Searching for Pancho Villa

Largely set in northern Mexico a century ago, Winston Groom’s El Paso—which made WORLD’s short list for 2016 Novel of the Year—is chock-full of men with big personalities who sometimes act more like chest-thumping boys. Arthur, the central character, is an orphan who grew up in a wealthy adoptive family headed by an extravagant Rough Rider disappointed that his son isn’t as “manly” as he is. Both grow in character while chasing Pancho Villa: Arthur develops courage, his father gains a bit of humility, and both become more manly as they come to view their family as more important than their assertions of manliness. Groom mixes in historical figures with his fictional characters, much like he did in Forrest Gump, and his biting take on socialist idealists such as John Reed is amusing. In the following excerpt, courtesy of Liveright, we encounter two Villa sympathizers: Cowboy Bob and real-life writer and journalist Ambrose Bierce. —Sophia Lee

Chapter 22

Ambrose Bierce and his little party had sneaked down across the border in the dark of night. They crossed the Rio Grande unnoticed about ten miles west of El Paso, plunging into the dusty scrub desert under cover of starlight, passing only a few lonely adobe huts lit inside by dim candles. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year on the high plains, and the first night they camped out in a thicket of mesquite.

Cowboy Bob was naturally curious about his mysterious traveling companion who called himself Jack Robinson, but the hundred dollars he’d been paid to take Bierce to Pancho Villa, along with Bierce’s taciturn manner, inclined him not to ask too many questions. He did, however, once inquire what Bierce’s occupation had been.

“I have spent my entire life making idiots feel uncomfortable,” was Bierce’s blunt reply. “It has been my life’s work. And now I am retired, and living a life of leisure.” After that, Cowboy Bob didn’t ask anything else.

“I been thinking about a new plan, Mr. Robinson,” Cowboy Bob said. “Tomorrow, we’ll head down to the Arroyo Blanco trestle.” The five of them were stretched out around the dying embers of a fire. “It’s about forty miles from here, southeast.”

“And when we get there?” said Bierce.

“We wait for the train. I imagine somebody will have fixed the tracks by then. It’ll take a lot longer to rebuild that trestle. But I don’t intend to ride a horse all the way down to Chihuahua City if I can help it. That’s sort of beyond the call.” What Bob counted on was that even with the trestle out, the train from El Paso would run up to the river, then they could cross over and catch a Mexican train that would have run up from Chihuahua.

“Is that where you think Villa is?” asked Bierce.

“Probably, in Coahuila, maybe, or somewhere near it. It’s kind of his headquarters, unless the Federales have kicked him out again. Anyhow, there are plenty of people in Chihuahua who’ll know where to find him.”

“How do you know he’ll welcome us?”

“I don’t,” said Cowboy Bob. Until recently, Cowboy Bob used to scout for Villa’s army. But with the Americans closing off the border and all, he assumed that Villa wouldn’t be exactly happy to see too many Americans. In the old days, Villa kind of liked Americans—even had three or four of them on his staff. Had some French and an Englishman, too, and even an Italian. Bob thought it made Villa feel important, having those sorts of people around.

In the old days, Villa kind of liked Americans—even had three or four of them on his staff.

“You think it would help if I brought him a present?” said Bierce.

“Maybe. It’s kind of their custom down here. What sort of present?”

“I have something in my bag. Bought it in El Paso. I thought he might like it.”

This piqued Cowboy Bob’s curiosity even more but since Robinson didn’t volunteer any more information, he let it drop.

“What do you suppose Villa really wants out of this business?” Bierce asked.

“That’s a good question,” answered Cowboy Bob. “He’s got this notion of a revolution where the poor people run things instead of the rich folks in Mexico City. It’s gotten to be kind of like a religious zeal with him, like he was a savior or somethin’.”

Bob had known Villa in the old days, too, when he used to run stolen cows across the border and sell them to the ranch Bob worked for, and Villa hadn’t given a [profanity] about much of anything back then.

“Well, that’s the thing about revolutions,” Bierce said. “Their only purpose is to elevate the poor to the same level of stupidity as the wealthy. Does Villa enrich himself personally in the process of this revolution?”

“He ain’t broke, if that’s what you mean. Got good horses, good clothes, good guns. I mean, he’s a general, if that’s what you call it. As far as does he have a stash? I got no idea. But if I was him, I sure as hell would.”

“How’s his English?”

“Not good, not bad,” Bob said. “Speaks it so you can talk with him pretty well. I don’t think he writes it or reads it much, though.”

“And vices?”

“Women and cigars are about it, if you leave the killing aside. He don’t drink. Never seen him touch a drop. Somebody said he use to in the old days but he quit. I guess it didn’t agree with him or something. He eats a lot of ice cream. Absolutely loves it. That and lemonade.”

“I’m going to give him a sidearm,” Bierce said, and produced from his kit a small shiny two-barreled pearl-handled derringer, finely engraved and extremely well made, to the point that the screw covers on the handles were inlaid cut diamonds.

“Well, well, Mr. Robinson,” said Cowboy Bob. He was stunned. It was just the sort of gift that would put Villa in an expansive mood. He cradled the pistol in both hands as though he were holding a sacred relic.

“Made in London,” said Bierce. “Carry it in your pocket or wherever. I supposed you could wear it in a hatband.”

“You’re a pretty intuitive feller,” Bob said, using one of the few complex words he knew.

“Does he have a sense of humor?” Bierce asked.

“Well, yeah, if you can call it that,” Bob said.

He remembered the time Villa had caught four Federales who had been murdering, raping, and stealing at a village over in Sonora, and lined them up for the firing squad, but at the last minute decided they weren’t worth the bullets he was going to shoot them with. So he told them all to do a left face. Then he fetched some big old buffalo rifle about .65-caliber with a barrel four feet long and positioned himself in the line behind them and killed them all dead with one shot that passed right through one to the other in the heart. It looked to Bob like falling dominoes. Villa had seemed very pleased with himself after that.

“Well, everyone needs a sense of humor,” Bierce observed. “War and cruelty apart, it’s no longer a laughing matter to be a member of the human race.” “I reckon not, Mr. Robinson,” Bob said. “Not where Pancho Villa’s concerned.”

From El Paso by Winston Groom. Copyright © 2016. Published by Livermore Publishing Corporation, a division of W.W. Norton & Company Inc., New York. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.