The Hot Country (20 page)

36

Ah, this was a familiar sound, for it to be this close. Not since that first hour or two of our boys coming into Vera Cruz did my heart and blood and head and limbs spring to the life of nearby gunfire. But my mind caught up now. This was not a battlefield. I was not doing my classic job. I was sneaking around as a German and these were rebel bandits stopping a train to rob and to kill and I had nowhere to stand apart and I had no weapon of my own and I had only everything to lose and the doors to my right flew open and men stinking of horses and cordite and sweat rushed in and my ears pounded and rang with more shots and my skin pinged with splinters of the ceiling scattering down upon us, and the men, wearing unpinned sombreros and khaki and ammo belts crossed on their chests, were crying out orders for us all to rise and bring any bags we could carry and line up outside and we all were obeying and you could feel the wave of unvoiced fear gather and rush from the passengers' awkward risings and bendings and bumpings and stumblings. This was a moment like moments from the Balkans and from Nicaragua that I'd been part of, civilians caught in the clash, but never in a tightly closed space, never with the civilians being the sole and focused targets, and I tucked away the feeling of this collective terror—tucked it away so I could put it into words if I got through this and wrote again—this collective terror that you could feel roll over you, like an onrushing pressure on your skin—the sense of a wave was more than a metaphor—these people were putting out a unified, undulant something, a palpable something—and I was indeed standing apart now, even as I moved, I felt very calm pulling my bag up from between the seats to cries of
Andale! Andale!
and more cracking in my head from the pistols—I was calm but uneasy, too, with not very many options. I was uneasy for my typewriter and I was uneasy for my Henry James—but these were things of no use to the rebels—no use to Pancho Villa—I realized now that these must be Villa's men—we were in his range of command now surely—and I was in line going into the vestibule bumping a man before me in a spangled sombrero and being bumped from behind by someone else. And I was uneasy about the money belt of gold coins around my waist, hidden beneath my clothes, and I was uneasy that I was calm enough to be thinking of Henry James before the money, uneasy because I might be so calm as to be dangerous to myself.

And now we were all lined up along the length of our cars while sombreros and
bandoleros
and Mausers and brown faces were ranging up and down the long row of us, and more of the same sat mounted on horses beyond them. I knew it was very chancy to be overtly looking around, but I did let myself take one clear glance to my right, toward the Pullman, and I could see, over the heads and sombreros and
rebozos,
Mensinger standing tall, a horseman before him, bending to him. I did not look closely at the horseman, except to notice he was dressed in black, a
Villista
officer no doubt. I simply took a single snapshot in my head of the German and looked back to the front again.

I kept my face mostly forward, angled only very slightly, unnoticeably, to the right, where I let myself glance briefly with just my eyes and strained to focus on my peripheral vision. I did not want to draw any more attention to myself than I already inevitably would. The man I followed from the train was an arm's length to my right. His
mestizo
face was chamois tan, light, a dangerous thing for him now, as he showed his preponderance of ancestors from the much-hated Spanish. When Villa took over the state of Chihuahua he executed key Spaniards and drove the rest of them out. One of the dark
Villistas
stood before the man who had Spain lingering on his skin and the rebel ripped the spangled sombrero from the man's head and ran his fingers in the sweatband. He pulled out half a dozen large-denomination greenbacks. American money. Spain and America and wealth, a
hacendado
. I gently but as quickly as possible turned my face straightforward—so as not to be seen as a witness—even as the
Villista
drew a Colt revolver and the gun cracked loud and I heard the passenger fall heavily down.

“For holding out,” the rebel announced loudly, a lesson for all of us, and though that was no doubt part of it, I knew much more was behind that bullet. America, for one thing.

And now he stepped to me. The darkly chiseled Aztec face drew itself very near mine and his mustache was covered in dust, and he said, “Where are you from?”

“I am German,” I said.

“You are a
gringo,
” he said. “I will shoot you now.”

“I am a German,” I said. “Let me show you my passport and you can save your bullet for the
Federales
.”

This gave him a moment's pause.

“For the next
colorado,
” I said. He grunted in affirmation. The
colorados
were the
Federales
who once were the private army of Pascual Orozco when he was just another rebel opposing President Madero, an army of bandits and murderers recruited from the jails, the most indiscriminately murderous of all the many rebel forces, fighting now as equally murderous irregular
Federales
since Orozco became Huerta's commanding general. Villa and his men never took a
colorado
prisoner. They killed the killers summarily. My invocation of them made my
Villista
receptive to the notion that perhaps I was not a
gringo
. I did not take time to count, but I was keenly aware that I had denied my country more than the Biblical limit of three times now, in various ways. God forgive me.

