by P. J. Keogh
This muster-roll could well be accurate. Scanlon did not know. What he did know was that US numbers had been small in 1860—smaller still when the Southron boys put their papers in. That was no longer so in ’61. Billy Yank had come out in force by then. Fifty thousand was a lot of rifles, true. But, Lee had mustered more than that at Gettysburg, yet still lost out in numbers to George Meade. And Meade’s was just one of several Union armies active in the field.
He made no mention of these facts, but said instead, “And what of the Indians? They’ll be fighting to get the land back for themselves, not to win it for Mexico. It won’t be just Anglos they’ll turn those rifles on. And, if they drive the Gringos out, they’ll then have to be dealt with.”
“True again, Major,” Don Leopoldo, seated once more, agreed, “and planned for. When the Indians are equipped, we shall still have fifty thousand rifles. These will arm our own people, in Texas and along the Rio Grande, in Arizona and in California and up to Colorado, also. When the time to handle the Indians comes, we will bring armies up from Chihuahua and Sonora. They will fight beside our people. By then, the Indian rifles will be empty. We will make sure they stay that way. And, if the Gringo army chooses to intervene, it will find that the price of Mexico’s land has risen.”
“And Juarez? Where will he stand in this?”
Scanlon knew Benito Juarez, had been a field-commander in his army. He knew him to be a modest, level-headed man, a country lawyer with a sense of right and wrong. His fight was for his people and their freedom, nothing more. Grandiose visions and dreams of reconquest were not ideas to get Benito’s blood to rise.
Sanchez grunted his contempt. “Juarez! Left to himself, he would hand Mejico over to a peon rabble. Juarez has served his purpose.”
So that was it. Sweep Juarez away on a tide of patriotic fervor, and put Sanchez and his kind back where the power lay, with no crowned heads of Europe to claim any share of it. Just one more plan to return Mexico to the ricos who had squeezed its blood before.
Only, this time, if Sanchez had his way, there would be more bloodshed than squeezed. We’ll see about that, Scanlon thought.
Sanchez was back in flow again. “Picture it, Major! Our country whole again. And ruled by those who have been born to rule. Mejico will take her place among the powers of the World. And the names of Sanchez and Castro will be written large, as they were meant to be.”
And what about the name of Fisher? Lije wondered. Giving voice to the question, he asked, “Just where do we come into this, Don Leopoldo?”
Sanchez favored the Negro with an approving look. “A practical man! I like that. You, Sergeant Fisher, and you, Major Scanlon, have proved yourselves to be the men I took you for. Your mission on the Llano and the drive to Trinidad were tests of your abilities. You passed those tests. Now I have for you an assignment of the utmost importance. Your task will be to see to it that the rifles are brought across the border, and to ensure that they get to where they will do most good.”
Or most harm, Fisher thought, but kept that to himself.
“Be ready, gentlemen.” Sanchez got to his feet. “I will give the order when the moment comes. Now it is time for me to sleep, I think. I have much to do and much to plan.”
He moved toward the door, hesitated, then turned back. “I have a favor I would ask, Major. Belen wishes to ride around the concesion tomorrow, to reacquaint herself with its beauty. I would appreciate it greatly if you would escort her.”
From politeness ingrained in the Baja days, Scanlon had risen to his feet, at sign of the don’s departure. He bowed slightly. “It will be my privilege, Don Leopoldo.”
The grandee paused, his hand upon the doorknob. “Good. ’Til tomorrow. Buenas noches, gentlemen.” Then he was gone.
Later, smoking cigars on the veranda, Scanlon and Fisher talked.
“Well, Carson did tell you these particular comancheros had got the top brass worried,” Fisher observed.
“Maybe the top brass are smarter than we gave ’em credit for.” Scanlon blew out smoke with the words.
“Do you think his scheme’d have a chance?” the Negro asked.
“Not with you and me running the guns, it won’t.”
“That’s for a fact. But, without that, could it work?”
“Not an iceflow’s chance in Hell.” Scanlon’s disgust showed plain.
