Lost Lands

by P. J. Keogh

  Besides, a lot of New Mexicans thought Scanlon to be a hard-done-by-hero. Likely an Albuquerque jury would give the bastard a medal, then have him sent to the legislature when elections came around. And Hell, personal predisposition aside, it was only a brace of Mex horse thieves the man had done in. For sure, they had it coming and would have got it, sometime, someplace, from someone.

  Still, his arrest bonus in mind, Chambers had taken Scanlon’s side-arms, and held the tall ex-major while checking on the ‘Wanted’ posters, just in case. Having found no money on Scanlon’s head, he dumped the dodgers into his desk-drawer in disgust, and passed the belted twin-Colts across the desk.

  “Get out o’ here.” The lawman gestured toward his office door. “And out o’ town’d be even better.”

  Scanlon, not wasting breath on a reply, buckled on his ironware, left Chambers to his prejudices, and walked outside.

  A Blackman was seated in a chair on the wooden boardwalk, in the shade of the ramada shielding the front of Chambers’ jug. He rose when Scanlon came out through the door. He was a big man, taller even than Scanlon, with massive shoulders and the muscle of hard labor on him. He was wearing weather-faded Union Cavalry pants tucked into thigh boots. His top-coat was civilian, but his hat had done service in the field. The heavy-caliber Colt’s Dragoon pistol in the open-topped holster had seen its share of campaigning too, and something about the manner of the Black suggested that he was capable of handling it through a campaign or several more.

  He was Lije Fisher, dusty from his hard ride from the stockade at Fort Worth.

  Then, hard-riding out of Texas was not new to Fisher. He had been born there, in slavery, on a cotton-farm near Nacogdoches, child of a woman called Nancy, who cooked and kept house for the cotton-farmer’s wife. The farming family were called Fisher, so by custom that was the name Lije was known by too. The name to which his father—of whom Lije had no recollection—had answered, until the farmer put him up for auction, as was the way with those prone to running off and making trouble.

  When Lije was seven, his owner’s son headed west to the cattle-land, taking Nancy and the boy along. By the time Lije reached sixteen he was a master of the wrangler’s trade. At seventeen—Nancy dead and no longer tying him down—he put his horse-handling skills to what he saw as good use, riding a stolen cutting pony through Comanche country to New Mexico and freedom.

  Due to the compromise of ’50, the territory had a slave-code in those days. But no more than a handful of black bonds-men were to be found in the place. Besides, the Anglo settlers of the Upper Rio, while not over-eager to embrace as friends the Negro race, were too much engaged with the business of survival in the harsh, new land, to take trouble, handing over runaways.

  So Lije made New Mexico his home, prospecting for silver some, hunting mustangs mostly, tussling with Apache either way.

  He had been there five years, when the Secession War came, and he figured he should offer his services. The Union was chary, at that time, of putting Blacks into uniform. That being so, Fisher went without one, riding as civilian courier and scout with the tatterdemalion force a Federal colonel by the name of Canby was scraping together, to face down Sibley’s rebs invading out of Texas.

  Then was when Lije first met up with Scanlon, served in his command.

  “Major.” Lije put out his hand.

  Scanlon took it. “Lije, glad you could make it.”

  The Black grinned. “I’ve had past experience of this fugitive life. Got kinda good at it.”

  As they shook hands, Scanlon said, “So that’s the line, huh?”

  “Yep. I’m a runaway from the stockade at Fort Worth, Texas. Seems I’ll receive a warmer welcome that way, where we’re goin’. Wherever the Hell that might be. Carson’s in back o’ this, they tell me. But I guess I’ve got you to thank for bustin’ me off o’ the rock-pile.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Scanlon’s half-smile came with this. “But don’t thank me until I’ve told you what the job is. That part’ll sound sweeter if you have a drink in your hand.”

  There was a saloon a block away, and the men walked toward it.

  “Carson told me you were in the stockade. He didn’t tell me why.” Scanlon said.

