Pelletier just shook his head, impatient to be done with these lost causes.
The assistant returned with help. Two pairs of men carried out two rough-hewn pine coffins.
So Pelletier was the doctor and the undertaker. Now that was a conflict of interest …
The buggy driver, unable to get to his feet, watched the four assistants load his father’s corpse into one cheap pine-wood coffin, and then his barely alive little brother into the other.
The Hispanic woman walked next to the young boy as they carried him into the shop. She held the boy’s hand as he looked around his strange splintery raft in terrified confusion.
‘Zeke!’ wailed the boy. ‘Zeke, I’m scared. Don’t let them take me!’
The buggy driver looked around imploringly. He was pale with loss of blood and couldn’t rise. The young vaquero pulled the buggy driver to his feet and half lifted him to his brother’s side.
‘I’m here, Randy, I’m here.’ The buggy driver held his brother’s dying gaze as they disappeared inside.
The crowd dispersed back to their wagons, shaking their heads. There was one topic of conversation — and one topic alone: they’d been right to take shelter in the old city … but what’d happen to those they left behind?
When the street was empty, I left the shade of the porch, now more than eager to find my destination. It was two streets away and could hold the difference between life and death for me.
The big black arrowhead protruding from the boy’s gory stomach wound was wedged in my mind’s eye. That could be me. If I had to leave Santa Fe, for whatever reason, in my quest to find Hector, then I was going to need every speck of advantage and protection I could wring from this time and place.
I had a plan, but I didn’t know yet if it was the right one …
Pelletier, the undertaker, still stood at the buggy. He wiped the bloodied shears with a dirty cloth and packed them back into his medical bag. I grimaced. Those bacteria-covered shears would infect the next wound they came in contact with. I had to make sure it wasn’t me — I wasn’t prepared to die for Seymour Kershaw.
The French undertaker looked up at the sound of my boot heels on the stairs of the porch. His beady little eyes started at my black satin top hat, worked their way down my red braids then came back up, with a jerk, to my face.
The undertaker froze, unsure whether to acknowledge me or look away. Then he gave me a deep courtly bow, a twisted gesture of professional respect.
But I was guessing he brought more death than life … so I just curled my lip and left.
13
THE SHOPPING LIST
I paused in the doorway of Torres Weapons Emporium, my saddlebag over one shoulder.
The shop was jam-packed full of harsh-faced clients tensely trying to jostle the fastest way to the front counter. All were impatient to be served so they could head for home at a dead gallop. The handguns and rifles were all stacked in special display racks on the walls. Underneath sat case upon case of ammunition. The clients at the front shouted their orders and slapped down their silver US dollars. The store clerks grabbed up the coins and shoved over their goods, already impatient for the next man to step up.
Santa Fe had been in the middle of armed conflict, one way or another, for most of its history. The various Native American nations against the Spanish and then the Mexicans; the Mexicans against the Americans; the Native Americans against the Americans; and every mix in between.
And the Torres gunsmiths had done exceedingly well out of the conflicts.
Now, once again, everyone was getting ready to defend their own little patch of ground.
But this wasn’t what I’d come for. I walked around the back to the smithy itself.
Out the front, in the shop, they only sold mass-manufactured US merchandise, all prone to jamming and misfires. But out the back they made their own better, more accurate weapons for a higher price. Weapons that’d last a lifetime. The Torres smithy serviced the local Spanish landowners who’d defended their territory for centuries and knew the value of investing in their weapons. The Torres made superb pieces, including the two handmade pistols that hung at my side.
In the smithy there was a team of workers busy around a central fire and bellows. Next to the fire a massive iron anvil was being used for shaping the red-hot steel rods. If this place was true to its reputation then the rods were made of the finest weapons-grade steel in the New World. On the far wall two steam-powered lathes ran full pelt, machining the steel rods to the fine tolerances required for precision weaponry.
At the anvil, a black-haired giant glanced up and saw me. ‘Signor …’
I pre-empted him. ‘I’m looking for Signor Domenico Torres.’ My voice was naturally low, so it didn’t take much adjustment to suit my cover.
I moved out of the shadows.
He took one look at my red braids and black top hat and reached for the heavy hammer he’d been using to pound the steel at his side.
He’d recognised me for sure.
The real John Eriksen was twenty-one years old with a baby-face and the reflexes of a steel trap. Once a farm boy, he’d killed his first man at fourteen over a land dispute. He’d been ambushed on his way home by his neighbour’s sons who’d just shot Eriksen’s father and two sisters. Eriksen killed one of them and spent two years tracking down the rest of the family.
You might say he developed a new life skill.
Destitute at sixteen, Eriksen became the youngest bounty hunter in Wyoming, a deadly territory and an even deadlier trade where the stronger ones eat the weak. Sometimes literally. By eighteen he’d faced down the worst kinds of predators in a lawless land. By twenty he’d become a frontier legend with his famous trademark of red Viking braids to honour his Norwegian father, and his most famous victim’s black satin top hat as a souvenir.
‘I am Domenico Torres’ son,’ stated the burly giant proudly. ‘What business could you possibly have with my family?’ The last sentence was a threat.
‘I give you my word, I mean your father no harm. I have a special order to place with him.’ I carefully touched the pistols hanging at my side. ‘I want more of these.’
I unhooked a bag of gold coins from my belt and threw them to him.
He caught the bag, relieved at my explanation, but was still unsure. Who would willingly introduce me to someone they loved?
‘And I have news for Signor Torres from Spain.’ This time I spoke in purest Castilian Spanish. My translator was programmed for more than twenty European and indigenous languages. ‘Believe me, he will want to hear what I have to say.’
Bemused, the giant led me up the stairs and into a messy office. He didn’t know his father’s deep, dark secret. In this time and place no one did.
