Chasing Pancho Villa (11 page)

She remained there, legs wide apart and hands on her hips, prepared for anything. She watched him, a slight smile creasing the painted red lips. “Go 'way, Stewart, like I tell ya. Cain't ya hear? I'm busy workin'.”

Stewart finally raised up, but very cautiously. Swaying slightly, he gave her a big smile. “Kiss me, Sal.”

“Stewart, you go find yourself two bucks and I'll kiss ya.”

Harrison, seeing Stewart assault Sal, had been prepared to intervene. But before he could take a step, Sal had made her move. “Take care of yourself, Sal,” he said, and headed up the stairs, a couple of steps behind Paddy.

“An I ain't no lady neither, Harry,” she said with a wink, looking up at him.

Stewart turned, staggering back to his table and into the laughter of his friends.

Before James reached the top of the stairs, a gun fired in the room below. Instinctively, his hand went for the shouldered Colt as he fell to the steps and turned. Looking down through the layer of tobacco smoke, he made out the figure of a man sprawled across the saw dust covered floor near the door. He looked for Sal and saw her still glowering at Stewart.

“Boys!” he heard one of Paddy's waiters yell. A huge man also in a stained white apron, wide at the girth with arms the size of tree trunks. “Boys, there be no shootin' in my 'stablishment now, ye hear me?” he called above the crowd noise. “Paddy don't allow it in here.” He did not move from his spot behind the mahogany., but he reached down quickly to retrieve a sawed off shogun. “Stand back, boys, or I'll hurt ya,” he yelled, brandishing the weapon for everyone to take notice of.

James spotted the shooter. He was one of the few civilians in the saloon, hatless, and dressed in a brown suit. He could make out the revolver still in his hand. Several soldiers now hovered over the wounded man lying on the floor. Everyone else was standing. Soldiers ringed the shooter in a half circle. Then slowly they moved in on him.

“Stay where you are or I'll shoot,” he heard the civilian yell. “That man was cheatin'. He pulled a knife on me and tried to stab me. I got witnesses who seen it.”

“Don't ye worry none, Mr. James,” Paddy said, turning back to locate Harrison. “Charlie'll handle it.”

The last words they heard Charlie call to a soldier standing nearby were: “Sergeant, git the constable right quick.”

Soldiers hung over the banister watching the excited crowd below.

*

Harrison followed Paddy through the cigar smoke to a corner table. He quickly recognized Floyd towering over the other players. Up here, no one seemed to have noticed the ruckus below. Approaching, he stood directly across from Floyd, waiting for Derry's introduction.

“Boys, give me yur 'tention, now,” Paddy said. “I got ye a new player. He calls hisself James, Mista Harr-i-son James. Ye got problems with him, don't hold back on me, now.”

At first, the four soldiers at the table looked up at the two men, eyeing James especially hard.

“Mr. James,” Lieutenant Floyd finally said, looking up from his cards. “To what do we owe your presence this evening?”

“Lieutenant Floyd. Delighted to see you, sir. I am searching for some amusement. I have a special interest in the game of poker, in fact. I thought perhaps you and your associates….” Harrison saw that Floyd was flushed. The pile of colored chips in front of him was a small one.

“Of course,” Floyd interrupted. He had an air of forced gaiety. “Sit down, sir. Sit down. We can find room for another, can't we men?”

The other two lieutenants at the table nodded without saying a word.

“What did you say your name was?” the captain asked, putting his cards on the table, face down.

“James,” Harrison responded with a smile.

“Any relation to Captain Bartlett James?” the captain asked.

“Bart was my brother.”

The soldier said nothing in response.

“Sit down, please,” the youngest looking man at the table said. “Right here in the empty chair. Bart James' brother. Older brother?”

“That's right. I'm older,” Harrison replied, looking around the table at the four soldiers.

Paddy disappeared into the crowd without another word, fifty dollars richer.

“Gentlemen, I appreciate your gracious hospitality,” Harrison replied, sitting. “I met a friend of yours downstairs, Lieutenant Floyd,” he said with a wink at the others.

“Who would that be, Mr. James?”