  The big man shrugged. “Well, when the Army formed the Buffalo Soldiers, I enlisted—9th Cavalry. The top men in Washington kinda like the idea of Blackmen servin’ the Flag. Trouble is, their approval don’t run all the way down. A lot o’ white officers and non-coms gave our troopers the worst time they knew how. There was one shavetail at Chadbourne who made it his business to act like a double-dyed bastard, dawn-to-dusk. Thanks to your teachin’, I can read, write, and figure, so the Colonel had made me top-kick. That meant I had to stand up for my boys, which is what I did. However, I found out the Army don’t take kindly to the notion of paymaster-lieutenants with broken bones. They took my stripes, and gave me three years stockade-time in the bargain.”

  Scanlon laughed out loud at the broken bones part of the tale. A blue-suit and first-sergeant’s tapes had done nothing to change Lije Fisher. As for the stockade-sentence, that struck the major as an injustice, and he made his feelings on this matter plain. “Tough hand they dealt you, Lije.”

  Fisher shrugged again. “You know the Army. Hell, you should. At least my colonel and my troop commander spoke up for me. More’n the men in the presidio did for you, after San Alberto.”

  Scanlon gave a bitter nod at the truth in Lije’s words.

  As they reached the entrance to the drinking-place, the Negro spoke again. “My sad story tells why I’m here, Major. But what about you?”

  “Carson bought me out from under one of Maximilian’s firing-squads in Queretara, Old Mexico. This is my end of the deal.”

  “Don’t each man have his own reasons,” Fisher said, as he reached to push open the saloon’s bat-wing doors.

  It was early-evening by this time, and the place was already lively. Poker-games were going on. A piano-player hammered out a tune from a scarred and battered upright in a corner of the room. Across from the piano, a long bar took up one wall. Scanlon and Fisher had to push their way to reach this. The dive was Anglo, with a clientele of American-speakers, and Scanlon ordered two ‘Buffalo’ lager-beers.

  The bartender, with a glance toward Fisher, hesitated. He took in the Blackman’s size, and considered the hard look of Scanlon. Then he weighed these factors against the chance of losing his job, and said, “I’m sorry, Mister, but it’s house-policy.”

  “What house-policy would that be?” Scanlon guessed the answer to this question, but he asked it anyway. His voice had an abrasive edge that only a stone-deaf man could have missed.

  The barman’s eyes shifted Fisher’s way again, as he gave his evasive reply. “‘Tain’t up to me, Mister. I just work here.”

  Scanlon eyed him, weighed him up. The bar-keep was no more than a kid. Likely he was passing through, and working for a few bucks hard-needed road-stake. Still, sympathy aside, this thing would not do. The major was no political man, let alone a Black Republican. But Fisher had earned respect though three years and more of war, and it seemed no more than fair that a man who had fought for his country should be welcome to drink in it.

  Scanlon smiled. By a dull-wit, his smile might have been taken for a friendly one. “I’m right glad to hear that you work here, this being a saloon, and my partner and I being thirsty men. So, if you just do your job and pump two ‘Buffalo’ beers, I’ll fulfil my part and put the money on the bar-top.”

  The youth dropped his gaze. This pilgrim had an air about him that brought to mind notions of pine-coffins and cheap funerals. The Black would be no man’s pushover either, and was standing, saying nothing, his dark eyes revealing little more.

  The boy was in a bind and he knew it.

  A burly, blond-haired man was at the bar, some feet from where Scanlon and Fisher stood. He was a teamster or similar, judged by his garb. The forearms below his rolled shirt-cuffs were hard with the m
uscle built, maybe, by loading wagons and handling lively stock. He stepped in to give the barkeep his support.

  Though Lije stood nearer to him, he addressed his words to Scanlon. “You heard what Jimmy said. He told you, you can’t drink here. Leastwise, not while you’ve got the Nigger with you. Now get outta here.”

  Fisher was the one within reach of the man, and he took his measure.

  The blond was big. Likely he was tough. He wore a .36 caliber Colt’s Navy-Model pistol in a waistband-holster, and only a fool would have gambled that he could not use it. He had likker in him. And that can make a bad man better or a good man worse.

  When it came down to it, though, none of these considerations mattered a damn, given the principle at stake. And that, in turn, counted for little when set alongside Fisher’s thirst. Lije knew that words would be wasted on this one, so he wasted none.

