bomb were to blow them all up right now, he thought—not inconceivable, since there was a lot of bombing going on just then—half the wealth of the United States would sink to the bottom of Newport Harbor. In any case, Colonel Shaughnessy was looking forward with the greatest delight to the joke he intended to play upon the gods of industry and society that evening. If his scheme went as planned they’d be writing about it till Christmas.
SIX
I n Chihuahua the cattle rustlers were already driving their booty back toward the rolling hills where Pancho Villa and his detachment sat watching them. The band of horsemen from the hacienda were closing in fast, but the rustlers seemed unperturbed and continued driving the cows at a leisurely pace.
“Please send for Señor Mix,” Villa said. Fierro barked an order, and presently a tall, lean, good-looking young man with slicked-black hair and dark flashing eyes rode up on a palomino and saluted Villa. Six months earlier Tom Mix had been just another bored cowhand back in Arizona. In his idle moments, Mix harbored visions of someday becoming a movie-star cowboy but, along with a handful of other American soldiers of fortune, he’d thrown in with Villa’s army hoping to come away with enough cash to get his start in Hollywood.
“Take two machine gun squads and cut off those vaqueros,” Villa instructed. Mix saluted and wheeled back down the far side of the hill, where about four hundred of his Villistas were resting, grazing their animals, lying on the ground, drinking mescal, smoking, joking, and engaging in other leisurely pursuits. Mix spoke to them in a combination of pidgin Spanish and sign language and the men began to rise and collect their weapons.
It made Mix feel important that he could command obedience from this mob. He’d joined Villa with little more than a secondhand revolver, a dented Winchester .30-caliber rifle, and a trick horse, but in a short time his industriousness, bravery, and pleasant manners got him promoted as a key aide to the general.
Villa called him “my gringo fireman.”
The little band of hacendados riding from the ranch was now about halfway between the cattle rustlers and their path back to Villa’s position, but the distance to them was closing fast. Then off to his right Villa saw Tom Mix’s detachment of machine gunners with an escort of a dozen riflemen tear out from the swale, the horsemen leading four big mules that carried the German Schloss machine guns and ammunition in their packs, so that now there were three groups of horsemen, seemingly converging on one another.
Although the hacendados were farthest away, they were much faster than the rustlers and the machine gunners with the pack mules in tow, but the little situation below was developing just as Villa expected. The hacendados must have by now seen the new detachment but they did not slow down. The sun had sunk low on the horizon and reflected off a bank of big gray clouds to cast an infernal glow over the entire landscape.
“They better hurry,” Fierro said, but it was unclear whether he referred to the rustlers or the machine gunners. Suddenly the cloud of dust behind the hacendados quickly enveloped them as they drew to a halt. Nothing stirred in the air, not even the faintest breeze. The machine gunners continued and the rustlers were shouting, waving, and trying to get the cattle to move faster. Then, quite suddenly, the hacendados got on the move again, split into two groups; one rode directly for the rustlers, the other arced toward the machine gunners, the two groups acting as a sort of pincers.
Now a new figure arrived at Villa’s side. General Vargo Santo—“the Saint,” as he was known in the army. Santo was one of Villa’s principal military advisors, having grown up in France and been educated at Saint-Cyr, the French version of West Point.
Vargo Santo had been faithful to Pancho Villa and the revolution since the beginning, all through the
SIX
I n Chihuahua the cattle rustlers were already driving their booty back toward the rolling hills where Pancho Villa and his detachment sat watching them. The band of horsemen from the hacienda were closing in fast, but the rustlers seemed unperturbed and continued driving the cows at a leisurely pace.
“Please send for Señor Mix,” Villa said. Fierro barked an order, and presently a tall, lean, good-looking young man with slicked-black hair and dark flashing eyes rode up on a palomino and saluted Villa. Six months earlier Tom Mix had been just another bored cowhand back in Arizona. In his idle moments, Mix harbored visions of someday becoming a movie-star cowboy but, along with a handful of other American soldiers of fortune, he’d thrown in with Villa’s army hoping to come away with enough cash to get his start in Hollywood.
“Take two machine gun squads and cut off those vaqueros,” Villa instructed. Mix saluted and wheeled back down the far side of the hill, where about four hundred of his Villistas were resting, grazing their animals, lying on the ground, drinking mescal, smoking, joking, and engaging in other leisurely pursuits. Mix spoke to them in a combination of pidgin Spanish and sign language and the men began to rise and collect their weapons.
It made Mix feel important that he could command obedience from this mob. He’d joined Villa with little more than a secondhand revolver, a dented Winchester .30-caliber rifle, and a trick horse, but in a short time his industriousness, bravery, and pleasant manners got him promoted as a key aide to the general.
Villa called him “my gringo fireman.”
The little band of hacendados riding from the ranch was now about halfway between the cattle rustlers and their path back to Villa’s position, but the distance to them was closing fast. Then off to his right Villa saw Tom Mix’s detachment of machine gunners with an escort of a dozen riflemen tear out from the swale, the horsemen leading four big mules that carried the German Schloss machine guns and ammunition in their packs, so that now there were three groups of horsemen, seemingly converging on one another.
Although the hacendados were farthest away, they were much faster than the rustlers and the machine gunners with the pack mules in tow, but the little situation below was developing just as Villa expected. The hacendados must have by now seen the new detachment but they did not slow down. The sun had sunk low on the horizon and reflected off a bank of big gray clouds to cast an infernal glow over the entire landscape.
“They better hurry,” Fierro said, but it was unclear whether he referred to the rustlers or the machine gunners. Suddenly the cloud of dust behind the hacendados quickly enveloped them as they drew to a halt. Nothing stirred in the air, not even the faintest breeze. The machine gunners continued and the rustlers were shouting, waving, and trying to get the cattle to move faster. Then, quite suddenly, the hacendados got on the move again, split into two groups; one rode directly for the rustlers, the other arced toward the machine gunners, the two groups acting as a sort of pincers.
Now a new figure arrived at Villa’s side. General Vargo Santo—“the Saint,” as he was known in the army. Santo was one of Villa’s principal military advisors, having grown up in France and been educated at Saint-Cyr, the French version of West Point.
Vargo Santo had been faithful to Pancho Villa and the revolution since the beginning, all through the
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