fabulous victories of the early years and even now through the recent defeats, and, as a military scientist, had taken a keen interest in the tactical developments in the great war in Europe, particularly in the use of defenses such as trenches and barbed wire and the machine gun.
“Well, General, a nice little show coming along down there,” Santo commented. An unremarkable-looking man with a graying mustache and light green eyes that betrayed him as a mixed-Creole and probably of the aristocratic classes, both of which Villa despised. But Villa was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and when Santos resigned from the Federal Army and offered his services to the revolution, he was glad to have him.
“We haven’t had a fight in more than a month,” Villa replied, “Not even a bloody fuss like this. I’m looking forward to it.”
Santo nodded. Villa had many pithy mottoes, which Santo had endured over the years, and one of them was: “Try to eat a little shit every day, just so you don’t lose the taste for it.”
The first group of hacendados now closed quickly on the flank of the rustlers.
Mix had evidently seen the hacendados split up and shifted his course to get between them and the cattle herd. Now the cowboy slowed and began to unload his mules, the machine gunners rushing to unlimber their guns. The riflemen, most of them still on their horses, began pointing their weapons toward the approaching hacendados, and soon little puffs of white smoke could be seen, followed by the faint echoes of gunfire.
“Now we teach these vaqueros something,” Fierro said with relish, as if he wished to the highest heavens he were down in the fray. Whatever else had created Rudolfo Fierro, war and killing enhanced and refined it until it was commonly said he could kill a man with no more qualm than swatting an insect. Once, in the early years, he shot one of his own soldiers through the eye while sitting in a street café at Chihuahua City. He had done this on a bet from someone that he could not hit a man in the eye with a single shot from a pistol at the distance of across the street. Fierro generously donated the proceeds of the bet to the victim’s widow.
Suddenly it was apparent to Villa and the other two generals that Mix had gone wrong.
The American cowboy had set up to block the pincers movement of the hacendados but failed to defend his rear. Surely he must have seen the split-up; obviously the first prong of hacendados would reach the rustlers and their catch momentarily, which was just what happened.
While Mix’s men frantically toiled to assemble and operate the machine guns, the hacendados pitched into the band of rustlers and, outnumbering them three to two, began a small battle. Unable to both fight and control the herd, the rustlers tried to assemble themselves into something like a fighting unit, but by now it was too late. The hacendados were upon them.
“Shit,” Villa spat. Four or five of his men either dropped from their horses or the horses toppled over.
Meanwhile, the pincer prong of the hacendados came within firing range of Mix’s machine guns, which opened up on them with devastating effect. The gunners were aiming low so as to cut down the horses, and after a few brief bursts only three or four hacendados remained in their saddles. Finally realizing the firepower they faced, they beat a hasty retreat. Mix had forestalled defeat in five seconds and five hundred rounds.
“Must’ve thought they were dealing with a bunch of scruffy bandits,” Villa remarked with an air of relief, turning his attention back to the herd and the fight going on there. Fierro wheeled his horse and was waving and shouting something to the main band below, but Villa interceded.
“Too late,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. We can take all this gringo’s cattle whenever we want. Don’t waste the time.”
By now the hacendados had driven the rustlers back toward the hill in a sort of running
“Well, General, a nice little show coming along down there,” Santo commented. An unremarkable-looking man with a graying mustache and light green eyes that betrayed him as a mixed-Creole and probably of the aristocratic classes, both of which Villa despised. But Villa was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and when Santos resigned from the Federal Army and offered his services to the revolution, he was glad to have him.
“We haven’t had a fight in more than a month,” Villa replied, “Not even a bloody fuss like this. I’m looking forward to it.”
Santo nodded. Villa had many pithy mottoes, which Santo had endured over the years, and one of them was: “Try to eat a little shit every day, just so you don’t lose the taste for it.”
The first group of hacendados now closed quickly on the flank of the rustlers.
Mix had evidently seen the hacendados split up and shifted his course to get between them and the cattle herd. Now the cowboy slowed and began to unload his mules, the machine gunners rushing to unlimber their guns. The riflemen, most of them still on their horses, began pointing their weapons toward the approaching hacendados, and soon little puffs of white smoke could be seen, followed by the faint echoes of gunfire.
“Now we teach these vaqueros something,” Fierro said with relish, as if he wished to the highest heavens he were down in the fray. Whatever else had created Rudolfo Fierro, war and killing enhanced and refined it until it was commonly said he could kill a man with no more qualm than swatting an insect. Once, in the early years, he shot one of his own soldiers through the eye while sitting in a street café at Chihuahua City. He had done this on a bet from someone that he could not hit a man in the eye with a single shot from a pistol at the distance of across the street. Fierro generously donated the proceeds of the bet to the victim’s widow.
Suddenly it was apparent to Villa and the other two generals that Mix had gone wrong.
The American cowboy had set up to block the pincers movement of the hacendados but failed to defend his rear. Surely he must have seen the split-up; obviously the first prong of hacendados would reach the rustlers and their catch momentarily, which was just what happened.
While Mix’s men frantically toiled to assemble and operate the machine guns, the hacendados pitched into the band of rustlers and, outnumbering them three to two, began a small battle. Unable to both fight and control the herd, the rustlers tried to assemble themselves into something like a fighting unit, but by now it was too late. The hacendados were upon them.
“Shit,” Villa spat. Four or five of his men either dropped from their horses or the horses toppled over.
Meanwhile, the pincer prong of the hacendados came within firing range of Mix’s machine guns, which opened up on them with devastating effect. The gunners were aiming low so as to cut down the horses, and after a few brief bursts only three or four hacendados remained in their saddles. Finally realizing the firepower they faced, they beat a hasty retreat. Mix had forestalled defeat in five seconds and five hundred rounds.
“Must’ve thought they were dealing with a bunch of scruffy bandits,” Villa remarked with an air of relief, turning his attention back to the herd and the fight going on there. Fierro wheeled his horse and was waving and shouting something to the main band below, but Villa interceded.
“Too late,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. We can take all this gringo’s cattle whenever we want. Don’t waste the time.”
By now the hacendados had driven the rustlers back toward the hill in a sort of running
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