[from Major Edward S. O'Reilly, Roving and Fighting: Adventures Under Four Flags (1918)]

CHAPTER XXV

            AFTER the comic opera revolution in Venezuela, I had thought that my days as a soldier were over. Destiny, however, had willed that I should again take the field with a foreign army.

            In 1910 I was living on a ranch near Sanderson, in West Texas. My health had not been of the best, and I had gone back to the range to recuperate. I had many acquaintances among the Mexicans along the border, and I heard much talk of an impending revolution against President Porfirio Diaz.

            As it happened, I chanced to be in San Antonio when the news of the first fighting in the state of Chihuahua was received. The superintendent of the southern division of the Associated Press was in the city, and I was offered a position as correspondent on the border.

            Through my Mexican friends I soon got in touch with the insurrectos. The day after Christmas I left Sanderson and took the train for Comstock, Texas, where a party of insurgents were gathering. A few days later I crossed the Rio Grande with a party of eighteen Mexicans.

            For a few days we rode through the ranches of northern Coahuila, collecting horses and enlist

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ing recruits. We then returned to our starting-point on the Rio Grande south of Comstock, expecting to meet a party of recruits. Our company now numbered forty men. The morning after our arrival twenty of the party were sent to a neighboring ranch for horses.

            We were lying about the camp, resting after our days of hard riding, when a scout rode in with the information that the federales were approaching. The federal soldiers numbered one hundred and fifty, consisting of a detachment of rurales and a company of cavalry.

            Our men took up their position along a little arroyo. Our position was on high ground, looking down upon a barren plain across which the soldiers must approach. One of the Mexican cowboys was sent to overtake the detachment of twenty men who had left that morning. Our leader, who carried the funds for our expenses, decided that this was an opportune moment to disappear. This left us with only eighteen men to face one hundred and fifty.

            About an hour after the time the alarm was given, we saw the rurales approaching. They were on foot, scattered across the plain, and were following our trail. Lying concealed in the arroyo, we waited until they drew near. That little bunch of Mexicans were good fighting men. They were all cowboys who had been recruited from ranches on the American side of the border.

            The rurales were within two hundred yards before the first shot was fired. Then the fight be-

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gan in lively fashion. The federales were in the open, and we had cover, so that we had the best of the argument, despite our inferiority in numbers.

            I was squatting on the edge of a sand-bank, shooting from behind the cover of a scrub mesquite bush. Twice the federals charged, and twice we drove them back. We held tight, hoping that our reinforcements would arrive in time.

            I was reloading my Winchester, when suddenly I felt myself falling. A slice of the sandbank had caved in, dropping me about fifteen feet to the river-bank below. For a moment I was stunned by the fall ; then I realized that I was lying in plain view of the rurales. Their bullets were kicking up the sand around me, and one bullet dashed the sand into my eyes and mouth.

            At the time I firmly believed that I was wounded. My left arm hung helpless, and I had a pain in my head. About fifty yards from where I lay, a cow-trail cut into the bank. It led to the mesa above. Seizing my rifle, I ran for that trail. When I had gone into the fight, I had hooked my quirt on a cartridge in my belt. As I ran for the protection of this trail, the quirt wrapped itself around my legs and I sprawled in the sand.

            "Hit again !" I said to myself, but I scrambled to my feet and ran on. Panting, I dropped behind the bank of the trail and lay for a few seconds gasping for breath. I then proceeded to look for wounds. A trickle of blood was dripping down the back of my neck. Investigating, I found only a slight abrasion of the scalp. In falling, the

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sight of my rifle had struck me on the head, cutting the scalp. The pain in my shoulder was due to a sprain. After a careful search I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I was not wounded.

            After a few minutes' rest I climbed the trail and again took my position in the line. Five minutes later I was wounded in the left leg by a Mauser bullet. It was a flesh wound just above the knee, and did not put me out of action.

            For four hours that little bunch of cowboys held back the federal soldiers. As darkness came on the federals retreated and went into camp three miles back. We had won the fight, but at a heavy cost. Of the eighteen men who fought that day, three were killed and seven were wounded.

            We knew that reinforcements for the federals would probably arrive that night, so that it was necessary for us to seek a healthier location. The other half of our troop came up after dark, but they were too late to take part in the fight.

            We worked late that night, transferring our wounded to the American bank of the Rio Grande and burying our dead. One man, named Manuel Martinez, had been shot through the body and had crawled into a cave before he died. We missed him in the darkness. The next morning the federals discovered his body and cremated it at the ford.

            From official reports we later learned that the federals had suffered a loss of twenty-two killed, seven who died later from their wounds, and

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thirty-one wounded. That little squad of eighteen men certainly gave a good account of themselves.

            That night I walked thirteen miles across the range to Comstock, arriving at dawn. The same morning I put my story to the Associated Press on the telegraph wire, had my leg bandaged, and then treated myself to a needed sleep.

            After a few days' rest I was ordered to Ojinaga on the Chihuahua border, where the insurrectos were developing a strong movement. Upon my arrival in Presidio, on the Texas side, I secured a Mexican guide. Riding across the river, we joined the forces of Colonels José de la Cruz Sanchez and Toribio Ortega, which were camped in the village of San Juan.

            Some days later we moved to the town of Mulato on the Rio Grande, twenty miles below Ojinaga. General Luque, the federal commander at Ojinaga, made an attack on Mulato, but after a two days' fight he was routed by the insurrectos.

            For several months the insurgents campaigned around Ojinaga, and finally they laid siege to the town. The trenches were drawn in a semicircle about the pueblo, an effort being made to starve out the garrison. The great handicap of the insurgents was lack of ammunition. They would stage an attack for a few hours, and then be forced to withdraw for lack of ammunition American gun-runners and smugglers kept the insurgents supplied with munitions. Many agents of the big American ammunition factories violated the neutrality law by smuggling these munitions.

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            After a two months' siege of Ojinaga we learned that another force of federals, under General Gordillio Esquedero, was approaching from the city of Chihuahua. Three hundred and fifty men, commanded by Colonel Sanchez, went out into the desert to meet them. I accompanied this column.

            At Cuesta la Gato, a place where the trail winds into the mountains, we halted and awaited the coming of the federals. Our position was ideal. Before us stretched a flat plain, while on our right rose a steep cliff.

            The federals arrived on the second day after our arrival. Included in the federal force were about eighty Pima Indians, accustomed to mountain fighting. After a long-distance artillery bombardment, which did no damage, the federals charged. They came on to the foot of the hill, but the steady fire of the concealed insurrectos was too much for them. They retreated, but their officers kept the troops in good order.

            We were just congratulating ourselves on a victory when something unexpected happened. Those Pima Indians had climbed the cliff on our right, the cliff we had believed unclimbable. They opened fire on our flank. It was the enemy who now held the high ground, and our position was exposed.

            I had just looked down the line along the hill-crest, and every man was crouched in his place. My next glance showed me that the insurrecto army had decided to leave that spot without ceremony. They were scrambling down the hillside

ABRAM GONZALES; GOVERNOR OF CHIHUAHUA

Major O'Reilly was an officer on his staff, Later Governor Gonzales was killed by order of General Huerta. His hands and feet were tied and he was thrown under the wheels of a moving train

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for their horses, which were tied in the cañoncita below.

            I never liked to be with the minority, so I decided to run with the army. Upon reaching the ravine, I found that my saddle-mule, my favorite mount in the mountains, had been killed. Stopping only to remove the canteen and extra cartridge-belt from the saddle, I started out across that plain on foot. On all sides I could see my late companions whipping their horses, headed due north.

            Now, as I have stated in a previous chapter, I prided myself on being a foot-racer. On that little jaunt across the prairie, with the bullets of the federals whining above my head, I am convinced that I broke all existing records. I ran so fast that I outran my breath.

            "I am going to take a minute's rest, if I have to fight the whole Mexican army," I thought, and seated myself on a mound of earth.

            By this time the federals had mounted one of their machine-guns on the crest of the hill. Perhaps I was the nearest or most conspicuous object in the landscape. At any rate, they trained that gun on me. A storm of bullets kicked up the dust about six feet from where I was sitting. I must admit that I got up and ran another mile before I knew I had started.

            For three days I wandered on foot through the mountains, trying to reach the Rio Grande. During that time I subsisted on one lean old jackrabbit which I shot with my pistol. When I ar- 

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rived at Mulato, I found the greater part of the insurgent forces gathered there. The siege of Ojinaga had been lifted.

            Our next move was an advance on Santa Rosalia, on the railroad south of Chihuahua. A number of American filibusters had joined our outfit by this time, and we had one machine-gun. They were a wild, undisciplined crowd, who objected to obeying orders. Finally General Antonio Villareal, who was now in command, told the so-called "Foreign Legion" that they might elect their own officers, who would be held accountable for their conduct. When the votes were counted, I had been elected captain of the outfit, and "Death Valley Slim," an old-time Western character, had been selected as lieutenant.

            The federals were well intrenched in Santa Rosalia. Our forces made a daylight attack, blazing the way with hand-grenades made of old tin cans filled with dynamite and scrap-iron. For two days we fought from house to house, burrowing through adobe walls and driving the enemy toward the plaza. They were fortified on the church roof and on roofs of high buildings around the plaza which commanded the streets.

            On the morning of the third day we captured a building which had a high cupola. Hoisting the machine-gun to the cupola, we prepared to dispute the plaza. One of our best men, Jerry Riggs, was killed in getting this gun mounted. James Bulger, who operated the gun, was wounded in the leg before the gun was well in action.

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            It was then my turn to try my hand. Twenty minutes after I got the gun in working order the federals were driven from their vantage points on the roofs and our men closed in on the plaza. An hour later the town surrendered.

            There was a wild scene in Santa Rosalia that night. The peons plundered the municipal offices, piling cart-loads of old land-records in the plaza and touching a match to the pile. While the records were burning the peons danced about, shouting, " They can never take our homes away from us again !"

            They believed that by burning these records they had destroyed the government claim on their land. This land question is at the bottom of all the recent revolutionary troubles in Mexico.

