"And that would be what?"
"Archuleta's demise."
"Is William Bent paying you to hunt down Archuleta?"
"No, I volunteered for the job."
"Wouldn't hurt to have a man like William Bent beholden to you," said Jeremy tersely. He did not care for Langdon Grail, and that was evident by his tone of voice.
"Quite so," agreed Grail. "I think questioning those prisoners yonder about Archuleta's whereabouts might be productive. Don't you think so, Mr. McKinn? Perhaps you would consent to help me."
"Help you? In what way?"
"You know the judge, I imagine, and other people in positions of authority and influence here in Taos, do you not? Perhaps you could arrange it?"
"That wouldn't do any good. Those men would not betray Diego Archuleta."
"Not even if their lives were spared in return for information?"
"I could not offer them their lives. It is not within my power to do so. Neither could you."
"Couldn't I? Well, perhaps I will see you gentlemen at the trial. Good day."
They watched Grail melt into the crowd of onlookers.
"I wouldn't want to be Archuleta," muttered Jeremy. "There is something about that fellow—I would hate to have him hunting me."
Delgado could only agree.
3
The trial of the sixteen insurgents began immediately. All were charged with murder. In addition, the charge of treason was leveled against five of them. Thanks to the McKinn name, Delgado was allowed into the packed courtroom, and he took Jeremy along with him. Hugh Falconer had expressed no interest in witnessing the trial. The mountain man seemed perfectly content with waiting out the winter in Taos. He planned to leave for home as soon as the weather allowed. He wanted to get back to Lillian as badly as Delgado wanted to see Sarah Bledsoe again.
The treason charges troubled Delgado. How could a person conquered in war be tried for treason against the conquering country? He doubted that these men had ever sworn allegiance to the United States of America. They were only defending their homeland.
The prosecutor, Frank Blair, produced the Kearny Code as evidence that the defendants had indeed committed treason. These laws, drawn up by Alexander Doniphan and promulgated by General Kearny in his capacity as military governor prior to the arrival of Charles Bent, were, by the admission of the very man who had produced them, of dubious constitutionality. They purported to establish a permanent territorial government in New Mexico and to bestow upon the people all the rights enjoyed by citizens of the United States—actions that properly could only be carried out by the Congress. With the rights of citizenship, argued Blair, came certain responsibilities, one of which was to refrain from taking up arms against your own country. Delgado did not accept his argument. One could not commit treason against a country of which he was not a citizen, and these sixteen defendants were not citizens of the United States just because the Kearny Code said so. He had argued as much with Colonel Doniphan, who, the previous night, had enjoyed the hospitality of the McKinn house.
"For better or worse," said Doniphan, "the Kearny Code remains the only version of American law in New Mexico. It was put in place for the purpose of preserving order and protecting the rights of the inhabitants, and if any excess of power has been exercised, it stems from a patriotic desire to extend to the people here the privileges and immunities cherished by all Americans and which can only improve their condition and promote their prosperity."
"Besides," said Jeremy, who sat with them and drank more than his share of brandy, "what difference does it really make? Those rebels will hang for murder anyway. The charge of treason is of no consequence. You can't kill a man twice."
"In a way you make a valid point," said Delgado. "Why even level a charge of treason in the first place? It will only serve to alienate some of the people. They can understand why a man must be executed for committing murder, and few will argue that the rebels killed innocent civilians. But they will not understand the treason charge. Some would say that I am the real traitor. That I turned against my people when I helped you."
"You are not a traitor according to the Kearny Code," said Doniphan. "You are an American, Mr. McKinn, and you have served your country well."
"My country?" Delgado smiled. "And if Santa Anna marches north and recaptures New Mexico am I a Mexican citizen again at that moment? Do I have any say in this? Or does my citizenship solely depend on which flag happens to be flying above the Cabildo today?"
"I thought you understood," said Doniphan, frowning. "I thought you wanted New Mexico to become part of the United States, that you realized the advantages inherent in that reality."
