Come Sundown

by Mike Blakely

  “You’ve never seen a sober Indian?”

  “Not in Denver. Anyway, a heathen is still a heathen, drunk or sober. I don’t know how progressive you people are down here in New Mexico, but Colorado Territory is ready for statehood—just as soon as we rid ourselves of secessionists and savages, and I mean to do both. Why, if it wasn’t for the First Colorado Volunteers, the Texans would already have stormed Fort Union!”

  Then Major Chivington commenced to brag about how his men had been the first to engage the Texans in Apache Canyon; how they had surprised some thirty members of the Rebel advance guard and captured them without firing a shot; how they had scaled the slopes on either side of the canyon and fired on the main body of Texans, driving the Rebels back over Glorieta Pass toward Santa Fe.

  I remember thinking that Chivington was already practicing his campaign speech. As soon as I could excuse myself, I took my leave and went to find the regimental blacksmith. After some hard bargaining, he let me have an old rat-tail file that I thought I might find a use for on the morrow.

  THE NEXT MORNING found us riding up the Galisteo Road to the top of Glorieta Mesa. The major and I led the way on horseback, followed by a mounted company of New Mexico volunteers under Lieutenant Colonel Manuel Chavez. Behind the New Mexicans came four hundred Colorado infantrymen. The old cart path to Galisteo was steep and rough in places, but easily traversable by hardened dragoons and foot soldiers.

  After a march of three miles, I cantered on ahead with the mounted New Mexicans. It was Colonel Chacon’s job to scout southward on the Galisteo Road with his cavalry to make sure no Rebels were coming up from the southwest. When the road turned sharply away from Glorieta Canyon, I stayed behind and let Chacon’s men ride on. This point along the Galisteo Road was about two miles from Johnson’s Ranch through the ponderosa and piñon pines, so I waited here for the foot soldiers to catch up. While I waited, I took all my dispatches from my pockets and hid them under a rock. Should I get killed or captured in the coming attack on the supply train, I did not intend to let my correspondences fall into enemy hands.

  When Major Chivington arrived, I showed him the trail, and he gave orders for the men to fix bayonets and proceed forward silently. The major dismounted and followed me through the woods toward the enemy. Chivington was almost twice my size, and I had to stop often to wait for his bulk to catch up. He lumbered like a grizzly where I bounded like a mountain goat. Four hundred infantrymen trailed behind. The scrub oak thickets and pine forests proved somewhat difficult for a large body of men to traverse, but we plunged ahead with all possible haste down the narrow trails used for generations by woodcutters.

  In the distance, we could hear artillery, and knew that Colonel Slough had entered the east end of the canyon to engage the Texans head-on. Colonel William Scurry had been in command of the Texas advance for days, and I knew from Valverde how hard he and his men could fight.

  Major Chivington was huffing like a locomotive by the time I led him to the bluffs overlooking the Texas supply train. He looked distastefully down at the rugged slopes below, and waved his second in command forward—a regular army officer named Captain Lewis.

  “Lewis,” the major whispered, between gasps for breath. “Lead the men down that ravine to the right. Keep them quiet. Remember the element of surprise.”

  “Major, with your permission,” I said, “I’ll take a platoon and disable that six-pounder across the way.” I showed him the file I had acquired from the blacksmith.

  Chivington liked the idea. “Very well,” he said. “Godspeed, gentlemen.”

  Captain Lewis motioned for our troops to follow us down the ravine.

  “He’s not going down there with us, is he?” Lewis said, a smirk on his face.

  “Apparently not.”

  When we had climbed down to the mouth of the ravine, still undetected by the enemy, I picked twenty-four soldiers as my platoon—rough-looking boys from the Colorado mines. I divided them into two ranks and told them how we would attack the artillery position. The rest of the men would storm the wagons, driving the Texas guard to the west, and setting the wagons afire as they gained ground.

  Lewis cocked his revolver and glared back at the men. “Do your duty, soldiers!” he said, right out loud. He turned toward the enemy and yelled, “Charge!” running toward the wagon train. A battle cry rose from the ravine as men poured into the open, quickly rushing among the buildings of Johnson’s Ranch, and into the array of wagons. Captain Lewis fired the first shot.

