American Blood

by Jason Manning

  Having left Taos at daylight, they reached their destination about noon of the following day. They paused on the backside of a ridgeline, out of sight from the town. Falconer, Delgado, Grail, and Captain Cooper moved in a crouch to the rim and scanned the adobes a long rifle shot away. Smoke curled from a few chimneys. Several horses in a cedar-post corral pawed at the snow, trying to find some grass beneath the frozen crust. There was no one out in the open. Truchas, from what little Delgado knew of the place, was home to a handful of sheepherders and their families.

  "Looks peaceful enough," mumbled Cooper. He forced the words out through clenched jaws, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

  Delgado had learned that Cooper—like Doniphan, a lawyer in civilian life—had seen some action as a volunteer during the Black Hawk War ten years ago. This experience had led to his election as a company commander in the First Missouri Mounted Rifles. His outfit had been one of the companies that had not been converted to infantry by Stephen Kearny. By all accounts, he and his men had acquitted themselves very well during the recent campaign against the revolutionaries. But Cooper, a capable man who had earned the loyalty of his men, knew his limitations. He was not accustomed to independent command, and had evinced a genuine interest in listening to good advice. For this reason he was as glad as Delgado that the legendary Hugh Falconer had consented to come along on this expedition.

  True, the mountaintop village looked peaceful, but they all knew that looks could be deceiving. Delgado wondered, though, if Diego Archuleta was really here. Perhaps he had never been. Perhaps they had come all this way for nothing. Delgado hardly cared at this point. His one goal in life right now was to get warm again. I would like to have some feeling in my hands and feet just once more, he thought as he gazed longingly at the chimney smoke and imagined the cheerful little fires that produced it.

  "Captain, maybe we should move in from two sides," suggested Falconer.

  "That's a good idea. I'll take half the company around to the south."

  Falconer nodded. "You do that. And keep below the skyline. If Archuleta is there, no point in letting him know we've come calling until we have to."

  "Right," said Cooper.

  "He had damn well better be there," said Langdon Grail.

  "When we see you break cover," Falconer told Cooper, "we'll come in."

  "Good."

  "Luck, Captain."

  "Let's hope we don't need too much luck." Cooper left them, returning to his men. Illness and injury had decimated the ranks of his company in the four months since Fort Leavenworth; there were only thirty-nine recruits fit to ride. Cooper took twenty of them and started his flanking maneuver around Truchas.

  "Maybe I should ride in alone," said Delgado. "If Archuleta is there, he might be willing to give himself up."

  "Doesn't matter if he's willing or not," said Grail.

  "We could possibly save a few lives if we give him a chance to surrender," said Delgado.

  "No," said Falconer. He glanced at Delgado with an apologetic smile. Delgado thought he resembled an Indian on the warpath; beneath his eyes he had daubed streaks of tobacco juice mixed with mud—this was an old trick designed to prevent snow blindness. "Too risky, Del," he added, sensing that his young friend was inclined to debate the issue. "Archuleta doesn't know you the way I do. He might not trust you. You can't tell what a man on the run with his back to the wall will do. Besides, Diego Archuleta isn't likely to give up without a fight."

  Delgado didn't argue the point. He left the ridgeline and went back down the slope to where the nineteen Missourians stood by their horses, using their mounts to block the wind and moving around to try to encourage the circulation in their arms and legs. Delgado did likewise. Falconer and Grail remained up above, watching for Captain Cooper.

  Ten minutes crawled by, followed by ten more. Finally, the mountain man and his companion rejoined Delgado and the volunteers.

  "Time to go," said Falconer, swinging into the saddle and removing the fringed buckskin sheath from his Hawken rifle.

  As they rode over the ridgeline into view from the village, Falconer instructed the volunteers to speak out to left and right and to keep well apart. Delgado rode to the right of the mountain man while Grail kept to his left. Grail didn't carry a rifle; he drew the Colt Paterson from under his buffalo coat.

