Chasing Pancho Villa (25 page)

“Bueno. Gracias, Miguel. Can you go deliver a message to someone out at the camp?” Harrison took a pencil and notebook from his vest, then hastily scribbled a brief message, folded the paper, and handed it to Miguel.”Take this to Grover Burns in Second Platoon, M Company, Third Battalion, 24th Infantry, on the far side of the camp. You remember—he was the young Negro with me in January.”

Miguel nodded. He motioned for the old cook, who was watching them. The older man spit on the floor. “Jesus,” Miguel said. “Camp Furlong, un soldado se llama Grover Burns. Un Negrito.” He handed Jesus the folded message.

Jesus looked at the note, scratched his balding head, then he nodded.

Harrison stuck another dollar bill in his hand. “Two more when you return with Private Burns. I'll wait here.”

“Sí, señor.” Jesus went out the back door.

Within an hour, Jesus entered the kitchen again, with Grover close behind.

“I'm back, Grover, and I need your help.” Harrison gave Jesus a five-dollar bill. The cook smiled, then stuck it in his pocket.

“Yes, suh. Anythin' fur you, I reckon.”

“I want you to get me into Camp Furlong without anyone seeing me. Tonight,” Harrison told him.

“I kin do that, suh.”

“Thank you, Grover,” Harrison said, shaking his hand.

“We best be careful, suh. The law is lookin' fur ya.”

“Let's go,” Harrison said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Slipping down alleys and unlighted streets, they easily avoided detection. Harrison did not see anyone until they reached the Mexican section of Columbus. There, only an old man relieving himself against a wall looked up as the two walked by. At the outskirts of town, Harrison followed Grover down a desert trail that circled the camp from the southeast, avoiding the main gates with their posted MPs.

About 50 yards from the perimeter, they spotted a sprinkling of lights. Before they reached the tents, they heard talking off in the brush.

“Shh, Mista James,” Grover said. “Soldiers.”

They crept up on the voices.

“I'll talk with 'em first,” Grover whispered. “Stay here.” He stood and casually walked toward the soldiers.

“Hey boys, watcha doin' out here?” he asked three men. They were soldiers from his battalion.

“Hey, who's you thar?” one called out.

“Burns from L Company, comin' back from town,” he said. He saw the bottles.

“We slippin' past the guard, too,” the largest man said. He was obviously drunk.

Harrison remained in the shadows, listening. He could see how easy it would be to sneak guns out of the camp and into the desert without being detected.

“Ya got somebody witya thar, Burns?” Another soldier asked. “Maybe a white whore fur us?” They all laughed.

“Jus' Jackson from I Company is all,” Grover answered, trying to laugh.

“Well, let's git on outa here then,” the larger man ordered. “And we ain't seen ya, neither.”

Grover returned to Harrison. “Let's go. Them boys won't bother us none,” he said.

They continued along the perimeter until they were only 15 meters from the battalion area. They could easily make out men walking around. “A sentry,” Grover whispered, pointing at a soldier with a rifle about 10 meters away, walking towards them. He immediately dropped to the ground. Harrison followed him. They lay behind a clump of mesquite brush. The guard walked by slowly without noticing them.

When the sentry passed out of sight, Grover rose to a kneeling position. “Come on,” he said. “We's in the camp. Where ya want ta go?”

“I want to see Major Snow.”

Grover frowned. “Suh, you wants to go to jail? But wait here. I gotta talk with the fireguard over thar to get ya through. He's a friend a mine.” He pointed to a lighted area. “I be right back.” Grover stood and walked casually through the tent area, hands in his pockets.

*

“Major Snow,” Harrison whispered, kneeling beside the soldier asleep on the cot. “Wake up, damn it.” He shook him.

“What? Who's there?” Snow muttered. He rose up. In the dim light he saw the intruder. “You.” Then he stared.

“Get up, Harrison ordered. “We have to talk.”

Snow looked beyond Harrison for his military escort, but saw no one. “How did you get in here, sir? Guard!” he called out.

“I'd be quiet if I were you, major,” Harrison said, showing him the pistol in his belt. “I think your sentry is over at the latrine.”

“What do you want?” Snow blustered.

“There is still the matter of my brother's death,” Harrison said quietly. “And I think you know what I'm talking about.”

“I told you everything I know, Mr. James,” the major said, reaching for his trousers. “Now get out.”

“Not everything.” Harrison replied. “Please, get dressed.”