"I wanted to do what I could to prevent bloodshed. Obviously, I did not do enough. But I must be careful, Colonel, lest I say the wrong thing and find myself charged with treason."
The trail was swift. The witnesses touched their lips to the Bible and then, pointing accusing fingers, condemned the prisoners to certain death. When the testimony was completed, the jury retired to deliberate. They were absent from the courtroom less than fifteen minutes. The verdict: guilty on all counts. Judge Beaubien sentenced each man to be hanged on Friday, traditionally the hangman's day. After uttering the sentence, the judge solemnly concluded with "Muerto, muerto, muerto." The defendants accepted their fate with admirable stoicism. There was a heavy stillness in the chamber—no jubilation, no cheers, no weeping, nothing. The people filed silently out.
That evening, Langdon Grail knocked on Delgado's door.
"Judge Beaubien has consented to see me," said Grail. "Would you like to come along, Mr. McKinn?"
"What for?"
"I wish to persuade the judge to let me interview the prisoners for the purpose of learning the present whereabouts of Diego Archuleta."
Delgado was of half a mind to decline. But in the end his curiosity got the better of him, and he agreed to accompany Grail.
Judge Beaubien was in his study, slumped in a chair by the hearth, brooding in the darkness, when they were ushered in to see him. The servant lighted a lamp and withdrew. Beaubien gestured at a sideboard.
"Help yourselves, gentlemen. Forgive me for not rising. I am an old man, and of late very tired. I confess that I have not slept at all well since the death of my son."
Delgado felt sorry for the judge. A widower, the only joy in his life had been his son, Narciso.
"You must be Senor Grail," said Beaubien as the young Missourian sat in a chair facing him. "Of what service can I be to you?"
Grail told him what he was after. Delgado watched Beaubien, and when Diego Archuleta's name passed Grail's lips, the judge's eyes blazed with a vengeful light. In that instant Delgado knew that Langdon Grail would get his wish.
When Grail finished making his request, Beaubien pondered for a moment in grim silence. Delgado thought he knew what the man was thinking. He wanted all sixteen of the men whom he had today sentenced to die to keep their appointment with the hangman. There was no mercy in Beaubien. It had died the night Narciso was cut to pieces by the insurgents. Now the judge had to weigh letting live one of the men he held responsible for his son's death against the chance to bring Archuleta to task for his role in the uprising. By all accounts, not one of the sixteen men doomed to death this day in Beaubien's courtroom had been among those who, for an hour or two, had wrought such terror and bloodshed in Taos. But that didn't matter. That was a minor point. They were the available targets for the vengeance burning in Beaubien's grief-ridden soul, and he was loath to let even one of them live past Friday.
Finally, he raised his haunted eyes and fastened them on Delgado.
"I assume by your presence here that you support Senor Grail in this scheme."
"I want Archuleta brought to justice. As long as he is free, no one is safe. But while I think he is a murderer, I do not consider him a traitor."
Beaubien dismissed that distinction with a gesture. "It matters not. Archuleta will not be taken alive." He turned back t
o Grail. "You will see to that, won't you Senor? I will write a letter that will permit you to talk to the prisoners. There is one condition."
"Of course, sir."
"I want to see Diego Archuleta's corpse with my own eyes. I want to be absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he is muerto."
But that will not help you sleep, thought Delgado sadly.
Armed with the letter from Judge Beaubien, Grail and Delgado crossed the snow-covered plaza to the jail. The Taos sheriff, an American, had been among those slain by Archuleta's rebels, and since no one, perhaps understandably, had stepped forward to take his place, the safekeeping of the prisoners was the responsibility of Doniphan's Rifles. A half dozen volunteers stood guard. Grail presented the letter to a lieutenant who was the officer in charge. As they were allowed into the cell block, a vivid memory assailed Delgado—of going with Sarah Bledsoe to the St. Louis jail to visit the abolitionist, Jeremiah Rankin, of running the gauntlet of men who prowled the Market Street square with murder in their hearts. Sarah had been determined to save Rankin from a lynching; now here was Langdon Grail with the power to save one of the rebel leaders from the hangman's noose. Odd, thought Delgado, how once again he was being drawn, more or less against his will, into a game of life and death.