            The day after the surrender of Santa Rosalia we learned of the capture of Juarez and the flight of President Diaz from Mexico. The revolution had won.

            The next week I entered the state capital as the body-guard of Abram Gonzales, provisional governor. Governor Gonzales was one of the finest men I have known in Mexico. He was educated in St. Louis, and was Americanized in thought and view-point. Two years later he was killed by orders of General Huerta, the dictator. His captors tied his hands and feet and threw him under the wheels of a moving train.

            Upon our arrival in the city I was appointed a captain on the governor's staff. Everything seemed rosy. We were the visitors, and looked

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forward to a period of peace and prosperity. We little thought that this was only the beginning of the fighting.

            My part in the drama was just beginning. For five years I was to hike and fight over the mountains and llanos of Mexico. Other leaders were to rise and fall. Pancho Villa, General Obregon, Zapata, and Carranza were to hold the national capital, and it was to be my fate to accompany them all.

            As these leaders have captured the public imagination, I propose to tell of my experiences with each separately.

CHAPTER XXVI

            PANCHO VILLA, as much a Man of Destiny as Napoleon, recently graduated from a hunted fugitive to the command of an army of 40,000 men, was seated on the velvet cushions of his private car holding his daily court. Grouped about him were members of his famous bodyguard, cronies of his bandit days, newspapermen, a special agent of the United States Government, a Yankee "drummer" with a carload of cheap shoes to sell, and the generals of his staff.

            He had that day arrived at Aguascalientes, and trainload after trainload of his soldiers were bumping down the main track, southward bound for the campaign against Carranza. He was talking of President Wilson, for whom, at that time, he professed a great admiration. "Tell me," he asked in the pelado (Spanish-Indian) dialect which is his only language, "how is it that President Wilson can understand the sorrows of the people when he has never even been in jail?"

            His queries were interrupted by an officer of his staff, saluting timidly from the car door. Behind the officer stood two frightened soldiers, their hands bound behind their backs.

            "Mi general," reported the officer, "here are

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the two men who broke into the milk-seller's casa and attacked his daughter."

            Villa sat silent a moment, crouched in his seat. As he gazed at the trembling prisoners, his expression changed from smiling good-nature to savage ferocity. His eyes opened wide and seemed literally about to pop from his head.

            Jumping to his feet with a characteristic cat-like quickness, he drew his pistol and for a second seemed intent on killing the accused men in the doorway. Suddenly thrusting the pistol back into its holster, he leaped forward and struck one of the soldiers a blow with his open hand.

            You dogs ! You wear the uniform of the Army of Liberty and you make war on the helpless people ! You are no better than the soldiers of the Federales. Take them out and give them a volley."

            Hastily the officer hustled the prisoners down the car steps. Villa stood for a moment as if drunk with fury, shouting profanity hysterically at the offending soldiers ; then, turning back to his seat, his face was again transformed by the good-natured smile.

            " Tell me more about your president. I like him very much. Is it true that he has never had a fight ? How can a man lead men if he has never won fights ?"

            Even as he talked we heard a volley from the nearby roundhouse, and glancing out of the window could see the two soldiers fall dead before the rifles of the firing squad. General Villa never

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wavered an instant in his conversation, asking question after question.

            The incident gave a picture of General Francisco Villa—his endless questioning, his championship of the peons, his ruthless brutality to all who opposed him.

            Three years before I had first met Pancho Villa, when he rode into the camp of Francisco I. Madero at the head of his picturesque troop of bandits and cowboys. A few weeks after the incident above recorded I saw him ride into Mexico City at the head of an army of 45,000 soldiers, master of Mexico.

            American people make the error of judging Villa by American standards. He is the last of the great Indian chieftains. His ideals are the semi-barbarous ideals of the Indian. All his life he has been fighting against oppression, which in Mexico meant fighting against the law.

            Whatever we may think of the character of the man, it must be conceded that he is the idol of the peon class, the pelados, and the pelado is armed and in the saddle for the first time in his history. As long as Villa lives, with the recently born hatred of the "gringo" in his heart, he will be a menace to the peace of our country.

            By the sheer force of his personality he rose in a few years from a mountain outlaw with a price on his head to the conqueror of Mexico. For a time he was the favorite of our administration. The ports he controlled were kept open for the importation of munitions of war. A special rep-

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resentative of the United States Government traveled constantly with him, and a swarm of flattering concession-seekers flocked around him. Now he is again the proscribed outlaw, and he blames his downfall on the United States.

            For over six years he has been the most spectacular figure in the public eye. Swashbuckling into the daily news at the beginning of the Madero rebellion against Diaz in 1911, he has held the center of the stage in the popular imagination.

            We see him leading his ragged followers to victory against trained soldiers. Again, he is arrested by General Huerta, stood before a firing squad and condemned to death. Saved by a seeming miracle, he is imprisoned in Mexico City. Escaping from prison, he becomes a fugitive along the American border. Crossing the Rio Grande with nine followers, he organized an army of peons and crushed Huerta, the dictator. His career would supply material for a hundred lurid romances.

            General Villa had promised to give me the story of his life for publication. Frequently we started the task, but his talk would be the same old tirade against the cruelty of the landowners and very little about himself. However, I succeeded in gathering a few stories of his early life. One will illustrate the cause of his popularity with the peons.

            Squatting on his heels by the campfire, a gaudy Indian blanket draped around his shoulders, he was engaged in his favorite recreation, profanely

PRESIDENT MADERO AND HIS STAFF, TAKEN JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE OF JUAREZ

Three of the men in the picture later became presidents of Mexico, and two became vice-presidents. General Orozco, with his hand on Madero's chair, led a counter-revolution against the government a few mouths later

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abusing General Luis Terrazas, former governor of Chihuahua, and Villa's most hated enemy.

            "Did I tell you, Tejano [Texan], of the time I got the silver of the old gray fox, and the joke I played on myself ? "

            Gesticulating, scowling, and laughing by turns, his voice pitched in the high falsetto which was his usual tone when excited, he told the tale. His sentences were short and jerky.

            "My friends of the ranchitos had told me about the silver. It was going to one of the Terrazas haciendas. That 's why I waited in the hills. The driver of the wagon shot at me, but I got the silver. It was about six thousand pesos, too heavy for my horse.

            "That night I must ride many leagues. There were many who would make dried meat of Pancho Villa. So I hid half of the pesos under a rock.

            "Then I saw another wagon coming. There were two women and a driver. I said, These people are poor. Like all in Chihuahua, they, too, have suffered from this villain of a governor I have taxed. Perhaps I may never see the silver I have hidden under the rock. So I will give it to these poor people. It may make many families happy, and feed the little muchachos.'

            "So I ran my horse in front of the coach. And I told them this that I have said. Then I gave them the pesos. I said, 'Use this to get out of the clutches of old Terrazas.' They thanked me, but they were very much afraid, because I was Pancho Villa. Then I rode to the Sierras."

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            Slapping his leg and roaring with laughter, Villa continued:

            "Do you know, Tejano, what I found days after? I had given the silver to a daughter of Terrazas! My friends laughed at me for a fool."

            Many of these stories of Villa's liberality to the peons are true. He robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. This has been the custom of many of the great leaders of revolutions.

            It was in the early days of the Madero revolution, January, 1911, that Villa first rode into the headlines of Mexican history. He had gathered several hundred mountaineers and vaqueros and offered his services to Madero. Always impatient of restraint, he had operated alone, moving like a phantom about the state of Chihuahua, attacking small garrisons of federals and raiding ranches.

            It was after the capture of Juarez, opposite El Paso, Texas, by the Maderista forces, that I first met him We were introduced by General Toribio Ortega, afterward one of his most trusted generals. The ex-bandit leader was an eye-filling picture. He wore the immense gold-braided sombrero of the Mexican vaquero, tight-fitting leather leggins, two revolvers, and cross-belts of rifle cartridges.

            After the victory at Juarez, Villa proved that it was impossible for him to take orders. He quarreled with General Orozco, because Orozco had been given superior rank. Colonel Giuseppe Garibaldi, grandson of the Italian liberator, who

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has since laid down his life in the trenches in France, also aroused his enmity.

            During the battle Villa had sworn that he would kill General Navarro, the federal commander, with his own pistol. President Madero liberated Navarro after the surrender and sent him to safety on the American side of the Rio Grande. Villa flew into one of his unreasoning passions and vowed vengeance on Garibaldi, who had personally accepted General Navarro's surrender. In his blind rage Villa followed Garibaldi over the river to El Paso, vowing to kill him on sight. He found the young Italian standing unarmed in the lobby of the Hotel Sheldon. Walking catlike, with hand opened stiffly by his pistol holster, Villa advanced toward his intended victim.

            At that moment a little blue-eyed American stepped before him and held up his hand. It was Mayor Kelly of El Paso, a noted border character.

            "Villa, you 're in the wrong town. Give me your pistol."

            "No man but myself has ever touched that pistol," shouted Villa.

            "Get back through that door," calmly answered Mayor Kelly, pointing toward the entrance to a haberdasher's shop which opened into the lobby. "There are women and children here."

            Villa stepped backward into the shop.

            "Give me that gun and get out of town ! Do you think you can raid El Paso ?" quietly demanded the mayor.

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            Villa glared about him. He saw several big-hatted Texas cowboys posed in the doorway. Seeming to realize that his foot was off his native desert, he handed his gun to the valiant little official, strode from the shop and, jumping into a carriage, drove back to Juarez.

            A few days later we entered the state capital, Chihuahua. President Diaz had fled the country. Madero was on his triumphal journey to Mexico City. Abram Gonzales had been appointed provisional governor of Chihuahua and had commissioned me a captain on his staff. It was during the peace celebration that I again saw Villa. No longer the leather-clad cowboy, he was dressed in American clothes, carefully barbered and pomaded, his Mongolian mustache close clipped.

            One of his sweethearts, Luz Corral, had befriended him in one of his numerous escapades. He had come to lead her to the altar in the ancient cathedral.

            Sixteen years before Villa had fled from Chihuahua a hunted outlaw. Now a throng of high officials gathered in the cathedral and attended his wedding feast.

