Read Online TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border by Clifford Irving - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clifford Irving
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his dusty suit, with Candelario waving goodbye and chewing his lips thinking of the French whores.
Columbus was a recently built New Mexican cowtown of little importance and perhaps three hundred souls. Trying to make something of it, the good citizens had built a few hotels and a movie theater, and Hipólito told me there was a gambling emporium next to the whorehouse on the road that led north to Deming. It was a sorry place, and I had seen a dozen like it stretching from El Paso to Brownsville Old Glory drooped over the depot of the El Paso & Southwestern Railroad, and riding up the main street, which these optimistic settlers had called Broadway, I spotted a Woolworth’s and a Popular Dry Goods, and the theater, which was charging twenty cents admission to see Mabel Normand in Race for Life. The desert stretched like a flat brown carpet in all directions. Hipólito disappeared into the Commercial Hotel to find his man.
Ten minutes later we were sitting in Peache’s Lunch Room at a big table with a red-and-white-checked cloth, spooning up split-pea soup and making small talk with Felix Sommerfeld and Samuel Ravel. I liked both of them, which surprised me, because I’d never had anything to do with Hebrews before and had been brought up believing they all wore little black caps and had beaks that touched their chins. Sommerfeld looked much as Fierro had described him—a white-faced frog—but to be more exact, and kind, he was a man of about fifty with a hairless face, a relaxed smile and two keen pale blue eyes that gleamed from behind gold-rimmed glasses. When he laughed, his belly rippled under his white linen suit and his watch chain jingled. He was never without a Murad cigarette in his hand, and the fat pink fingers were stained brown right up to the knuckles.
Sam Ravel, by comparison, was a tall man in his early thirties who wore Cheyenne chaps, calfskin boots and a black Stetson; he had a hawk nose, dark observant eyes and an air about him that made you glad he was on your side rather than against you.
But Felix Sommerfeld, I found out, beneath his plumpness, had plenty of leather as well. They bought the whole herd from us outright, taking our word for it on the count but reserving a look-see to make sure the cattle were healthy and offering a fair price of twenty dollars a head in greenbacks. Over the pea soup I explained to them that we didn’t need cash; it was arms that we wanted. I handed them Villa’s list.^
Felix Sommerfeld studied it. “That seems reasonable, and if there’s a difference either way we’ll sort it out later. When do you need delivery?”
“Right away.”
“Next week’s more likely,” Ravel drawled. He was from San Antonio, and he had put in a few years with the Texas Rangers, which of course didn’t stop him from riding the other side of the fence now that he was a civilian. It gave him advantages too, since he knew whose palm couldn’t be greased and who would take the mordita—the little bite—as the Mexicans lovingly called it.
“What about transport?” I asked.
“We’ll lend you wagons,” Sommerfeld said.
I thought that was friendly of him, and it gave me an idea. I knew how badly Villa needed bullets. “Look, Mr. Sommerfeld,” I said, “we can provide you with a lot more cattle, probably as much as you can handle. It’s wandering loose over half the state of Chihuahua.” I guess they knew that was a lie but didn’t much care. “Why don’t you give us an extra hundred thousand cartridges, and one more machine gun with a hundred belts of ammunition? We’ll deliver the cattle for them in two weeks.”
Sam Ravel turned to Hipólito, who was busy tearing into his fried chicken with one hand and guzzling a cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer with the other. “I need to know,” Ravel asked in Spanish, “if this man speaks for your brother.”
Hipólito wiped grease from his mustache. “Yes, Tomás has my brother’s trust.”
That made me feel
Columbus was a recently built New Mexican cowtown of little importance and perhaps three hundred souls. Trying to make something of it, the good citizens had built a few hotels and a movie theater, and Hipólito told me there was a gambling emporium next to the whorehouse on the road that led north to Deming. It was a sorry place, and I had seen a dozen like it stretching from El Paso to Brownsville Old Glory drooped over the depot of the El Paso & Southwestern Railroad, and riding up the main street, which these optimistic settlers had called Broadway, I spotted a Woolworth’s and a Popular Dry Goods, and the theater, which was charging twenty cents admission to see Mabel Normand in Race for Life. The desert stretched like a flat brown carpet in all directions. Hipólito disappeared into the Commercial Hotel to find his man.
Ten minutes later we were sitting in Peache’s Lunch Room at a big table with a red-and-white-checked cloth, spooning up split-pea soup and making small talk with Felix Sommerfeld and Samuel Ravel. I liked both of them, which surprised me, because I’d never had anything to do with Hebrews before and had been brought up believing they all wore little black caps and had beaks that touched their chins. Sommerfeld looked much as Fierro had described him—a white-faced frog—but to be more exact, and kind, he was a man of about fifty with a hairless face, a relaxed smile and two keen pale blue eyes that gleamed from behind gold-rimmed glasses. When he laughed, his belly rippled under his white linen suit and his watch chain jingled. He was never without a Murad cigarette in his hand, and the fat pink fingers were stained brown right up to the knuckles.
Sam Ravel, by comparison, was a tall man in his early thirties who wore Cheyenne chaps, calfskin boots and a black Stetson; he had a hawk nose, dark observant eyes and an air about him that made you glad he was on your side rather than against you.
But Felix Sommerfeld, I found out, beneath his plumpness, had plenty of leather as well. They bought the whole herd from us outright, taking our word for it on the count but reserving a look-see to make sure the cattle were healthy and offering a fair price of twenty dollars a head in greenbacks. Over the pea soup I explained to them that we didn’t need cash; it was arms that we wanted. I handed them Villa’s list.^
Felix Sommerfeld studied it. “That seems reasonable, and if there’s a difference either way we’ll sort it out later. When do you need delivery?”
“Right away.”
“Next week’s more likely,” Ravel drawled. He was from San Antonio, and he had put in a few years with the Texas Rangers, which of course didn’t stop him from riding the other side of the fence now that he was a civilian. It gave him advantages too, since he knew whose palm couldn’t be greased and who would take the mordita—the little bite—as the Mexicans lovingly called it.
“What about transport?” I asked.
“We’ll lend you wagons,” Sommerfeld said.
I thought that was friendly of him, and it gave me an idea. I knew how badly Villa needed bullets. “Look, Mr. Sommerfeld,” I said, “we can provide you with a lot more cattle, probably as much as you can handle. It’s wandering loose over half the state of Chihuahua.” I guess they knew that was a lie but didn’t much care. “Why don’t you give us an extra hundred thousand cartridges, and one more machine gun with a hundred belts of ammunition? We’ll deliver the cattle for them in two weeks.”
Sam Ravel turned to Hipólito, who was busy tearing into his fried chicken with one hand and guzzling a cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer with the other. “I need to know,” Ravel asked in Spanish, “if this man speaks for your brother.”
Hipólito wiped grease from his mustache. “Yes, Tomás has my brother’s trust.”
That made me feel
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