by Lou Bradshaw
The next morning as soon as I had eaten, I walked the short distance to the plaza and past the construction site to the little adobe Chapel of St. Francis. They were building a new church, which was going to be a big one. I sat through the last of the service and waited for the faithful to leave. When most of the congregation had gone, I approached the priest. He was an older man with stooped shoulders and a fair share of wrinkles. When he either heard my footsteps or sensed my presence he turned with a slight start.
“Padre.” I said, with my hat in my hand. “May I have a word with you?”
He looked a little confused for a second, and then said, “If you hable little Espanol, and I hable little Engles – perhaps.
It hadn’t occurred to me that he might not speak English, but then why should he. Fortunately, I had picked up enough Spanish in River Town and other parts of Texas to order a meal or do a little swapping and trading to get by, and he had enough English to make up for my lacking. I told him that I had met Father Paul in Texas, and that I was very grateful to him for all the help he had given me, and I would like to pay my respects to his family. He understood well enough and was eager to oblige. Paulo had been one of his pupils and he was pleased to hear nice things about him. The old padre took me to a small room where he sat at a well-worn table and wrote a message on a sheet of paper. Next, he gave me some advice as to customs and formalities.
From there, I went to the newspaper office to have twenty calling cards printed. The only thing they said was Ben Blue and beneath that, it said Benito Blu. I took the cards and the letter from the good padre back to our hotel, where I used the desk clerk’s pen and ink well to write the name of the hotel at the bottom of the card. Then I went up to our room and made myself as presentable as earthly possible. I left Andy still sleeping.
I picked up my horse and following the padre’s direction rode a couple of miles out of town to the Hacienda de Vasquez. I recalled Father Paul saying he was raised with strong walls around him, and I could believe that because they were at least twelve feet high and four feet thick. At the gate, I pulled the rope attached to a bell and was surprised to see a small window open where there shouldn’t have been one.
“Senor Vasquez, por favor.” I said and handed the man on the other side of the opening my card and the letter from the priest. He said that the Don was not available, but he would return soon. I asked him to please give Senor Vasquez my card and the letter and rode back to town.
I found Andy half awake but not very sociable, so I left him to his own devices and went shopping. I knew I would need some new pants and some boots that I didn’t make myself. After poking around several stores, I finally wound up in a Mexican tailor shop. The tailor wanted to deck me out like a fourth of July celebration, but I settled for a nice pair of flared pants, plain black boots, and a moderately wide brimmed hat. Those flares were practical as well as decorative – you could get your pants off without taking your boots off. I found that practical… I guess.
That same afternoon, I was sitting in the hotel lobby working on a newspaper when a finely dressed Spanish gentleman came in and stopped at the front desk. He spoke with the clerk for a few seconds, and I saw the clerk point in my direction. As the man approached me I wondered, “Now, who in the devil can this be?”
The fine looking gentleman introduced himself with a string of names the likes of which I had never heard and couldn’t ever hope to remember. Fortunately, for me, the last six words rang a bell. They were, “…personal assistant to Don Carlos Vasquez.” I was taken aback by the contrast of what I heard compared to what I saw. I saw an older man, well dressed, and very important looking. What I heard was that this was someone who worked for someone else. Senor Vasquez must be some kind of big’un to have an assistant who looked like a bank president. I began to wonder if I had moved into water that was over my head. He asked me if I was Senor Benito Blu, and I admitted that I was. I had never been called a senor before, and I kind of liked it.
Then he told me that Don Carlos and Dona Elena Vasquez would be honored if I would join them tomorrow afternoon for a visit. I said I would be happy to visit with them anytime that would be convenient for them. He went on to tell me that a carriage would be sent for me at three o’clock tomorrow. I told him that I could ride out on my horse.
He said, “If you please, Senor Blu, Don Carlos would be offended if you did not accept his hospitality. He and the Dona are very anxious to hear news of their son. They receive mail, but they wish to talk with someone who has seen him.”