            He was a bandit no more. Pardoned by Madero for his offense against the law, Villa was now a colonel in the army, a man of position. Also he had been rewarded for his work in the rebellion by a gift of the rastro or slaughter-house concession, in Chihuahua.

            This period of peace was short-lived. Madero had hardly taken his seat as the elected president

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of Mexico when a counter-insurrection was started. Emilio Campa and Inez Salazar led a revolt in western Chihuahua and marched on the state capital. General Orozco, the state commander, deserted Madero and joined the new movement.

            Villa fled from Chihuahua back to his native mountains and in a few weeks was again at the head of a band of his old-time followers. Then followed the campaign against the Orozco forces, or "red flaggers," as they were called.

            President Madero appointed General Salas to command the army moving from Torreon to recapture Chihuahua. Salas was defeated at the battle of Rellano, and committed suicide that night.

            In this battle the insurrectos used a spectacular trick to block the federal troop-trains. An old switch engine was made into a flying land-torpedo. Boxes of dynamite were piled on the cowcatcher. The lever of the whistle was tied down, and, screaming like a maddened animal, the wild engine was started on the down grade toward the advancing troop-trains. There was a collision, a terrific explosion; scores of soldiers were killed and the railroad was blocked by the wreckage.

            To succeed General Salas, President Madero selected an old retired general who had not been in active service for several years. Some malignant fate seemed to prompt the choice, for the man placed at the head of the armies was General Victoriano Huerta, who was afterward to

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turn on his benefactor and make himself dictator of Mexico.

            Pancho Villa at this time was following his usual tactics. He was constantly on the move, striking the rebels again and again and escaping when the odds were against him. Finally he circled the right wing of Orozco 's army and captured Parral, an important mining town.

            Generals Campa and Salazar at once moved to recapture the town. Although hopelessly outnumbered, Villa defended the place for three days and then escaped with his band.

            It was at this fight that my friend Tom Fountain, of New Mexico, was murdered. Tom had been fighting with Villa, operating a machine-gun. He tarried too long in the retreat and was captured by the Orozco forces. The next morning Tom was taken from the adobe house where he was imprisoned and led into the street. An officer handed him a silver dollar, saying:

            "See that Chino restaurant down the street? Go buy your breakfast and return."

            Tom walked down the street toward the restaurant. A dozen grinning officers were lined up on the sidewalks. At a signal they drew their revolvers and began shooting. Poor Tom Fountain, an unarmed prisoner of war in uniform, was shot down like a rabbit, to give sport to a group of drink-crazed Mexican officers. This is common custom among the Mexicans. It is known as the ley de fuga, or fugitive law.

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            Pancho Villa was a thorn in the side of General Huerta. The ex-bandit was hated by the officers of the old Diaz army, because he had killed several of their companions in private war. Also Villa was ignoring Huerta 's commands and conducting his campaign according to his own ideas. Finally Villa condescended to report to Huerta's headquarters at Jimenez. It came near costing him his life.

            Huerta immediately put Villa under arrest and condemned him to death. Although there was no trial, a list of charges was made public. Villa was accused of looting the stores of Parral, of robbing non-combatants and refusing to obey the orders of his superior officers. Many of these charges were probably true, as Villa was ever a law unto himself.

            As it happened, I was in Jimenez at the time, although I did not actually witness the attempted execution of Villa. According to eye-witnesses, Villa had confronted General Huerta and denounced him. It was a dramatic meeting between the old army officer, who was soon to seize the government and set himself up as dictator, and the unlettered cowboy who was to break the backbone of his power and drive him into exile.

            After the interview Villa was marched to a nearby adobe corral by a firing squad. Villa took his stand against the adobe wall and the soldiers of the squad loaded their rifles. The boy lieutenant in charge drew his sword and was about to

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give the command to fire, which would have ended the career of Pancho Villa and changed the history of Mexico.

            At that moment Villa took a step forward, saluted the lieutenant, and said:

            " Two minutes will not make much difference. May I speak to General Emilio Madero? I saw him just outside the corral."

            The lieutenant hesitated a moment, then ordered his soldiers to lower their rifles, and granted the request. Emilio Madero was summoned, and to him Villa made an appeal for his life.

            The Maderos were always friendly to Villa. The ex-bandit's love of President Francisco Madero was one of the moving motives of his life. Emilio Madero ordered the officer of the firing squad to delay the execution fifteen minutes. Calling his friend, General Trucy Aubert, the two hurried to Huerta's office and argued against the killing of Villa.

Finally Huerta grudgingly consented, and ordered Villa sent to Belen Prison in Mexico City, a prisoner in irons. Later, when Villa was sweeping the armies of Huerta like stampeded cattle before him, the old general made the remark:

            " The greatest mistake a soldier can make is to show mercy to his enemies."

            For months Villa suffered the torments of Belen, one of the worst infernos of punishment in the world. It was during his imprisonment that

© International Film Service,

GENERAL VILLA BEFORE THE FIRING SQUAD, SENTENCED TO DEATH

The picture was taken at the moment when he was asking the young lieutenant for permission to say farewell to Emilio Madero. Madero saved Villa's life. Later he defeated Huerta, who sentenced him and drove him into exile

he learned to write his name, laboriously practicing it letter by letter on the walls of his cell. Orozco was defeated, and his forces scattered like quail in the mountains of Chihuahua and Sonora. Huerta returned to Mexico City and was placed at the head of Madero's armies, as a reward for his success.

            Villa had many friends among the government officials at the national capital. They remembered his efficient work for the revolution. His escape was arranged, and he was smuggled out of Mexico, in the garments of a laborer, to Havana, Cuba. From there his passage was paid to Galveston, Texas, and then to El Paso.

            These were dark days for the former war chief. An exile from his native mountains, penniless, he was forced to live on the charity of poor laborers who befriended him. The city police discovered that he was in the city and warned him that he would be arrested if he appeared on the streets. By day he would hide in a dark room back of a little shop in the Mexican quarter. At night he would take long walks along the country roads of the valley. Then came the Decina Trajica in Mexico City. Felix Diaz, a nephew of the old dictator, aided by General Bernardo Reyes, escaped from prison and led a revolt in the streets against President Madero. Madero put his faith in General Huerta. After desperate fighting in the streets of the capital, Huerta betrayed his benefactor and joined

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forces with the insurgents. Madero was murdered, and public announcement was made that he had resigned before his death. Felix Diaz, the leader of the revolt, was ignored, and the army proclaimed Huerta provisional president.

            For a few days the country seemed stunned by the tragedy. The army and reactionary element seized the power in most of the states. Abram Gonzales, governor of Chihuahua, and my best friend in Mexico, was arrested and placed on a train bound for Mexico City. A few miles out from the state capital, his hands and feet were tied with ropes and he was thrown under the wheels of the moving train. Abram Gonzales was a true patriot and a friend of the people. He was a graduate of the Christian Brothers College in St. Louis, and had practiced law in the United States.

            Then came news of a counter-revolt against Huerta the usurper. Venustiano Carranza, governor of Coahuila, had taken the field against him. In Sonora Lieutenant-Colonel Alvaro Obregon had revolted with the garrison of Agua Prieta. Other leaders also took the field in many states. In Morelos Emiliano Zapata was already fighting the soldiers of Huerta.

            Pancho Villa saw that there was work to do. He had no money to buy guns or horses, but an Italian who knew him came to the rescue with a loan of $500. Villa gathered together some of his former followers, most of them men who had been his comrades in his freebooter days, and rode

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across the Rio Grande near the El Paso smelter. In this little expedition were nine men, eight horses, ten rifles and a pack mule. The commissary consisted of two sacks of flour, three kilos of beans, and a ten-pound can of lard.

            For a time Villa disappeared into the desert, sending out runners to his former captains. His mountaineer friends flocked to him, and soon he was again on the warpath. Moving like a whirlwind through the western and southern districts of Chihuahua, he captured town after town, only to abandon them as soon as he had confiscated supplies and money from the wealthy inhabitants. This is another secret of Villa's popularity. He forced the rich to pay, but lifted the burden of taxation from the poor in the districts he controlled.

            At this time I was with the Yaqui Indians under General Obregon, in Sonora, and did not see Villa again until he was master of the state of Chihuahua. Finally he captured the mining town of Parral, where he found rich pickings, and a short time later staggered the federals by capturing Torreon, the most important railroad center of northern Mexico.

            After replenishing his treasury he again disappeared in the desert without attempting to combat the Huerta troops which were hurrying to attack him. It is a fact that at this stage of the insurrection Villa armed and equipped his soldiers almost exclusively with munitions captured from the enemy.

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            For weeks Villa disappeared and no news was received of his movements. This was one of the reasons for his success—his driving energy and the remarkable mobility of his forces.

CHAPTER XXVII

            SUDDENLY, after the disappearance of Villa, who was not heard of for weeks, the whole country was electrified by one of the most spectacular strategic feats of modern warfare. While Villa was lost, he had been making a great circling movement through the desert from the south to the north of Chihuahua. His object was to capture Juarez and secure an entry port from the United States.

            One day, half a dozen cowboys rode up to the little railroad station of Moctezuma and dragged the telegraph operator from his desk before he had time to flash a warning. A few minutes later Villa and his band appeared. A number of telegraph operators had enlisted under him, and one of these was placed at the key. Almost without interruption the routine work of the office continued.

            Villa learned that the regular daily train was due to arrive at Moctezuma in a few minutes. When it rolled into the station, his soldiers took possession without a shot being fired. The passengers were ordered to leave the coaches and Villa filled the cars with his men. A group of trusted men were stationed on the engine, and the train proceeded on its regular schedule. At every

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station the men on the engine, supposed to be the regular guards, would stroll into the operator's room and pull him from the key. He would be replaced by a Villa operator, and the train would proceed.

            So complete was the success of the scheme that the federal garrisons at Chihuahua or Juarez never suspected the ruse. The regular train was proceeding toward the border in regular fashion, its arrival and departure being properly reported at every station. Villa even succeeded in turning back a troop train from Chihuahua by reporting a burned bridge.