  I led my platoon at a sprint around the right of the wagons, watching surprised Texans jump and run before us, most of them unarmed. My own revolver was in my hand, cocked, but I didn’t intend to fire it frivolously. Shouts and gunshots began to fill the air, and I could see the gunners on the knoll wheeling the cannon. They fired a shell toward the ravine from which the Union men were still pouring, but it sailed high and exploded harmlessly against a bluff.

  As the gunners began to reload their piece, my platoon charged their position. Only three riflemen were there, protecting the artillerymen, and my force vastly outnumbered them. They were surprised and rattled, and their rifle fire missed us as we charged up the slope toward them. The six-pounder barked again, harming no one, and the riflemen around the cannon fumbled to reload their weapons.

  I stopped and raised my Colt, though yet out of pistol range. “First rank, prepare to fire,” I ordered. I waited for their rifles to rise, then said, “Fire!” I added a pistol shot to the barrage. One Texan answered with a double load of buckshot that tore through our line like a swarm of hornets, one piece of shot ticking my ear. Looking back, I saw all my boys still standing.

  “Reload!” I ordered. While the first rank tore paper cartridges with their teeth and groped for ramrods, I said, “Second rank, prepare to fire. Fire!”

  Another dozen rifle balls peppered the gunners. “Second rank, reload. First rank …” I waited for the last couple of men to replace their ramrods. “Charge!” I led the way, firing my revolver deliberately and sparingly. The Texans looked down at our charging bayonets and quickly abandoned their cannon, scrambling out of sight down the other side of the hill. My platoon raised a cheer as we captured the artillery piece. Sporadic firing continued among the wagons below us, and smoke began to billow from burning canvas and lumber. I saw one soldier using a shovel to toss live coals from a campfire into a wagon. A group of four men pushed an already burning wagon into another to catch it, too, on fire.

  The excitement of our charge and the success of our attack began to stir me. My heart pounded and I realized that I was gasping for breath. We had completely routed our enemy, but I reminded myself to remain cautious. Then I looked across the canyon and saw Major Chivington standing alone on the opposite bluff, his hands on his hips as he watched his men swarm through the Texas camp.

  “That’s quite a pulpit he’s got there, ain’t it,” one of the men said, sneering through his words.

  “Hey, look here!” said another. “There’s blood!”

  “I knew I hit one of ’em!” boasted still another.

  “You didn’t hit nothin’. That was my man.”

  “The hell it was!”

  “Hey, let’s turn the cannon on the bastards!” another soldier suggested, watching the Texas gunners run for their comrades, who had been driven to the far end of the supply train.

  “No!” I replied. “Our orders are to disable the piece. First rank, form a defensive line between us and the wagons. They may try to reclaim this piece.” The second rank was just now coming up the hill, having reloaded. “Disable that cannon!” I said to them.

  The men looked at me, then at one another. “How’s a feller do that, exactly?” one of them asked.

  I shook my head and ordered the second rank to take a knee behind the first rank, in case the Texans should indeed try to recapture their artillery. I found an axe that the Rebels had used to chop open crates of shot and shell. Using the axe, I drove the tail of the regi
mental blacksmith’s rat-tail file into the vent hole of the captured six-pounder. I drove it in as far as it would go, and then beat on the side of the file until it broke off, leaving the tail wedged in the vent hole. This would prevent the enemy from inserting any more friction tubes into the vent hole to fire the cannon.

  I looked down at the wagon train now, and found almost the entire supply camp in flames. I decided to double-spike the cannon for good measure. “Grab the ramrod!” I said to the soldier nearest to me. I found a metal fuse gouge on the ground and picked it up. Next, I grabbed a six-pound cast-iron cannonball from an ammunition crate. I jammed the shot and the fuse gouge into the muzzle of the piece together, and pounded them in as far as I could with the back of the axe head.

  “Stick that ramrod in there,” I ordered one man. I turned to the next nearest man. “Grab that mallet, and beat the shot in there as deep as you can.”

  This was familiar work for men accustomed to hard rock mining with handheld drills and ten-pound sledgehammers. The soldiers gleefully drove the jammed shot irretrievably into the barrel of the gun tube. When this was done, I ordered my squadron to descend the hill and help set the supply train ablaze. They went at the new task with alacrity. About that time, one of the wagons exploded, apparently laden with ammunition. I saw one of the Union soldiers being dragged away, and hoped he was just injured and not dead. It turned out he was merely stunned, and was our only casualty.