I didn’t want to offend a Don, so I said, “Three o’clock would be perfect.”
Chapter 22
At three o’clock the following afternoon, a carriage as fine as any carriage I had ever seen stopped in front of the hotel. This was no buckboard by a long shot. It was highly polished and the seats were of some very fine leather. The team was a matched set of blacks that moved as one. The driver stepped to the door and asked for Senor Blu. I told him that I was Ben Blue. He led me outside, opened the carriage door for me, and I got in – feeling rather foolish. The short trip to the ranch only took about ten or so minutes, and almost before I knew it we were going through the open gates into a wide courtyard.
We stopped in front of what I took to be the main door, and the carriage door was opened before I could reach for the handle. As I stepped down into the courtyard, the Don’s personal assistant was there to greet me.
I heard him say, ‘Don Carlos, may I present Senor Benito Blu. Senor Blu, Don Carlos da-dada-da-da Vasquez.” Fortunately, I was looking at the man coming through the door and not trying to remember all those names. He was a man in his fifties, tall, tan, and handsome. His hair was thinning and turning gray. His pointed beard and mustache were also streaked with gray. He was dressed in typical Spanish style but not flashy. The clothes were made to fit him, but they looked more suited for comfort than fashion. In other words, he looked like he belonged on a ranch and not in a banker’s office.
Don Carlos took my hand and gave me a firm friendly grip and a friendly smile showing even white teeth. “Senor Vasquez,” I said, “It’s a real pleasure to meet you. Padre Paulo was a friend to me in many ways.”
“It is my pleasure, I assure you, Senor Blu.”
“Please,” I said, “just call me Ben or Benito. I’m not used to anyone calling me senor or mister for that matter.”
He laughed and said, “Benito it is, and you may call me Don Carlos. That way there will not be any senors among us.” Then he laughed again as he led the way inside.
The house was huge, and I could see hallways going in several directions. The floors were flat, fitted stones smooth enough to roll a marble across without a bump. The walls were thick adobe. There were few pieces of furniture about, but what was there was strongly made and looked heavy. He led me into a large room with several leather chairs and a leather couch. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of books. I could see a couple of small writing tables but not much more. I assumed it was a reading room, and the two large windows gave it plenty of light. It was very much unlike any room I had ever been in before. Americans tend to fill their rooms with unnecessary stuff to the point of clutter. That room had nothing in it but comfort.
As we were about to sit down in the two chairs, a small, beautiful woman of late middle age sort of floated in. I say she floated in because it seemed as if her feet did not touch the floor. There was no apparent body movement beside the forward motion. I knew she wasn’t a spirit because I could hear her heels click on the stones. She was a joy to watch.
“Ah, my dear, I would like you to meet our guest, Benito Blu. My wife, sir, Dona Elena.”
I made a poor attempt at a country boy bow and told her how happy I was to meet her. She extended her hand and I was almost afraid to take it for fear of breaking it or treating it like a pump handle. The lady was no more than five feet tall, with a few streaks of gray in her otherwise coal black hair, and the face of an Angel.
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nbsp; She sat on the couch and the Don and I brought the chairs up closer so we could talk without yelling. Dona Elena spoke first saying, “Benito, … may I call you Benito?” I grinned like an ape and nodded. When did you last see Paulo? Is he well? Is he too thin? Oh, I do long to see him.”
I chuckled a little and told her, “I last saw him in August of last year. At the time, he was in perfect health, and yes, he was thin, but not too thin. He came to be a very good friend to me and he is well spoken of in River Town in both Spanish and English. He has the respect of the Americans and the love of the Mexicans. And I believe that he is truly happy in his work.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Don sit a little straighter in his chair, and there was a little hint of a rise at the ends of his mustaches. The lady Elena dabbed a tear at the corner of her eye.
