The Warlords Page 21

“Orozco was one of Huerta’s generals in the Revolution. He took exile in El Paso when the Carrancistas defeated Huerta’s army.”

  “Huerta?” Gordon repeated. “Does this have anything to do with the Army of Liberation?”

  “We suspect it does,” Woodruff said, steepling his fingers. “Huerta loyalists sought refuge around El Paso and in parts of southern New Mexico. Through informants, we discovered that Orozco was organizing loyalists into a military force.” He paused, his expression somber. “Something on the order of two thousand men.”

  “General, as I’m sure you know, a man named Augustin Garza commands the Army of Liberation. Are you saying he and Orozco are somehow connected?”

  “Director Holbrook sent us an encoded telegraph early yesterday. Here’s a plaintext copy of his message. Judge for yourself.”

  Gordon quickly read the message. Holbrook advised that Victoriano Huerta had departed by train from New York on August 30, three days ago. Agents for the Bureau of Investigation, operating out of the New York office, had determined that he was ticketed through to Los Angeles. Holbrook suspected a ruse.

  General Woodruff had been asked to check it out. In the message, Holbrook advised that Huerta had changed trains in Dallas yesterday morning, and was now traveling west into New Mexico. The Bureau was aware of Orozco’s activities in the area, and raised the possibility that Huerta might attempt to make contact. Holbrook also advised that Colonel Franz von Kleist had disappeared from the German embassy in New York, and his current whereabouts were unknown. The sudden departure of Huerta and von Kleist was considered a matter of grave consequence.

  “Coincidence piled on coincidence,” Gordon said, looking up from the message. “Have you been briefed on this Colonel von Kleist, the German agent?”

  Woodruff nodded. “General Funston has kept us apprised of the situation. Unfortunately, I have no intelligence on von Kleist’s whereabouts. Huerta is a different kettle of fish.”

  “You have a line on him?”

  “Pascual Orozco is something of a braggart. Our informants have learned he’s meeting Huerta early this afternoon. Huerta plans to sneak off the train at Newman, New Mexico. That’s about twelve miles north of here, right on the Texas border.”

  “Do you have any idea of what they intend?”

  “General Funston believes Huerta and Orozco plan to attack the upper Rio Grande, while Garza attacks around Brownsville. A joint offensive, probably on the same day.”

  Gordon was stunned by the enormity of the scheme. His immediate thought was that the Germans were far more insidious than anyone had imagined. “The Germans leave nothing to chance,” he said. “We’d be at war with Mexico within twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, no question of it,” Woodruff replied. “Our orders are to take Huerta and Orozco into custody. You will perform the actual arrest.”

  “What time does Huerta’s train come in?”

  “He’s scheduled to arrive at one o’clock.”

  General Woodruff’s informant was assigned the task of identifying Orozco. At Gordon’s request, the detail consisted of one officer and ten enlisted men, sufficient to effect the arrest. They were trucked north within the hour and crossed the border from Texas into New Mexico. The truck was left hidden in an arroyo outside Newman.

  The town was situated in a desert valley, with the Hueco Mountains to the east and the Organ Mountains to the west. There were perhaps twenty business establishments on the main street, and the population was hardly more than a thousand. The stationmaster at the train depot readily agreed to let them have the baggage room as a place of concealment. They were in position by eleven o’clock.

  Pascual Orozco climbed out of a Reo Roadster shortly before the noon hour. He inspected the inside of the depot, satisfying himself all was in order, and took a seat on a bench facing the door. The westbound train arrived eighteen minutes late, and Orozco was waiting on the platform when Huerta stepped down from a passenger coach. The men laughed, comrades in war reunited, and embraced each other in a backslapping abrazo. Huerta’s expression was that of Caesar triumphant.

  Gordon emerged from the baggage room door. The officer, a cavalry captain, and the squad of troopers marched across the platform and surrounded the two Mexicans. Passengers hung out the windows of the train, staring wide-eyed with amazement as Gordon pushed through the soldiers. Orozco looked like he might bolt and run, except for the sight of so many rifles. Huerta’s features went from triumphant to stoic, almost sad. His jaw muscles bunched in tight knots.