“Inside my coat,” I said. “The passport.” I motioned and moved my hand slowly.

He let me.

I took hold of the passport, and as I was pulling it out, the man before me said, “This will only perhaps save your life. You will still owe us all your money and valuables as a railway tax for the revolution.”

“Of course,” I said.

I handed him my passport, and he looked at it.

I had plenty to give him from the usual pockets. But I was heading for a crisis with the money belt. Not only was the money absolutely essential to my ability to follow Mensinger and get the story and find my way to an American telegraph to file it, but all of my American credentials were in that money belt as well. That was the real danger, and it was severe.

I thought: I am a dead man, so I might as well go down fighting.

The
Villista
before me checked my face against the picture, which I knew was fine, and as for the rest, I didn't think he was actually reading. He thumbed the passport looking for flags or symbols or perhaps a few words he recognized. I hoped Vogel had no American visits stamped in the back pages of his passport. He probably didn't, given what he was doing. And the German Imperial Eagle grandly spread its wings on the front cover of the document. But the passport wasn't the real problem.

This might be the end of things now, I thought. Even if I could overpower the man in front of me, there were horsemen right behind
him. So I lifted my eyes away from the
Villista,
away from the sombreros
on the horses, I turned my eyes to the distant jagged line of mountains, their flanks going buttery in the long-angled late-afternoon light. I thought of my mother. I wished I could think of her now on the stage. Think of her accepting her age. Playing Gertrude or Volumina or even Lady Bracknell—my mother could play with the lightest of touches as well. Storyville fell like cloud-shadow upon my mind, wiping away that lovely afternoon sunlight before me. But last mortal thoughts could rightly focus on any moments of the life that was passing away, and so I would think of her—as I could, for there were many such moments even well into my teens—I would think of her when she was still convincingly Juliet or Antigone or Kate. She played Kate ever so lightly.

My
Villista
was pushing my passport back into my hand. “Your valuables now,” he said. “Do not hold out. You saw what happened.” He motioned my attention to a mere boy of a
Villista,
sombreroed and bandoleraed but no older than I was when I watched from the backs of theaters as the great Isabel Cobb brought sobs from the audiences as she nightly died as Juliet Capulet. This boy held an open canvas bag.

I took my Elgin from my pocket and dropped it showily into the bag.

I pulled a wallet—with money only—from my other inside coat pocket and I opened it for the bandit before me, to reveal all the pesos inside. A great thick wad. And I dropped it into the bag.

I was going too slow for my
Villista.
His Mauser was slung over his shoulder and both his hands leaped into my coat pockets now, outside pockets, inside pockets, ambidextrously working through my coat, finding my passport again and replacing it, finding my Waterman fountain pen—chased black rubber with a sweet extra-fine, flexible nib—no worry about my holding out a utilitarian thing like that—but he tossed it into the bag anyway, which got my goat—and his hands were arrogantly assuming I would stand here and do nothing till he was finished with me, which, of course, would normally be a safe bet, given the firepower backing him up, but he would frisk me next and that would be that.

His hands moved under my arms and started to pound their way down my sides, my money belt awaiting about three more strikes. Strike one—the center of my rib cage—and I could hear a horse directly behind him nickering, its rider perhaps noticing this special, aggressive treatment and shifting in his saddle, lifting his rifle a bit, ready to back up his comrade. Strike two—below my rib cage and taking my breath away for a brief moment—and now there was the dust-muted lollop of hooves from off to my right, another horseman coming up, and I knew my
Villista
's next strike would be in the center of the plate and I had to at least swing the bat.

He pounded his hands down at my hips, right on the money belt, and his eyes flared wide and his pistol hand started to pull away from me and now his eyes flared wide again as I leaned into him and kicked hard, straight up and centered, and I crushed his balls with my shinbone. He crumpled onto his knees and I could hear rifles clattering up, bolts being thrown, and I cried out as loud as I could, “This man is ill!” and I was about to fall to my own knees and grab his pistol and use him for cover and take out a few of these sons of whores and donkeys but another voice bellowed, “Hold your fire!” and the lollop of hooves I'd heard a moment ago scuffled loudly to a stop, the shadow of the horse and rider falling over me and over the gasping
Villista
whose pistol I was, nevertheless, still grasping for.

And the bellowing voice bellowed some more. In English. “Jesus H. Christ! I know you!”

And leaping off his horse in black shirt and black sombrero and
bandolera
and striding toward me was Tallahassee Slim.

37

I stood up straight and stepped away from my crumpled
Villista
and squared around to face Slim.

