by Tim Champlin
“Anything else I can do for you?” he asked politely, ignoring Nellie who stood by the door.
“We’re trying to catch up with five men who might have come this way a day or so ago,” Thorne said casually.
“Were these men Anglos or Mexicans?”
“Anglos.”
“¿Amigos?” the storekeeper inquired quietly, his arresting eyes staring at the floor.
Thorne and Rasmussen looked at each other. Should they tell him the truth in hopes of getting a truthful answer? They seemed to read each other’s expressions.
“They’re no friends of ours,” Thorne said.
“They’re going after stolen money…a large amount of gold and silver,” Rasmussen added while Thorne pulled out his small leather folder with his card, badge, and photograph, identifying him as a Secret Service agent.
“The leader of these men is the grandfather of this young lady,” Thorne said, indicating Nellie.
The storekeeper shot a penetrating glance at Nellie, then looked back at Thorne’s identification. “Ah…then all is not well in her family.”
“That’s right. These men are enemies of the United States government, and we must stop them.”
“Who does the money belong to?” the storekeeper inquired, with more interest than before.
Rasmussen felt they had set the hook. This man knew something.
“It’s stolen Army payrolls…a good deal of it was taken from the treasury of the former Confederate States of America, and a lot more came from bandits who’ve robbed banks and trains over the last thirty years,” Thorne told him.
“If we don’t stop them,” Rasmussen said, “they’ll use the money to bribe the Mexican government into becoming part of a new country made up of a few Southern states and Caribbean islands. They call that whole area The Golden Circle.”
Before the Mexican could respond, Thorne added: “If you’ve seen these men, you’d be doing a great service to your country by telling us where they are.”
Even though this was the New Mexico Territory, a possession of the United States, it had been part of Mexico just over a generation ago, and Rasmussen couldn’t guess where this man’s loyalties lay.
The Mexican storekeeper turned and called over his shoulder: “Blanco!”
A slender dark boy, who looked to be on the underside of twelve, trotted out of a back room. The proprietor spoke to him in rapid Spanish. The boy nodded and hurried out the front door.
“I have taken the liberty of sending the boy to notify Señora O’Reilly you will be staying at her hotel tonight,” he said.
“Gracias.”
The Mexican came around the counter, locked his front door, and pulled down the shade. “It is my custom to close at sundown for one hour to eat supper, because my store remains open during the usual siesta period in early afternoon,” he explained.
It was not as uncomfortably stuffy in the closed store as Rasmussen had expected. A high window in the wall let in the evening breeze.
“Sit, por favor.” The storekeeper motioned to several wooden chairs.
The room reminded Rasmussen of an Ozark country store, with its captain’s chairs and potbellied stove.
“My name is Luis Ortiz,” the man began. “I own this store. For a time I was mayor of Río Colorado, where I live now for many years.” He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. “I know where are these hombres you seek. They camp ten miles west, near Tres Lobos Cañon. I show you tonight…or mañana, if you wish.”
“How did you know they were nearby?” Rasmussen asked, sensing deception.
“Shepherds in Tres Lobos Cañon say they see strange men with wagons in the dark of night.” He smiled. “Word of their presence has spread through the village. Superstitious old women came into my store today to tell me these men were ghostly members of the brotherhood, returning to their morada. I pointed out that ghosts do not travel by wagon.”
“Why would they even think these were ghosts?” Rasmussen asked.
“Sometimes, over twenty years, más o menos, men, ghosts…or figures of some kind…nobody knows…were seen at night around the entrance to Tres Lobos Cañon. These reports came from all kinds of people…mostly sober men who do not lie. I never saw the figures myself, but many witnesses, during many years, telling the same story cannot be passed off as drunken visions, or wild animals, or shadows. These pious old women have just decided among themselves that the visions were ghosts of dead brothers.”
Rasmussen was confused, but Thorne said: “Now I understand that tiny cross on your forehead. You’re a member of the Penitentes.”
“Sí. For years I was the hermano mayor here. Now I’m only a humble brother.”