  “Victoriano Huerta,” Gordon said, addressing him in a formal manner. “I arrest you in the name of the United States government.”

  “Que pasa?” Huerta said. “On what charge?”

  “Violation of the Neutrality Act.”

  The truck was brought from the arroyo within minutes. Huerta and Orozco were loaded into the back with the soldiers, while Gordon and the captain rode with the driver. Across the railroad tracks, the truck bumped along into Texas, and not quite an hour later, they stopped before the headquarters building at Fort Bliss. Orozco was marched off to the guardhouse, and Huerta was escorted into General Woodruff’s office. Gordon performed the introductions.

  Woodruff examined Huerta’s documents and asked a few preliminary questions. But he quickly turned the interrogation over to Gordon, who was familiar with every aspect of the conspiracy. Huerta, who had regained his composure, lit a cigarette and dropped the match in an ashtray. He casually crossed his legs.

  “General Huerta,” Gordon said, “the Neutrality Art forbids conspiracy to commit acts of war by foreign nationals on American soil. Conviction carries a sentence of ten years in prison.”

  “I am a tourist, señor.” Huerta exhaled a streamer of smoke. “I know nothing of a conspiracy.”

  “What of Augustin Garza and the Army of Liberation? When does he plan to invade Texas?

  “Quien sabe? Augustin and I are friends from another time, another life. I have not seen him in over a year.”

  “And Colonel Franz von Kleist?” Gordon said in a measured voice. “We know of the meetings in Madrid and New York. We know the Germans are financing the rebellion. We know everything.”

  A momentary flicker in his eyes betrayed Huerta. But he got hold of himself and managed a condescending smile. “You are mistaken, señor. I have no dealings with the Germans, and I know nothing of this von Kleist. Nada.”

  “General, you might help yourself by being truthful. For a man of your stature, ten years in prison is not a pleasant prospect. You might start by telling us the whereabouts of Colonel von Kleist.”

  “How can I tell you what I do not know? I am simply a tourist, nothing more. Comprende?”

  The interrogation went on for more than an hour. Gordon tried every trick in a lawman’s handbook for grilling a suspect; but it was all to no avail. Huerta was by turns indignant, patronizing, and contemptuous, and he admitted nothing. Finally, after exhausting all his wiles, Gordon called it quits. Huerta was marched off to the post stockade.

  All too many questions remained unanswered.

  Some inner voice told Gordon that Garza would not be deterred by Huerta’s arrest. The Germans were masters of manipulation, certainly clever enough to convince the heir apparent that his time had come. Garza would somehow be induced to lead the Army of Liberation into Texas.

  Gordon believed the key to the invasion was the abrupt and all too timely disappearance of a single man. A question which, if answered, might well avert a war.

  Where the hell was Colonel Franz von Kleist?

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Progreso was a thriving farm community. The town was three miles north of the Rio Grande and some forty miles west of Brownsville. Irrigation canals crisscrossed a land ripe with all manner of produce.

  On the night of September 3, Vasquez and eighty men crossed the river under pale starlight. Forty men, assigned to Sergeant Pablo Herrero, peeled off from the main formation and took cover in a stan
d of cottonwoods. Their mission was to act as rear guard for the strike force.

  Vasquez led the other men inland. They were mounted on swift horses, armed with pistols and carbines, and a scout rode ahead to reconnoiter the way. Army units had been reinforced all along the border, and cavalry patrols were active in the area, night and day. The raiders’ principal concern was to avoid any encounter with patrols on their advance into Progreso. Their retreat was planned along different lines.

  The town was small but prosperous. One of the leading merchants was Florencio Toluca, who owned a large general store on the main street. A third-generation Tejano, Toluca was a respected businessman, the bulk of his trade with Anglo farmers. He served on the town council, and his close association with Anglos had led him to be openly critical of the Army of Liberation. He was the target of tonight’s raid.

  Vasquez intended to strike with swift precision. A squad of five men stormed Toluca’s home, dragging him from bed while his wife and daughters begged for mercy. The balance of the force took positions along the main street, where bands of interlocking gunfire could cover the whole of the business district. Toluca was brought to his store, barefoot, his hair disheveled, clad only in a nightshirt. He knew he was a dead man.