  Soon Captain Lewis had completed firing the last of the wagons, and ordered a retreat up the ravine, to commence our return to camp, seven miles away. We all got out of the canyon safely and met Colonel Chacon’s men back on the Galisteo Road. From there, we could look to the north with pride and see the smoke billowing from the burning wagons.

  “You’ve won a bold victory here today!” Chivington said, addressing his men in a booming sermonic tone. “By risking your lives to destroy the supply train of the secessionists, you’ve won the West for the Union!”

  A cheer rose from the men, who had indeed fought well and struck decisively, surprising and defeating the enemy without even drawing much blood. As the men laughed and talked over their victory, the big major turned to me and said, “We’ll march immediately back to Kozlowski’s Stage Stop. Colonel Slough may need reinforcements.”

  “I’ll be heading back to Fort Craig,” I said. “I have dispatches to carry.”

  Chivington snorted at me. “Lost your stomach for fighting?”

  I raised an eyebrow and drew my head back in disbelief. “Have you forgotten who stormed the artillery while you watched from the bluff?”

  Chivington brushed my comment aside. “This was a mere skirmish here today. Why risk your tactical leader in such a small scrape? I’m destined for the glory of a greater battlefield. Someday you will see. However, I’ll mention you favorably in my report.”

  “Don’t bother, Major. I’m not in this for the accolades.”

  “Very well. You may have to slip past some of the enemy down the trail. Take care of those dispatches.”

  “I know my orders.”

  With that, I parted ways with Major John M. Chivington, but not for long. At least, not long enough to suit me.

  WHEN I ARRIVED back at Fort Craig, I told Kit the good news of the destruction of the entire Confederate supply train up at Glorieta Pass. Soon, dispatches arrived informing us that the Texans were moving south. Colonel Slough had been hit hard at the opposite end of Glorieta Pass, but had held. With their supplies completely destroyed, the Texans had no choice but to retreat.

  At Fort Craig, we prepared for a possible attack, should General Sibley attempt to capture our supplies to replace the loss of his own. Instead, he bypassed Fort Craig, taking a hard road through the San Mateo Mountains to the west. The Rebels retreated on back to Texas, demoralized, beaten, and starved. And so ended the grand Confederate scheme to conquer the West.

  Kit came to me in the officers’ quarters one morning while I was reading a letter for the hundredth time—a letter from Westerly that had somehow found its way to me.

  “Kid, we’ve got new orders,” he said, with a smile spreading over his face.

  “We do?”

  “Colonel Canby’s taking command of Craig again, and we’re to ride to Albuquerque to form a new regiment. The First New Mexico Cavalry.”

  “Who the hell are we going to fight?”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes. First, we’re riding to Albuquerque to have us a victory fiesta for ridding the territory of those blasted Texians!”

  Tenderly, I folded the letter in my hand. Any hope of reuniting with Westerly melted like a snowbank under the hot desert sun. Though we had turned back the Confederate invasion, the Union Army was not yet done with Kit Carson, or me.

  Twenty-Nine

  We arrived in Albuquerque to a hero’s welcome. The citizens of the town came out in droves to welcome the volunteers who had fought the bloody Texans. Most of the the First New Mexico Volunteers had transferred into our newly formed First New Mexico Cavalry, but Kit would do some additional recruiting while we were here, and there was no better way to get that done than to throw a big fiesta.

  Before we turned in that first night in Albuquerque, Kit put on his spectacles and had me help him pen an order. The directive ordered Captain Raphael Chacon’s Company E out on a lengthy scout down the Pecos to watch for Confederate movements and Indian troubles. They were to ride that very night.

  “Luther Sheffield’s in that company, isn’t he?” I said.

  “Is he?” Kit said with a grin.

  “You don’t have to protect me from Luther.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. A moonlight drill is good for the boys, that’s all. Just help me finish the dispatch, Kid. That’s an order.”