            That evening the train drew into the station at Juarez. The federal garrison was scattered about the town, many of them enjoying themselves at the bull-fight, when the harmless-appearing train disgorged a thousand shooting, yelling soldiers, who swept through the streets, killing every man in uniform. In twenty minutes Villa was master of the town. This victory gave new life to the rebellion. Recruits flocked to the standard of Pancho Villa. General Toribio Ortega rode into Juarez and offered his service with fifteen hundred men from eastern Chihuahua.

            An incident which occurred at Jimenez shows the Indian stoicism of Villa. For weeks he had been troubled by an ingrowing toe-nail, which caused him intense pain. Dr. Rusk, an American physician in whom Villa had great confidence, happened to be in Jimenez, waiting for a train; and the general sent for him. Dr. Rusk informed

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him that it would be necessary to jerk the nail out with forceps, by the roots, as a tooth is drawn.

            "It is one of the most painful operations known," said the doctor. "You must wait until to-morrow night, when I will have some cocaine from Chihuahua."

            "Never mind the medicine. Do it now," ordered Villa.

            Dr. Rusk split the nail down the middle and pulled each half from the flesh. It must have caused the most excruciating agony. During the operation I watched Villa's face, and he did not betray the slightest emotion but continued talking to one of his secretaries.

            Villa knew that he must soon fight a more important battle. As long as they held Juarez, the federal garrisons at Chihuahua and the greater part of north Mexico drew their supplies from the United States through Juarez. Villa had closed the door.

            It was a time of harvest for the ammunition-runners. The embargo on munitions of war was being enforced, and ammunition was contraband. As border sentiment favored Villa, however, it was easy to get ammunition as long as the smugglers received the extortionate prices they demanded. It came in piano cases, buried in cars of coal and packed in cases of canned goods. The army was soon ready.

            Under orders from Huerta to drive Villa out of Juarez at all costs, the federal army marched northward to the attack. It was commanded by

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Generals Mercado and Orozco, who had joined forces with the Huertistas. The federal forces there slightly outnumbered Villa. The army of General Mercado, as shown by the official reports, was about eight thousand men. Villa's army numbered little more than seven thousand.

            Villa marched his army out into the sand dunes at Tierra Blanca, nine miles south of Juarez, and prepared to meet the federals. His forces were outnumbered and the federals were well supplied with modern artillery.

            Mercado and Orozco made a direct frontal attack along the railroad. Stubbornly contesting every foot of the way, the Villista troops slowly withdrew for several miles. At the right moment Villa gave the signal, and like a cloud of hawks his cavalry swept out of the sand dunes upon the unprotected flanks of the extended federal army. The battle was won, and the broken and disorganized federal force withdrew to Chihuahua.

            Villa halted only long enough to secure a fresh supply of ammunition, and followed. The federals were in no condition to make a stand, and evacuated Chihuahua. They made a desperate march of 180 miles across the desert to Ojinaga, a small town on the Rio Grande, Villa's forces following at their heels and killing the stragglers day by day. Here the federals stood at bay. Villa immediately attacked. After a desperate battle of five days, the federals broke, and, plunging into the Rio Grande, crossed to the American

TIN-CAN GRENADES USED AT SANTA ROSALIA IN 1911

They are loaded with dynamite and scrap-iron

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bank and surrendered to Major McNamara of the United States army.

            Villa was now undisputed master of Chihuahua. In the three battles he had captured thousands of Mauser rifles, sixteen cannon and many prisoners. Rushing back to the state capital, he prepared for the advance southward on Torreon, where Huerta had gathered his main army of the north.

            The battle of Torreon was the greatest success of Villa's military career. It was really a series of battles, lasting several days. I will not attempt to describe it. One incident, however, I will tell, as it throws a light on Villa as a man and military leader. Guarding the pass between Gomez Palacio and Torreon is a sugar-loaf hill, which had been strongly fortified by the federals. This hill must be taken before Villa could enter the city. For two days his soldiers had charged up the hill, only to be beaten back from the crest by the storm from the machines and rifles of the defenders. At night I have watched the Villistas start up this hill, seen the trenches at the top light up in a circle of fire, and traced the position of the attacking party by the answering flashes. Gradually the wavering pin-points of flame would creep up the slope, and break before the deadly hail and sweep downward, like a wave receding from the shore.

            Villa was desperate, and at last he improvised a new plan of attack. Selecting two hundred picked men, he made them lay down their rifles and armed each man with half a dozen hand grenades.

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            These grenades were crude affairs, made of tin cans, loaded with dynamite and nails, with a short fuse sticking from the top. Each man was ordered to light a cigarette and keep it burning to light the fuse. When all was in readiness, Villa took his place at the head of the column and gave the order to advance quietly. With burning cigarettes shielded in cupped hands, the line silently crawled up the hill. Not a shot was fired until they were near the top, when the guns of the defenders again began blazing. The attacking party could not halt and shoot back. Their only weapons were the bombs, and to use them they must get in close.

            Suddenly the federal trenches lit up with scores of flashes like lightning. For a few minutes that hill-top resembled a volcano, belching fire and roaring with a tattoo of explosions. The nails and slugs of the grenades screamed through the air with unearthly pandemonium. Then came silence, punctuated only by a few pistol shots that showed the hill was captured. The next day Villa entered Torreon.

            At this period I was almost constantly with him as a newspaper correspondent, journeyed on his private train and accompanied him in the field. One picture of his army will always stick in my mind. Villa was standing by his camp-fire, talking to his officers. It was the night before the battle of Zacatecas. Down the road which ran near by poured a seemingly endless procession of horsemen. Company after company of the big 

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hatted soldiers rode out of the night, passed as if in review before the fire and disappeared. As they rode they sang in the barbaric falsetto of the Northern Indian:

                        "La Cucaracha, la Cucaracha

                                    Ya no puede caminar,

                        Porque no puede, porque no tiene

                                    Marihuana que fumar,"

the marching song of the Villa army.

            Walking back from the road about a hundred yards, I sat down on a little hill and watched the passing legions. For miles down the road I could see a winding procession of tiny fireflies glowing and wavering in the dark. These were the lighted cigarettes of the troopers. Hour after hour they passed, chanting in falsetto refrain the inspiring "Song of the Cockroach," with its thousand verses. The next day several thousand of these men died.

            Since my return to the United States, there are three questions I am always being asked. They have come with such unfailing regularity I will attempt to answer them here.

            First: How many wives has Villa?

            Second: Where did he get the money to carry on his campaigns? Were Americans backing him?

            Third : Why don't somebody kill him in retaliation for his many executions and cruelties?

            It is true that Villa has three wives. The first two he married in Chihuahua and the third in

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Torreon; but it was his first wife, Luz, who was his companion in most of his campaigns. He was in Mexico City when he received the announcement of the birth of his only son. His Torreon wife was the mother. Villa announced the event with great glee to his staff.

            "Now I will never get married again," he exclaimed with pride. "I have a son."

            The boy is now living with his mother at San Antonio, Texas.

            The source of Villa's financial backing requires some explanation. It must be remembered that Mexico was a country of great natural wealth, concentrated in the hands of a few wealthy men. Most of these men fled from the country, but the immense properties remained in Villa's hands, and he took every dollar the " Cientificos" could be forced to pay. The case of Luis Terrazas, Jr., son of the former governor, is a good example. Luis "Chico" was captured by Villa and incarcerated in the Chihuahua penitentiary. For nearly a year the younger Terrazas was kept in prison and forced to pay over $500,000 gold to save his life. Time and again he was stood up before a firing squad and compelled to buy temporary immunity.

            Another great source of wealth was the immense herds of cattle which ranged the haciendas of northern Mexico. Villa would confiscate thousands of these cattle, ship them to Texas and sell them for gold. When this was, in a measure, stopped by the cattlemen's associations, Villa built

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a slaughter-house in Juarez, shipped the packed meat and sold the hides. Only one company was permitted to deal in hides, and that was an American concern.

            Probably the greatest income came from the "bilimbiques," a fiat currency issued by the revolutionary government. This was simply a printed promise to pay when the revolution was successful. Merchants were forced to accept this money in Mexico at the rifle. Its current value, however, was a fictitious gambling value, due to the operations of the money brokers on the border. When Villa was winning victories, the rate of exchange went up; when he suffered reverses, the price went down. In time the country was flooded by this fiat money. Printing presses were kept busy night and day turning it out. Many millions of dollars were issued, until finally its value was less than the cost of printing.

            Although Villa sucked in money from a thousand sources, he was compelled to pay it out almost as fast as it came in. His army was better armed and clothed than any insurrecto faction in the field. He was robbed right and left by a swarm of gun-runners, speculators and concession-seekers who followed his trail. There are many men on the border to-day who made fortunes through their dealings with Villa. You may have read how an Italian gave Villa $500 to start the expedition against Huerta. This man was rewarded by a present of one of the gambling privileges in Juarez. He made a fortune from his

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operations. Later, when Villa was in need, he called on this Italian for a small percentage of his winnings. The Italian packed his money and silently flitted to the American bank of the Rio Grande. Villa flew into one of his blind rages.

            "I cannot understand these foreigners !" he declared. " This man gave me his last dollar when I was in need. Then I present him with a fortune. When I ask him for a small part, he runs away."

            The stories of great hordes of money concealed by Villa are pure fiction. Although he handled millions, his government always led a hand-to-mouth existence. It is true, however, that some of his former confederates escaped to the United States with large sums.

            Villa's apparent immunity from assassination is easily told. He has seemed to lead a charmed life, and he has the cunning of a wolf of his own desert. He once told me that he had been wounded eleven times. He has the instinctive caution of a fox. At night, when not sleeping on his guarded train, he would throw a blanket over his shoulders and disappear in the darkness, to sleep in some arroyo, concealed from his own soldiers.

            His main protection was the famous Escolta Eldorado, or Guard of Gold. This was a picked company, which was the choicest collection of gunmen and killers ever gathered together. It was headed by the notorious Colonel Fierro, the "Butcher." This Fierro was the official lord high executioner of Villa's army, and has literally

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killed hundreds of men with his own hand. After the battle of Paredon, forty-four officers were captured. Following the custom of both armies, these federal officers were sentenced to death. They were stood up in a line on the battlefield, their hands tied behind them. Fierro walked down the line and killed every man with his pistol; shooting six times and standing and reloading.

