Early morning, March 16, as the moon ducked behind the clouds that drifted over the small town of Columbus, New Mexico, ghostly shadows crept across the landscape full of cacti and mesquite. The air was cool, and there was little breeze. Inside the camp that guarded the armory, the soldiers slept. They were oblivious to the impending attack from the Lion of Northern Mexico.

Pancho Villa and his ragtag band of men numbering approximately four hundred came in from the southeast. They were unseen from the observation towers. They had left their horses outside of town then sneaked across the flanks and attacked the post from both sides. They robbed supplies and munitions at a great loss of life, mostly Mexicans. During the fight, they set fire to a hotel and carried torches. Unbeknownst to them, the torches made them easy targets. Even though they were surprised and outnumbered, the Americans put up a good fight. Afterward, the area in the center of town lay in ruin. The intruders left after a battle that lasted the better part of a half hour.

Pancho Villa led the remainder of his troop to their sanctuary in Northern Mexico. Diplomatic relations between the two countries were further strained by this bold crime. Acting from a need for retribution, an expeditionary army headed by General John J. Pershing was sent into Mexico. This army was called the Punitive Expedition. The Tenth Cavalry, better known as the buffalo soldiers, was a part of this force. Their orders were to catch the perpetrators of the attack on the American town and do whatever deemed necessary to stop the outrages along the border.

The expedition chased the revolutionaries though rough terrain and through the dustiest towns of the northern part of the country. The trail was long. They went through cold mountain passes where the water froze in the canteens carried by the men and the hair froze on their heads and faces. Then they rode through plains where the heat was almost unbearable. Some of the older soldiers, both white and black, could remember the long treks across the endless wastelands that separate the United States and the Mexican heartlands.

Some of the expeditions in the 1880s were into the Sierra Madre Mountains. Then, they were trying to catch roaming bands of Apache, Limpa, and Kickapoo raiders. These marauders would cross the border after committing unimaginable depredations. Apache descendants of those earlier renegades were serving as scouts with the expedition.

The hardship to be endured was only anticipated by a few of the old-timers. The mounted troops' diet consisted of fresh beef, hardtack, beans, and corn.

When they left the high altitudes, they were met by swarms of pests. The droppings from the many thousands of horses and pack animals from both parties produced enormous herds of horseflies and other varmints. Their nuisance came after sunrise, then would subside with the chill of the night, then return the following day. The rains during the season intensified the suffering.

Despite those problems, the army continued south. The army that was organized had been the largest put together to travel by land and rail since the Civil War. The last military actions the United States had been involved in had all occurred overseas; there was the Spanish-American War, there had been a small American presence at Peking during the Boxer rebellion, and there had been an ongoing fight in the Philippines against the Moros, the local Muslim independence fighters.

The United States government set up an official meeting in Connecticut. They were to discuss the crossing and recrossing of the borders by the military of each country in hot pursuit of outlaws. This arrangement had been made years before during the Indian wars. The Mexican government refused to participate. They wanted the United States to unconditionally return to the US. Meanwhile, the National Guard from several states, numbering 150,000, had been mobilized along the southern border.

The word from various Mexican generals had been that there should be no movement either east, west, or south by the American forces. General Pershing had distinctively assured them that the Americans would go north when he received orders from his superiors, and no one else. Mexican federal troops, estimated at ten thousand, had assembled on rails around Chihuahua City. It was understood that those troops were not there to pursue revolutionaries, but to drive out the Americans.

Initially, only ten thousand American troops had crossed the border, but before the incursion was over, twenty thousand Americans were there.

The Mexican Federale units were constantly fighting the rebels. When not doing so, they kept themselves at a distance while keeping a steady vigil on US troops' movements. There had been little interaction between these parties. The newly organized air units had done much of the reconnaissance. Most airplanes were soon put out of action by crashes caused mostly from experienced pilots. The army had to return to its old-fashioned methods, mainly small patrol. Some of these patrols had gone to capture Villa's high-ranking officers, the ones who had participated in the cross-border raids at Columbus. The men hunted were Julio Acosta, Roberto Sebastian, Canderlaro Cervantes, Antonio Angel, Cruz Dominique, Martin Lopez, and Nicholas Fernandez. Some of them were subsequently apprehended and sent back to face trial in the US courts.

