by P. J. Keogh
“Wild Bill Hickok, as I live and breathe,” Sedgwick greeted, as the tall rider drew up. “What brings you to my bailiwick?”
“Tobe,” Hickok acknowledged his fellow-lawman’s greeting. “I’ve got federal paper on a citizen of yours, a man called Ryder. I’ve come for him.”
Tobe did not ask to see the warrant. He simply pointed to where Ryder’s office stood. “You’ll see his name up on the door.”
Hickok nodded, and turned his horse—it was a handsome black stallion, a powerful mount—toward where Tobe had pointed.
Tobe called out, “Do you need any help, Bill?”
Hickok did not trouble to answer that, did not so much as look around.
Tobe shrugged. It had been a damn fool question anyway. He watched Hickok dismount the black, and step up to the cattle-dealer’s door.
Ryder looked up, as Hickok entered the office-shack. He recognised his visitor, had been in Springfield, Missouri, when Wild Bill killed Dave Tutt there. He took note of the tin star too, and did not need a crystal ball to know he was in trouble.
Hickok, never one to beat about the bush when taking in a miscreant, said, “You’d be Ryder. I’ve got warrants for your arrest.”
Ryder did his best to look like one whom injustice has done down. “Warrants, Marshal? For me? Why, I’m an honest businessman. There has to be a mistake made here.”
“There’s no mistake.” Hickok’s tone was brusque. “You’re Ryder. The warrants have your name on ’em. A bench one, for receiving stolen beef. One federal, for complicity in incitement of the tribes. It’s likely they’ll hang you for the first. It’s a damn certainty they’ll stretch your neck for the second.”
Ryder knew then that he had but one slim chance. His desk drawer was open. It had a Colt’s .31 caliber pocket-gun inside. When he stood up the Colt’s was out of there and in his hand.
It was said of Hickok, in later years, that he had killed a hundred men, those not including rebs or Indians. Whether that count was accurate or fanciful is not known for sure. What is for sure is that the list was a long one. At what number Ryder ranked on it is not recorded.
But rank he did.
Tobe, from his place on the sidewalk, heard the shot. He called a question, as Hickok came back out of Ryder’s door. “The paper’s served, Bill?”
Hickok nodded. “Served and executed.”
Chavez’s dogfaces had assembled on Fort Garland’s parade ground, equipped and ready to ride. Carson, buckskin-clad as was his wont, rode up, turning his horse’s head so that he would face the bluecoat troopers.
Chavez wheeled his mount, at the general’s approach. “‘B’ troop present and correct, Sir,” he reported, throwing up a salute that would have graced the plain above the Hudson.
Carson, in his fashion, returned the salute. For all his brigadier’s star, he looked no more at home on a parade ground than he fit behind a desk. “Let’s go then, Manny.”
Chavez spun back to face his command. “‘B’ troop, twos left! Yo-ho!”
The cavalry in double-file swung toward the gates. Carson watched them go. Then, his General’s Escort flanking him, he rode to follow, spurring to join Chavez at the column’s head, once the gates were cleared.
Chapter 27
Chavez and ‘B’ Troop ringed the aldea, to guard against the chance of peon loyalties taking violent form, while Scanlon and Fisher rode with Carson and his escort troopers up the hill to the hacienda. Hickok, down from Trinidad to join the party, rode stirrup-to-stirrup with Carson.
Don Leopoldo came onto the veranda. It was not long past sun-up, and the grandee was still in shirt-sleeves.
Young Federico was with Sanchez. In his eyes was the excited curiosity that any twelve-year-old boy would show when finding cavalry soldiers in his front yard. He waved to Fisher, who threw him a quasi-salute in reply.
Old Miguel stood on the patio. He could see that Scanlon had brought trouble to the house of Sanchez, and he looked at the major with a mixture of reproach and regret.
Of Belen there was no sign.
“What is the meaning of this, Major?” Sanchez demanded. His eyes were penetrating, and Scanlon, despite all he knew of the man and his crazy plot, felt sheepish and ashamed.
“Don Leopoldo Sanchez,” he said, “meet Brigadier-General Christopher Carson, US Army.”
Sanchez gave a stiff bow toward the buckskin-clad one-star. “I have heard of General Carson.”