  His left fist came up, exploding against the teamster’s jaw, dropping him like a pole-axed ox.

  Conversation had dwindled around the bar, as men sensed trouble coming. When the blond man hit the floor, it ceased completely. The keyboard player caught the mood, and silence fell upon the room.

  Then Scanlon said, “I’ll not waste time asking again, Jimmy. Now I’m telling you. Two ‘Buffalo’ beers.”

  A man, maybe alerted by the sudden quiet, came out through a door at the rear of the drinking-room, as Scanlon spoke. He wore a boiled white shirt under a weskit of shiny, embroidered material. He carried a Smith & Wesson side-hammer strapped in a shoulder-rig. This was his place, and he took in what was going on, assessed the look of Scanlon and Fisher too. In his head he totalled the cost of replacing what would be broken, should these two be further provoked, added in what Chambers would do, in the event of killing here, and came up with a sum he did not care for.

  He nodded to the bartender. “You heard the man, Jimmy. Two ‘Buffalo’ beers.”

  Turning back whence he had come, he called to the piano-player, whose tinkling had stopped with the fracas. “Music, for Chris sake! What the Hell do you think I pay you for?”

  The ivories took up the strains of ‘Oh Them Golden Slippers,’ two men dragged the senseless teamster outside, and Scanlon and Fisher took their beers to a corner-table.

  They had made their point and could drink in peace.

  Chapter 5

  “So Major,” Fisher had downed his first draught, and was ready to talk business, “what does One-Star Carson want from us?”

  “A band of comancheros is causing mayhem over in West Texas. Carson wants us to put a stop to it.”

  The Negro’s eyes narrowed. “Texas, huh? One way and another, that ain’t a place I’ve got happy memories of. Nor a place I’d pay much account to.”

  “Me neither,” Scanlon told him. “But it’s politics. The great and former state of Texas is being reconstructed into the Union. Texican ranchers are being hit. It seems to those whose opinions count that the Union should do something about that.”

  Fisher’s lips compressed in understanding. “I can see their point, I guess. But comancheros? Seems like a lot o’ fuss over nothing new. Hell! We ate plenty o’ stolen Texas beef, in the war.”

  “But now the war’s over. Carson says, this bunch has got the top brass worried. It ain’t just a matter of trading worn-out muskets for a few head of run-off longhorns. There’s more to it, they reckon. But they don’t know what.”

  “So we’re military spies now. But why here in Albuquerque?”

  “The comancheros operate out of New Mexico Territory. Carson figured here’d be the place to be. A man looks for a needle, he starts by finding a haystack.”

  The Blackman chuckled. “I’ll take the fork, Major. You take the ladder. But why us?”

  Scanlon shrugged. “I’m a half-blood Mexican, known to have no love for Texas. You’re a full-blood Black, an ex-slave, with every reason to hate the Goddamned place. More than that, I’m a cashiered officer, you’re a runaway non-com. Was I up to no-good, I’d figure us to be just the kind of disreputable bastards it’d be worth hiring.”

  “And you announced your availability by killing two horse-thieves, huh?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “I heard. Why else you reckon I came looking for you at the jail-house?”

  “I put that down to general experience. And the reason I took those horse-thieves down was one of ’em rode in here on mine.”

  “I guess he had it comin’ then.” Fisher took another swig of beer. “But how come a Mexican horse-thief turned up in Albuquerqe, ridin’ yours?”

  “Had he lived long enough,” Scanlon said, “I’d have asked him that very question.”

  Before more could be said, the sound of a cough intruded. It was not the kind of cough a man employs to clear mucus from his tubes, but the kind polite folks use when they wish to attract attention.

  Scanlon and Fisher looked up.

  The one who had coughed was Mexican. Surprising, in itself, in a saloon where Anglos drank. More surprising still was the style of him. He was somewhere in his fifties, Scanlon guessed, with silver hair, and features that suggested the Castellano line rather than the Mestizo of the Border. He was dressed expensively, in the Latino manner. His shirt was of ruffled linen under a velvet jacket decorated by piping on the lapels and cuffs. His calzoneros were of a close-woven broad-cloth, silver-decorated, and flared over shiny leather boots that sported rowelled spurs plated in silver. Nestling at his belt was a double-barreled side-arm, which, Scanlon’s practiced eye told him, was a Le Mat, a British-made weapon of Belgian design, part shotgun and part revolver, a costly gun, and much sought after. He carried a broad-brimmed sombrero in his hand. The man was a grandee, and had something about him that, for a reason he could not exactly place right then, jogged the major’s memory.