  Grail had told him that the Paterson was one of the new revolvers created by Samuel Colt. The five-shot, .36 caliber, holster-size pistol had been used by the Texas Rangers for five years. One of the gun's strongest advocates, Ranger Captain Sam Walker, was now working for Colt to secure a military contract for the .44 caliber pistol, the Walker Colt, with which the United States Army wanted to arm all its mounted troops. Delgado could well understand why. Colt had revolutionized firearms; his pistol possessed greater accuracy and range than the old flintlock, and it could fire five bullets in less time than it could take someone armed with a single-shot pistol to fire once and reload.

  For his part, Delgado carried only the little over-and-under derringer his father had given him. The weapon was practically worthless at a range of more than twenty feet, but Delgado had not come to Truchas to kill people.

  As they neared the village, they still saw no sign of activity around the adobes, and Delgado began to get nervous. Surely, by now the occupants of those houses were aware that blue-coated American soldiers were closing in from north and south.

  Falconer, Delgado, and Grail entered the village's single street, holding their horses to a walk. The soldiers began to pass between the adobes on either side of them. Every door and window shutter was tightly shut. At the other end of the street Captain Cooper was coming toward them, flanked by several of his men. A dog barked, and Delgado almost jumped out of his skin. Then he heard an infant squall from inside one of the adobes. So there were people here! Maybe they were afraid to venture out of their homes, thinking that the American barbarians had come to slaughter them.

  He was opening his mouth to share this thought with Falconer when he heard the creak of a door opening and looked over his shoulder to see that the door to an adobe they had just passed was open enough to permit a rifle barrel to protrude.

  "Look out!" he shouted.

  The rifle spoke. A soldier who had passed between two of the houses and reached the street right behind them was struck in the back. He cried out, slumped forward, and then slipped sideways out of the saddle as his spooked horse jumped away.

  At that instant a man with a rifle popped into view on the roof of the house to Delgado's right. Heart lurching in his chest, Delgado fumbled with the derringer beneath his coat, snug against his belly under his belt. Grail was faster. The Colt Paterson barked twice, and the man on the roof somersaulted to the ground, landing with a sickening thud so close to Delgado's horse that the animal shied sharply to the left, colliding with Falconer's mount. Falconer swept Delgado out of the saddle with one arm as he himself cleared the saddle, swinging a leg over the saddlehorn. They dropped down between the two horses. Like a cat, Falconer landed on his feet. Delgado's bad ankle turned at an awkward angle beneath him, and he fell to one knee. Langdon Grail rode on down the street. Falconer's horse, and Delgado's, followed him. The mountain man's Hawken boomed like thunder. Delgado caught a glimpse of a man in a doorway, and then Falconer's bullet punched the man back into the darkness of the adobe's interior.

  Picking himself up out of the mud and snow of the street. Delgado whirled as a man charged out of the house directly across from the one occupied by the rebel Falconer had just shot. A snarl on his swarthy features, the man came straight at Delgado with a cane knife brandished over his head. Just like that terrible night in Taos, thought Delgado. The panic was gone; suddenly he was quite calm and deliberate. He raised the derringer at arm's length and waited until he could fire at point-blank range. The rebel's legs ran out from under him, and he sprawled on his back in the blood-splattered snow, dead.

  The action seemed to shift farther down the st
reet, toward the middle of Truchas. Another soldier toppled from his saddle. Galloping past an adobe, Grail fired twice into a window where a rifle barrel jutted out between the shutters, and then he made a running dismount that spoke volumes about his youthful agility. Kicking in the door, he entered the adobe with the Colt Paterson blazing. He appeared a moment later, framed in the doorway, methodically reloading the revolver. That took guts, marveled Delgado—to go charging into the adobe with only one cartridge left in the Colt's cylinder.

  Two houses down the street from Grail, the door of another adobe hut opened and a man emerged using a young woman as a human shield. He held a knife to her throat. Captain Cooper, trying to keep his prancing horse under control, shouted at his men not to shoot. The Colt reloaded, Grail started in that direction. Delgado broke into a run. He was afraid for the woman's life. If one of Cooper's Missourians didn't kill her trying to shoot the rebel, then Grail was perfectly capable of doing so. The rebel was yelling at Cooper, but the captain did not understand what he was saying. "He wants your horse!" Delgado yelled. Cooper glanced along the street at him, a befuddled expression on his face. He didn't know what to do. Delgado thought it was a good trade—the rebel might spare the woman's life for the horse and at least a slim chance of escape.

