The Warlords Read online

  Von Kleist thought it had been a remarkable day. By the middle of September, he would have accomplished something few men aspired to, or envisioned possible. Something that would leave his mark for all time.

  He would bring war to America.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A sickle moon hung lopsided in the sky. Low clouds scudded past on a warm breeze, at times obscuring the moon and leaving the earth dappled with light. Stars were scattered like chips of ice against dark muslin.

  On the night of August 4, Luis Vasquez crossed the Rio Grande. He led twenty horsemen, a mix of Mexicans and Tejanos, all of them armed with pistols and carbines. Their objective was Santa Maria, a town two miles north of the river and some thirty miles west of Brownsville. The patchy glow of the moon lighted their way.

  Other raids were also in progress. Miguel Barragan and a party of twenty men were assigned to destroy railroad bridges east and west of La Paloma. Juan Cross and his band would attack the village of Carricitos, and attempt to recruit many of the Negro farm workers who lived there. Aniceto Pizana led thirty men, the largest contingent, for he might have to fight his way back across the border. He was raiding a ranch outside Rio Hondo.

  A scout awaited Vasquez on the north bank of the river. Army patrols were increasingly active along the border, and he’d sent a man ahead to assess the situation. The scout reported that a mounted patrol had passed by, moving upriver, not quite a half hour ago. The patrol was in squad strength, nine troopers, and all of them seemed asleep in the saddle. Lethargy and boredom were at work, for there had been no raids in over three weeks.

  Santa Maria was on the railway line that served towns scattered along the border. There were farms and ranches throughout the countryside, and the town, though small, was a trade center for the area. The railroad depot was on the southern edge of the community, with a main street extending several blocks to the north. There were homes on the side streets to the east and west, and a grain elevator north of the business district. With midnight approaching, the town was dark.

  The Merchants & Grangers Bank occupied the southeast corner of the main intersection. Part of Vasquez’s assignment tonight was to rob the bank, which would further unsettle the economy and bring added hardship to Anglo farmers and ranchers. He posted men to watch the street while others tore down a hitching post and used it as a battering ram to force the door. One of his men, who had learned demolitions in the Revolución, planted sticks of dynamite around the steel door of the vault. He lit the fuse and they quickly retreated outside.

  The explosion rocked the entire town. Dogs started howling and lights began flickering on in houses surrounding the business district. The interior of the bank was demolished and the vault door was blown across the room, collapsing part of the front wall. Vasquez and three men climbed through the rubble, looting the vault, and stuffed gunnysacks with stacks of cash. As they came out of the bank, townspeople appeared from the side streets, many carrying rifles and shotguns. The raiders opened fire, and one of the townsmen fell dead by a hardware store on the opposite corner.

  Vasquez ordered his men to get mounted. The fighting became general as more and more townspeople appeared from the darkness, drawn by the explosion and the sound of gunfire. A shotgun boomed, and one of the raiders toppled out of the saddle, pitching backward onto the ground. The others reined their horses around, spraying lead in every direction, and rode south. The townsmen took cover at the sides of buildings and in doorways, and the length of the business district suddenly became a gauntlet. Another raider threw up his arms at the crack of a rifle and tumbled off his horse.

  Halfway down the street, Vasquez shouted a command. The bank was but part of the night’s mission, the other part still to be completed. He needed to buy time and he ordered twelve men to fight a rearguard action. They obeyed without question, wheeling their horses around, and delivered a hammering volley upstreet. Nine townsmen were caught in the open, running toward the riders, and four of them slumped dead to the ground. The others scurried for cover, joining those who hadn’t left the protection of the buildings. The raiders gave way slowly, losing another man in the exchange of gunfire. They retreated toward the train depot.

  Vasquez waited with six men formed in a skirmish line. The depot was closed for the night, and his demolitions expert was hurriedly placing dynamite charges around the base of the building. As the rear guard fell back, the men on the skirmish line opened up with carbines in a rolling drumbeat of rapid fire. The townsmen ducked, holding their cover, slugs thunking into stores and shattering windowpanes all along the street. Then, in the midst of splitting gunfire, Vasquez’s voice rose above the racket.