“She said her name was Sal.”

“Yes, I may have seen the whore,” he answered, looking at the other players.

The other three military officers at the table smiled when they heard her name mentioned, but said nothing.

“I guess I'm ready,” James responded, setting his half empty glass of beer down on the floor beside his chair. “Chips, please.” He handed Floyd several hundred-dollar bills. “Stakes, gentlemen?” he asked formally.

“New money.” Floyd smiled with satisfaction and took a quick swallow from his drink. “We play a very friendly game here, Mr. James. Don't we gentlemen?” He shuffled the deck.

The others nodded, their eyes on the hundred dollar bills.

“Five card draw. The ante is fifty dollars. The limit is five hundred. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. James?”

“Of course.” With the next deal, Harrison threw in a fifty-dollar chip. “Do you come here often, lieutenant?” he asked Floyd casually.

“Too often, I'm afraid, sir,” Floyd answered ruefully.

The others said nothing, anted, and looked at their cards.

“The lieutenant is working hard to get his money back before we ship out for France,” the captain said, not looking up from his cards. But it was statement of fact, lacking any humor. He was older than the others, with a shaggy mustache that covered his upper lip. The sad brown eyes looked out from a well tanned face. There Harrison saw the slight facial twitch of the right cheek. The captain was not a handsome man, he decided, but his bearing was one of command.

Floyd took the time to formerly introduce James to each of the other three soldiers at the table. Each man stood, shook his hand and offered his condolences.

“I'm honored to be in such company.” During the introductions, James casually observed who seemed to be winning and losing from the piles of chips in front of each. A captain and three lieutenants—all infantry, he noticed. He could easily tell the branch of service by their hard, almost gaunt, tanned faces, worn boots, and faded uniforms with crossed rifle badges sewn on the collars.

Lieutenant Jackson appeared to be the youngest. He was a small, handsome man with long, fashionable sideburns. A dandy, Harrison thought. Jackson spoke with an ease that set him apart from the others. The captain was more taciturn. Harrison found it interesting that he would participate in a money game of cards with his juniors.

“I do hope to discover more about my brother's death,” Harrison agreed, looking his opponents over carefully while they played their cards. “Perhaps you gentlemen could assist me.”

“Assist you, sir?” Jackson said. “What more can we do?”

“Anything that was overlooked in the investigation, perhaps?” Harrison asked.

“I conducted that investigation, sir,” the captain said. “And I can assure you nothing was overlooked.”

“I'll take three cards.” Harrison handed Floyd his discards, face down. “If you could answer a couple of questions, I'd be most appreciative.” His card play appeared casual, but Harrison was a very experienced, coldly calculating gambler. Blocking out the saloon's distractions, he listened intently to each man at the table.

“As I told you already, I was here the night of his death, and a little too indisposed to be of assistance, sir,” Floyd responded before James asked. He then shuffled out the three cards. The captain asked for one card. The two lieutenants folded.

Harrison saw that Floyd was impatient to bet. “Fifty to you, sir,” Floyd said. The captain matched him, but only after careful consideration. He noted that all four were reluctant to discuss his brother's death. “I fold, lieutenant,” he said tucking his cards into the bottom of the deck. Harrison saw that he had to find another way to approach the topic.

Floyd matched the captain's bet and raised another hundred.

“My father can never understand why he must send me additional money each month,” Jackson finally said with a laugh.

Following one more round of betting, the captain laid down his hand. “Two pair, aces high.”

“Ha!” Floyd exulted, “Full house.”

Over the next four hands, Floyd consistently bet heavily and lost. With each loss, he increased his bet. He continued drinking, while the others stayed relatively sober. Harrison saw that the other two lieutenants were easily distracted by the activities surrounding them. They were not experienced card players. But the captain was.

Two hours passed quickly. Harrison slowly shuffled the cards. He noticed that the captain seemed stiff and uncomfortable around the others. “Is gambling a preferred past time of yours, captain?”