  Grail was still walking toward the rebel. There was an almost casual air about the way he moved, as though he were taking a stroll along a quiet boulevard. The rebel saw him, screamed at him to keep his distance or he would kill the woman, but Grail didn't even break stride, and Delgado thought My God, he is going to shoot, and even as the thought came to him, he watched in horror as Grail began to lift his gun arm.

  A pistol spoke. The woman screamed. But she wasn't hurt. The rebel who had been hiding behind her pitched forward, knocking her to her knees. The knife slipped from his lifeless fingers. His dead weight bore the woman to the ground. She got out from under him and scrambled to her feet, intent on running, but the street was full of soldiers, so she stayed where she was, frozen in terror.

  Diego Archuleta came out of the adobe, a pistol in his hand. Standing above the man he had just shot in the back, he spat on the corpse.

  "Bastard!" he growled. "Coward, to hide behind a woman's skirts."

  Grail walked right up to him and pointed the Colt at the spot between Archuleta's steely eyes. "Drop that pistol."

  Archuleta smirked and let the empty single-shot, percussion pistol slip from his hand. "What's your name?" asked Grail pleasantly.

  "He is the man you've come all this way to kill," said Delgado as he pressed the derringer against Grail's spine. "Only you're not going to kill him."

  Delgado was aware that Archuleta was staring at him over Grail's shoulder, but he kept his gaze firmly fixed on Grail's trigger finger.

  "Lower your gun, Mr. Grail," said Delgado.

  "What the hell is going on here?" bellowed Cooper.

  "Pull that trigger, and you will die right along with him," said Delgado.

  He was bluffing—he very much doubted if he could backshoot Grail, even if the man did blow Diego Archuleta's head off—and he could only hope Grail wouldn't call his bluff. Not just for Archuleta's sake, but his own, as well. It seemed likely that Grail, if he killed Archuleta, would spin around and pump a couple of bullets into him, if only out of principle. Grail was not the kind to let someone who had pointed a gun at him just walk away. And then what would happen? Delgado decided that Falconer would probably kill Grail. So they would all be dead, and for what?

  Grail lowered the Colt Paterson, turning slowly as he eased the hammer down. He looked at Delgado with a fairly insolent smile on his lips.

  "What difference does it make," he asked, "if this man dies here or on the gallows?"

  "The difference between murder and justice."

  Grail shook his head. "You're a fool, McKinn. That's a fine distinction in this case. You think he'll get justice in Beaubien's court?"

  "You're right," allowed Delgado. "The real reason I'm doing this is that I just don't like you."

  "Well, now, I can understand that. Not many people do."

  He walked away. Archuleta glanced at the derringer in Delgado's hand. The little pocket pistol was now aimed at him.

  "He is correct," said the rebel leader. "Judge Beaubien will make certain I pay with my life for the death of his son, Narciso."

  "And you should."

  "You make no sense, McKinn. I would just as soon die here. Go on. Kill me. I am responsible for your father's death."

  "I know. He didn't deserve to die."

  Archuleta shrugged. "Perhaps not. But you do. You are a traitor, Delgado McKinn. May you burn in the fires of Hell for betraying your own people."

  "You will not be made a martyr," said Delgado flatly, knowing that Archuleta was trying to provoke him into shooting. "Not today."

  At Captain Cooper's command, two soldiers dismounted and flanked Archuleta, pointing their guns at him. Delgado pocketed the derringer and turned away. The shooting had stopped. Delgado wondered bleakly if any more innocent people had lost their lives this day in the little town of Truchas.

  Falconer was coming up the street, leading his horse and Delgado's. As he handed over the reins, the mountain man said, "You reckon this means the revolution is over, Del?"

  "I pray that it is." Delgado sighed as he swung wearily into the saddle.