The scheme was lunatic. No way would the United States give up Texas or California. Nor would it pull out of New Mexico and Arizona. There was Nevada too, Utah and territory stretching to the Platte. Americans had not spilled blood to save the Union, only to hand such a tract of it away. There was justice in Sanchez’s territorial claim, true. Just had there had been in the states’ rights case for secession of the south. However, force had won that argument, and force would win the one with Sanchez’s Mexico.
Scanlon was Mexican enough to recognise the grandee’s desire to see the land returned, but too much Mexican to wish the country ruined in a fight above its weight. Nor did he wish to see the southwest littered with mortal remains of Anglo-dead.
“Sanchez has a case, right enough. More than half of Mexico’s territory was taken by the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo. But he’s still out of his head. The day the first Mexican foot-soldier crosses the Rio Grande, Washington will have a million volunteers rallying to the Stars and Stripes. Sanchez’s crazy, and a lot of innocent people would die proving it, white, brown, and black. Chinese, too, if War reached California. Besides which, the kind of Mexico Sanchez’d put back together isn’t one I’d want any part of. The fact he’s planning to stab Juarez in the back makes me feel easier about what I’m doing here.”
Scanlon took a long draw on his cigar, once more, blowing out smoke, this time with a question. “What about you? Now you know what we’re dealing with, does it salve your conscience any?”
“Some.” Still, Fisher did not sound easy with himself. “As far as Sanchez goes, it don’t worry me. Not now he’s shown his colors. I always figure you can’t do much to hurt a man who’s touched in the head. But there’s still young Pedro and the rest to take account of, men we’ve ridden with. Then there’s old Miguel and the kid, Federico. And now the girl, Belen.”
This thought had been very much in Scanlon’s mind, and Fisher’s mention of it did not relieve his feelings any. “Yes,” he murmured “Belen.”
“Maybe you just brought her out of school, Major. But don’t let that fool you. She’s a woman grown. That look she gave you when she said ‘Goodnight’ would’ve made a blind man see.” Fisher paused, then said. “More than that, I figure the don’s got you measured for a son-in-law.”
That idea had not occurred to the major, up to then, and it brought him up with a jolt. He drew deeply on his cigar, thinking of what Lije had said, and of the days ahead. There would be bridges to be crossed before this thing was through, and he looked forward to not a single one of them.
Chapter 15
Fort Garland, Colorado was a mountain post, built to deter the Jicarilla from the warpath, and to keep the Ute to the narrow road of peace. Stockaded, it stood in a valley of the Sangres, west of Trinidad.
It was soon after sun-up when Manny Chavez strode across the fort’s parade ground. Chavez hailed from the Rio Arriba country, and was a native Spanish-speaker. Had peace prevailed in ’61, likely he would have farmed as his father did, and his father’s father had. But war prevailed instead. And when the drum rolled, Chavez stepped to its beat, lined up to face the hated Texicanos, and proved to be a natural soldier.
It was his illustrious uncle—after whom Manny was named—who had led the Colorado men in their outflanking of Sibley’s rebs at Glorieta Pass, the brawl that proved the key move in turning events the Union’s way in New Mexico, and driving the greycoats back to Texas.
When Manuel Chavez did his guiding, his namesake/nephew rode by his side.
With such kudos on his record, Manny had caught up his uncle in rank, and ended the war a leaf-colonel, with t
he offer of a regular engagement. His rank had dropped, of course, but 1st Lieutenant Chavez had no complaints. He knew that former generals—West Pointers, some of them, tempered in the white heat of Virginia and Tennessee—were no more than captains now, and glad of that.
He walked into the headquarters building, to receive the sergeant-major’s salute.
“The general’s expecting you, Sir,” the non-com said.
Chavez nodded, and passed into the inner office. Carson was seated at his desk. It was a position in which the former mountain-trapper looked ill-at-ease and out-of-place. Not surprising that, for a man who had passed his fiftieth year before learning how to read or write.