            When we entered the city of Guadalajara, Fierro discovered an old enemy living in the city. This man had quit the insurrection and was working as a carpenter. In an accident his leg had been broken, and when discovered by Fierro, he was lying helpless in bed. The "Butcher" had the injured man brought to the depot and placed on his private car. Next day I chanced to be on Fierro 's car when we left the city. The "Butcher" was playing cards with a group of Villa officers as the train started its journey. About nine miles from the city he told the conductor to stop the train. Grasping the injured man by the collar he dragged him down the car steps, feebly moaning from the agony of pain. Dropping him like a sack of meal by the side of the track, Fierro shot him through the head, signaled the train, and then, stepping aboard, picked up his cards and resumed the game. It was the most cold-blooded, dastardly act I have ever seen.

            These men of the Guard of Gold guarded Villa day and night. No suspicious-appearing person was permitted to come near their general without being disarmed. Colonel Pani, of the Carran-

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cista faction, had been an outspoken enemy of Villa's during the Aguascalientes convention. He was an enormous man, with deep, rumbling voice, and had won wide reputation as a brave fighter. When Villa occupied Mexico City, Colonel Pani refused to flee, and remained at the house of a friend. Villa learned of his presence and had him arrested and brought before him. The giant Pani was brought before Villa surrounded by a guard. The grim-faced Fierro, the "Butcher," stood beside him.

            "Pani," Villa began, "you have denounced me and called me a bandit. Is there any reason why you should not die l"

            "You are a bandit. You can kill me if you want to. Killing men who have fought for Mexico is your trade."

            Villa poured out a volley of profanity at the tall prisoner, striding back and forth across the room. His eyes protruded and seemed to revolve like those of a madman. Then, his expression changing, he turned and said:

            "Pani, you are the first man who ever looked in my eyes and defied me. You have been a brave man. Join my army and I will give you five hundred men to command. Your right place is in the army of Pancho Villa."

            "I do not fight with bandits and robbers," rumbled the giant, staring unafraid at the Terror of the North.

            "Fierro, take him out and shoot him!" screamed Villa in a blaze of passion.

             The "Butcher" escorted the great Pani out of the house. After pacing excitedly about the room for a moment, Villa called one of his secretaries. In a few minutes Fierro stalked back into the room. Pulling his pistol from its holster, he flipped an empty cartridge out.

            "Mi general, one shot killed him," he calmly remarked.

            "Está bueno," replied Villa, and returned to his conversation.

            On one occasion, after the battle of Zacatecas, thirty-one officers were condemned to death. A firing squad of Yaqui Indians were doing the shooting and the prisoners were being placed against the wall, two or three at a time. Several bottles of cognac were brought out by the executioners and drinks were passed to the men about to die. One young officer, a boy of twenty, was busily engaged in writing in a notebook. When the time came for him to die, the Indian sergeant gruffly ordered him to step into place. Turning to the higher officers, he said:

            "I was just writing a letter to my brother. Will you let me finish it before the fusilada?"

            Sternly the sergeant shook his head and motioned him to take his place against the wall.

            "Three thousand pardons, señores," exclaimed a dapper little major. "May I take his place'?"

            The sergeant nodded; the little major jauntily stepped before the firing squad, and smilingly met his death. The young lieutenant finished his letter before he, too, was killed.

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            These executions were the horrible feature of the Mexican war. It is my belief that more men have been executed by the firing squad in Mexico, the last seven years, than have died in battle. All factions were equally guilty.

            After his spectacular victory at Torreon, Villa found himself hailed as the conqueror of north Mexico. His military exploits far excelled those of any other revolutionary general, and in his usual fashion he proved headstrong and hard to control. General Carranza, who had been accepted by all factions as the "First Chief in charge of executive power," grew fearful of Villa's growing strength and appointed General Panfilo Natera to command the expedition against Zacatecas, where Huerta's forces were preparing to make their last stand. Natera was defeated, and Villa rushed his forces to the front, contrary to orders. After a two days' desperate battle, in which several thousand men were killed, he captured the city, and drove the federals in disorder back toward Mexico City. General Obregon, who had carried on a successful campaign down the west coast of Mexico, shortly afterward captured Guadalajara, the second city in Mexico, and marched on the capital. General Zapata with his southern Indian forces had captured several of the suburbs to Mexico City. Huerta, realizing that his cause was lost, fled from Mexico to Havana, Cuba, and Obregon took possession of the national capital.

            The revolution had accomplished its purpose.

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Madero had been avenged and Huerta the dictator driven into exile. Yet the war had only started.

            General Villa felt that he had been ignored and insulted by Carranza, and he sulkily withdrew to Chihuahua, refusing to obey the orders of the First Chief.

            General Obregon made a trip to Chihuahua in an effort to placate Villa, and narrowly escaped execution. A national convention of all insurgent leaders had been called in Mexico City to draft a constitution and form a provisional government. Villa refused to participate in this conference unless it was held on neutral ground, and Aguascalientes was selected as the place of meeting. After a farcical session, lasting two months, the convention elected Eulalio Gutierrez, a middle-of-the road candidate, as provisional president of Mexico. Carranza refused to ratify the choice, and Villa dropped all pretense and declared war on the faction headed by the First Chief.

            His army was moved southward in forty-five troop trains, with cavalry in advance guard and flankers. Carranza's troops withdrew before the advancing division of the north, and in November, 1914, Villa and Zapata were in joint control of Mexico City. It was at this time the United States withdrew its soldiers from Vera Cruz after occupying that seaport for seven months. Carranza moved into that city in the wake of the returning Americans, and established his headquarters there.

            Villa was now at the apex of his career. He

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made a grand entry into the capital with Zapata riding by his side. In the line of march were forty-five thousand soldiers and eighty-one modern cannon, captured from the federals.

            Villa and Zapata entered the national palace and posed for their photographs, sitting in the gilded reception room where President Porfirio Diaz formerly held his receptions. After the photograph was taken a bystander called Villa's attention to the fact that he was sitting in the chair of Benito Juarez, the Liberator of Mexico. Jumping to his feet he exclaimed :

            "Who am I that I should sit in the seat of the great Juarez? I will never be President of Mexico."

            About this time I severed my connection with the Associated Press and prepared to return to the United States. I was disgusted. Twice had the revolution been won; still there was no end of the fighting in sight.

            The day before I expected to leave I called on Villa to say good-by.

            "No, no, Tejano," he said. "You must not leave us now. I will make you a major on my estado mayor."

            Calling one of his secretaries, he ordered the commission made out. I still keep it as a memento of the Mexican revolution.

            Villa's high-handed methods soon began to weaken his power. Provisional President Gutierrez was practically his prisoner, and on one occasion Villa slapped the president's face. He was

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proving that, although he could conquer, he could not rule. Many of his generals felt that they were entitled to a share of the credit for his campaigns, and he treated them as if they were unruly schoolboys.

            Finally he left Mexico City for a tour of the northern districts controlled by his troops. Hardly had he left the capital when a number of his followers revolted. President Gutierrez, urged by this faction, fled to Toluca ; and Villa thus had his president stolen over night.

            Then followed the campaign of the Carrancistas, led by General Obregon, which is recent history. Deserted by many of his best leaders, he came storming down from the north to meet this new coalition. At the battles of Silao and Celaya he first knew the bitterness of defeat. His star was waning and day after day came reports of new desertions.

            Then came the hardest blow of all, which turned him against the United States. Up until this time he had apparently been a favorite of the American Government. A special agent of the State Department accompanied him on all his journeys. His principal port of entry at Juarez had been kept open for the importation of munitions of war.

            Suddenly the policy at Washington was changed. A strict embargo was enforced on the border, and his supply of ammunition was cut off. Then came the announcement from Washington that Carranza had been recognized as the head of the de facto government.

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            Of Villa's movements since that time I know only what friends from Mexico have told me. He felt that the Americans had turned against him in his hour of greatest need, and in his usual fashion he retaliated by attacking the Americans.

            Of the raid into American territory at Columbus, New Mexico, I know nothing. He may or may not have been present in person. It is characteristic of what he might be expected to do when in one of his blind unreasoning rages.

            Villa is still in the saddle.

            As long as he rides the desert llanos, with his "Guard of Gold" at his back, he looms as a storm-cloud on the border, threatening the peace of our country. There is only one way he will ever quit the fight : that is when death comes to him. He is the Mexican problem.

CHAPTER XXVIII

            MEXICO CITY, usually gay and colorful despite continuous revolutions, was like a

graveyard. The streets were deserted and the silence of terror stilled the accustomed clamor of the markets. General Zapata and his horde of sandal-shod soldiers were coming into the city.

            For years the Mexican capital had been fed with stories of Zapata's savagery and ruthlessness. It was the general belief that the "mountain men" from Morelos would loot the city and inaugurate a reign of terror.

            By thousands the Zapatistas marched through the streets and deployed into the plaza before the national palace. That morning Zapata issued two proclamations. One was a prohibition edict closing the saloons ; the other, a command for the bankers of the city to assemble for a conference.

            The bankers attended the meeting. They went in fear, dreading confiscation of their deposits. Only a few days before, the armies of General Carranza had collected a "forced loan" of ten million pesos from the banks. What mercy could be expected of the bandit leader? Zapata's speech was short and to the point.

            "Caballeros," he said, "my men are hungry. I want fifty thousand pesos to feed them for a few days. You will pay this. I promise you protec-

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tion. You may carry on your business without molestation as long as you do not aid the enemy. You may go when you sign the order for the money."

            Thankful to escape with such a modest demand, the bankers did as they were ordered. Zapata kept his part of the bargain and for months the city was better policed than it has ever been since Porfirio Diaz was driven from Mexico. But this is the strange part of the story—strange to one who knows the system of confiscation which has bled the business men of the country: ten days later Zapata paid back the fifty thousand pesos, and from that time on never took a dollar from the commercial houses of the capital.