  2

  It was a Thursday morning when a man came to the McKinn house and informed Delgado that Diego Archuleta wished to see him. Delgado reluctantly agreed.

  He had been busy all week making arrangements for his mother to be looked after and his father's business to be handled by reliable associates during his absence. His father's business? No, it was his own now. That would take some getting used to. He did not feel competent to run such affairs. In his youth—those golden, simpler days before he had gone off to Oxford—Delgado had always managed to avoid becoming too involved in the business, although Angus had wanted to show him the ropes. Time enough, Delgado had argued, in the years to come. He was young and had made an art out of shunning responsibility. His mother had been his willing accomplice. She would tell Angus not to rush things, that their son needed to enjoy his childhood. Now Delgado's lack of interest had come back to haunt him. Fortunately, Angus McKinn had employed trustworthy subordinates who knew the value of an ingot of silver, or a hundredweight in wool, men who were expert when it came to tariffs and the buying and selling of commodities, and who were adept at making a profit in the process.

  Delgado's plan had been to leave tomorrow, Friday; he had no desire to watch Diego Archuleta swing on the gallows in the square. For all intents and purposes the rebellion was over, and he was more than ready to put it all behind him. He was ready, also, to see Sarah again, his beloved Sarah, to hold her in his arms and taste her lips again. He still carried, at all times, the tea rose she had given him at the moment of their parting.

  Falconer was going with him. So was Jeremy, much to Delgado's surprise—until he learned that Jeremy had received a letter from his sister informing him that their father was gravely ill and pleading with him to come home at once. So Jeremy was turning his back on war and glory because he had read between the lines and feared that Jacob Bledsoe's days were numbered.

  Delgado procrastinated until that afternoon. It did not seem right to keep a dead man waiting, but Delgado could muster no enthusiasm for the task. He did not want to see Archuleta again. What did the man want to say to him that had not already been said? Delgado was in no mood to be called a traitor again. Finally, he steeled himself and crossed the square, beneath the naked trees, turning his collar up against the bitter blasts of cold wind that rustled the dead leaves across the old paving stones. The sky was overcast, as gray as lead. Archuleta had been condemned to die at sunrise; Delgado wondered if he would feel the warmth of the sun on his face, one last time, before the hangman covered his head with the black hood. Before the noose was placed around his neck, pulled tight, and the hang
man's knot laid just so across his left shoulder. Before the trapdoor dropped away, and he made that last, long descent into eternal sleep. It did not seem right to kill a man without letting him have one last look at the sun. Delgado shuddered—it was not entirely due to the weather.

  Archuleta was the only prisoner in the cell block where, a fortnight ago, Delgado had seen Grail kill a man who, in turn, had been trying to strangle the life out of the rebel who was willing to sacrifice Archuleta to save his own life. Delgado wondered what had become of that man, the betrayer of the rebellion's heart and soul? Judge Beaubien had kept his word, releasing him as soon as Archuleta was brought in, though it had galled the judge to let live one of those he held responsible for his son's death. Did that make Beaubien an honorable man? Delgado couldn't decide. He had been thinking a lot about honor of late; what man so often labeled traitor would not? He wasn't sure anyone had come out of this bad and bloody business with his honor intact. I least of all can stand up to such scrutiny. Of one thing Delgado was fairly sure. Archuleta's betrayer would not live long. He had the mark of Cain upon him now, and before too many more days had passed his corpse would be discovered in the gutter.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  Archuleta was sitting in the corner, a blanket over his shoulders, knees pulled up tight against his chest as he tried to contain his own body's heat—the only source of heat in this cell block. He looked up upon hearing Delgado's voice. Lost in his own thoughts, he had not heard Delgado coming. Delgado wondered what he was thinking. About his family, perhaps? Archuleta had sent his wife and children to safety—relative safety—in Mexico before the arrival of the Army of the West. Quite possibly they did not even know their husband and father was about to be executed for murder. And, oh yes, treason. Or was he thinking about his country? Or about what lay on the other side of that long drop on the scaffold? What did a condemned man think about in those last precious hours of life?