  The store was torched. As the dry goods and flammables inside caught fire, Toluca was forced to watch the work of a lifetime consumed by flame. Vasquez reined his horse to a halt in front of the merchant.

  “Florencio Toluca,” he said, drawing a pistol. “You are a traitor to your people and the cause of liberty. I sentence you to death.”

  “Madre de Dios!” Toluca pleaded. “I am but a simple tradesman. I have betrayed no one. Spare me!”

  “No es suficiente, traidor.”

  Vasquez shot him. A bright rosette stained the chest of his nightshirt and he staggered backward, arms windmilling the air. His feet tangled, bare legs flashing, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell dead in the street.

  The raiders mounted their horses. Even as the echoes of the gunshot faded, they rode off at a gallop through the business district. Lights went on in homes, and townspeople, clutching rifles and shotguns, began appearing from side streets. They found the store engulfed in flames and the body of Florencio Toluca sprawled in death. Far downstreet, they saw horsemen disappear into the night.

  A mile south of town, Vasquez and his raiders collided with a cavalry patrol. Flames leaping skyward from the heart of Progreso had drawn one patrol, then another, and yet a third. In the dark, the cavalry squads headed north were taken unawares by forty horsemen riding south at a gallop. By the time the troopers got themselves oriented, the raiders had broken through and the engagement quickly turned into a running gunfight. The action moved steadily toward the river.

  Vasquez rode at the head of the column. So far, with the patrols lured into pursuit, everything had gone just as he’d planned. Some ten minutes later, he saw starlight reflected on water and he led the raiders down the banks of the Rio Grande. The cavalry patrols, by now joined into a cohesive force thirty men strong, were only a short distance behind. As they approached the riverbank, Sergeant Herrero and his rear guard, waiting in ambush, opened fire. The crack of forty rifles split the night like a rolling cannonade.

  Vasquez and his men turned in the river and loosed a volley with their pistols. Troopers pitched from the saddle and horses went down as the slugs from nearly eighty weapons tore through their ranks. A few, miraculously untouched, broke and ran, spurring their mounts into headlong flight. Others were wounded, some mortally, and the majority died where they fell, riddled with bullets. The riverbank, all in a matter of moments, became a killing ground littered with the bodies of men and thrashing horses. The earth was slick with blood.

  Three troopers, grievously wounded, lay among the dead. Vasquez ordered them slung over the backs of horses, and then waited in midstream while Sergeant Herrero got the rear guard mounted. The rebels had lost only five men in the battle, and within minutes, the balance of the raiders gained the opposite shore. The wounded troopers, moaning piteously, were ferried across the river and dumped in a clearing in a grove of trees. Vasquez directed men to gather armloads of wood and build a bonfire. The clearing was soon lighted by leaping flames.

  “Hear me, hombres!” Vasquez said to the assembled raiders. “Do not shrink from what you see here tonight. We leave a message for the gringos!”

  Corporal Jacinto Talavero was selected for the honor. He was short and muscular, broad through the shoulders, every inch the zealot as he pulled a machete from a scabbard on his saddle. The troopers, one at a time, were brought into the circle of firelight, their arms twisted backwards, and forced to kneel on the ground. Corporal Talavero effortlessly lopped off their heads.

  Dawn the next morning was particularly beautiful. The pewter sky slowly lightened to a rosy hue, and then, gradually, a disc of fire emerged from the rim of the earth. The Rio Grande was soon awash in sunlight, and revealed was a sight with its own ghastly splendor. Three stakes were jammed into the sandy soil of the riverbank.

  The heads of the troopers, severed clean, were wedged atop the stakes.

  Gordon stepped off the train early that afternoon. Maddox was waiting outside the Brownsville depot, and his look was grim. He shook hands with a somber greeting.

  Hardly to his surprise, Gordon learned that General Parker wanted to see them right away. As they turned the corner of the depot, neither of them noticed a tall man with patrician features and a commanding bearing step down from the second passenger coach. He carried a portfolio briefcase, but no luggage.

