“Marshal! I’m glad my striker found you. I was afraid you’d left.” Tomasson leaned back in his chair, hands on the edge of his desk. “I hate paperwork, and that’s all there seems to be these days. Not like when we were hunting down the Navajos.”
“Why not let your adjutant do this for you?”
“My adjutant got kicked in the head and isn’t doing so well. My other three officers, a major and two lieutenants, are in the field.”
“That’s all your officer corps?” Barker felt a small bit of sympathy for the commander.
“You’re not privy to military rumors anymore, Marshal. Fort Selden is likely to be decommissioned when the Southern Pacific comes through and connects down into Texas.”
“Heard tell of the railroad coming through but didn’t pay much mind to it.” Barker knew better than to worry over such things. The railroad might mean easier transportation and the eventual death of the stagecoach, but considering how the Mexican outlaws had been devastating the stage road traffic, that would be a good thing. Dealing with train robbers was likely to be easier than the road agents holding up the stage.
“Not sure where the tracks will be laid, but somebody in Mesilla is holding out for a considerable sum of money for the right-of-way.”
“Sounds ’bout right,” Barker said.
“You might consider moving to Doña Ana if the railroad goes through there. Mesilla will dry up and blow away without the railroad.”
“They offering a better price for the land?”
“Free.”
“Free?” Barker snorted at this.
“They’re looking to the future, not the present. Give the railroad the land and their town will flourish at the expense of Mesilla and others all around.”
“But we’re a stage depot on the route to ...” Barker’s voice trailed off. He had just reasoned that the railroad would kill the stagecoach companies. Why rattle your teeth and eat grit by the pound when you could ride in comfort at twice the speed in a railcar?
“You’re not a dull fellow, I see,” Tomasson said. “But if you are like me, you are also a hungry one. I have ordered dinner set up in my quarters. It would be my pleasure if you’d join me.”
“You’re wrong there, Colonel,” Barker said. “It’s my pleasure to join you.”
Tomasson beamed, and Barker knew he had struck the right note. The colonel put a few rocks atop the piles of papers, then exited the office.
As Barker joined him, the colonel asked, “We might ruin dinner with this question, so I’ll put it right out there. I need a scout. I know your skill from the days you rode for Colonel Carson and ...”
“Colonel, Colonel!” A rider galloped up, then stopped his horse so fast the dug-in hooves sprayed dust all over the officer and Barker.
“What’s the meaning of this unseemly interruption, Private?” Tomasson brushed off the dirt from his natty uniform. “I’ll have you on report unless ...”
“They was ambushed, suh. All of ’em are dead.”
“Who? What are you talking about, man? Spit it out!”
“The supply train from Fort Union. They was ambushed and they was all killed. And—”
“And what?” Tomasson’s face had drained of color. Barker ignored the officer and watched the messenger closely. Whatever else he had to say, he wasn’t inclined to spit it out.
“Who else was killed?” Barker asked, his tone gentler than the colonel’s but no less insistent.
“Suh, it was the lieutenant. Lieutenant Greenberg. Him and his men was all slaughtered, too. They’s all dead!”
18
“THE JOURNEY OF DEATH,” MASON BARKER MUTTERED as he rode beside Colonel Tomasson. The Rio Grande was not far to the east and provided a clear, if never easy, marker to the north. Jornado del Muerto, the early Spanish explorers had called this trail, and it never failed to live up to its name. In the summer, the river was mostly dry and water had to be found elsewhere. Such a task was never easy in such hard desert. Spring brought raging currents thanks to runoff from the high mountains in the northern part of New Mexico and made crossing the river nigh on impossible. During the winter it was often possible to ride across the dry riverbed.
And water or the lack of it was not all that menaced a traveler; Indians, road agents and the hammering sun added to the danger.
“That’s what they call it,” Tomasson said glumly. “I cannot imagine losing another officer like this.”
“You all right, leaving the post without an officer in charge?”
“The quartermaster is capable enough. He was a captain during the war.”