The major quickly threw on his trousers, then a shirt. “Mr. James, I've heard about your exploits. But murder?”

“A misunderstanding, Major. One that will be cleared up soon,” Harrison told him. “I now know some things about my brother. And you.”

“What?”

“I have something here I want to read to you.” James pulled a bundle of papers from inside his coat and carefully unfolded them. “Testimony of Mister R.R. McDaniels, Katy, Texas, given to County District Attorney, John Crooker, on August 27th, 1917.” This is testimony I found in San Antonio at the court martial. It was never used, strangely enough.”

“San Antonio,” Snow said. “I congratulate you on your successful defense of Private Burns. I was happy to see him returned to Camp Furlong.”

“Harrison focused on the document, ignoring him. “You remember Mr. McDaniels, don't you, Major?” he asked. “It was his automobile that you hid in during the riots.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. James. I went to get help, risking my own life in the process.”

Harrison began reading the testimony:

“…before I could get my car turned around to go back to Houston, Major Snow jumped on my car and begged me to save him. Then he laid down in the back of the car.”

Harrison looked directly at the major, but said nothing.

“I committed no crime, Mr. James. The trial made that quite clear.” Major Snow's voice was shaking.

“There's more,” Harrison said. “Oh Lord, save me; oh God, take me away from here. They are going to kill me.” Does that sound familiar?” he asked. He continued further down without waiting for a response. “‘I told the druggist to give him something for his nerves,” Harrison read on. “He gave him spirits of ammonia. The major was scared to death, I guess. He was holding his handkerchief over his head and kept saying, ‘Oh Lord, Oh Lord.'”

“What's your point, Mr. James?” Snow asked in a tired, beaten voice.

“My point, Major Snow….” Harrison stated slowly. “My brother knew what you did that night. As Officer of the Day, your actions were reported to him. He probably found your behavior to be, at the least, deeply troubling. Evidence of your behavior presented at the court martial would have ruined your career.”

“My actions were not relevant to the guilt or innocence of the Negro mutineers. Is that so difficult to understand?” Snow asked quietly.

Harrison ignored the question. “My brother never reported you, did he?”

“Your brother and I discussed many things before the Adjutant General's staff interviewed us. But you are mistaken if you think my conduct was at issue. Did you read his testimony?”

“I did,” James said.

“And?”

“It was not in his deposition presented at the trial,” Harrison said. “But there's more, isn't there?

“What do you mean?”

“I mean my brother had also included a statement that you should be removed from command. He was preparing it that night. You knew because he told you that he had to write a statement that you were unfit for command.”

“Preposterous, Mr. James,” Snow replied.

“When you found his body, you took that statement and destroyed it,” Harrison charged. “Yes, Major, I believe you when you state that you did not kill my brother. Still, you took that statement from his desk.”

“He blamed me because he could not accept responsibility for his own actions,” Snow said. The major ran his hand nervously over the top of his head. “Don't you see? Captain James still could not blame me for all that happened in Houston that night. He, himself, could not escape from its burden. He knew that his refusal to halt the mutineers before they got out of the camp led to the fighting and the deaths. Your brother's failure was as great as my own in the eyes of the Army. Remember, Captain James' career was also on the line.” Snow watched the angry James brother. “Your brother felt trapped. He believed he had failed, too. I believe he took his own life,” Snow told him sadly. “You cannot seem to accept it, but that is what happened.”

“No, sir,” Harrison answered. “My brother felt little remorse for his actions. Actually, I believe he was proud of not giving the order to shoot the men.”

“Mr. James,” Snow began slowly. “I did not steal anything from your brother's tent. I found your brother on the floor. I examined the body and prepared to move him. The desk chair was turned over. I straightened it. There was no reason not to. I saw nothing lying there.”

“Disturbing evidence?”

“Evidence of what?” Snow's voice was soft, almost inaudible. He stared at the floor. “I'm sorry. Your brother and I did not like each other. But I respected him, as an officer in the United States Army and as a man.” Tears streaked his face. “I came to his tent to tell him I was prepared to resign my command. I had decided earlier that day. I had to tell him that and ask him to not send his statement…for the good of the army.” Snow wiped at the tears on his face.

“And yet you're still in command here, major.”

“I am resigning my commission. See for yourself. Here's my letter of resignation.” Snow handed Harrison a paper.

He read it. It was to be effective as of April 1, 1918. “Major, I believe you. Still, Bart did not take his own life. I think, with your help I can find out who did kill him. I may also find out who's stealing weapons from the army here at Camp Furlong.”