“You’ll have to explain that,” Rasmussen said.
“The Brothers of Our Father, Jesus, is an order of Catholic laymen of Spanish descent,” Thorne said with a glance toward Ortiz. “I know of them from my time in Arizona and New Mexico ten years ago.”
“That is correct, Señor…?
“Thorne. Alex Thorne.”
“Señor Thorne is right. We have a tradition from Spain and Mexico. The order grew strong when the Spanish empire became weak and the Franciscan friars left the frontier more than a hundred years ago. When our people had no priests, Los Hermanos became a way for them to hold onto the faith. Many centuries ago, while Saint Francis lived, he started the Third Order for lay people. The men of our morada practice charity, help those in need, avoid saloons, and the carrying of weapons. We try to live our Christian faith,” Ortiz said with a hint of pride.
“What was that name you called them a minute ago?” Rasmussen asked.
“Penitentes,” Ortiz said. “That is what outsiders call us because we do bodily penance, usually during Holy Week.”
“Self-flagellation,” Thorne explained. “Outsiders think whipping one’s bare back is a bloody, barbaric practice, but it’s a tradition of self-mortification that goes back at least to the Thirteen Hundreds when the Black Death killed half of Europe.”
“Even the bishop does not agree with this old, revered practice,” Ortiz said. “He says our penance injures our God-given bodies. But Los Hermanos believe our rites should not be banned. We chant the litanies in our processions, and select one among us, who is worthy, to take the part of the Cristo, in our passion play. He is tied to a cross for a time. Imitating the sufferings of Christ is a holy thing to do.” Ortiz made a quick sign of the cross.
“Their secrecy generates suspicion and condemnation from outsiders…even the Catholic hierarchy,” Thorne said. “Those flagellants who march in the Good Friday Stations of the Cross are hooded, and outsiders think it’s sinister.”
“Our brothers do not hide from the Church,” Ortiz explained. “They wish only to be humble in their penance and not show off for others.”
“All very interesting, but what’s this got to do with the Newburn party?” Rasmussen cut in.
“Would I help three Anglo strangers for no reason?” Ortiz flashed a look at Rasmussen with smoldering eyes. “Politicians and outsiders who would destroy Los Hermanos say we are affiliated with Las Gorras Blancas, The White Caps, a gang of whitehooded Mexican night riders who burn and destroy, and scatter livestock. They say they discourage whites from moving onto Mexican landholdings. But they burn and loot their own people as well.
“Shepherds from Tres Lobos Cañon tell of five men they saw. This has stirred fears in our village that the five are White Hats, come to raid. And because they camp near the morada, many long-tongued gossips accuse the brothers of joining them….”
“Morada?” Rasmussen interrupted.
“A Penitente meeting house, or church,” Thorne explained.
“Our morada is near by Tres Lobos Cañon, a few miles west. I will take you there.”
When Ortiz stopped speaking, Thorne said: “Since you’ve been open with us, I’ll tell you the story of these five men.” He went on to detail the feuding families, the various sources of the treasure
, and what Silas Newburn and the Knights of the Golden Circle planned to do with this vast fortune—the ripping apart of several political entities to form yet another one.
“This fighting over land will never stop,” Ortiz said with a slow shake of his head. “I would have New Mexico remain a part of old Mexico where my Spanish ancestors came from. But history is filled with one people dominating another, century after century. It is the way of man. I do not object to the United States taking New Mexico by force. I must live and do the best I can. Even Christ came to the Jews when they were ruled by the brutal Romans. Perhaps these things happen to keep us humble. ¿Quién sabe?” Ortiz straightened up from lounging against the counter and went to peer out the window. “Darkness is coming. Take your belongings to the hotel. I keep my store open for two more hours. Come to my back door at ten o’clock. Then we will go.”
“Gracias,” Rasmussen said.
“Do not thank me. I do this for Los Hermanos as well as for you.”
Rasmussen opened the door for Nellie and Thorne. Deepening shadows filled the dusty streets. Overhead, the sun’s last rays gilded the edge of clouds sliding in from the northwest.