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, Kit and I began making plans for our feast, securing a beef and a couple of goats to butcher, along with a whole flock of chickens. I sent some trustworthy young soldiers abroad with silver to purchase large quantities of raw ingredients such as eggs, corn, cheese, flour, lard, beans, tomatoes, onions, peppers, spices, and herbs. While the men of the First slaughtered and butchered the livestock, the women from the nearby neighborhood made tamales, tortillas, frijoles, mole poblano sauce, pico de gallo, and many other tasty things. Kit gave Toribio the task of cleaning the guts from the slaughtered animals to use as casings for the spicy chorizo sausage the Mexicans so loved. Soon, the smell of large quantities of cooking food began to serve as an open invitation to the fiesta for the entire neighborhood.

  Kit’s friends ranged from American soldiers to Mexican merchants to Ute Indian scouts to Comancheros, to local elected officials, so the fiesta grew that first day to the point that it spilled beyond his neighborhood and out into the street, meandering like a lava flow past the army camp of the newly formed First New Mexico Cavalry, and down toward the open flood plain of the Rio Grande on the western edges of town. Here was ample room for all the horse- and gun-related events apropos to a proper frontier celebration. By the middle of the day, more cook fires were burning and additional goats and sheep and pigs and chickens were being brought to slaughter.

  That afternoon, Kit came to me as I roasted half a calf on a spit over a bank of coals. He had two saddle blankets and two bridles over his right arm. “Catch us a couple of ponies, Kid. We’d best ride around and say howdy so’s everybody knows it’s our fiesta.”

  I understood his point. As long as everyone knew this was Kit’s celebration, there would probably be no trouble. The fact that it was my party, too, didn’t count for as much, but it didn’t hurt, as I had earned about thirty-eight percent of the reputation Kit commanded. I was honored to ride along. I turned the roasting of the calf over to my helpers and fetched two ponies from the corrals behind Kit’s adobe house.

  We rode around the entire periphery of the gathering of celebrants, all the way to the river and back. Then we rode right through the middle, taking care not to kick dust into anyone’s cook fir
e. The ride took almost two hours, as everyone wanted to thank Kit for the grand feast and fiesta. All the while, he subtly recruited dozens of young men into the ranks of the First New Mexico Cavalry, making comments like, “Wul, the heros of the territory ought to have a right proper fiesta! The boys of the First fit the Rebels! Choused ’em all the way back to Texas! Any man who rides with the First deserves all the glory, by God!”

  Oh, we feasted! Of course we disdained the use of silverware and dishes, wrapping any morsel that would fit into a tortilla, or just grabbing a piece of meat or a tamale with our bare hands. The old frontiersmen would cut a piece of beef from a carcass roasting over a fire, holding one end in a bandana to keep from burning their fingers. They’d grab the other end in their teeth and stretch the portion of meat between teeth and bandana, then use their knives to carve off a bite, their whiskers brushing the blade.

  Horse races enlivened the crowd about once per hour, and the free exchange of many ponies and much money hinged on the outcome of each race. Later, we held target-shooting contests at the riverbank. I won every shooting match I entered, only because Kit’s eyesight had deteriorated somewhat with the years, while mine remained perfect.

  That night, music and dancing took place by the light of twenty-three coal oil lanterns gathered from God-knows-where and hung from ropes strung on a circle of poles hastily set not so deep in the river-bottom silt. Several large canvas wagon sheets spread inside the circle served as a dance floor. When the weight of the ropes and lanterns began to pull the poles inward, threatening a collapse upon the illuminated dancers, some commonsense engineers (some of whom were drunk) went to bolstering the poles with props that jutted into the dancing area, or guy ropes that stretched outward and led to stakes driven into the sands.

  Of course, it was inevitable that someone would trip over a prop or guy rope, and it seems several someones did, with a simultaneity that tested one’s belief in sheer coincidence. I was playing with the loose-limbed orchestra at the time. It happened on the violin section’s finger-plucking part of “Jesusita in Chihuahua,” which must have been the signal. Three dancing couples inside the ring, and two men pretending to be drunker than they were outside the ring, all tripped over props and ropes with such precision that the entire framework of poles and ropes collapsed inward on the dancers. Someone kicked one of the lanterns, spilling kerosene and igniting the canvas dance floor. What followed was accompanied by screaming and laughing and scrambling every which way, during the course of which more lanterns broke and flames spread.