  “I believe that you are Major Jose Scanlon-Castro de Bajar,” the man said.

  Scanlon was surprised. He had never employed the Hispanic affectation of hyphenating his mother’s maiden name onto his own. This Mexican must know his people, which could account for the man’s familiar look. “If I still used the rank,” he replied, “it would be to spite the US War Department, only.”

  “We have met before. However, allow me to introduce myself.” This was a request, but was spoken with the air of one whose requests most often are indulged. “I am Don Leopoldo Sanchez-Garcia de Mora.” The Mexican spoke in English, but his accent was one passed down from Iberia uncorrupted.

  His countenance had not lied. This man was a caballero, one Scanlon had indeed met before, though many years ago, in boyhood.

  Scanlon stood. “Mucho gusto, Don Leopoldo.” He put out his hand. As Sanchez took it, Scanlon elaborated, “This is an honor, Senor.”

  He was being formal, knowing that, in Sanchez’s circles, such would be taken for no more than civilised politeness.

  Informality would be regarded as an insult.

  “For me also,” Sanchez responded. “Your mother’s family and mine were friends of many generations standing. In the old days.”

  Scanlon knew this to be true, and knew the status of this man. The name Sanchez was held high amongst the old families. He knew, too, what was meant by the words ‘old days.’

  Sanchez was anti-Americano and unashamed to be. When Kearney’s US Dragoons came over Raton Pass in ’46, Sanchez had castigated fat General Armijo for his lack of military fiber, in failing to resist, and, in disgust, had ridden south to fight, throughout his country’s losing conflict, with distinction in an army whose leadership lacked it.

  He held lands near Mora, to which he had returned after Mexico City fell, and owned silver mines in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristos. More than that, he had shown a bloody-minded resolve to retain what was his, when others of his race were driven out and scattered by encroachment of those who spoke the Anglo-tongue.

  “I met your father, Capitan Patrick, when I visited the Bajar,” Sanchez went on. “And respected him.”

  “I
recall my parents speaking of you often, Senor.” Scanlon was thinking back. “And I remember their taking me to visit your hacienda when I was a child.”

  That had been in his father’s mining days. Not that mining was the old man’s calling. Patrick Scanlon was a sea-captain, plying his trade along the Pacific Coast, when he met, wooed, and married Margarita Castro.

  California was a wilderness province, in those times. There was no gold there. Everyone knew that. No silver either, or other precious metal. All there was was land, and the Castros held much of this, in the arid peninsular country west of the Colorado’s southern stretch. It was land of little value, on which roamed cattle of even less. The Castros lived in a big hacienda south of San Diego. But, of cash, Irish Pat would see more in a year than old Don Enrique Castro would come by in ten. Also Margarita was the youngest of five surviving offspring, three of them sons.

  Patrick had had no financial motive for the marriage. It was a love-match, pure and simple.

  Patrick became reacquainted with Sanchez after he left the sea, and moved his family to New Mexico, to try his luck with silver. Scanlon remembered it well, though he himself was not ten years old then. Months later, gold in abundance was found in California.

  Small wonder, after that, that Patrick never talked of Irish luck.

  Scanlon turned toward Lije. “Let me introduce...” he began.

  “Former First Sergeant Elijah Fisher, late of the 9th United States Cavalry.” Sanchez completed the presentation for him. “I know of Sergeant Fisher.”

  Lije stood up. Sanchez and he shook hands.

  “You’re very well-informed, Don Leopoldo,” Scanlon said.

  “I make it my habit, Major.” The Mexican smiled. “Though, in this case, it took no effort. Sergeant Fisher’s description is posted with prominence in the plaza mayor in Santa Fe.”

  So, Scanlon thought, Carson’s done a thorough job on this.

  Maybe too thorough.

  Sanchez was speaking again. “May I offer you gentlemen another drink?”