If his brown eyes seemed, upon my first meeting in Corpus Christi, to be the color of mountain-lion shit, they were now the eyes of the critter itself. Cool and ravenous. And he gave off not even a first-glance impression of gaunt anymore, unless you'd call a steel cable on the Brooklyn Bridge gaunt.

We clearly both had the notion to shake hands, but given the context, we also both thought the better of it for the time being.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he said, lowering his voice, acknowledging our little bond, but speaking Spanish. There was no doubt that everyone knew he was an American, but soldiers of fortune had no fixed nationality. Slim was smart. He was doing this for me. He knew I couldn't have gotten this far on a train as an American.

“I'm after a story,” I said.

“What the hell have you done to my man?” he said.

My
Villista
was now on all fours, making vaguely sexual-sounding, feminine sounds.

“Kicked him in the nuts. He was about to shoot me.”

Which reminded Slim of the body he had just ridden past. He glanced at it. “What the hell has my man done to this one?”

Slim and I both knew that was a rhetorical question.

I said nothing.

Slim shrugged. “I'm sure he deserved it.”

“Who am I to judge?” I said.

“Are you trying to get to my boss?”

“Villa?” I asked, also rhetorically.

“Villa,” he said anyway.

“Yes.”

Slim nodded. “Wait here. I've got something to deal with.”

Slim jumped back up on his horse and shot his Mauser twice in the air, paused for a beat, and then shot once more. All the
Villistas
stopped what they were doing and turned his way. He clearly was, as I'd assumed, in charge. “
Compañeros!
” he cried. He had the pipes-power of Caruso. “Work quickly now and do not damage the train!”

And he nudged his horse forward. I thought he was going to say something to me, but he looked past my shoulder, at the ground. I turned to see. The man I'd put down was sitting now, clutching his crotch, looking very unhappy.

“Hernando,” Slim said sharply. My
Villista
looked up. Slim said, “Do nothing to this man. Is that clear?”

Hernando lowered his head and cursed softly.

Slim spurred his horse along.

I looked to the right, past the first-class passengers, who were still in the process of being robbed, and I did not see Mensinger. I was daring to hope Slim would take me with him. If I could get to Villa without trying to follow Mensinger out of La Mancha, that would be very good. But it took a moment to absorb Mensinger's absence and I thought: This was why Slim had hurried his boys along and wouldn't burn the train. He knew who the German was, knew he was expected. I'm sure Slim offered Mensinger what I thought he would offer me, to ride with the train-tax company to Villa's camp. Would Mensinger take him up on it? Would he let himself become a protectorate of a gang of bandits, even if they were under Villa's command? Or if I was right about his reasons for getting off in La Mancha, would he excuse himself with Slim—whom he did not expect and may not trust—and stick to his own plan? Would he insist on making his entrance on his own terms?

And who was I, either way?

Soon Slim rode back to me, leading a chestnut stallion saddled up with an empty rifle holster and bags. He motioned me over and I knew we needed to say more private words. I moved to him and I stood in his shadow and looked up.

He was still speaking Spanish, but low. “Who were you pretending to be in order to get here?”

“A German.”

Slim nodded very faintly. “Interesting. Got another German on board.”

“To him I was a Canadian.”

Slim laughed. “Canadian newsman?”

“Coffee merchant.”

“You ready to go back to what you really are?”

I didn't answer instantly, but I didn't hesitate more than one slow blink of the eye, and Slim jumped in: “If you want some kind of story, you pretty much have to.”

“Will that work?”

And Slim was speaking English now, though still low enough for just the two of us. “Don't know. He likes his publicity. No doubt about that. But he blows hot and cold. And I'm the only American fighting for him that he hasn't sent packing. If I bring you in, I'll know as soon as I look in his eyes. If he's in the wrong mood, I'll have to make like you're my prisoner. Which, I have to tell you, is what you'll be.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Mount up,” he said. “Courtesy of one of the last stubborn
hacendados
around these parts. Put your stuff in the saddlebags.”

He handed me the reins. “I'll be back for you as soon as we finish with our tax collection.” And he rode off.

I moved to the chestnut, who shook his head at me but let me stroke his muzzle. I leaned near him and exhaled heavily into his nostrils, just to introduce myself. He dipped his head and muttered a little and I knew we'd be all right.

Repacking was tough. Fortunately, the saddlebags were big, and though I had to lose its nifty carrying case, I was able to squeeze in my Corona. Sadly, though, volume XVI of the Scribner's monogrammed New York Edition of Henry James simply could not fit and would have to be abandoned a long, long way from Washington Square. About as far away as I was feeling at the moment from Michigan Avenue.