Chavez saluted, and Carson made a hand-gesture, in facsimile of same. “Sit down, Manny.”
The lieutenant took a seat, and said, “What can I do for you, Sir?”
Carson sniffed. “Don Leopoldo Sanchez, what do you know about him?”
Surprised at the question, Chavez considered. “He’s a rico—mucho dinero, from generations back. I’ve never met him, face-to-face, but I know him to be a big name in New Mexico.”
Carson nodded. “That’s what I heard. Though I never met him either.”
“He has a big stretch of land, over Mora way,” Chavez continued. “He owns mines, runs sheep and cattle. He’s a man who has peones living on his land. They are born there. They labor there. They die there. He owns maybe a hundred horses, but I’d doubt he’s ever saddled one.” He paused. “All things considered, if what I hear of him is true, he’s the kind of Mexican who makes a lot of Chicanos glad to be nephews of Uncle Sam.”
Carson chuckled at Chavez’s description. “Would you figure him to be mixed up with comancheros?”
“What?” Carson’s question rocked Chavez. “Sanchez? A rico like him?”
“Sanchez. A rico like him.” The general threw Chavez’s words back in answer.
The lieutenant shook his head. “Trading with the plains tribes has a long history in New Mexico. Fortunes have been made from it. But the Sanchez money comes from land, not trading. Land granted them by the King of Spain, back in colonial times. Why would Sanchez be tied in with Llano-traders? He can’t need the money it would bring.”
“In which case, it’s not the money he’s in it for.” Carson took a battered pipe from a rack resting on his desktop, commencing to pack it with tobacco from the beaded deerskin pouch he carried. “And, if it’s not money, it must be something else.”
“If he’s in it,” Chavez said.
“He’s in it, alright.” Carson placed the pipe between his lips, sucking at it, unlit, for moments.
Manny kept silent, since a lieutenant does not argue with a general, especially one as sure of something as Carson appeared to be of this.
“Have you heard of a man named Ryder?” It seemed that Carson changed the subject. “A cattle-dealer over to Trinidad?”
“Ben Ryder, would that be?” Chavez had heard the name. At the general’s nod, he went on. “He was run out of New Mexico for trading in stolen horses.”
Carson struck a match, held it, letting the flame flare. “That makes sense. According to my information, Ryder handles the beef that Sanchez trades from the Indians. And my information’s reliable. I have a man on the inside. The Raton Pass patrol brought me word from him.”
“!Me cajo al mar!” Manny dipped into his first tongue for the exclamation. “Leopoldo Sanchez! In with comancheros! There’s something deep here, General. Something very deep.”
Carson’s match had died, and he struck another one. “Something deep,” he agreed. “And something dirty. That’s why I want your troop on stand-by, Manny. No routine patrols for you. I want you primed to hit Sanchez’s spread when I give the word. And I want this under your sombrero. Not a damned whisper to anyone.”
“I understand,” Chavez then followed this assurance with a question. “But doesn’t Sanchez come under the department of New Mexico?”
The general’s second match puttered, almost faded as Carson said, “Where this particular mission’s concerned, War Department boundaries don’t count for much.”
Manny nodded. He would have to be satisfied with this. “Will there be anything more, General?”
The old frontiersman had got his pipe alight now, and he blew foul-smelling smoke around the room. “Ain’t this enough?”
“I guess so.” Chavez came to his feet. “Just one more thing, General, what about this other one? This Ryder?”
“Don’t worry,” Carson told him. “I’ve got plans for Ryder.”
Chapter 16
As the general and Chavez were speaking, Jose Scanlon was saddling his roan mare in the stables at hacienda Sanchez, a hundred miles to the south of Carson’s post. When he led the mare out into the stable yard, Miguel was there.
The old caballerizo was holding the rein of a magnificent milk-white mare, furnished with silver-decorated saddle and bridle. “Es la yegua de Senorita Belen,” the old man said proudly of his charge.