  “Vamonos!” he shouted. “Andale! Andale!”

  The raiders, all of them now mounted, followed him at a clattering gallop over the railroad tracks. An instant later the train depot seemed to lift off its foundation in a thunderous explosion, and then disintegrated within the vortex of a towering fireball. Debris and flaming timbers rained down out of the sky as the horsemen vanished into the night.

  The people of Santa Maria slowly emerged from their hiding places. Five of their neighbors lay dead and their train station had been reduced to a smoking pyre. None of them doubted who was responsible. Nor were they unaware of what it meant.

  The Army of Liberation was again on the march.

  The embers of a cooking fire glowed under the pale sickle moon. Five tents stood pitched in the yard of what was once the Scrivner ranch compound. The house and the outbuildings were now piles of charred rubble.

  Joe Scrivner and his two sons slept in one tent. His wife and daughter shared another, while a third served as a makeshift kitchen. The four vaqueros made do with the other two tents, which were pitched off near the corral. The family’s tents were close to the cool waters of the Arroyo Colorado.

  Scrivner crawled out of his tent somewhere around midnight. He was troubled by an overactive bladder and generally had to relieve himself two or three times a night. As he stood on the bank of the river, steamy piss splashing the rippling water, he looked at the ruins of his home in the sallow moonlight. Carpenters from Rio Hondo were finally to start rebuilding tomorrow, and he thought it was none too soon. He was tired of living in a tent.

  A strange sound caught his attention. He shook his pud, lowering the front of his nightshirt, and turned back to the tents. For a moment, squinting in the faint moon glow, he was hardly able to credit his eyes. What appeared to be thirty or more horsemen sat their mounts before the dull embers of the cook fire. He was momentarily dumbstruck, overcome by an urge to jump in the river and swim away. Then he realized he couldn’t desert his family.

  “Who’s there?” he said, walking forward. “What d’you want?”

  One of the riders dismounted. “Don’t you recognize an old friend, hombre? I have come back.”

  “Pizana?” Scrivner peered closer. “Aniceto Pizana?”

  “Si, you do remember, eh? Luis Vasquez and I tossed a coin to see who would have the honor. I won.”

  “What’re you talking about? Honor of what?”

  “Why, the honor of holding court for your crimes. I am here for justice.”

  “What crimes?” Scrivner demanded. “Get the hell off my land.”

  “ Oh, I think not,” Pizana said with cheerful menace. “I am now a capitán in the Army of Liberation. You have much to answer for, señor.”

  Pizana rapped out a command. His men dismounted, some moving into the tents and others gathering armloads of firewood. Scrivner’s wife, his two sons, and his daughter were roughly forced outside in their nightclothes. The four vaqueros, their faces taut with fear and wearing droopy long johns, were pushed off to one side. Within minutes, a roaring bonfire lighted the yard. Pizana motioned for silence.

  “Señor Scrivner,” he said impassively. “You are accused of betraying a peaceful man—that would be me—to the Texas Rangers. Do you admit your guilt?”

  “Hell, no!” Scrivner flared. �
��I don’t admit nothin’.”

  “Maybe you remember Jose Zamora? The vaquero who worked for you?”

  “Zamora quit the night my place got burned down. What about him?”

  “Jose ran all the way to my ranchero that night. He told me of your quick treachery, your hate. He warned me the Rangers were coming at dawn.”

  “Zamora’s a liar,” Scrivner said. “He always was.”

  Pizana looked at the vaqueros, who stood huddled in their long johns. “What do you say, amigos?” he asked. “Is Jose Zamora a liar?”

  The vaqueros kept their heads bowed, their eyes on the ground. A turgid moment of silence slipped past, then Pizana turned back to Scrivner. “You are the liar,” he said in a hard, cold voice. “Because of you, my son lost his leg, and my friend and vaquero, Esteban Ferrua, lost his life. I find you guilty of these crimes.”