“Demoted because there weren’t enough officer’s positions?”
“Yes,” Tomasson said. “He stayed in the army, though he ought to have found himself a town in need of a general store and settled down. Something about the military holds him.”
Barker wondered if Tomasson might not have been a general at the end of the war, then thought not. James Carleton had only been a one-star general. He might have worked his way up to major general, but mostly Barker hadn’t cared enough to follow the man’s career. When decent officers like Grierson couldn’t get a star, it was no wonder that Tomasson remained a colonel—and was probably lucky to keep the gold chickens on his shoulder epaulets.
“What was in the supply train?”
“I didn’t think to check the equipment request, but there was a considerable amount of ammunition to be sent this month. I always order five times as much as I need and get barely enough to send out armed patrols.”
“That’s the way it is with the army,” Barker acknowledged. He had seen it work against Colonel Carson, who never quite got the hang of proper military ordering. But then Carson could not read or write anything but his own name. Barker had heard of a clever quartermaster at one of Carson’s posts after the war requisitioning more whiskey than flour for the soldiers. The fort hadn’t been properly prepared to defend itself, but there wasn’t a soldier on the post who wasn’t appreciative of an illiterate commander and a conniving quartermaster.
“How much farther, Private?”
The messenger rode a few yards to the colonel’s right, obviously not wanting to eavesdrop on his commanding officer and yet fearful he would be called upon and not hear.
“Up ahead, not a half mile. You know the spot in the road where it dips down toward the river? The wagons have to slow and—”
“I don’t know this spot,” Tomasson said harshly. “A half mile, you say?”
“No more’n that, suh.”
“Lieutenant Greenberg must have gotten wind of the ambush and ridden to warn the freighters,” Barker said.
“He should have sent a messenger back to the post. I could have had a company out to protect the supply train.”
“Might not have been time,” Barker said, but he knew the colonel was right. Whatever Greenberg’s reason for personally leading a handful of soldiers to meet the supply train had been, he had not shown good sense. It was hard to believe Greenberg’s inexperience might have done him in, though Barker thought that was likely the case. He had liked the young officer, and that colored his thinking when it came to deciding what Greenberg would or wouldn’t do. It wasn’t beyond the pale that Greenberg wanted to save the supply train and win a medal.
“We’ll never know,” Tomasson said, standing in his stirrups and peering ahead. The site of the massacre had proven to be closer to a quarter mile.
Strewn across the road and toward the river were opened crates that had contained rifles. Kegs of black powder and what Barker took to be boxes of cartridges for the troopers’ carbines had been cracked open and the contents spilled out.
He frowned at the sight. If Indians had attacked, there wouldn’t have been a single brass cartridge anywhere. The Apaches would have picked up even a single round, knowing that could mean the difference between life and death for them later. What he saw made no sense. The contents of two wagons had been spilled, not stolen.
; “Who’d do this?” Tomasson asked.
For a moment, Barker thought the colonel meant scattering powder and ammunition, then he saw the colonel staring at four soldiers. The morning sunlight glinted off their brass buttons as they lay head to toe to head beside the wagon. Their attackers had gone to great trouble arranging the bodies. Barker sucked in his breath when he saw how many rounds had been used to kill the men. Their heavy blue wool jackets had absorbed most of the blood, but he counted dozens of bullet holes in each of the men.
“I’ve never seen such mercilessness,” Tomasson said.
“I have.” The words were hardly audible as they escaped Barker’s lips. Louder, he said, “The stagecoach robbery I told you about? This could be its twin the way—the victims were cut down and then repeatedly shot long after they died.”
“Men can be sorely wounded and live on. I saw a man hit nineteen times in battle and he survived. Perhaps ...”
“No, Colonel, that’s not what happened. The banditos I’m chasing did this. Their ruthlessness knows no bounds.”
Behind him he heard a soldier trying not to vomit and failing. They had just found the rest of the soldiers in the wagon train, including Lieutenant Greenberg. He and the three men with him had received special attention from the butchers responsible.
