soldiers were still under cover in the corner of the arroyo.
The leader of the Villistas cursed and opened fire himself and then for seven or eight minutes the canyon echoed and boomed to the sound of rifle fire. The echoes were still sounding clearly long after the final shot had been fired.
There were now more dead bodies in clumsy shapes across the dusty ground. More blood clogging up the dirt, running unevenly over rock.
Men were sent down to drag out those Federal troops who had remained in hiding. Onslow and Strong, their own weapons drawn but unfired, looked on. The handle of Champion’s camera continued to turn.
Two federales were hauled out from behind rocks, one of them wounded in the arm, the other with blood running from the side of his head and for some reason missing one of his boots. They were hauled at gun point up to where the leader of Villa’s men was waiting for them, arms folded across his chest.
The Mexican looked at the two soldiers with scorn, stepped a pace back and touched quickly the ends of his moustache; then his head came suddenly forward and spat into the face of first one and then the other. The soldier with the wounded head started to throw a punch and his arm was hammered hard by the rifle barrel of a rebel close alongside. He grabbed at it and moaned. The spittle ran slowly down his face; down his comrade’s face.
‘What are you?’ said the Mexican leader. ‘That you fight for the dictator? That you run like dogs and fight like cowards from behind rocks?’ His arm flicked out and back and his open hand slapped the nearest man round the face. The man stumbled back, nearly losing his footing.
‘What are you?’
The rebel slapped the second soldier, the back of his hand this time, the knuckles drawing blood.
‘Mercy!’ mocked the rebel leader. ‘Beg for mercy! Now. Down on your knees like the dogs you are!’
The two federales glanced at one another, uncertain. Then the one with a flesh wound in his left arm slowly sank down to his knees, sweat showing on his face where it ran in thin, snaky lines through the grime and dirt that covered it. He looked thirty, was probably nearer twenty. He was shaking as he knelt in the midst of a half circle of motley-dressed revolutionaries, his eyes close to tears. The stench of death and spilt blood from the arroyo was getting into his nostrils.
His lips began to move in silent prayer.
His head bowed and his eyes closed.
‘See him!’ called the revolutionary. ‘See how he prays for Mary, the Mother of God to have mercy on his soul.’
Some of the watching men laughed, others remained serious. The second Federal soldier, older, more experienced, stood his ground, a line of blood running from the edge of his mouth, more blood staining the side of his head. His eyes never left the face of the rebel leader, their gray expression full of contempt and fierce anger.
‘She will not bring you mercy, soldado, but I shall not be so grudging. I shall have mercy on your soul.’ The Mexican came forward so that he was standing right over the kneeling soldier, shadowing him from the strength of the sun.
‘I shall have mercy,’ he repeated softly and his left hand reached down and touched the soldier’s head, brushing the hair back with a gesture that was almost gentle, almost loving.
His right hand slipped inside his shirt, close to the waist, and then reappeared. Something bright glinted in the sunlight. The fingers of the left hand tightened suddenly around the soldier’s hair and pulled it back. The six inch blade flashed in the sun like a bird’s wing. Blood leapt from the bared throat, splashed out across the rebel’s arm and the front of his greasy shirt, speckled his cartridge belts, tainted his face.
The soldier’s head swung back and the wound in his neck gaped wide and for a moment it seemed as if the flesh on either side of it might tear apart. Then the head slumped sideways and down and the now dead body pitched forward.
The Mexican leader stepped away from its fall and leaned quickly down to wipe the excess blood away from his knife onto the dead man’s shirt.
The soldier’s comrade made a sudden dash forward, eyes gleaming with anger, hands stretching for the rebel’s own throat. A boot kicked up and tripped him and he lost his balance, still coming forward but flailing with his arms. A rifle butt thudded into his kidneys, another rammed down against the base of his spine. The man rolled over, hands reaching behind as he did so. There was blood already welling from the wound in his head.
He growled low in his throat and levered himself up with his hands, desperately trying to reach the man who had butchered his friend. His anger and pain doubled his strength, his bravery.
Neither were to do him any good.
The rebel leader drew his pistol, an old Colt .45 Peacemaker, from the holster high on his left hip, the butt reversed. He sneered at the efforts of the soldier and thumbed back the hammer, sighted along the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The top of the diving man’s head was blown away.
A loose fragment of gray brain matter slopped against the front of the camera; more fell down one side of Champion’s long coat. One of the rebels began to laugh, his voice on the edge of hysteria. Then another joined him. Another.
Onslow holstered his Mauser, still unfired, and stepped around the dead bodies to where the cameramen were standing, the young Friedman’s eyes pinned open with shock and fear.
‘I hope,’ Onslow said to Champion softly, ‘that you got all of that on film.’