Scanlon looked the animal over. She was a striking beast. Her coat gleamed like white satin, and smooth muscle rippled beneath her skin. Her head arched proudly, as she stamped a forehoof, impatient to be off. She was spirited, but, Scanlon’s experience told him, liable to prove temperamental and high-strung. She was not a mount likely to hold steady under fire. She would have sprinting speed, but would lack staying power. She was what a range-wise rider would call a Sunday horse.
The major said as much to Miguel, and the old man nodded his acquiescence. This extranjero knew his horseflesh well.
“Pero, la yegua es muy bonita,” Scanlon said. “Es appropriada por su caballera.”
“Si, Commandante,” the old man agreed. The handsome mare would match the one who was to ride her. As to that, there could be no dispute.
Miguel eyed the major, analysing him.
Already there was talk about this Medio-Gringo. The Servientes and peones speculated, in low voices, that this man had been identified by Don Leopoldo as el hijo he had wished for, but now would never have. As yerno, this tall one would be the next best thing. Perhaps one day, he would be patrono of estancia Sanchez.
Miguel decided that, should that day come, it would be a good day for the estancia and its people. Not that he himself would be likely to see that day.
“Buenas dias, Commandante.” The words came from Belen, standing at the gateway to the stable-yard, and were delivered in those husky tones that induced in Miguel thoughts that would earn for him a whipping, should he be so ill-advised as to speak them out aloud.
Scanlon returned the greeting, appraising Belen, as she strode across the yard, proud as stood the thoroughbred that awaited her. She wore a divided riding-skirt of black leather and a blouse of snow-white linen tucked into the skirt’s tight-belted waistband. Black-leather high-heeled boots with silver spurs showed beneath the hem of the skirt. On her head was a black flat-crowned sombrero embellished with a silver band. It was a far different garb from the convent-girl dress in which she had first encountered him.
“Usted se aparece muy hermosa,” Scanlon said, and she blushed at the compliment, Miguel noted, though the words were no more than a statement of fact.
She was indeed beautiful. And not simply beautiful, the old man thought, as he watched her escort offer her his hand. The look her blue eyes flashed at Scanlon, as he assisted her aboard the mare showed desire to go with her desirability, the old stableman could see.
The major was well aware of this also, and it made him uncomfortable, as he mounted the roan. This mental discomfort matched the physical he felt, astride a saddle in his heightened state.
He turned the roan toward the gateway, recalling the journey of the previous day.
He had arrived at the convento, as the Sun came up over the southern Sangres, to find Belen ready with her traps, and the Reverend Mother waiting to bid her farewells.
“Ven con Dios,” the Irish nun had said. There was an insight in her knowing eyes that
told Scanlon that it was not just the perils of the trail against which she prayed for their protection.
She had the flesh in mind as well.
Acknowledging the holy woman’s blessing, he had stirred up the buggy-horse.
As the early light grew brighter, the rig clattered out through the streets of San Fernando de Taos, headed for the mountains looming to the south.
Scanlon and the girl rode in silence, at first. Then their conversation came.
Belen talked of the convento and its confines, of adobe walls and religious rules, then asked him questions about himself. Of things that he had done, of places he had been.
He had kept his responses minimal, saying nothing of the harshness of his past, of the men of several races he had been forced to kill, of San Alberto, his court-martial, or of his sojourn in Queretara. She had wished to know how he had met Don Leopoldo, and he told her of their fathers’ mutual friendship, in years past. Of Armandez, Julio, Lorca and the comanchero venture, he did not speak.
However, what he outlined had been sufficient to arouse her interest. This was a travelled man, she could tell. One far-removed from the street-boys and callow students from the monasterio, who loitered at the convento’s gates.
Belen was a woman now, in years as well as feelings. In her headstrong way, she was drawn to this tall one with the look of danger to him, and could see that his eyes were reading the message hers were making clear.
For Scanlon’s part, he was struck—if not yet stricken—by her beauty. Her attraction to him would have caused his heart to lift, had circumstances not been what they were. But the situation was what it was. And nothing he could do would change that.