They led their mounts along the street without speaking, entertaining individual thoughts. Rasmussen wondered how he’d confront the man who’d ambushed him—Black Rogers. Would Darrel Weaver, Nellie’s reluctant cousin, be caught in the crossfire if a battle ensued? Silas had brought his two sons, Tad and Martin. Who was the fifth knight? Someone young and reckless—perhaps a good gunman? And where was Johnny Clayton? If he’d survived his fall from the moving train, he had no doubt telegraphed Walter Clayton by now that the Newburn party’s destination was Santa Fé. If Johnny had reached Santa Fé, was he also confounded about Silas’s whereabouts? Maybe Johnny would hunker down and lick his wounds and wait for his grandfather to bring reinforcements.
As darkness settled over the village of Río Colorado, Rasmussen had many questions. Surely the night would bring some answers.
Chapter Seventeen
Luis Ortiz closed the back door of his store.
“You forgot to lock it,” Thorne reminded him.
“Not necessary,” Ortiz said. “No one in this village steals from me. We don’t lock our houses.” He shrugged, adding: “If they take something from my store without paying, they need it more than I do, and are welcome to it. I just don’t want the White Caps to burn my store.”
Unlike many buildings in the village, his store was built of wood, rather than adobe.
“Are there any around here?” Rasmussen asked.
“Yes. The White Caps have made many raids. Most of the men who hide behind white hoods are lazy Mexicans. They don’t work, even in summer when there are many jobs,” he said with disgust.
“There will always be people like that,” Rasmussen said.
“Where are your horses?” Ortiz asked. “Too far to walk.”
“In the hotel stable. They’re in no shape for any more work tonight. They carried us many miles today.”
“Then come. We take my buckboard.”
They followed the storekeeper to his house a block away and waited outside while he went in and spoke to his wife. Through the partially open door, Rasmussen saw a mature woman with gray hair, speaking rapid Spanish, and gesturing. Her manner indicated she wasn’t happy.
Ortiz came out and closed the door. “Help me hitch the mules.” He pointed to a barn in the dim light.
Fifteen minutes later, the unsprung buckboard bounced across the road and away from the scattered buildings of the village. Ortiz drove, Thorne on the seat beside him, with Rasmussen and Nellie sitting on the flat boards of the wagon, hanging on as best they could.
The night was dark, with no hint of moon or stars to light their way. Rasmussen looked up. The sky was obscured by a thick overcast—a cloud cover had slid in on a high altitude wind at dusk. Just as well, he thought. Apparently Ortiz knew the way so well he kept the mules at a trot. It was almost as if he were driving in daylight.
“Hang on. River ahead,” Ortiz said as the buckboard rattled and bounced down a long, rocky slope.
Gripping the back of the seat, Rasmussen twisted to look forward. Were they on some sort of road, or just going cross-country? The wagon pitched down a steep bank and splashed into water. Before Rasmussen could catch his breath from the cold spray, the mules were lunging up the opposite bank. That was a river? He’d forgotten that Western rivers were usually the size of creeks in wetter climes.
They rolled on for what seemed like four or five miles. Finally Ortiz pulled up, looped the reins around the rim of the front wheel, and climbed down. “This is close enough. We go on foot from here.”
Ortiz led them through the brushy landscape, twisting and turning until they’d gone another mile. He paused and turned to them in the dark. “We must be silent from here. Our morada is up ahead. Make no noise. Follow me,” he whispered. “Watch and listen.”
In the blackness, Rasmussen sensed something blacker bulking up ahead of them. They crept ahead and felt the cold stone wall of the morada. Easing along to the corner, they saw a pinpoint of light in the distance. Firelight. A campfire. Rasmussen’s heart began to beat faster. Their quarry was finally in sight. Or, at least he hoped it was the five men they sought.
“They’ve likely got a guard posted,” Thorne whispered.