            Because Zapata has operated far south of our border, and has had no seaport, he is the least known of all Mexican revolutionary leaders of the American people. It was my fortune to be with him for several months, accompanying his army on several campaigns. As far as I have knowledge, I was the only American with the Zapata forces.

            Who is this half-breed Indian who for six years has ruled a territory larger than the state of Illinois? Pancho Villa is well known to American newspaper readers. Carranza holds daily audiences with foreign correspondents. Zapata alone has held himself aloof and mysterious.

            To understand the Zapata movement one must first know something of the state of Morelos,

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where he rules. Morelos is a mountainous country crisscrossed by valleys of great fertility. It is an agricultural state. The population is nine-tenths full-blood Indian. One statement will show the reason for a rebellion.

            The entire state was owned, every acre of it, by eleven families. The natives were peon laborers on the farms of the landlords.

            Emiliano Zapata was an outlaw before the outbreak of the Madero insurrection, six years ago. The Mexican peons love an outlaw. A man who lives in defiance of the law which enslaves them is always a hero in their eyes.

            When the news swept through Mexico that Francisco Madero had taken the field against Diaz, Zapata saw his opportunity. Recruiting a small company, he moved back and forth across Morelos and into the state of Guerrero, calling upon the people to revolt. As in the north, his plan was for free land and schools.

            His army grew rapidly and three months after the outbreak of the revolt he captured Cuernavaca, the capital of Morelos. He seized the immense estates of the hacendados, the absentee landlords, and parceled the land out among the peons. As the law of the conquered territory he proclaimed the "Plan of Ayala," a program which dealt mainly with the communistic ownership of the soil.

            When Madero was made president, he called upon Zapata to "come in and be good." Zapata

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demanded that his "Plan of Ayala" first be accepted. Madero replied that that was a question for the national congress to settle.

            The Zapatistas refused to trust the assembly. They were not interested in the affairs of other sections of Mexico, but they had freed themselves from bondage and would continue to manage their own state.

            That was the beginning. For six years Zapata and his peons have controlled Morelos. They have whipped every army that has been sent against them. At times they have swept out into other states ; but outside of Morelos, they have always met with defeat. They have captured Mexico City three times, and at the present time their camp-fires may be seen on the hills surrounding the national capital.

            My first experience with the Zapatista leaders was in Aguascalientes. Delegates from all factions gathered there in convention after the defeat of General Huerta. The Zapata representatives came by roundabout trails from their mountain strongholds.

            That day a delegate of the Villa faction came to me and said: "We want to meet the Zapatistas but do not want to make the first advances. They feel the same. You are a neutral and a foreigner. If you will invite some of their leaders to a dinner, and also invite our friends, I will pay for the dinner."

            I assented to this peculiar proposition and be

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came the host at a most interesting feast. At that dinner the foundation for the future alliance of Villa and Zapata was laid. An introduction to some of the leaders will show that there are brains as well as bullets behind the Zapata movement.

            Antonio Soto Y Game [sic] was the leader of the delegation. He is one of the best known Spanish writers, and at one time was a teacher in the University of Barcelona, Spain. He is a Socialist and has worked for that cause in many South American countries.

            General Alfredo Serratos was a former lawyer, who had made a good record as a soldier. It will surprise Americans to learn that he was at one time a servant of Mark Hanna, the noted politician of Ohio. His history is a romantic one. As a homeless waif he was taken to the United States by an American, who promised to give him an education. In Cleveland, Ohio, the American died and young Serratos was left stranded. For three years he worked at the home of Senator Hanna, mowing lawns and caring for horses. Later the young Mexican returned to Mexico and studied law. He speaks three languages fluently. In the convention cabinet he was elected Secretary of War. These were some of the men who were Zapata 's lieutenants and advisers.

            When the convention disbanded and Villa's soldiers marched on Mexico City, I had an opportunity to visit General Zapata himself in Cuerna-

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vaca. As we journeyed up the canyons and mountain trails, I had my first contact with the Army of the South. It was night and every foot of the road was guarded. As we proceeded, I could hear cow-horns echoing back and forth in the mountains, signaling our arrival. This cow-horn system of wireless is in common use among the Indians.

            We met Zapata in the old palace which had been built as a summer home by Cortez, the Spanish conqueror of Mexico. I found him a slight, wiry little man, half extinguished by an enormous sombrero. I was impressed by the penetrating gaze of his eyes and his impatient gestures. He seemed to throw his open hand in the face of his listener as he talked.

            " You Americans have liberty, I am told," he said. "You can vote. You can own land. You can send your children to school. We cannot. Where few people own the land and many must work for them, there is no freedom. First the land must go back to the people. Other things will follow. You cannot talk laws to a man who has been hungry every day since he was a little boy.

            "Our soldiers fight for liberty. They do not fight for money. My men are the only soldiers in Mexico who fight without pay. When I was a boy, I went into debt at the hacienda store for my first pair of overalls. For ten years I worked to pay for those overalls, but always I was in debt.

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For ten years I did not see one centavo of wages. So I ran away and they called me a bandit ! They sent soldiers to kill me. But we have driven them away, the rurales, the soldiers, the jefes politicos who made us slaves to the land. We will all die before we will let them come back."

            His boast that his army fought without pay was true. They are the only soldiers in Mexico who receive no pay.

            During my short stay in Cuernavaca I learned other things that surprised me. The army is a democracy. Its officers are elected by the private soldiers, and may be recalled by a vote from the ranks. Zapata himself remains the master because he has the absolute confidence and loyalty of his followers.

            One of Zapata 's chief lieutenants is General Genevevo de la O. He bore a sinister reputation and was accused of having instigated several massacres. On my second day in Cuernavaca I met him. He was a short, dark, pock-marked man of pure Indian blood. His face had an expression of savage ferocity, and I could well believe the tales that had been told about him. When I met him he was dressed only in the cotton shirt and drawers of the peon and his feet were bound with rawhide sandals. I was told that he refused to wear any other uniform.

            For a time we talked of the insurrection as I had seen it in other states. He told me that he was a Socialist. His ideas of Socialism seemed to be a

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general destruction of the ruling class and the unrestrained liberty of the workers. I told him that the Socialist movement was strong in other countries.

            "Yes, I know," he growled. "Every man who has a good heart believes in giving justice to the poor. But what do they know? They must learn to hate, not to talk. Do you know how they must learn? As I have learned."

            As he spoke he leaped excitedly to his feet and tore open his shirt. His back was a network of welts and scars.

            "Three times I have been tied to a post and beaten because I would not work. When you have felt the lash on your back, you will know that there is but one meeting-place for master and slave. That is the battlefield."

            The delegates who had accompanied me to Cuernavaca arranged for a joint occupation of Mexico City with the Villa forces. Every one who witnessed the entry of Zapata 's troops was astonished at the discipline shown by the mountain Indians. Within an hour order had been restored and business was resumed. The great city was a place of wonders to the ignorant peons and several amusing incidents occurred.

            The afternoon of the occupation, a fire broke out on Calle San Francisco. A hose-cart came dashing down the street, crowded with brass-helmeted firemen. Seeing this strange outfit bearing down upon them, a company of Zapata soldiers lay down

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in a line across the street and opened fire. Twelve of the firemen were killed before an officer explained to the Zapatistas that the fire apparatus was not some new device for their destruction.

            When the Zapatistas took possession, the city was lawless. Murders and robberies occurred on every street. Zapata proceeded to restore order by executing the criminals.

            One day I chanced to pass the Fourth Comisario, or police station. Three bodies were exposed for public view. Written signs above the bodies announced the reasons for the executions. One sign read, "This man was killed for being a thief." Another read, "This man was killed for printing counterfeit money." The third stated, "This man was killed by mistake !"

            Like all Mexicans, Zapata has a love for the dramatic. In dealing out punishment to his men he always made the punishment fit the crime. While stationed in the town of Cuatla [sic], a soldier killed another in a drunken brawl and was sentenced to die before a firing squad.

            "My chief, it is just that I should die for what I have done when the mescal made me mad," said the soldier; "but I do not like to die like a calf before the guns of my friends. You know that I have fought many times against the mochos of Huerta. Let me die killing soldiers."

            "It shall be done as you wish," replied Zapata.

            The prisoner was ordered removed to Xochimilco, near Mexico City, where the soldiers of Hu-

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erta were entrenched. He was led opposite one of the trenches and given a machete—a long-bladed knife used in cutting sugar-cane. Pointing to the barricades of the government soldiers, the condemned man was ordered to charge.

            Singing a wordless chant the prisoner trotted forward into the open. Immediately he drew the fire from a score of guns.

            He stumbled and fell to his knees, but again he staggered to his feet and went on. A hundred soldiers were shooting at him now, and it seemed a miracle that he was not riddled by bullets. At last he fell and lay still in the dust of the field. He had had his wish and died facing the enemy.

            It is often asked where Zapata gets the guns and ammunition to carry on his campaigns. He has no outlet to the American border, where the foreign munition brokers keep the other insurgent factions supplied. A great part of his supplies have been captured from the enemy. He has also bought much ammunition from the enemy. This may seem unbelievable to Americans ; but it is a fact that large quantities of munitions of war have been sold to the Zapatistas by the officers of both Huerta 's and Carranza's armies.

            Zapata is the only revolutionary leader who has refused the fiat money—the bilimbiques which have ruined the credit of the country. He has many ways of raising money. One instance will show one of his methods :

            A French company owns large sugar planta-

© International Film Service. Inc.

GENERAL EMILIANO ZAPATA AND HIS STAFF

This picture was taken after the capture of Cuernavaca

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tions in Morelos and conducts a sugar mill. Zapata sent for the manager.

            "You now pay no taxes to the federal government," he said. "So you will pay me one thousand pesos a month. You can still make a profit."

            For four years that sugar company has continued operations, and according to the manager himself, has made a fair profit. Each month he has paid his tax and been given protection.

            Zapata has confiscated several gold and silver mines. These are operated for the benefit of the cause.

            Charges have been made that Zapata is savagely cruel in warfare and executes all prisoners. This is true. It is also true of the Carranzistas, the Villistas, and every other faction, federal or revolutionary, in Mexico. Killing prisoners is a time-honored custom.