  “You’re loco,” Scrivner growled. “You’ve got no right to judge me.”

  “No, don’t you see, you are wrong, hombre. I have judged you.”

  Pizana nodded to his men. Several of the raiders grabbed Scrivner and his two sons and shoved them to the edge of the riverbank. Helen Scrivner screamed, and her daughter, who looked to be fourteen or fifteen, burst out in tears. Scrivner glowered at Pizana.

  “Leave my boys be,” he snapped. “They’re no part of this.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid they are,” Pizana said. “The Army of Liberation requires the execution of any Texan over the age of sixteen.” He paused, glancing at the youngsters. “John is seventeen, as I recall, and Paul is eighteen.”

  “Merciful Jesus!” Helen Scrivner cried, struggling against the men who restrained her. “They’re only boys! Children!”

  “I have my orders, señora.”

  “You sorry sonovabitch!” Scrivner bellowed. “You’ll roast in hell for this!”

  “I think you are probably right, hombre.”

  Pizana ordered six of his men to form a firing squad. At his command, they raised their carbines, and when he dropped his arm, they fired. The impact of the slugs knocked Scrivner and his sons off their feet and they lurched backward over the riverbank into the water. The current caught them, their bodies bobbing on the surface, and swiftly carried them downstream. Helen Scrivner moaned like a terrified animal, and her daughter stood frozen in shock. The four vaqueros kept their eyes fixed on the ground.

  The raiders mounted on Pizana’s signal. They rode south from the bonfire and the tents and the eerie, shrieking wail of a woman gone mad. Pizana told himself it had been a dirty night’s work, and one best quickly put behind. But he knew he would never outdistance a father’s curse. A dead man’s last words.

  He would surely roast in hell.

  Garza emerged from the house on Calle 5 around nine the following morning. His pace was brisk and his stride confident as he walked toward the corner. He was quite pleased with last night’s raids.

  Vasquez and Pizana had returned to the house only an hour before. Barragan and Cross, whose names were still unknown to the American authorities, had retired to their homes in Brownsville. The rest of the men had dispersed, ordered to resume their normal activities until the next call to action. German funds ensured that they were well paid and loyal, and Garza refused to think of them as mercenaries. They were, in his view, patriots all.

  Over the past hour Vasquez and Pizana had briefed him on the raids. He was delighted that Vasquez had returned with more than $11,000 from the bank at Santa Maria. A war chest independent of German funds provided for unforeseen contingencies. Yet he was even more pleased with the report delivered by Pizana. Until a man proved himself in the field, there was always a niggling doubt as to his competence as a leader. The executions performed by Pizana—with a firing squad, no less!—had removed all doubt.

  A few minutes after nine Garza entered the German Consulate. He resented having to report to Otto Mueller, even when the news he brought was of a positive nature. But the Germans were financing the Army of Liberation, and so far, with cash disbursements and war materials supplied, he estimated their expenditures at somewhere near a half-million dollars. To return General Huerta to power, someone had to pay the piper, and he’d been assigned the job. He cautioned himself, as he did with some frequency, not to offend Mueller.

  Down the hall, he knocked lightly on the door and entered the office. Mueller always seemed to be writing communiqués, or consulting entries in ledgers, and Garza often wondered if the German compulsion for detail was hereditary or taught. Today was no exception, and Mueller looked up from a ledger filled with precise notations that would have done justice to a calligrapher. He set his pen aside.

  “Herr Garza,” he said with a humorless smile. “I trust your raids went well.”

  “Yes, very well,” Garza said, taking a chair before the desk. “We destroyed railroad bridges, a railway station, and burned a number of buildings.”

  “And did you kill any Texans? All in the name of liberation, of course.”

  Garza occasionally wondered if Mueller had ever killed anyone. He knew the man was an officer in the German intelligence service, probably versed in espionage and clandestine activities. But there was a difference between directing an operation and actually killing a man face-to-face. Everyone in Matamoras knew Mueller was involved with the singer, Maria Dominguez, and that he lavished her with gifts. Garza amused himself with the thought that Mueller was a lady-killer.