"My Spanish is atrocious," Grail told him. "Will you be so kind as to translate?"
"Of course."
"Show each man this letter. It bears Judge Beaubien's signature. In it he promises to suspend the death sentence of the man who tells me where Diego Archuleta can be found. That is all I need to know. Nothing more need be said. We will start with these men."
He indicated the trio of prisoners confined in the first strap iron cell. One sat in a corner of the barren cell, a second leaned against the far wall, beneath the small, barred window, and the third lay on a blanket spread across the cold stone floor. There was no heat in the cell block, and Delgado knew the prisoners must be suffering terribly from the below-freezing temperatures. He had to remind himself that these men had been identified as the instigators of a revolt that had cost many innocent people their lives, including his father. Still, he felt sympathy for them. Perhaps Jeremy was right. It might have been better, more humane, had they been promptly executed by firing squad. That would be a more dignified death. Better for them, anyway, since now they would spend the last days of their lives dreading the long walk to the gallows.
All but one of them, anyway—the one who saved his own life by condemning Diego Archuleta to death.
He held up the letter so that the three cell mates could see it.
"Judge Beaubien will suspend the death sentence of the man who tells us where Diego Archuleta can be found."
None of them moved or spoke. They glared at him with their dark, doomed eyes.
"You will live if you tell us."
No response.
"Next cell," snapped Grail.
Delgado moved to the next cell and repeated the offer. There were four men in this strap iron cage. Grail gave them thirty seconds to think it over. No more, no less. He had no compassion for the condemned. He did not care whether they lived or died, as long as he got what he was after, the location of his prey.
"Next cell."
And so four more men were doomed.
In the third cell was the man Langdon Grail had been looking for.
"I know where he is," said the Mexican even before Delgado could begin his statement. He had heard the deal twice offered. He didn't need a third rendition. "I will tell you."
"Bastard!" snarled one of his cell mates. "Diego will kill you."
"No," said a third man. "Diego will not have the chance."
He hurled himself at the betrayer, bearing him to the floor and throttling him with both hands and banging his head against the cold, smooth stones.
Grail calmly drew a Colt Paterson .36 from under his longcoat, aimed through the strap iron, and fired. His bullet struck the third man in the back of the head. The man's skull seemed to come apart in a spray of pink mist. The corpse slumped forward, and the one who said he would betray Archuleta squirmed out from under the dead weight and flung himself at the cell door, gasping for air, his face streaked with blood, his eyes wide with fear.
"Get me out of here or I am a dead man!"
The lieutenant and one of his men had rushed into the cell block upon hearing the gunshot.
"Let this man out," said Grail.
The lieutenant didn't like Grail's peremptory tone, but he complied. Once freed, the Mexican clung to Grail.
"You have saved my life, senor. I am forever in your debt."
Grail shoved him roughly away. "Your life means less than nothing to me. You have saved yourself if you tell me what I need to know."
"I will. I swear it."
"If you lie to me, I'll throw you back in there with your friends. I doubt you will live long enough to hang."
"No, senor! I will not lie."
"Traitor!" snarled one of the prisoners.
"Let's go." Grail grabbed the Mexican's arm and took him into the small, spartan office adjacent to the cell block. Delgado followed. As much as he wanted Diego Archuleta to answer for the death of his father, he regretted now having taken part in this business.
4
"Archuleta is hiding out in the village of Truchas," Delgado told Hugh Falconer later that night. "Grail is leaving in the morning. I have decided to with him."
Falconer finished off his whiskey and poured himself another as he glanced at Delgado, seated in a chair by the fireplace, elbows on the arm of the chair, chin resting on clasped hands. Delgado was gazing moodily into the flames of the fire roaring in the big stone hearth.
"Just the two of you?" asked the mountain man.