            Some months after the outbreak of the European war, Zapata said:

            " They say that I do not make civilized warfare. I can take some lessons from the German and English. How can war be civilized? War and injustice go together. Only with peace and justice is there civilization."

            Zapata's remarkable control over his men astonishes every one who is familiar with the mob spirit which dominates most of the revolutionary factions. His Indians obey the word of "Don Emiliano" with a reverence almost amounting to worship.

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            On one occasion an officer stole a sack of silver pesos. He fled into the state of Guerrero. Zapata sent for a young officer of his staff and said:

            " You will follow this traitor night and day, and never rest until you find him. You must not kill him, but bring him back to me alive. I will hang him in the plaza before all the people, as one who has been false to his trust."

            Without remark, the young officer left the headquarters and started the pursuit. For weeks he trailed the fugitive back and forth through hostile country. At last he captured him and brought him, hand and foot, into a room where Zapata was holding a conference.

            "Mi general, I obeyed your orders," reported the young officer. "Here is the man you sent me to catch."

            Zapata's face turned ashen in anger. Jumping to his feet, and speaking in the low, hissing tone he used when excited, he said :

            " So, the dog thought that he could be an eagle! You are worse than a pelon. You are a traitor ! You were trusted and you stole the money which was to buy food and ammunition for your comrades. Because of this you must die like a dog and a traitor !"

            White-faced and trembling, the young officer who had captured the fugitive and obeyed orders so well, stepped up to the table and touched his hat :

            "Mi general," he said huskily, "you told me to

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capture him without injury and bring him before you. I have done so. Now I want to ask one favor. Let me die in his place and set him free."

            "What fool is this?" cried Zapata in amazement. "Why do you, an honorable soldier, want to die to set free this traitor?"

            "He is my youngest brother," replied the officer. "I obeyed your order because you are my chief, but if my brother dies because of me, I would not want to live."

            For a moment Zapata gazed from the cringing prisoner to the pale-faced officer standing rigidly at attention.

            "Listen to me!" he finally exclaimed, pointing his finger in the prisoner's face. "Your brother has proved that he is a man! So I will grant his request. This is my sentence: you will be stripped of your rank and you will work as your brother's mozo. You will do woman's work and cook for him, and serve him as a slave. Nevermore will you carry a gun in the company of free men. Go!"

            When it is considered that Zapata is a half-breed Indian, scarcely able to read and write, it must be admitted that he is somewhat of a philosopher. I believe that this peon chieftain is the one leader in Mexico who has no ambitions to be a dictator of his country. As long as he can rule his native state and keep the landlords out, he is content. He sees only one thing—the land question; but he sees that very clearly. His "Plan

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of Ayala," as far as it applies to the common ownership of land has worked. At least it has worked to the satisfaction of the poor laborers.

            Carranza is still carrying on war against him, but Zapata is holding his own. His army is an elastic one. At times it shrinks to a few thousand men, when the peons go back to till their fields. When a campaign is begun, his forces swell to many thousands.

            One thing is sure. He can get as many recruits as he has guns.

            Whatever the solution of the Mexican problem may be, Zapata and his half-million loyal followers must be considered. He will quit fighting only when his "Plan of Ayala" is made part of the law of the nation.

            Of all the insurgent leaders who have battled for supremacy the last seven years in Mexico, he is the one chief who has remained true to his followers. His peons know what they are fighting for. They are battling for land and Don Emiliano Zapata.

CHAPTER XXIX

            GENERAL ALVARO OBREGON, the Irish-Indian Secretary of War of Mexico, and backbone of the Carranza movement, granted an interview one day to three men of international reputation as diplomats and financiers. He received them in his offices in the national palace of Mexico City.

            Dressed in his neat uniform of olive drab, he might have been an American army officer at his desk. For some minutes he sat and listened to the proposition presented by the three visitors.

            "This is a great opportunity that comes to few men," pleaded the spokesman of the party. "You have complete control of the army. What you command is the law. Carranza is an obstinate old fool who will not listen to reason. He is unpopular with the people, while you are the hero of the hour. You have the army in your hand ; we have the money. We can put many millions behind you, the influence of foreign banks, the loyal support of the business element of Mexico. We ask you to repudiate Carranza. We will declare you president, and you will rule Mexico. It is you alone who have held Carranza in power. Withdraw that support, and you will be another Diaz. The prize is too great; you cannot refuse."

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            For a moment Obregon sat, twisting his mustache, gazing at the representatives of the great money-powers. Then, lifting his hand, he touched a push-button on the desk.

            "Before I answer your question," he replied smiling, "I want to introduce you to a gentleman who is going to be closely associated with you for some time."

            "This meeting was to be confidential," protested one of the committee. "Who is this man?"

            "He is your jailer," replied Obregon, waving his hand toward the officer of the guard who entered the room.

            In true story-book fashion the three arch-plotters were hustled out of the office, clutching their high silk hats and muttering maledictions.

            The incident illustrated why Carranza, a civilian who never took part in a battle, and who is cordially disliked by the revolutionary element in Mexico, has managed to seat himself in the presidential chair. He has had Obregon, and Obregon has remained loyal.

            Since the decline of Pancho Villa, General Obregon is the strongest man in public life in Mexico. He is the man who captured Mexico City from Huerta the dictator, the first leader to defeat Villa in battle, the soldier who defeated Zapata and drove him back to his Morelos mountains, and the one man who has held the Carranza faction together.

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            Obregon stands out in pleasant relief from the crowd of swashbuckling, spectacular rebel leaders of Mexico. He is a quiet, well-educated man, a successful military leader, and a natural politician. Not that he lacks the fighting spirit. In the second battle of Celaya, where he defeated Villa and broke his power, Obregon was shot in the arm. Improvising a tourniquet to stop the flow of blood, he sat in a carriage and drove back and forth behind the battle-line, giving his orders, until victory was assured. As a result of his delay he lost his arm.

            Personally Obregon does not like Carranza, and has so expressed himself in public. On one occasion, when angered at some blunder of the provisional president, he said: "If we had woman suffrage in Mexico, Carranza would be the logical candidate for the woman's party."

            "Then why do you support him?" was asked.

            "Because we selected him as the First Chief of the Constitutional movement," he replied. "When we started this revolution we launched an organized movement, elected Carranza and signed the Plan of Guadalupe as our program. We must carry that plan through to success, and no personal likes or dislikes must interfere."

            This Mexican Warwick has had a remarkable history for a man only thirty-five years old. As he proudly boasts, he is an Indian from the state of Sonora. He is equally proud of his Irish

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grandfather, whose name was O'Brien, one of those Celtic political exiles who settled on the west coast of Mexico.

            Obregon grew up among these Indians, speaks their language, and takes part in their tribal ceremonies. From these west-coast tribes he drew most of his recruits when he started his career as a rebel chief. After graduating from the schools of the national capital, he studied for two years in Paris. His early ambition was to shine upon the operatic stage, and he is an accomplished musician.

            It was my fortune to be with Obregon in his first fight at Ojitos, during the Orozco rebellion in 1912. He had distinguished himself in that fight, leading a cavalry charge and capturing four cannon. The Ojitos ranch was owned by a brother of Lord Charles Beresford, the British admiral, and was one of the noted show places in Chihuahua. That night a group of officers gathered on the veranda, celebrating their victory and boasting of the parts they had played in the fight.

            Obregon slipped away from the crowd to the parlor, where he had discovered a piano. Sitting in the darkness, he played and sang airs from Italian and French operas. The talk of the officers on the veranda halted. Squads of big-hatted Indians gathered around the building, silently listening. It was a strange audience for "Celeste Aida" and "Donna Mobile." I little thought that night that the singer would, three years later, be

© International Film Service, Inc.

GENERAL VILLA, SITTING IN THE PRESIDENTIAL CHAIR IN THE NATIONAL PALACE, MEXICO CITY

On his left is General Zapata, on his right General Tomas Urbina, the comrade of his bandit days whom he later killed

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the chief military leader of Mexico, with power to make or break presidents.

            At the end of that campaign Obregon was a colonel of volunteers. He marched his Indians back to Sonora and prepared to muster them out of service. On the day President Madero was murdered and General Huerta enthroned himself in the national palace, Obregon's resignation was in the mail. He announced his intention of retiring to his farm. That night he marched his troops out of Agua Prieta and proclaimed a new revolution against the usurper. Friends of Obregon claim that he was the first officer to take the field against Huerta.

            His army grew like a herd of cattle in a roundup. During the following year he swept through Sonora like a whirlwind, never losing a battle. Carranza was the only legally elected governor in Mexico who repudiated Huerta. The revolutionary leaders selected him as their first chief, and Obregon signed the pledge to support him. He is one of the few who signed that pledge who never violated it.

            His campaign down the west coast was one of the most spectacular in Mexican history. Hermosillo, Guaymas, Mazatlan, Manzanillo, and finally Guadalajara, the second city of the republic, were all scenes of hard-fought victories. When Huerta fled from the country, Obregon was at the gates of Mexico City, and received the surrender of the remnant of the federal army.

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            Meanwhile the split between Pancho Villa, leader of the victorious army of the north, and Carranza, the nominal Chief of the revolution, had occurred. Obregon stepped in as a peacemaker and addressed a round robin to the leaders of the jealous factions. "The people won this revolution," he declared. "No one man or set of men can claim all the credit. No man must stand in the way of peace. Every general is entitled to a voice in the construction of the new government. We must arbitrate our personal differences."

            In pursuance of this plan, he attempted to adjust the differences between Carranza and the headstrong Villa. As a result, he nearly lost his life before a firing squad. It was again my good fortune to be with him at this critical period of his career.

            In an effort to patch up a working agreement he had come to Villa's headquarters in Chihuahua, accompanied only by three members of his staff. The meeting took place in a private house in the city. Villa was surrounded by his heavily armed staff, a revolver hanging at his thigh. Obregon was unarmed.

            "You are working with Old Whiskers to betray the people," shouted Villa, giving way to one of his insane passions. "You will never go back to plot against me. I will have you shot like a dog."

            Obregon stood twirling his watch-chain in his

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fingers, smiling in tantalizing calmness at the infuriated peon chieftain.