Carson sat his horse easily on the patio. “And I’ve heard o’ you, Don Leopoldo. And I’m here to tell you that you’re under arrest.”
The don’s tone was icy as he replied, “Arrest? By what authority? I am not subject to military law, General.”
“I’d thought o’ that fact,” Carson told him. “Which is why I brought US Deputy-Marshal Hickok here along.”
Sanchez laughed. It was a harsh laugh, and rang with contempt. “On what charge do you propose to arrest me, General? Or should I ask that question of the Deputy-Marshal?”
“You can ask it of General Carson or of me.” It was Hickok who came in at that. “Either way, the answer’ll be the same. You’re charged with illegal trading with wild Indian tribes, with inciting the tribes to commit hostile acts, and with conspiring to make war on the United States of America. Those are just the federal offences, Sanchez. There’s also the business of handling stolen Texas cattle to be considered. However, since Texas ain’t my province, and they can hang you just the one time, anyhow, I guess we can leave that charge lay for now.”
“And who are your witnesses to my guilt, Deputy-Marshal Hickok?” Sanchez’s lip curled, as he switched his gaze to Scanlon and Fisher. “A discredited amateur-soldier and a runaway Black?”
“I guess they’ll do for starters,” Hickok said.
Don Leopoldo shook his head. It was a gesture of incomprehension at the stupidity of all mankind, himself apart. He engaged Scanlon’s eyes with his own. “Tell me, Major, what price did the United States Government pay you for your treachery?”
Scanlon felt his cheeks burn under Sanchez’s gaze. But he faced the grandee, all the same. “I wouldn’t call heading-off an Indian war treachery, Don Leopoldo. As to the price, that was whatever it cost to buy my parole out of Queretara Prision, where your man, Armandez’s skullduggery had put me. I guess you’d know more than I do about the going rates for bribes in Mexico.”
“So,” Sanchez accused him, “I brought a viper into my household. You have proved a traitor. Not just to me, but to all of your own people.”
“I never chose madmen as my people, Don Leopoldo,” Scanlon said. “And, if it’s Mexico you’re accusing me of doing down, then Benito Juarez’d be a better judge of that, and he agrees with me that you’re crazy. It’s done with, the whole damned scheme. Armandez’s dead. And your other compadres, the ones who plotted against Juarez, will all be in arrest by now. If the ricos are to rule Mexico again, they’ll have one hell of a long wait.”
“You’re a fool.” Sanchez’s disgust was genuine. “A sentimental fool. Juarez and the mob can never rule Mejico. Those who can will come again. And you had the opportunity to be among them. To bring credit to the Castro name. To restore to our country that which is rightfully hers, and her governance to those with the necessary wisdom.”
There was a movement on the veranda to Don Leopoldo’s rear. Belen, awakened by the noise, had come downstairs. She wore a cloak, thrown over her night-things. Her black hair, unbrushed, hung loosely to below her shoulders. Perplexity showed in her blue eyes, as they took in the tableau and Scanlon’s place in it.
Scanlon had never seen her lovelier—her or any other sight. The sense of having lost what he could have had hit him like a bullet. Right then, he gave no mind to the estancia, or to Mexico, to power or to heaping glory on the Castro name. His remorse was for Belen and himself and for what was thrown away.
Was for no one else and nothing more.
“?Mi padre?” Belen asked of Sanchez, “?Que pasa?”
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“Pregunte de eso traidor.” The don rasped, pointing Scanlon’s way.
She followed his gesture, demanding of Scanlon, “?Que significa este cosa?” She waved an arm, its sweep embracing her father’s indictment as well as the presence of Carson, Hickok and the troops.
Scanlon made no reply. To answer to her Sanchez’s charge of traitor, to explain what this thing meant, would take time he did not have at that moment, and words that he may never command, then or in the future.
Hickok spoke. “There’s been sufficient talk and more.” His tone was gruff, impatient. “There’s a jail-cell waiting, Sanchez.”
Don Leopoldo argued no further. “Very well, Deputy-Marshal. Might I be permitted to get my coat?”
Hickok shot a glance at Scanlon. The major nodded. Sanchez would not run away. Whatever else he did, he would not do that.
Hickok gave his consent, and Sanchez turned toward the big doors. Belen, with a look of saddened bewilderment at Scanlon, followed her father into the house.