Barker left the colonel to shouting out orders to retrieve what had been tossed onto the ground and then get an inventory. Barker rode in a wide circle, studying the ground, getting a feel for what had happened. As with the stagecoach ambush, there had been no subtlety to this attack. At least six men had opened fire on the soldiers, catching them in a withering cross fire. While unspent cartridges had been tossed from the army supply wagons, Barker found three spots with piles of spent brass where the outlaws had waited and then opened fire.
He tried to estimate how many rounds had been fired. He quit counting at one hundred. The outlaws hadn’t tried to cover their tracks either to or from the ambush site. They had ridden in from the east, crossing the river and waiting for at least a couple hours. Barker found the places where the road agents had relieved themselves, discarded whiskey bottles, and otherwise left their imprint.
And after the slaughter they had taken one wagon and ridden south-southwest. He shuddered. That road bypassed Mesilla and went toward the Peloncilla Mountains. This reinforced his belief that the Sonora Kid was back and deadlier than ever.
“That way, Colonel,” Barker said as the officer rode up. “One wagon and something else, a smaller wagon maybe.”
“A caisson.”
Barker looked at the colonel.
“Why’d they want to take that, unless ...” His voice trailed off when he saw the officer’s grim expression.
“They stole a mountain howitzer, shot for it, and enough black powder to wage a small war.”
“They’re going into the Peloncillas,” Barker said. “With a cannon. If they find the right spot in those hills, they can hold off a company of your troopers.”
“I can only hope that’s what they want with the howitzer,” Tomasson said. “If they set it up for a defensive position, its loss is irritating but not critical.”
“What else could the Sonora Kid want with it?” Barker said more to himself than to Tomasson.
“They can cause immense destruction with even a small field piece. They can blow open the strongest bank vault. If they go far enough west, they can lob a round or two at a steam engine and inflict serious damage on the railroad laying tracks into the territory.”
Barker’s thoughts turned in other directions. The Sonora Kid had shown he had a taste for blood. If he pulled that field piece into a town like Mesilla, he could kill dozens of people with only a few rounds.
“How hard will it be to learn to use it properly?” Barker asked. “I remember how difficult it was for Colonel Carson’s unit to deploy artillery.”
“If all he wants to do is kill, it’s not hard. Just start firing and let the shells fall where they might. Load the barrel with links of chain or nails and there’s no need to be accurate. Just figuring out how to load and discharge is all that’s needed.”
Barker shuddered in spite of the heat. The mental image he had of chain shot and solid cannonballs ripping through a town’s populace frightened him, and he didn’t scare easily. The gang had shown less inclination to steal than to kill. This was an unstoppable killing machine.
“I’ll post a guard over the wagons,” Tomasson said, “until new teams from the post can be brought out. I’ll see that the wheelwright comes, too. Those axles look in mighty bad shape.”
“You know how many men were with the supply train?” Barker asked.
The colonel didn’t.
Barker put his finger to his ear, then turned in the direction of a soft moan. He pointed into the bosque lining the river. He urged his horse forward as he slipped his pistol from its holster. Such caution wasn’t necessary because he found the source of the pitiful sounds immediately.
“You said you’d seen a man shot up nineteen times and he still lived. You can add another to your story, Colonel.”
Lying in the underbrush, a private writhed in pain. The back of his blue coat showed a half dozen holes. Barker dismounted and knelt beside the fallen man. Many of the slugs had cut into his coat and not penetrated more than a fraction of an inch. Whether the coat had saved him or the loads used by the outlaws shooting him were punk didn’t matter. He had caught a lot of lead and survived.
“We’ll get you to Fort Selden and take care of you there,” Barker assured the man. The private’s eyes flickered open. He recoiled when he finally focused on Barker. “Easy now. You’re safe. Colonel Tomasson is here.”
“The outlaws. It was the Sonora Kid!”
“Now how would you know a thing like that?” Barker asked gently.
