TOM MIX AND PANCHO VILLA: A Novel of Mexico and the Texas border Read Online Free PDF Page A

fat fellow who had been standing guard in his blue suit, calling him Hipólito; I realized then that he was Pancho’s older brother.
    Pancho Villa himself, in the light, looked to be a man of about thirty-five, barrelchested but with a good spring to his rolling gait. I had always assumed he was older, but I should have realized that revolution was a young man’s game. He snappily told Julio to stay with the horses and marched the rest of us around to the back where there was nothing but barrel cactus and a busted-up stone wall. The desert of Chihuahua shimmered in a yellow light. It was hot enough to slip hair on a bear, and you would have had to prime yourself to spit. I felt uneasy. I had figured out what Villa was going to do. It would either make a fool out of him or a liar out of me.
    He led us through the dust to the stone wall, where he pulled a brass cartridge from his belt, put the flat end into his mouth and began to work it loose. Under his bushy mustache I could see that his teeth were stained the color of rich topsoil. He finally separated the cap from the powder, letting it spill to the ground in a thin gray stream. Candelario farted gently. A single black buzzard sailed aloft, silent as sin, in the bone-white sky. Nothing else moved. Not even Villa, who just stood, arms akimbo, studying the shadows of the wall.
    After a minute he bent, worked the empty cartridge between two stones, and with the butt of his pistol gave it a single tap. He walked back to the hut and we trooped after him—twenty long paces.
    But hitting that target would still be like hunting for a whisper in a big wind. Señor Villa, I prayed, shoot straight.
    He raised the pistol quickly to chest level, didn’t bother to use the sights, steadied a split second, then fired. The gun made a light, dry snap; chips of stone sparked off the wall. There was a little echo and the bitter whine of the ricochet. Hipólito Villa and Candelario ran to the wall, spurs jingling, while Pancho Villa hooked his left arm through mine and said softly, “Come on, Tomás!”
    Candelario squatted, then bellowed, “You did it, chief!”
    Villa’s face was nearly blank, but I caught the flicker of a redtoothed smile. We reached the wall and peered down. I couldn’t believe it: the right edge of the cartridge had been shattered to pulp by the bullet.
    “I didn’t hit it exact center,” Villa said glumly. “Almost, but not quite. You see? I told you, it can’t be done.”
    Candelario beamed. “Try it again, chief.”
    “Why break your balls trying the impossible?” Villa still held my arm in his warm grasp. “Now tell me the truth, meester”—and again I saw the green flicker in his eyes—”this man in Dallas … did you really see him do this thing? This thing which I’ve just failed to do?”
    I could have kept lying, I think, and got away with it. He wasn’t angry. But it seemed I was being given a second chance. He hadn’t really failed, and suddenly I didn’t want to fail, either. I swallowed hard. “No, sir. I heard about it, but I never did see it. I lied. He’s an old man. They say he could do it when he was young.”
    “You won’t ever lie to me again, will you?”
    “No, señor.”
    “I believe you.” For a minute, Villa contemplated. “You know,” he said, quite seriously, “I think if I practiced I could do it. But since this other gringo sonofabitch didn’t show up, we’re short of bullets. I might have done it with one shot when I was younger. It’s not that I’m old, but I’ve been with a woman. Last night, and the night before … I can’t count the nights. Days too. You see, I lay my life bare to you, as with all my friends. When you spill your juices, it unsteadies your hand. I like women too much—that’s one of my principal faults. I respect women and therefore I often marry them, but most of all I like to fuck them. Sometimes I can’t help myself … do you know what I mean?”
    “Yes, chief,” I