  On the walk uptown, Gordon recounted the capture of Victoriano Huerta. Yesterday, from El Paso, he had sent coded telegrams to both Director Holbrook and General Parker. But now, in greater detail, he related the lengthy interrogation and the absence of any meaningful intelligence. His voice was leavened with frustration.

  “So what happens to Huerta?” Maddox asked. “They gonna shoot the sorry bastard?”

  “No chance of that,” Gordon said. “Charges are being filed for violation of the Neutrality Act. He’ll wind up in prison.”

  “Well, Jesus H. Christ! Somebody ought to tell ’em what went on here last night. Maybe that’d get him a stiff rope and a short drop.”

  “What happened last night?”

  Maddox told him about the raid on Progreso, and how the rebels had killed nineteen cavalrymen in a cunning ambush. He went on to describe how three troopers had been decapitated and their heads planted on stakes along the riverbank. A reinforced battalion, at General Parker’s order, had crossed the Rio Grande early that morning. The remains of the beheaded troopers had been recovered without incident.

  “Beheaded.” Gordon repeated the word as though he’d heard wrong. “What kind of savages are these people? Isn’t killing a man enough?”

  “Not for them bastards,” Maddox said gruffly. “They’re warnin’ us there won’t be no quarter. No prisoners, no survivors.”

  A few minutes later they entered the post commander’s office. Parker waved them to chairs without ceremony or formal greeting. His features were somehow brutalized, his eyes cold as stone. Gordon expressed his condolences about the loss of the troopers. He tactfully made no mention of the beheadings.

  “Goddamn them,” Parker said in an embittered voice. “There is no excuse for such an atrocity. None at all.”

  “No, sir,” Gordon agreed. “Civilized men have limits.”

  “Well, enough of that for now. We have more immediate matters to discuss. Congratulations on capturing Huerta.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you think it will have any effect on Garza? Will he call off the invasion?”

  “Not in my opinion,” Gordon said. “Garza’s a fanatic and he’s gone too far to back off now. I think he’ll appoint himself as Huerta’s successor. The new savior of Mexico—and the Mexican people.”

  “I share your view,” Parker concurred. “The news of Huerta’s capture was
all over Brownsville by yesterday afternoon. Garza could have stopped last night’s raid if Huerta made the difference. He chose instead to further inflame the situation.”

  “General, you hit the nail on the head,” Maddox chimed in. “We’re gonna have ourselves a war come hell or high water.”

  “So it would seem,” Parker said. “I’ve only just received word that General Nafarrate has refused to cooperate. Nothing stands in Garza’s way at this point.”

  The State Department had vigorously protested the Carranza government’s unwillingness to police the Mexican side of the border. At the same time, the U.S. consul in Matamoras had requested assistance from General Emiliano Nafarrate, military commander of the district. Nafarrate had referred to the insurgents as “revolucionarios Texanos,” and declared the rebellion an uprising of people native to Texas. He rejected any suggestion that the raids were staged by Mexicans, operating out of Mexico.

  “Told you before,” Maddox said hotly. “The Germans spread the dinero and bought ’em off. Nafarrate, Carranza, the whole bunch.”

  “I tend to agree,” Parker said. “Although there’s no denying Carranza has his hands full with Villa and Zapata. Still, money talks loudest, and it has the smell of corruption.”

  “Our hands are tied,” Gordon added. “President Wilson won’t allow pursuit into Mexico, and the rebels have sanctuary across the river. We’re on a merry-go-round and no way to stop it.”

  Parker nodded. “All the more reason we need updated intelligence. We’re assured the invasion is planned for early September, and I need not remind you that today is September fourth.” He paused, his manner grave. “We are now at a critical juncture, and I’m forced to ask again, Mr. Gordon. Isn’t there some way your agents can infiltrate Garza’s staff?”

  Gordon knew Hector Martinez would jump at the chance. Martinez possessed the bravado of a fighting cock and the sly aplomb of a con artist. Yet any further attempt, particularly with the invasion so close, might spark suspicion of the deadliest sort. The trade-off was risking one man’s life to avoid a war with Mexico.