“Heard one Mexican call him that. You ... you—”
“At ease, Private,” Tomasson said. “There’s no call to exert yourself. We’ll have you up and in the saddle again in no time.” Tomasson looked at Barker and added, “This is a guard from Fort Union.”
“Guessed as much,” Barker said since the wounded soldier was white.
“We can’t go after the gang without mustering more troops,” Tomasson said. To the wounded soldier he asked, “When did this happen?”
“Don’t know. Yesterday?”
“That’s probably right,” Barker said. “The tracks are a day old, if not more. They have quite a head start.”
“I’ll put two companies into the field, if I can get my other units to return.”
Tomasson went to a soldier and spoke rapidly. The soldier saluted, vaulted into the saddle, and galloped off in the direction of Fort Selden. Barker reckoned the colonel had sent word back to prepare for the worst. Before the colonel returned to the post, messengers would be dispatched, ordering the return of all patrols and alerting other nearby forts. Concentrating on finding the outlaws and the stolen howitzer took precedence over cattle rustlers and even Indians who had sneaked off the reservation.
Barker had to agree with the officer. This wasn’t any run-of-the-mill outlaw they were after. It was the Sonora Kid.
“HE DIED,” SERGEANT STURGEON TOLD BARKER. “About halfway to the post, he died from the wounds.”
“They looked shallow,” Barker said.
“He lost a whale of a lot of blood, Marshal. Might have been better to leave him be and try to nurse him back there in the woods, but the colonel, well, the colonel wanted none of that.”
“I can understand,” Barker said, and he did. Tomasson wanted as many of his command as possible in the field chasing down the Sonora Kid. Leaving one to nursemaid the wounded soldier from Fort Union removed a carbine from the fray. Still, it was a sorry end to the soldier’s life.
But he had delivered one fact that Barker had felt in his gut but lacked proof of. The Sonora Kid had returned to bedevil the whole of southern New Mexico Territory.
“I’ll see if Marshal Armijo won’t p
ost a big reward on the Kid’s head,” Barker said.
“That might be real dangerous,” Sergeant Sturgeon said. “If the reward’s too small, nobody’ll care. If it’s too big, you might be floodin’ the territory with bounty hunters. Some are tough hombres, but they won’t believe they’re up against a killer like the Kid.”
“Can’t let it go unmentioned,” Barker said glumly. “I need to know if anyone sees him or his gang.”
“But a big reward might lure ’em into thinkin’ they can bag him like a snipe.”
“If we don’t locate him, more’n a man or two’s going to get killed,” Barker said. The horrific power of the mountain howitzer would be trained on unsuspecting towns just for the Sonora Kid’s sick pleasure. He had to be stopped. Fast.
“You talk to that federal marshal of yours, but there has to be something more to convince ever’one how dangerous the Kid is.”
“You’re right.” Barker looked at the flagpole that had once been the main mast of a sailing ship. The cross members were about the right height. Going to his horse, Barker unlooped the rope and sat on the boardwalk, using his knife and chewing his tongue in concentration to fashion what he wanted to be the symbol of this outlaw.
More than one soldier stopped to watch in puzzlement. Barker refused to answer their questions about what he was making until he finally cut off the end of the rope and stood. When he mounted and rode to the flagpole, he could reach up and touch the cross member. With a quick toss, he looped the rope over the beam and let the hangman’s noose drop down.
“This isn’t just any noose,” Barker called to the soldiers now assembled. Across the parade ground, Colonel Tomasson came from his office to see what the fuss was about. “This isn’t a simple noose. It’s the Sonora noose and it’s made special for the Sonora Kid!”
The soldiers muttered for a moment, but Sergeant Sturgeon’s bull-throated roar cut through the sounds.
“Long may the soldier-killin’ son of a bitch swing!”
Barker smiled grimly. This time there was a roar of approval. He’d see the noose filled. With the neck of the Sonora Kid.
The Sonora Noose Page 17