"No. Colonel Doniphan is sending a company of men under the command of a Captain Cooper. Grail didn't want any soldiers along, but there was nothing he could do about it. The lieutenant in charge of the prisoners heard everything and informed Doniphan."
"Archuleta's probably not alone. Did this man Grail think he could do the job by himself?"
"Apparently. He's a killer, Hugh. I don't think human life holds any value as far as he is concerned. And his job is to kill Archuleta. That might not be easy if the soldiers take him prisoner, and I have a feeling Colonel Doniphan wants him taken alive. He wants the people to see Archuleta get a fair trial. If you can call the kind of trial he will get fair."
"I don't think you should go, Del."
"I must."
"If something happens to you, what will become of your mother? I don't know that she could take the shock of losing you so soon after she's lost her husband."
Delgado allowed that Falconer had a valid point. His mother had seldom ventured out of her room since Angus McKinn's death. She was under a doctor's constant care. It was as though a big part of her had died with Angus, and Delgado didn't know if she would ever fully recover.
"I have to go," he decided. "I have to make sure Grail doesn't murder Archuleta."
Falconer folded his lanky, buckskin-clad frame into a chair facing Delgado.
"You're not really worried about Archuleta."
"No, I guess not. But if he is gunned down in cold blood, the revolution will have another martyr. I know, it seems now as though the rebellion has failed. But all that is needed to revive it is one spark. Remember that dragoon, Fitzgerald, shot down El Tomacito. One more incident like that and it could start all over again."
"Well," said Falconer, "I admire your motives."
"But not my methods?" Delgado smiled. "You said that very thing to me once before. Do you recall?"
"Sure I do. On the levee in St. Louis. You were going to try to prevent Brent Horan from buying that slave girl."
"You stopped me then. You won't be able to stop me this time, though. My mind is made up, Hugh."
"I can tell." Falconer drank some more whiskey, contemplating the situation. "Truchas is up in the high country. On the divide, with no cover in any
direction. Nothing but open ground and deep snow. Archuleta will see you coming for miles. You won't catch him by surprise, so you'll be in for a fight."
"If he dies fighting for what he believes in, that's better than being hanged as a traitor."
"I just don't want to see you die fighting for what you believe in, Del."
"So I guess that means you're coming along."
Falconer nodded.
"Not just for my sake, I hope."
"For your mother's sake, Del."
Again Delgado had to smile. "I know you'll be glad when Jeremy and I stop getting into trouble, won't you?"
Falconer sighed. "I wonder if that day will ever come?"
Chapter Ten
"The difference between murder and justice"
1
Truchas was a small collection of adobes that seemed to be perched on the top of the world. Up here, above the timberline, the snow lay deep and blinding white in great expanses. And, in spite of being clad as warmly as humanly possible, Delgado winced every time that wicked north wind came howling along the divide—which was often.
The Missouri volunteers suffered as much as he. Thanks to the legendary foresight of General Kearny, who had planned for every eventuality prior to marching out of Fort Leavenworth, including winter campaigning in the high country, they were each provided with a blue woolen long-coat. Most of them wore a scarf, muffler, or piece of cloth around their heads and knotted under their chins to keep their hats from being carried away by the capricious wind, and to keep their ears from freezing. They sat huddled in their saddles, some suffering in stoic silence, others cursing the snow, or the cold, or New Mexico, or President Polk, or themselves for being so foolish as to ever set foot out of Missouri.
Only Hugh Falconer appeared immune to the new elements. Wearing a heavy white capote—perfect camouflage on the snowfields—over his buckskins, he didn't even seem to notice just how cold it was. Delgado reminded himself that this man had survived for many years in the mountains. The life of a trapper was one of constant hardship and general privation.
Although he didn't think he required a nursemaid, Delgado was glad to have Falconer along. No one was sure quite what to expect once they reached Truchas, but the frontiersman was one of those men who somehow knew exactly what do do in every eventuality. This came, Delgado supposed, from experience. There probably wasn't much Hugh Falconer hadn't seen. And danger was nothing new to him.
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