Young Federico hesitated briefly, then went inside too. He made no gesture to Fisher, as he did. The Negro’s brief tuition in Yankee had not equipped the boy to follow the morning’s dialogues. But he had grasped sufficient to know that there were sides in this.
And his had been chosen for him at his birth.
Old Miguel turned away also from the transgressing Gringos and their compadre negro, and walked toward the stables.
Minutes passed. The riders sat their mounts in silence. There was nothing anyone felt the urge to say.
A shot rang out from within the house.
Scanlon came down from his horse. Three at a time, Hickok hard upon his heels, he mounted the steps to the veranda. He pushed open the double-doors.
Don Leopoldo was sprawled in the hallway. Lying on his back. Seeming unmarked, he resembled a man asleep. Or would have, but for the pool of blood beneath his head, whence it had gushed as he died. His LeMat was lying feet away. Its recoil having carried it from his lifeless fingers, as he fell. Its muzzle had been in his mouth when he pulled the trigger.
The grandee’s chosen way of ending things came as no surprise to the grandson of Don Enrique Castro.
Belen was kneeling by the body. She looked up at Scanlon, naked hatred showing in her blue eyes.
Hickok’s Colt’s pistols were out, their hammers back. Scanlon told him, “You can put those damn things away.”
Turning, the major walked outside.
Chapter 28
Scanlon and Fisher remained on the veranda, while Carson and Hickock ransacked Don Leopoldo’s estudio. The general and the lawman were gone some time.
When they emerged they held a list of names, over one of which their blood was up. Like as not, this was the name of whichever big chief in Washington Sanchez had got his secret information from, and, signs were, that man would have a US marshal knocking on his door, someday soon, or maybe the Attorney-General, in person.
Scanlon could only guess at all this. And, truth to tell, he did not give a rat’s turd.
He watched as Carson, Wild Bill and the troopers rode away. Then, his heart weighing like a stone in his chest, he went in search of Belen.
It was coming up to noon when he found her. She was in the jardin on the south side of the hacienda, having passed a sad and busy morning.
Don Leopoldo’s body was laid out in the master bedroom of the house. Fray Domenico, the don’s confessor in life, was by his side at his death, praying that the grandee’s sin of suicide would not impede his soul’s safe passage through the pearly gates. A sirviente had been despatched to Mora Town, to arrange for a coffin to be made, in which the body of el patrono would be laid beside the bones of his forebears and those of Dona Sofia in the Sanchez cripta de familia.
Belen, bathed and dressed, was clad from head to foot in mourning-black.
“Senorita,” Scanlon began, “lo siento muchisimo. Yo…”
She broke his apology off. “Do not try to excuse your actions to me. You cannot. And do not use the language of honorable men. It is not yours to employ. Speak as the Gringos do. They are the ones for whose pay you have soiled your hands.”
“Belen,” the very name was an entreaty, “listen, please! What I did, I did not do for pay. I did not set out to betray your father or anyone else. I gave my word to General Carson that I would find out who was behind the comanchero-ring dealing with the Indians on the Llano. I did not know that Don Leopoldo was the man. Not then.”
“But, when you discovered it, you could have joined him, or you could have ridden out.” Her voice was ridden with accusation that cut him to the quick. “You did not have to work against our people, and spy upon your father’s friend.”
“That’s where you are wrong, Belen.”
His tone hardened. Even though it was now all up with them, there were things that she must know and truths that she must be made to recognise. “The comanchero trade is a dirty business. Don Leopoldo sullied the name of Sanchez by engaging in it. More than that, he was aiming to set the Indian tribes against the settlements, from the Rio Grande to the Yellowstone. And he was working against Benito Juarez, also. Working to plunge Mexico into a war that would have destroyed her.”
“Working to restore to her what is rightfully hers.” The blue eyes that had flashed fire now were cold as stone. “You speak as if I did not know what it was that my father planned. I knew it all, and I approved of it. This land is ours, not Gringo land. My father would have won it back. Or lost it, finally, with honor.
“He had a dream. A dream you could never understand. His error was in believing you to be a man worthy of his trust. I believed that also. For a time. But I was wrong, as he was. You are nothing! Neither Irish nor Spanish, Gringo nor Mexican. You have no people, no place. Now go! Get out! Leave estancia Sanchez, and never come back!”