“His letters have mentioned you a number of times,” she said. And it was time for me to sit a little straighter. “He told us of how you brought that poor Indian girl to him and how she became his Maria Magdalena.”
We talked of Father Paul for some time, two men brought in a low table that was set before the Dona, and a serving girl brought in a tray of coffee and cakes. The Dona stayed for about a half an hour longer, said her farewell, and floated out of the room. I had a feeling she was going to find somewhere for a good cry. Don Carlos said, “We have two other children, but Paulo was the youngest and his mother misses him terribly.”
I started to stand up to leave and he said, “A few more moments, if you please.” I sat back down.
“My son has written me things that he could not tell his mother. He told me of the danger you put yourself in to save that Indian girl, and how you returned her safely to her people. He also told of the life you had been thrown into as no more than a child. How you and your adopted brother have trailed and disposed of some of those who murdered your family.”
“Paulo is a man of God and believes in turning the other cheek. I believe he would lay down his life to protect another person, but would do nothing to protect his own life. I, on the other hand, am a practical person. Had we not used our strength and weapons, this land would still belong to the Navajos. Will you bring me up to date as to how your quest is progressing?”
“Quest?”
“Si, your search for the banditos who raided your home and killed your parents.”
“Oh,” I said, “that quest. So far we have tracked and taken care of all but two of them, and we have reason to think that those two are somewhere north of here. They were supposed to have come this way with a partner and a well-financed plan to make a large land grab. They murdered their partner in San Antonio and took off with the money.”
“We don’t know for sure that they actually came here to try their scheme or just took the money and ran. This was the only lead we had, so we took a chance. If it’s a dead end then we’ll just have to wait until they surface again and are recognized.”
He clapped his hands and a fresh pot of hot coffee appeared by way of a different serving girl. I could get used to being waited on like that, but those young serving girls were far too pretty for my comfort.
“Now,” he said, “please will you tell me the whole story – from the beginning?”
I leaned forward, poured us each a fresh hot cup of coffee, and began my story. He sat back in that leather chair with a cigar and listened with an occasional question prompted more by my use of words than anything else. I have to admit that I didn’t have either the English or Spanish bull by the horns. Sometimes when I wasn’t sure of the correct word to use; I think I just made one up that suited the moment. He seemed to figure it out, and we got on just fine. I showed him the letter from Jasper Stewart and some of the other documents and wanted posters.
When I was finished, he asked me what we planned to do now. I told him that we were going to keep our heads down and not make too much noise until we could get the lay of the land up north. As soon as the weather broke and ranchers started hiring in the spring, we would move up toward Taos.
He wanted to know if we had any prospects, and could we last out the winter. I said we had enough money, but idle days would likely drive me crazy, or I would likely drive other people crazy. He laughed and said he understood how that could happen.
“Do you think you could drive a freight wagon?” he asked.
“Two, four, or six horse hitch – I can handle them and so can Andy.”
He went to one of the writing tables, pulled out a piece of paper, and did a little writing. He handed me the paper and told me that if I wanted to work, maybe his friend at the Rio Grande Freight Company could use one or both of us. I thanked him and made ready to leave. I told him that, “I, for one plan to visit the freight company the first thing in the morning, but I can’t speak for Andy.”
As I was pulling on my coat, he told me that he supported our quest, and if he learned anything that might help, he would get a message to me. When I opened the front door the carriage was waiting.
Chapter 23
Getting back to the hotel, I went on a different kind of quest, one that I was fairly familiar with – running down Andy. I found him in the third saloon I checked. He was playing in a low stakes poker game and didn’t seem too unhappy to leave it. I told him we needed to get something to eat and do some palavering. He thought the food was a good idea, but I don’t think he was too keen on the pow-wow. Andy never was much for talking things over; he either wanted someone to make the decision for him and not bother him with choices or just leave him alone. Well, I might wind up making the decision, but we were at least going to talk about it.