Rasmussen put a hand to his gun butt. These men would not hesitate to kill anyone who tried to interfere with their finding the treasure. He wondered if Ortiz was armed. Not likely, if he truly followed the practices of Los Hermanos. He and Thorne and Nellie each had a loaded revolver in case they were discovered. Rasmussen wished for at least a small amount of light so they could get an idea of who and what surrounded that campfire. They needed to get closer.
Fortunately Ortiz was familiar with the terrain. After a whispered consultation, they decided that Nellie would stay at the morada and stand watch while Ortiz led the two lawmen toward the camp.
Watching Ortiz creep ahead, Rasmussen wondered if the man’s Mexican ancestors shared Indian blood. The middle-aged storekeeper seemed to slither along with cat-like grace reminiscent of Indians in the western Canadian provinces.
Rasmussen was concerned with being seen by some lone sentry. If the men at the camp hadn’t posted a look-out, they were either tired or felt secure from any interference by the locals. And it was unlikely they knew of any imminent pursuit from Missouri.
Screened by desert shrubbery, the trio stole to within yards of the campfire. In the flickering firelight, three blanket-covered forms lay on the ground. One man sat on a rock, feeding small sticks to the blaze. He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee from a blackened pot setting on an iron spider over the fire. He sat back down, blowing on the steaming cup, blanket draped over his shoulders against the night chill. A carbine leaned against the rock where he sat. Firelight shone up under the man’s hat. The long face and the hooded, sleepy eyes were not familiar. Rasmussen drew a deep breath. One of the Golden Circle knights, he supposed. A very lackadaisical way of keeping watch—sitting, half asleep in the full light of the fire.
Thorne nudged him and pointed at the forms on the ground, then at the sentry, and held up four fingers. He shrugged as if wondering where the fifth man might be.
Rasmussen felt a chill that wasn’t due to the night air. The fifth man was out there somewhere. Just then, another figure moved out of the darkness from behind a parked wagon.
“Silas Newburn,” Thorne muttered softly as the lean man tossed a sack onto the ground and said something to the guard.
There was no doubt they’d found the men they sought. It would be easy to arrest the five right now. Rasmussen whispered his idea to Thorne.
Thorne shook his head and pointed at one of the big Army supply wagons backed up to the firelight, tailgate down. The heavy, gray wagon was empty. They didn’t yet have the treasure and were technically innocent until caught with the stolen money.
The best cha
nce he and Thorne would ever have to capture this group was now. Even if they could somehow legally detain the Newburns on suspicion, the location of the treasure would remain secret. He and Thorne and Nellie would have to wait and give the Newburns room and time to acquire the stolen property.
He nodded to Thorne and Ortiz, and began creeping soundlessly away.
They paused again near the morada when the fire was again a pinpoint of light in the distance.
“Did you see them?” Nellie asked in a low voice.
“Yes.” Rasmussen described the look-out in detail.
“That was my cousin, DJ,” she said a little sadly. “I was hoping he’d decided not to go through with this.”
“Reckon he gets paid only if he does his job,” Thorne said.
They retreated to the buckboard. Ortiz drove them back to the village. Even though the Mexican didn’t ask for anything, Thorne slipped several folded greenbacks into his hand as they parted.
The three were silent as they walked back to the hotel. Rasmussen, for one, was exhausted. They’d been up for more than twenty hours, and covered many miles.
Thorne went into their room.
“Rap on the wall if you need anything,” Rasmussen told Nellie, giving her a quick hug at the door of her adjacent room. A single lamp in a wall sconce burned low, casting a dim light in the hallway of the adobe hotel.
“Oh, Kent, what are we going to do?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“You’ve been tough and held up this far,” he said. “Don’t let it get you down. We’re all tired. Things will look better in the morning. Get a good sleep.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly.
The next day, at the store, Rasmussen asked Ortiz: “Have any of those men come into town since they’ve been here?”
Before answering, the storekeeper watched a customer depart with a twist of chewing tobacco.
“No. Santiago, a shepherd, is a cousin of mine. He will keep watch on them for me.”
“Can he do it without them knowing they’re being watched?”
“Sí. He is a good man. I told him…report to me every day. His dog will guard the flock when he rides to town.”