TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border Read Free

had reached the end of the alley. The Federal soldiers let him go. They were only interested in his mother. She was young, and now that the baby had been dislodged from her breast I could see a wet swollen nipple. The baby began to wail too. “Don’t worry, madrecita ,” one of the soldiers said, licking his lips. I promise you won’t go dry…”
    “What’s going on today?” I said to the officer, when the woman paused for breath. “How come there’s so many soldiers on the streets?”
    “For a good reason, señor.” He assumed a graver air. “You know Pancho Villa, the bandit? The enemy of President Huerta? He is in town. We’re going to find him.”
    I knew who Pancho Villa was, or at least I knew what I had heard bandied about by a dozen campfires and a score of southwestern bars.
    “What’s he look like?” I asked sharply, wrinkling my brow.
    “An evil-looking man, señor. I’ve seen him once, at the battle of Juárez two years ago, and I know whereof I speak. He is fat. He has red teeth. His mouth is always hanging open, so that he looks like an idiot. In actual fact, he is feebleminded.”
    “Fat? Red teeth? I’ve seen that man!” I cried. “Here! About five minutes ago, in a grocery shop across from the Tivoli Casino! I remember his mouth hanging open, and I thought, Poor creature. But that was him! I’m sure of it. Yessir, that was Pancho Villa!”
    The officer’s eyes sparked with interest. I suppose he glimpsed the possibility of promotion. “You’re certain, señor?”
    “Dead certain. I’ve seen his picture in the newspaper too. That was
    him.”
    “What was he wearing?”
    “He was dressed like a priest. That’s what fooled me. I saw a pistol under his cassock. Do priests carry pistols?”
    That settled it. The officer shouted to his men. They let go of the frightened Indian woman and rushed out into the street, kicking up dust as they ran for the Tivoli.
    Quickly I took the woman’s arm and pressed two dimes into her hand. It was all the change I had, but it would buy her tortillas for the week.
    “Go, señora, please. You’re safe now. But you’d better scoot before they come back.”
    I followed her down the alley until she caught up with her crippled son. She snatched his hand. With a weak nod of thanks, she vanished. Why should she thank me? If I had saved her from the soldiers, my presence had brought them down on her in the first place. But I had no more time to reflect on it; when I reached the end of the alley the swinging doors of a cantina creaked open and the brim of a sombrero peered over the wooden slats. A hot sun flooded the alley and the street, and the face of the man beneath the sombrero was in the blackest shade. From inside the cantina, which was called La Princesa, came the tinny music of an automatic piano playing a Mexican song. I began to hurry by.
    “Tomás …”
    A hand reached out. It gripped my arm, yanking me abruptly through the doors.
    “Hey!”
    “Tomás! It’s me, Julio Cárdenas. Don’t you remember me?”
    The gritty little cantina was hazed with cigarette smoke. At the back, near the slot machine, two bedraggled whores huddled over a bottle of tequila. I peered into a pox-pitted face that looked as if someone had mistaken its owner for a coyote and fired both barrels. The eyes were dark and intelligent, and the mouth had a sour downturn that made it look as if the man had been weaned on a pickle.
    “Sure, I remember you,” I said. “In fact, I came over here to hunt you down, but you’re a hard man to find. Good old Julio! How the hell are you?”
    “Well enough. Now, what happened in the street with the soldiers?”
    Julio Cárdenas was a thin man of about twenty-five. Another man—huge, ugly, black-bearded and fierce-looking—slouched against the bar by Julio s side. I told them what had happened, and they glanced at each other. The big man chuckled hoarsely—he understood immediately—but Julio was more serious.
    “Is it