“I'm here this evening, Mr. James, because I had nothing better to do,” he responded. “And Lieutenant Anthony invited me to accompany him to the saloon for a drink. I usually go to the Officers Mess and don't normally come here. For obvious reasons,” he said, looking around.

“I see,” Harrison said. He assumed the officer was referring to all the enlisted soldiers he saw in the saloon.

“I'm the commander of M Company. Lieutenant Anthony is my executive officer, and Lieutenant Jackson is from I Company,” the captain explained.

“The bid's to you, captain,” Harrison said.

“I fold, Mr. James.” He threw in his cards.

“We were here the night your brother died, playing cards just like we are now. That is, the three of us junior officers. Funny how things work out.” Jackson stated. “Two cards, sir,” he said.

“What was my brother like that night?” James said. “Did he play cards here?”

“I never saw him play cards. Ever,” Floyd said. “He was a man who generally kept to himself. Since Mexico, I rarely saw him.”

“Did any of you talk with him the day of his death?”

“I didn't know your brother well, sir,” Anthony said.

“We spoke just before I left for town. About 5:00,” Floyd said.

“Yes?” Harrison said. How did he act?”

“He was preoccupied, deep into his thoughts,” Floyd replied. “As I told Captain Blaine, he said he was working on important business. He had stacks of battalion records and logs in the tent.”

“Yes, I remember Lieutenant Floyd's comments,” Blaine said quickly. “I later determined that the business he referred to was routine and had no bearing on your brother's death.”

“I see.”

“I can't get it out of my mind. They were preparing for their court martial in San Antonio, and I still believe that was what drove your brother to take his life,” Jackson said with increasing emotion in his voice. “Too much pressure.”

“The Judge Advocate's men were interviewing us to build their case against the Negro mutineers,” the captain said, looking sternly at Jackson. “Mr. James, while conducting the investigation into your brother's death, I concluded that your brother had not handled the pressures of command all that well.”

James remained quiet.

“Those boys from San Antonio interrogated us, is closer to the truth,” Jackson blurted out, still worked up.

“Interrogation, sir?” Harrison asked, reacting to Jackson.

“The Army has its way,” Jackson continued. “The question was whether it could have been avoided. That is, could we have prevented the mutiny? Pot's worth another hundred to me,” he said, throwing in two chips. “The Southern politicians are demanding that the Negroes be severely punished. Will the Army just blame the affair on drunken Negroes, or will it blame us, too?” It was a rhetorical question.

The others concentrated on their card play.

“The Texans want to hang them…as an example to the rest,” Jackson added.

“Lieutenant, shut your month,” the captain snapped. “These decisions are made by senior officers, not by Texans. And they are never questioned by lieutenants.”

“Those color'ds broke the law. They deserve to be hung,” Lieutenant Anthony asserted. He was almost as tall as Floyd, dour, and sounded angry, Harrison observed. “They have no discipline. I'll raise you another fifty. How about it, Mr. James? Are we too rich for your blood, sir?”

“I'm afraid you're too much for me, lieutenant.” Harrison threw in his hand. He had noticed that Anthony never bluffed.

“The Negroes proved to be excellent soldiers down in Mexico. Well disciplined,” the captain said more calmly.

“The battalion also had better leadership then,” Jackson suggested. “Before Major Snow took command.”

“Are you criticizing your commanding officer in public, lieutenant?” the captain asked with a sudden cold fury.

Jackson flushed. “No sir, certainly not. Here's your fifty, Floyd. I call. Three of a kind—all jacks.”

“Good, but not good enough, lieutenant,” Floyd gloated drunkenly, rocking in his chair. “Three aces.”

“The Negro troopers will be tried and then probably hanged?” Harrison asked quietly.

“And damn good riddance,” Lieutenant Anthony said.

“Just what happened that night in Houston?” Harrison went on.

They all looked at the civilian.

“Your deal, Mr. James,” Anthony said finally. The lieutenant still sipped at the same bottle of beer that he had when Harrison arrived.

“Sir,” the captain responded directly. He played with the deck a moment before giving it to the civilian. “If anything good happened that night, it was that your brother's company held firm. His troopers didn't march down Washington Street shooting up the town like the others.”