Bill Curry laughed. “Why in the hell would a precocious young photojournalist who’s stringing for the
Chicago Tribune
want to fill in on our pissant little newspaper?” he asked me.
I’ve never been a very good liar but I looked steadily at the man. “Well, sir, Big Wade helped get me my first job in the business,” I said. “And I feel like I owe him.” I believed that while a little premature, maybe this wasn’t entirely a lie.
“And you could work for us,” Bill Curry asked, “at the same time that you’re shooting for the
Chicago Tribune
?”
“Yes, sir, I don’t see why not,” I said. “I’m not on staff there yet. I’m only a freelancer.” Also not entirely false. “I guess I can work for anyone I want.”
Curry seemed to consider this for a moment. “Wouldn’t you rather go to Mexico, young man, than fill in on the day desk in Douglas?”
“Why, yes, sir, of course, I would,” I said. “But I understood that Big Wade was going with the expedition.”
“Oh hell, Big Wade doesn’t want to go anyway,” Curry said. “He’s been trying to get out of this assignment from the beginning.” And to Wade he said: “Jackson, do you honestly think I’m going to let this young man cover the local school-board meetings while I send a fat, old, broken-down boozehound like you to cover the story of a lifetime?”
Although this had been the desired result of his plan all along, Big Wade seemed genuinely deflated by his editor’s words, “Ah, no, Bill,” he said softly, “I didn’t really think that.”
“Jesus Christ, this is terrific,” Curry said, “just what we’ve been hoping for. National exposure for the Great Apache Expedition. And it couldn’t have happened at a better time. I’m going to tell the mayor about it right now. He might want to announce tonight that we have a reporter here covering the expedition for the
Chicago Tribune.
We’ll talk later, young man. A great pleasure to have met you.”
Wade Jackson watched as his editor in chief bustled off to the speakers’ table with this news for the mayor. He shook his head thoughtfully. “There, see how easy that was, kid?” he said in a subdued voice. “Now Curry thinks the whole thing was his idea . . . like I said, one of the dumbest
fuckin’
human beings on the planet.”
Mayor A. G. Cargill was a cheerful-looking, roly-poly fellow with a round pink face like a baby’s. He had a small mouth that seemed to be permanently pursed into an ingratiating smile. Now he worked the speakers’ table, laughing and conferring confidentially with the men seated there, patting them on the back, whispering intimately in their ears, making a show of oily sympathy to Señor Huerta. The mayor was the consummate politician. Finally he took his place at the podium in the center of the table, rapped the gavel smartly, and waited for the crowd to settle.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This is an historic occasion for the great city of Douglas and for our great nation.” It was warm in the packed hall, and the mayor dabbed his upper lip with a handkerchief. “Most of you know the story of poor little Geraldo Huerta,” he continued, “so rudely torn at the tender age of three years from the bosom of his family by bloodthirsty Apache Indians, his mother murdered in the course of the abduction.” He paused, pursed his lips tightly together.
“Seated behind me,” the mayor continued, “is little Geraldo’s father, Señor Fernando Huerta”—he turned and indicated the man—“who comes before us tonight to ask the brave citizens of Douglas to help him recover his beloved son.” The mayor lowered his head for a moment as if in silent prayer. “Many of our older residents still remember the Apache wars in this country,” he continued in a lower voice. “It wasn’t really that long ago, and they remember all too well the unspeakable atrocities the godless savages committed against our fine, God-fearing citizens. But we routed them out, finally, didn’t we? We whupped them good, and those who surrendered we sent to prison and to live on reservations where they belong.” Now the mayor turned back toward Señor Huerta. “And so, sir, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the great city of Douglas will not stand idly by for another moment while your little boy is still held captive. We will not rest until the last bronco Apache in the Sierra Madre is dead, and your son is safe again in your arms. Isn’t that right, ladies and gentlemen?” The audience began to applaud and whistle enthusiastically.
“Yes, that’s right,” said the mayor, pumping his hand, “that’s right! The people of Douglas have spoken. Thank you very much!”