He saw the hatred, naked in her face, and saw that the evil of it had wiped away that which he had thought was beauty. Shocked at her knowledge of her father’s schemes, and at the truth of her, he said no more, but turned from her, and left the jardin.
Chapter 29
Fisher was waiting with the horses on the patio when the major came. “You talk to her?” the Negro asked.
Scanlon nodded. “I did.”
“And did you make her see?”
“She saw, alright.” There was loss and disillusion in the tall man’s voice. “She saw everything. All of it. Right from the start. She knew what he’d got planned, all along.”
“Christ!” Fisher had misjudged Belen, and his surprised regret was plain. “Then she’s as crazy as he was.”
Scanlon put his booted foot into the stirrup of the roan mare’s saddle. “It looks that way.” He mounted up. “Let’s go.”
Fisher climbed aboard the Fort Worth horse, and they rode out.
Of the boy, Federico, and the establero, Miguel, there were no signs.
The two men rode through the aldea, and down onto the valley road. A rider was sitting his horse upon the trail ahead, obstructing it.
He was Pedro Ividrio.
“!Paraden, Gringos!” the young vaquero commanded them.
They obeyed, reining their horses to a halt.
“?Que quiere?” Scanlon asked.
“Para matar a usted.” Pedro’s eyes were hot with anger.
Scanlon had had enough of this place, of the Sanchez clan and every damn thing to do with them. This boy’s threats to kill, he was not prepared to sit still and listen to.
“No actue el tonto.” His tired contempt was manifest, as he pulled the roan mare wide of Pedro’s mount, to ride her around him down the trail.
“!Gringo cabron!” Pedro called. His gun came out, his thumb pulling back the hammer.
Luckily for Scanlon, Fisher did not share his disregard of Pedro. Lije had known that Sanchez’s nephew would have to be dealt with, in the end. Had known it, right from their time together on the Llano. Even as Pedro drew his weapon, the Negro’s Dragoon was out
and in his hand. It belched flame. Its heavy ball lifted Pedro from his saddle, dropping his body onto the trail.
Scanlon, halting the roan, looked down. “I told him not to be a fool.”
“What should we do with him?” Fisher, too, was looking at the youth’s remains.
“Leave him.” Scanlon breathed deeply. “There are enough damn peones on this place to dig a hole, and toss his corpse into it.”
He reined the mare. Fisher walked his mount around Pedro’s body, and followed.
From a hill overlooking the trail, old Manuel watched. He shook his head. The young one, Pedro, born to be exaltado y loco, was now where the hot-headed, crazy ones go. Que sera sera.
The old man turned his horse. Sanchez was dead. Whatever scheme he had planned would be buried alongside him. Manuel had known that latter for a fact when the Sun came up, and he saw the troopers ride into the valley. He pointed his wiry gelding east. Roped behind was a pack-mule. It carried Manuel’s stock-in-trade.
While ever there were Comanches wearing paint, there would be business to be done by comancheros.
Chapter 30
The trail that Scanlon and Fisher took from hacienda Sanchez led through Mora town.
A stocky man of late middle-years stood on the sidewalk outside the post-office building there. He had a pugnacious, officious look.
Caleb Whitehorn had seen the pair ride by, that morning, with Carson, Hickock and the troops, and had wondered what was afoot. Now he knew. News travels fast in a small place. Already, word was out, of happenings at the hacienda on the hill, and Whitehorn was in a frame of mind to offer congratulation. “Good work, Men,” he called out, “if what I hear is true.”
“And what might that be?” Scanlon drew the roan to a halt. His voice weighed heavy with disgusted resignation. Fisher knew the major better than most. Hearing danger in the tall man’s tone, he tensed.
It could have been that thirty years of army storekeeping had blunted Whitehorn’s hearing. Perhaps he just was not a sensitive man. Whichever, what Lije heard passed the old colonel by, and he grinned, showing crooked teeth. “They tell me the high-falutin’ Dago on the hill up there has got what he’s been askin’ for, all these years. I believe that you men had a part to play. I wanted to say, well done is all. It’s past time these Spic bastards were shown who’s boss.”