  “What is war without death?” he said rhetorically. “Our raids accounted for nine dead gringos.”

  “Nine,” Mueller repeated dully. “Hardly a number to inspire rebellion among the masses. But then, we have had this discussion before, is it not so?”

  “We have antagonized the Americans, just as you asked. The day our brigade invades Texas will be the spark that ignites rebellion. Thousands will rally to our cause.”

  “And you are still planning on early September, correct? No revised estimates?”

  “I intend to attack no later than the second week in September.”

  “Not a moment too soon, Herr Garza.” Mueller indicated a cablegram on his desk. “I received an overnight message from Berlin. Your arms will arrive in Bagdad on August 10.”

  The Mexican port of Bagdad was some thirty miles downriver. The port was on the coast, at the mouth of the Rio Grande, and served oceangoing freighters. Cargo was off-loaded and hauled by wagon to a nearby spur line of the railroad. From there, it was transported to Matamoras and other towns in the interior.

  Mueller went on to explain that the shipment would include four thousand Mauser bolt-action rifles and three million rounds of ammunition. The consignment forms identified the cargo as agricultural equipment, and the final destination was Monterrey. Garza would be responsible for transporting the arms from Monterrey to the training camp in the mountains.

  “Notify your man in Monterrey,” Mueller concluded. “He can expect the shipment on August 12.”

  “We will be ready,” Garza said. “With arms, our training can now be completed. The brigade will march on schedule.”

  “But that is still a month away. We must continue to pressure the Americans in the meantime.”

  “I plan to conduct a series of raids in the next month. Every dead gringo wins further converts to our cause.”

  Mueller was silent a moment. He stared off into the middle distance, his eyes thoughtful. At length, his gaze swung back to Garza.

  “Terror,” he said, biting down on the word. “We must strike terror in the hearts of the Americans. Do you agree?”

  “Of course,” Garza replied. “Fear paves the road for our invasion.”

  “Then forget these ranchers and farmers. You must kill a man of prominence, perhaps a public figure. Someone whose death will prove that all Americans are vulnerable.”

  “A leader of some sort.”

  “Precisely!”

  Garza nodded to himself, his mouth suddenly set in an ugly grin. He knew just the man.

  Chapter
Fifteen

  SANTA MARIA DEVASTATED

  NINE KILLED BY REBELS

  The banner headline dominated the front page of the Brownsville Daily News. A three-column article went on to relate the destruction of the Santa Maria railway station and the death of citizens who valiantly resisted the attack. There was a report as well of a rancher and his two sons, executed by firing squad outside the town of Rio Hondo. An editorial sidebar castigated the Texas Rangers and the army for their lack of response.

  “Helluva note,” Maddox grumped, dropping the paper on the table. “You’d think we’re supposed to be everywhere at once.”

  “We are,” Gordon said, spreading butter over a biscuit. “We were caught flat-footed on this one.”

  “Well, we’ve got Martinez and Vargas to thank for that. Those boys just flat let us down.”

  “Hector tried but they gave him the brush-off. Vasquez jumped on him for not bringing in more recruits.”

  “Still say we got the short end of the stick. Goddamn newspaper just needs somebody to blame.”

  They were in the hotel dining room. Last night, when the calls began coming in, Company C had been dispatched to Carricitos and Company D to La Paloma. Gordon and Maddox had joined Ransom and Company A in a flying motorcade to Santa Maria. None of the columns had arrived in time to get into action. The raiders had already retreated across the border.

  Only an hour ago, upon their return to Brownsville, had they learned of the killings outside Rio Hondo. The wife of Joe Scrivner had identified Aniceto Pizana as the leader of the raiders who had executed her husband and two sons. The Brownsville Daily News, published only that morning, had collected as much information as they themselves had tracked down. Their late breakfast at the hotel hadn’t done much to relieve their sense of frustration.