The mayor waited for the crowd to settle. Then he continued. “Tonight it is my great honor to formally announce a heroic joint Mexican-American expedition into old Mexico to rescue little Geraldo,” he said. “And I predict that one day your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will read about the glories of the Great Apache Expedition in their American history books!” The mayor paused again and looked up with an expectant smile to cue the audience that it was time to applaud once more, which they dutifully did.
“Thank you, thank you all very much,” he said. “Now, before I tell you more details about this exciting venture, let me first introduce to you the supreme commander of our forces, Colonel Hermenegildo Carrillo!” The mayor turned beaming to the colonel, who sat directly to his right.
Colonel Carrillo stood up to cheers from the audience and took an elaborate bow, raising his arm in a wave and sweeping it grandly across his body. He was a slender, elegant man, resplendently attired in a closely tailored dress uniform laden with medals and ribbons and gold-fringed epaulets. He wore a closely trimmed mustache and pomaded black hair, and in fact, he did look a bit like the silent film star Rudolph Valentino.
“Thank you, Colonel, thank you,” said the mayor, his face flushed and perspiring. He made a little soundless clapping motion with the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other. “God be with you and your brave men.
“Now, many of you have seen our flyers around town,” the mayor continued after the colonel had resumed his seat and the crowd had settled. “What you may not know is that over the past several months our personnel committee has mailed out literature to exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in over twenty major cities across the United States. We have received, in response, dozens of letters and over one hundred and sixty applications for the Great Apache Expedition from prospective volunteers all across the country. If I might just read to you from one or two of the letters that typify the kind of response our mailings have elicited.” The mayor cleared his throat. “This one is from a Dr. R. G. Davenport of the Denver Country Club in Denver, Colorado. ‘Sirs: If you contemplate going in after those Indians soon, I should count it a very great privilege to join you. I have hunted big game in Africa and in many parts of America, but I am sure that shooting an Apache Indian would give me a greater thrill than any animal I have heretofore shot at.’” The mayor looked up with raised eyebrows, his pursed smile. “That’s the spirit, Doctor,” he said, punching the air with a fist. He held up another letter. “And this one is from Ellsworth Q. Drazy of Dwight, Illinois,” he continued. ‘Has your expedition room for a fellow who has done two hitches in the Marine Corps and one in the navy? I never fought Indians, but I have chased spics all around Haiti and Nicaragua and was in the landing and occupation at Vera Cruz. I guess I’ll have the guts to chase these birds . . .’” At this, Colonel Carrillo shot the mayor a look of utter astonishment, but the mayor, so caught up in his enthusiasm, seemed entirely oblivious to the racial epithet. “Now, isn’t that just wonderful?” he asked. “What a great country we live in that this poor little child’s terrible plight would draw so on the heartstrings of Americans all across the land.” He paused here and lowered his head as if quite overcome with emotion.
Finally he pulled himself together and continued. “Please let me assure the fine citizens of Douglas that this will be no soldier-of-fortune affair, that the men we handpick for this mission will be of the most unimpeachable character and credentials. As many of you have undoubtedly read in recent editions of the
Douglas Daily Dispatch,
we have recruited young men from some of America’s most prominent families. Many of our volunteers have already begun to arrive and I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome them to our fair city.” The mayor scanned the audience. “Yes, I believe that I spy Mr. Tolbert Phillips Jr. of the railroad Phillipses of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in the audience tonight. Mr. Phillips, won’t you please stand up and take a bow?”
As if perfectly accustomed to such celebrity, Tolley Phillips, beaming goofily, stood and waved to the crowd, sweeping his arm back and forth like the pope.
“At the suggestion of the committee,” continued the mayor, “Mr. Phillips, among other of our illustrious guests, has brought his string of polo ponies here with him. And Colonel Carrillo, himself an accomplished equestrian, has formed a special cavalry unit within the expedition. Despite the gravity of our mission, and the rigors of training which the men will undergo in the coming weeks, we’ve also arranged for some fine recreation. For example, as part of the pre-expedition activities in town, we will be organizing polo matches at the rodeo grounds between the American volunteers and the Mexican army soldiers. It should be tremendous fun and we hope you will all turn out to cheer the men on.