Most were killed in various shoot-outs with American or Mexican federal troops. The Carrazana government had given a blanket pardon to the underlings of the Columbus operation. This further annoyed General Pershing. One of the officers in charge of these patrols got into a large firefight. It was none other than Lieutenant Patton, who later became the famous General Patton.

Many of the distances covered could have been cut by one-third; the problem was with the guides. The American scouts, including the Apache, had never been in the territory before. The local people, even when offered money, would only hunch their shoulders and say, "Quien Saba?" ("Who knows?") When asked other information, the same response, "Quien saba?" followed. When following guides who were paid, they inevitably chose the longest route to a particular place. It was obvious; these men worked against the progress of the expedition. This was from fear of reprisals or sympathy with the rebels.

At the town of Guerrero, Villa had escaped the night before, when the American forces had been taken in a circular route and brought into the town at the wrong entrance. Villa had been wounded in a shoot-out with Federales a few days before and had had his leg broken. He had it fixed by a local doctor then left town in a wagon with an escort of chosen men. Upon arriving, the troops were to witness something that soon would become common. When arriving at a federal garrison, the local authorities would execute any rebels captured. The rebels had done the same to them. The exception was only when troops from the local garrison consented to renounce the federals and join Villa's sometimes swelling, but lately dwindling, ranks.

After entering the small towns, the locals were always surprised when the Americans paid for food for the troops and fodder for their horses. These people were accustomed to a different experience. Before, any exchange with the warring faction meant the loss of their valuables. The word soon spread that the gringos pay, and they pay with silver. Thus the columns were supplied with plenty of food of all types, and their horses were nourished to continue their difficult pursuit. Day after day, they passed large old abandoned estates. Most had been torched during the earlier days of the rebellion.

In pursuing their query, the columns would arrive at locations where Chinese would be found murdered. Usually they had been tortured and had their pigtail cut off. These industrious refugees from an impoverished land had become victims of attacks by bands of revolutionaries, bandits, and others who took advantage of them.

A year or so earlier in the southern part of the country, American workers on American- and foreign-owned railroads had been victims of other raiders. These raiders would stop their trains and hold them up for their valuables. They became so bold that they advertised, demanding railroad workers carry certain valuables. These advertisements often came with threats. The advertisements went as follows: when a certain captain stopped a train and the preordered valuables were not produced, the uncooperative party would be shot.

On June 21, one of the patrol's C&K troops of the Tenth Cavalry, under the command of Captain Boyd and Captain Morey, approached Santo Domingo Ranch, where they were to obtain information before entering the town of Carrizel. They had to pass this town to get into Ahumada. W. P. McCabe, the ranch foreman, and two Chinese men in his employ met them. Mr. McCabe informed both captains that there was a way to go past the town without going through it. That night, a few Mexican soldiers came to the ranch and spoke through a translator. They said it was all right to go to Carrizel. Mr. McCabe advised against this, saying that it sounded like a trap. Both companies' combined strength was about seventy-five. The Mexican government troops numbered several hundred. Leaving the ranch the next day, Captain Boyd told Mr. McCabe he didn't expect a warm welcome but didn't expect a hostile one either. Taking in account the prevailing attitude, Mr. McCabe again warned him to be careful.

The next day outside of the town, the American officers parlayed twice with Mexican troops carrying a white flag. They were told the Mexican orders were to prevent them from entering the town. After considerable discussion with the officers, Captain Boyd made the decision that would cost him his life along with the lives of many fellow officers and men, plus those of many Mexicans. He decided to go ahead. He gave the forward order, then the shooting started. During the shoot-out, the Mexican major in charge was killed; he was later made a hero.

After hearing of the affair at Carrizel, General Pershing thought that matters should be pushed, and he would be ready for whatever the outcome. The troops who had been killed and wounded had been the colored troops of his earlier command. The troops had later been chased from the area by upwards of 1,500 men sent from other areas. There were other confrontations during these months of turbulence. Little was done to calm the situation, but for a while, the forces of moderation prevailed.

Dawn was just breaking over the hillside, throwing an amber glow across the dozens of tents pitched in camp. A bugler in his neatly pressed uniform blew reveille, signaling the beginning of a new day.

Across the parade grounds, still muddy from yesterday's downpours, strode an African American man of medium build. He was a captain in the colored-officer corps. He marched toward the largest tent in the compound's center, the headquarters tent. He was exhausted.