When we had finished packing down some grub and were leaning back with mugs of coffee, I told him, “I spent the afternoon visitin Father Paul’s ma and pa. They got a fine big ranch a little way out of town.”
He looked at me with a blank expression and finally showed a spark of recognition. “Oh yeah, the blackbird preacher or something like that.”
“Yeah,” I said, “something like that. Anyway, his pa is a Spanish Don – a real hidalgo, blue eyes and all, and a lot of important friends. Friends in Santa Fe… and friends in Taos. Friends who would know of land grabs because they would own the land that was bein grabbed.” I caught a flicker of light in his eyes, and he leaned forward suddenly interested.
“What’er we waitin for? Let’s git on up there.”
“Hold your horses.” I told him, “Nothin’s changed, we still got to go slow and easy. We can’t run up there and hang around like a couple of saddle bums. Don Carlos has given me a letter of introduction to a friend of his who might have jobs as muleskinners. If it works out we can come and go and nobody gets spooked.”
He wasn’t crazy about the prospect of driving mules, but he had to agree that it was the best option for now and accepted it. If we could land jobs with a freight line we could get in and out of all kinds of places without anybody even suspecting we were on the hunt.
“One more thing,” I said, “we got to stay real close to the ground. We can’t let folks get the idea that we’re on the snoop. That means keepin your gun in the holster unless you really really need it. There shouldn’t be anyone around here that knows us except the sheriff and the Don – let’s keep it that way.”
He huffed and puffed about not being a gunfighter, but he knew I was right and agreed. Andy was plenty smart, but he didn’t like to think – he just liked to let things happen and react.
We were standing at the freight company’s front door when the owner Senor Gomez unlocked the door. In short, it was nice to have the recommendation of Don Carlos, but Gomez was so hard up for drivers he would have hired us if we had never seen a mule or even a donkey before. It seemed that some of the muleskinners didn’t particularly like driving in the middle of winter, so come cold weather he was scrambling to get men up in the boxes. He didn’t even ask if we had ever driven freight wagons before or if we even knew where to go, he just started giving orders to have the wagons loaded.
He told us to be back around noon, the wagons would be ready to go, and he’d have the paper work all ready. I asked if it would be all right to store our gear in his barn and turn our horses into his corral. He said we could as long as we worked for him. That would save us some money on the hotel and stable.
By noon, we were all moved out of the hotel and had ourselves some new sheepskin coats and warm gloves. Senor Gomez, true to his word had two very large freight wagons loaded and ready to go. His shed boys must have been working like bees in a hive to get everything loaded and hitched that quick. We went inside and he told us where we were supposed to go and how to get there. Our first delivery was at Espanola, and we would pick up fresh mules from the freight agent there. At Taos, we were to unload the wagons, pick up fresh mules, lumber, hides, or whatever they had and head back. The trip was about eighty miles one-way, so we were figuring on five or six days before we could get back, but Gomez told us to figure closer to eight or nine days.
I was getting anxious to go before Andy changed his mind. He didn’t mind driving mules, but like a lot of muleskinners, he didn’t particularly like being up in the box in cold miserable weather.
When we finally left, Andy led off and I followed right behind. Off we went, with me looking at eight mule butts and the back of Andy’s wagon. I had never handled eight before, but I had it to do and I was sure I could … almost. I figured that it wouldn’t be too bad as long as the country was no rougher than it was where we were. As I tried to see what was ahead of us, by looking around the other wagon, I felt pretty confident because it all looked level.
We rode on like that for about an hour, judging by the sun. The town was well behind us and things were going along smooth as butter. Andy turned around and yelled, “Ready to brake.” By the time, I figured out what he said he had started to disappear. I realized just in time that the road had taken a sharp dip. I was suddenly hauling reins and pulling on that big brake bar. Lucky for me, those mules were smart enough to ease down that dip and I was strong enough to get the brake set. It turned out that the road went into an arroyo or a gully as we called them back home.