“Mr. James, I want to hear what you've learned—your suspicions, but most importantly your evidence.” Snow, exhausted and tired of dealing with James, was doubtful.

James explained what he had learned about how guns were smuggled out of the camp, and who he suspected was involved.

“Lieutenant Floyd and Private Peck? You believe they were stealing weapons from the Army?”

‘Major, I have only a hunch about Peck,” Harrison answered. “If I could speak with him, I'm certain I can get the truth out of him.”

“James, it's one o'clock in the morning,” Snow said. “I owe you nothing. I should call for the MP's.

“I know you want to get to the bottom of this smuggling. It would look good in your record if you solved the case,” Harrison argued. “And major, I don't think you have any other leads to follow. Am I right?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Major, I'm certain if we checked the duty rosters we would learn more than just who was stealing guns,” Harrison argued.

“We've examined them already,” Snow replied. “Do you think we're stupid?”

“You have? Personally?”

“Captain Blaine looked at them in the course of his investigation. He found nothing of value.”

“Captain Blaine?”

“He was my investigating officer.”

*

The Negro sentries stared after them as they passed through K and M Company areas.

“My brother was still investigating gun smuggling when he died, wasn't he?” Harrison said. The two walked into the L Company area.

“Yes,” Snow replied. “Sentry, come here.”

A young Negro private came forward, rifle on his shoulders.

“Take us to Private Jeremiah Peck's tent.”

“Yeah suh,” he said. “Follow me.”

Harrison knew he was taking a gamble. They reached the private's tent. It was dark inside.

“Private, roust Peck, and have him come outside.”

“Yeah, suh.” He entered the tent. “Peck, Peck git up.” James and Snow heard. “The Major wants ta talk wid ya. It's important.”

“I hear'd ya,” Peck mumbled. “Yeah, yeah. I'm gittin' up.”

Within several minutes, the sentry returned with Peck in tow.

“Let's talk in the quartermaster's tent. Peck?” Harrison said.

Snow led them inside. He lit the lantern.

A soldier was asleep on the cot.

“Private, wake up,” the officer said, shaking him.

“Suh?” he said with a jerk. “What happen, suh?”

“Private, we need some privacy here,” Snow said. “Get dressed and leave us for a while.”

“Yeah, suh,” the young Negro replied, grabbing his trousers and a shirt.

“Don't forget your boots,” Snow called after him.

“Yeah, suh,” he said, grabbing them on the way out the opening.

“Mr. James and I have several questions to ask you, Private. About the night Captain James died,” Snow said. “Sit down.”

“Suh?” the private said, nervously. He looked at both white men.

“Sit down,” Snow ordered.

“Yeah, suh.”

“How long have you worked for Paddy Derry?” Harrison asked.

“Long time, suh. Since we come to this place.”

“What do you do for him?”

“Clean up, mostly, suh. I sweep, wipe tables.”

“Does he ever ask you about the army camp?”

“Suh?”

“Does he want to know what goes on here?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“Does he ask you about weapons here? Where they're stored? Kinds? That sort of thing?” Harrison continued.

“I guess I tell 'im some things,” Peck answered. “I says, ‘Why ya want a know 'bout dat, Mr. Derry?' And he say, ‘Soldiers are mi bus'ness.' That's it.”

“He knew you were here in the quartermaster's tent and took care of the weapons, didn't he?”

“Yeah, suh.”

“Private, you told me in our earlier conversation that you were at your post in the quartermaster's tent the night Captain James was killed,” James said. “You stayed here until the major arrived and called for you. You stated that you never walked outside to Captain James' tent. Why did you tell me that?”

“Don't know, suh. I guess I didn' want ya to think I had something to do with the cap'n's dying, suh. That's all. But I did step out by the capt'n's tent ta see what the ruckus was.”

“Why would I think that you had something to do with his death?” James asked. “You thought he shot himself.

“Don't know, suh,” Peck replied.

“Did you go inside his tent?”

“No, suh. Ever'thing were quiet agin,” Peck answered, looking down. “I think it was some Mex shootin' off out on the road. So I goes back to the guns where I was ordered, suh.”

“Did you see anyone around the tent, private?” James asked quietly. “Hear anything unusual?” Peck seemed nervous, perhaps hiding something.

“No, suh?”

“You know something more, Peck. Something you're not telling us,” Harrison pushed. “What is it? Tell us.”