The night before, they had camped 304 miles south of the Rio Grande. Much to Sherman Gilmore's chagrin, they were unsuccessful in capturing Villa after several months of harsh pursuit in the sapping heat of Mexico. He wasn't the only one disillusioned and barely able to keep his eyes open. He and his men were suffering; Gilmore was most distressed by this. Only the Lord knew what could be done. Villa had to be stopped from recrossing the border, and he had to account for the murder of Americans.

The camp bustled with early-morning activity. Soldiers walked by on guard duty and perimeter patrol. Some marched in formation to the ammo depot or to grab a cup of coffee to stay awake for an all-night guard shift. Gilmore nearly collided with four Chinese cooks and some laundrymen with their strange gazes and their hair tied in ponytails. He sighed. Slave labor all over again. Black and white soldiers crisscrossed each other in a dazzling array, but the white officers and enlisted went to their camps and the black went to theirs. The camps were segregated but close together.

Gilmore, a proud, handsome man in his midthirties, took a deep, weary breath and saluted a garrison of men heading his way. He was possessed with a dignity and self-assurance that could have only been gained from years of personal triumph. He straightened up as he approached the tent, stopping only once more to wave at a man who was riding into camp from a distance on a horse-drawn wagon.

God, if only I could get some sleep, he thought as he pushed the canvas flap aside and ducked into the tent.

A white major was leaning over a table, glancing at a relief map of Mexico. Gilmore stood at attention and snapped a smart salute.

"At ease, Captain. Colonel Hayward is waiting for you."

Gilmore looked over at the two news reporters who were sitting close and talking among themselves as he nodded to the major. The major waved him forward toward a partition that cut the tent in two. He held up his hand, motioning Captain Gilmore to stand and wait a moment.

"Dammit!" the colonel's voice drifted out to them. "These people act like we are at war with them! You'd think they'd be glad we came. Lieutenant, I want you to take these dispatches to the general's camp. The Mexican government's at war with Villa, isn't that enough for them? So far we have done good in each encounter with the enemy. Some of these engagements have resulted with as many as seventy to eighty of them killed or wounded with little loss to us."

Gilmore heard papers rustling and, a moment later, the lieutenant's voice, "Yes, sir!" The young officer came striding out purposefully, saluting the major before hurriedly leaving the tent. The reporters stood in unison and stepped forward.

"Ummm ..." one of them began, but the major's hand stopped them cold. "One moment, gentlemen." To himself he mumbled, "Reporters."

Gilmore was too busy trying to recount what had happened on his last mission; the colonel was sure to ask for a status report. So far, there had been half a dozen battles with the rebels. In some of these, the US troops numbered over three hundred and the rebels had numbered over four hundred. Then, of course, the clashes with government troops had added to the problems.

"You're up, Captain," the major said, pulling back the partition.

The tent was neat. The captain was impressed at how, even in this humble environment, the military continued to conserve its appearance. There were pictures hung up of the president, military flags, and of course, pictures of the colonel's family.

Colonel Hathaway was sitting behind his desk, looking at a series of reports. When he looked up, Gilmore saluted him. Hathaway returned the courtesy but remained seated. Gilmore walked up to the desk and placed himself dead center.

"Why don't you bring me up to date on what is going on out there, Captain?" Hathaway began.

"Well, sir, we are still in pursuit of the revolutionaries. On the first encounters, they took off through the most damnable terrain imaginable, but we gave chase. We engaged them, destroyed their supplies, and took a few prisoners."

"And now what?"

"They managed to get away anyway." Gilmore clenched his teeth; he didn't like looking bad. He meant to correct this situation. "The locals, sir. Their attitudes are mostly unfriendly toward us."

"Explain."

"Anyone with information would not give it to us, and the ones who cooperated didn't know very much. I think they are holding back on purpose, rather I know they are holding back. And then, some are just plain afraid."

Hathaway eyed him with a dark glint. "Are you saying that the situation is hopeless?"

The captain immediately shook his head. "No, sir. Not at all. Difficult, but not impossible. Returning to the States is unthinkable at this point. What have we accomplished besides having a bunch of men killed?"

"Outstanding." Hathaway glanced down at his papers. He seemed pleased by the captain's response. "You've been chosen for a difficult assignment. If your stand on our position here is as you say, then I believe I have chosen the right man for this job."

"Thank you, sir."

Hathaway waved at him impatiently and continued, "The importance of this cannot be overstated. You've also been chosen on account of your colorful service career, which I understand includes serving in Cuba and the Philippines. While serving here, your performance has been nothing less than commendable."