            "If I were afraid to die, I would not be a soldier," he replied. "I came here to plead for the peace of Mexico, not for myself. If you think my death will benefit Mexico, kill me. There are many more men as good as I am who are ready to take my place. When you are ready to listen to my message, I will return."

            Turning his back on Villa he walked from the room. The guard at the door stepped back and let him pass. They were awed by the quiet determination of this man who fought without a gun.

            Villa refused to grant another interview, and that night Obregon left Chihuahua on the return trip to Mexico City. On his invitation I accompanied him as his guest in his private car. It was the general belief that he would never leave the Villa territory alive.

            The next morning our train was stopped at Jimenez and ordered back to Chihuahua. Again Villa commanded the execution of Obregon. His generals pleaded with him to countermand the order and at last grudgingly consented.

            Once more we started on the southward trip, the train guarded by a company of Villa's soldiers. At Gomez Palacio, four miles from Torreon, Obregon was handed a telegram, which warned him that he would be shot in that city. As our train rolled across the bridge into Torreon, we could

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see a company of cavalry lined up before the depot. Obregon called me into the drawing-room of the Pullman.

            "I believe that it is Villa's intention to kill me here," he said calmly. "If I am not killed I certainly will be imprisoned. Now, you are an American and a neutral. You will not be harmed, while the men of my staff will suffer my fate. I want you to get out and send word to my friends, who may aid me. Take this money and go to the border. Buy an automobile or anything you need."

            Opening an iron box under the seat he handed me a roll of American banknotes as round as my thigh. I have never known how much money was in that roll. There must have been many thousands of dollars.

            Our train rolled into the station and the car was immediately surrounded by the soldiers. Guards were posted at both entrances and Obregon was informed that he was a prisoner. Twice I tried to escape but was driven back.

            Generals Isabel Robles and Tomas Urbina boarded the train and informed Obregon that Villa had again ordered his execution. They were opposed to the killing and were in telegraphic conference with the big chief of the north.

            For over an hour, our train lay beside the depot with a guard at every door and window. A dozen telegrams were exchanged. At last General Robles handed a dispatch to Obregon, saying,

            "This is good news."

                                © International Film Service, Inc.

GENERAL FRANCISCO VILLA IN AN ANGRY MOOD

He is abusing a railroad conductor who was responsible for an accident. A few minutes after this picture was taken Villa sentenced the conductor to death

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            The message read:

            "Let him go quickly. We shall live to see the day when we are sorry."

            " It is my advice that you leave immediately," said General Robles. "He might change his mind again."

            The guard was withdrawn and we proceeded on our way. As we left the city Obregon walked down the car aisle and grasped my hand.

            "It was worse than a battle, was n't it, Tejano?" he said laughing. " Three times in two days have I been sentenced to death. It grows tiresome. By the way, you may return that money. Your trip will not be necessary."

            Not daunted by this experience, Obregon returned a few days later into Villa territory and held a conference with the Villa generals. At this conference it was agreed to hold a peace convention on neutral ground at Aguascalientes.

            At this convention, which lasted two months, Obregon made a proposition which would have prevented the last two years' war in Mexico if it had been accepted. Mounting the stage of the hall where the meeting was held, he announced :

            "They say that three men are blocking a peaceful settlement of our disputes. These three men are Villa, Carranza, and myself. I suggest that we all three resign and let the delegates here form a provisional government. On my part, my resignation is in your hands, and I pledge myself to retire to my home and abide by the majority vote

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of this convention, if Villa and Carranza also resign."

            Strange to say, General Villa promptly agreed to the plan and sent in his resignation. Carranza refused, and precipitated war by declaring that he would no longer heed the actions of the delegates, unless they met in Mexico City, which he controlled. Villa promptly declared war and moved on the capital. Many followers of Carranza deserted his banners and joined forces with his enemies. Villa and Zapata entered Mexico City in triumph. It seemed that the Carranzista cause was lost, but again Obregon turned the tide. He declared that although he disagreed with Carranza 's policy, he would remain loyal to the Constitutionalist pledge.

            Gathering his demoralized forces, he fell back before the superior armies of Villa. An amusing incident occurred at that time. A general, who had commanded a brigade of two thousand Yaqui Indians, rushed to Villa's headquarters one morning.

            "That scoundrel Obregon has stolen my army!" he wailed.

            While the general was absent from his troops, the suave Obregon had appeared before the Indians and made a speech in their own language. As a result, the entire brigade followed him to his camp in the hills, while their general officers were roistering at a ball.

            For several months Obregon was inactive. He

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was organizing his forces for a new blow. Suddenly he swept up from the east and fell upon the Zapata army at Puebla. In a house-to-house battle lasting two days, he drove the Zapatistas back to their hills.

            Villa retreated north and made his stand at Celaya. In two desperate fights, in which several thousand men were killed, Obregon won the advantage and hurled the army of the north back to the border. It was the beginning of Villa's downfall. Day by day since that time his power has waned.

            Obregon was now the popular idol of the Carranza faction. He was the winner in the Mexican cockpit. His empty sleeve was an eloquent appeal to the imagination. At that time he could have been president, but still he remained loyal to Carranza.

            Through his turbulent career is woven the thread of romance. At the beginning of the war he was engaged to marry Miss Maria Tapi of Nogales, Arizona, a graduate of Leland Stanford University. Twice the wedding day was set, and twice postponed, because duty called him to the firing line.

            When he was wounded at Celaya, and his arm amputated, Miss Tapi refused to consent to further delay. They were married on the day Obregon was able to leave the hospital.

            When Carranza was elected president of Mexico, Obregon again tendered his resignation, say- 

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ing that his task was finished. Mexican politicians cannot understand why a man who holds the supreme power in the country should want to quit his job. They look for the ulterior motive. Many declare that Obregon is shrewd enough to let Carranza do the work of reconstruction, knowing that the time will come when a new national leader will be demanded by the people. Then Obregon's hour may strike. Villa has eliminated himself by his bandit tactics. Zapata is only a local force in southern Mexico.

            Perhaps the politicians may be wrong. In Obregon the revolution may have developed one man who has no ambition to be a dictator. One thing is certain : the shrewd, courteous Irish-Indian can make or break any government that is set up in Mexico.

CHAPTER XXX

            AFTER five years' fighting in Mexico, I saw that the country was no nearer a peaceful settlement than it had been on the first day of the Madero rebellion. I was disgusted with the outlook. Three times the insurrectos had won their revolution, only to lose the rewards through the personal ambition of the leaders.

            At that time I was a major on the staff of General Pancho Villa. We were quartered at Zacetecas. One day I decided that, win or lose, the time had gone by when an American could conscientiously fight in the personal quarrels between Villa and Carranza.

            That afternoon I handed my resignation to General Villa. He urged me to stay, but when he saw that I was determined to go, presented me with a pass to the border and a letter stating my services in the "Army of the North." He also presented me with a handsome Mexican blanket, woven by the Indians of Zacetecas.

            I had planned to return to Chicago, but on my arrival in El Paso I found a new adventure awaiting me. At that time the Yaqui Indians were committing depredations in southern Sonora, in western Mexico. Several thousand of the so-called "tame" Yaquis were in the army of Governor

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Maytorena, but the "broncho," or hostile, Yaquis still held their ancient hunting-grounds in the mountains.

            Many of the American mines in Sonora had been forced to close, because these raiding war-parties prevented the operation of pack-trains. I was offered the job of organizing a company of guards to protect these pack-trains, guarding the provision trains into the mountains and bringing the gold and silver bullion out to the railroad. As the salary was tempting, I accepted.

            At Nogales and Hermosillo, the state capital, I organized my company. It consisted of eighty-five Papago Indians and seven white men. We were well armed and mounted. Twice we had small skirmishes with Yaqui bands, but no serious engagements. The Yaquis, however, objected to our parading through their territory, and their chiefs in the service of the governor lodged a protest. Governor Maytorena decided that we were an irresponsible body of armed men, without legal authority to carry arms in the state. As practically every man in the state, native and foreign, was carrying arms at that time, his excuse was far-fetched.

            I was notified that if I would accept a commission in the state forces, we would be permitted to continue our work. Much against my will, I accepted the commission. A short time later I was ordered to report with my men to General Torres, in the southern part of the state. This automatically ended my job.

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            There is a lifelong feud between the Yaqui and Papago Indians. I knew that if I took my little company down among the Yaqui soldiers,—there were over two thousand with General Torres,—they would probably be massacred. Therefore, I refused to obey the orders of the governor.

            He ordered our party disarmed, but the Mexican soldiers at La Colorada, where we were at the time, decided that the job was more than they cared to undertake. I wired Governor Maytorena that I was going to the border with my men under arms. We were not looking for a fight, but if any attempt was made to stop us, we would have no other choice. Although we passed several parties of state troops on our trip out, we were not molested.

            After this disappointing experience, I decided to quit Mexico and try civilization for a change. Going to Chicago, I secured a position with the Associated Press. After several months' work there, I was employed as managing-editor of the "Herald-News," of Joliet, Ill. During my stay in Mexico and on the border I had come in contact with many well-known writers and war-correspondents. They had often urged me to try magazine work. Rex Beach, the novelist, had visited me on the border, and in his letters he suggested that I try my hand at writing fiction based on my experiences.

            I now decided to follow his advice. My first story was purchased by the "Pictorial Review."

354      ROVING AND FIGHTING

Since that time I have abandoned newspaper work and have concentrated on a direct drive at the magazines. The predictions of my friends have come true. During the last year I have succeeded in making a fair living by my stories. For the time being the long trail has ended at a desk in New York.

            In writing this sketchy account of my twenty years of roving and fighting, I have had to grope back in my memory for incidents which might be of interest. Many memories of those by-gone days, forgotten for years, have come to me as I reviewed the past. These memories are all that I have inherited from my twenty years as a nomad in the odd corners of the world—these, and the loyal friends I have met on the road !

            My wandering may be over. Who knows? Perhaps, some restless night, the "curse of the meandering foot," may again fall upon me, and send me plodding down the long trail which has no end.

THE END