“Now I’m sure that everyone has noticed,” said the mayor, lowering his voice to a more confidential tone, “the increased air traffic recently in the skies above our fair city. This is because some of our volunteers are arriving in Douglas via
private aeroplane.
Yes, that’s right. And Colonel Carrillo has also formed a special aviation unit for those who wish to fly their own aeroplanes into Mexico.”
Wade Jackson had left his camera and sidled up beside me. “God, isn’t this magnificent, kid?” he whispered gleefully. “A bunch of rich guys on polo ponies chasing Apaches in the Sierra Madre! Flying their own airplanes! It’s too
fuckin’
good to be true. Did you get a shot of the mayor, kid? What a hopeless windbag.”
“I got the shot, Big Wade,” I whispered.
“Now, another little piece of exciting news,” continued the mayor, “which has just been conveyed to me by our own Mr. Bill Curry, editor in chief of the
Douglas Daily Dispatch.
We are very fortunate to have with us here tonight a young photojournalist by the name of Ned Giles, who has just arrived in Douglas on special assignment to the
Chicago Tribune
!”
“Oh no,” I muttered.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” whispered Big Wade.
“Ned will be accompanying our forces into the Sierra Madre as the official expedition photographer,” said the mayor. “Ned Giles, won’t you please make yourself known to the crowd.”
“You’re on, kid,” Big Wade said, beginning to clap loudly. “God, I feel just like a proud papa.”
I raised my hand and waved sheepishly as the crowd applauded enthusiastically. I couldn’t help but look over at Tolley, who was staring at me, dumbfounded.
The meeting adjourned, and as Big Wade and I were packing up our camera gear, Mayor Cargill and some of his chamber members came over to us.
“Delighted to have you aboard, young man,” the mayor said. “Let me introduce you to a few members of our committee. This is Rex Rice, director of transportation. Rex is our town’s foremost real estate broker.”
Rice was a trim, smiley fellow, dressed in a natty blue blazer and bow tie. “Pleasure to meet you, young man,” he said. “If you have a chance to mention in one of your articles that there are some great buys to be had on ranch land in the Douglas area, I’d sure appreciate it.”
A round, bespectacled fellow in suspenders stepped forward. “T. T. Schofield, here,” he said, shaking my hand.
“T.T. is our director of equipment,” the mayor said. “He manages our local JCPenney store.”
“And this is Chief of Police Leslie Gatlin,” the mayor said. “Director of personnel.”
The chief of police sized me up with small, hard eyes. “You don’t mind my saying so, son,” he said, gripping my hand an instant longer than was really necessary, “you look awful wet behind the ears to be working for a national newspaper.” It occurred to me that a single phone call to the
Chicago Tribune
would expose me as a fraud.
“I’m just a freelancer, sir,” I said, holding his grip. “I don’t really work for them officially.”
“Even the big papers are laying off staff these days, Chief,” Big Wade explained. “It’s a lot cheaper to use hungry young stringers like Ned here.”
Just then Tolley Phillips came over to us, and I was grateful that his presence diverted everyone’s attention from me. The mayor introduced Tolley fawningly; Mr. Rice offered to show him some ranch land outside town; T. T. Schofield told him to come on down to the JCPenney store and he’d see that he was properly outfitted for the Sierra Madre. When it came the chief’s turn, Gatlin looked Tolley up and down with enormous distaste. “Ready to have a go at those Apaches, are you, Mr. Phillips?”
Tolley may be a big sissy, but he’s got a certain self-possession that I’ve noticed in other rich kids—brought up secure in the knowledge that most of the rest of the world works for them. He ignored Gatlin’s obvious sarcasm and said: “As director of personnel, you’re just the fellow I need to see, Chief.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Phillips?” Gatlin asked.
“I shall be requiring the services of a valet to attend to my needs in the wilderness,” Tolley said. “I’d like you to arrange interviews for me with prospective candidates.”