If he had, the son would’ve tried to kill me.
Weapons covered all four walls of the office. But not the kind that would’ve seen the light of day in this country. There were heavy maces, long swords as used in the Middle Ages; a chain-mail tunic hung next to a complete suit of armour. There was even a model Roman catapult in one corner. Domenico was pursuing his life’s work but in private.
‘Papa, Papa … you have a visitor.’ The son avoided my glance, embarrassed at the sight.
An older man, his black hair shocked with twin lightning bolts of white, lay limp across a day bed. He was snoring. From the fumes and the half-empty bottle on the table next to the bed, it was obvious he was drunk.
His son respectfully shook him awake. ‘Papa, you have a visitor.’
Domenico wiped the spittle from his mouth, cursing his son for waking him as he sat up. His gaze hit the pair of pistols with his initials on the handles at my hips, then climbed to my face.
His eyes bulged with guilty fear, as though I was the first of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. He’d understood with one glance at my expression that I knew his secret.
Domenico ordered his son to leave and close the door behind him. The huge man left, still uncert
ain but too well trained to offer a single protest.
I sat on the chair opposite the bed and considered my target with care. I needed this man’s total cooperation, not his abject fear. ‘Signor Torres, I have a gift for you … and a favour to ask in return.’
He was terrified but too proud to try to feed me lies. ‘But how could you know of me? How did you find out?’
‘Yes, signor, I know your secret, but that is not why I am here. I am not here for retribution …’
‘But —’
I put up my hand. ‘Stop!’ I ordered.
It was clear that Domenico didn’t believe my good intentions. His guilt spoke louder than my reassurance. So I had to find a way to get his complete attention and make him listen.
So I told him the truth.
‘You were born at the great castle in the city of Toledo, the eldest son of a long line of armourers to the noble de Girado family. Your family had built weapons for their patrons since the Middle Ages, everything from swords and body armour to siege engines and Greek fire. When your father died you took his place and lived in the castle … That is, until your new fiancée took the eye of the son of your patron. He attacked the woman who is now your wife and you ran him through with your sword.’
Domenico whitened, but didn’t venture a defence.
‘In fear of a murder charge and the revenge of your powerful patron, you and your love took a false name and fled to the furthest corner of the Spanish Empire — Nuevo Mexico.’
‘But how could you, a gringo, know this?’ he gasped.
‘That’s not important, Domenico. Just listen to me. You hide in Santa Fe because you believe there is still an outstanding warrant against you in Spain. You miss your homeland and you do penance every Easter for betraying your ancestors, your bloodline. But, of course, what else could you’ve done?’
He dropped his eyes. From the deep lines in his face, I could imagine he must’ve had this particular conversation with himself at regular intervals over the past few decades.
I felt sorry for him.
‘My gift to you is this, Domenico. The son of your patron did not die by your sword. He lived another year, only to be cut down by his own father for …’ I paused. ‘Let us say, no women were safe with the son, not even those of his own family.’
Domenico stared at me a moment, the words hardly sinking in.
‘It’s the truth, Domenico, you can believe me.’ It was, in fact, the complete truth.
‘But, but … this can’t be.’ Tears slipped down the drunken man’s face. He wanted to believe me.
‘There is no murder charge against you. And your cousin, Emilio, can verify this. He now lives in San Antonio in Texas. You have a whole branch of your family nearby. They have been searching for you both ever since you left Spain. I want you to telegraph him immediately for confirmation.’
I handed Domenico the address on a slip of paper I had ready.
His eyes lit up at the sight of his cousin’s name. He touched the words with a kind of religious awe.
There was a knock at the door.
The giant, no doubt inventing an excuse to check up on us, surged into the office carrying two steaming cups of hot black coffee in one massive fist. He took one look at his father’s tears and placed himself between us, an angry bear ready to defend its own.
His father roughly shoved him out of the light in order to enjoy taking in the slip of paper with his cousin’s name on it. More tears streamed down his puffy face, tears of hope and joy. He knew I was telling the truth.
As he faced me, Domenico straightened his back, held his head with pride and vigour. He was no longer a murderer hiding from his past, but a new man with a new future. ‘State your favour, Signor Eriksen,’ he said grandly. ‘Ask anything.’
His son gawked.
I reached into my saddlebag and pulled out the plans I’d carefully smuggled through the portal.
‘Your craftsmanship is famous, Domenico.’ One of his sons would follow in his footsteps and enter the history books. That was how I knew so much about the Torres family. ‘But are you ready to make more intricate weapons? Special ones …’
Domenico Torres’ now proud chest swelled at the challenge. ‘I can make anything man can design.’
I hoped he was right. Who knew where this blasted mission would take me? I wasn’t a fool. Whatever happened, I was damn well going in with backup.
I unrolled the first sheet and spread it across his lap.
Signor Torres’ eyes bulged then lit up. He laughed then slapped his son’s meaty posterior. ‘Get my big furnace stoked, Enrico, we have a lot of work to do.’
Domenico swiped the half-empty bottle off the table next to the day bed and hurled it against the wall. A red stain dripped down.
14
THE HORNET’S NEST
The afternoon light was yellow, tinting everything shades of gold and blood amber. The dust kicked up from the unpaved street leading onto the central plaza hung in a choking cloud. Sweat beaded on my forehead, plastering the few loose strands of my fire-red hair to my tanned face. The dust cloud carried with it the gritty stench of decaying horse manure and unwashed humans.
The humans smelt worse.
Imperial Spanish buildings, all softened by being adobe, enclosed the spacious plaza that was the beating heart of Santa Fe. This town had been here for more than two and a half centuries before New Mexico became another piece in the expanding jigsaw of the United States of America. There was a magnificent Catholic cathedral at the eastern end of the plaza and a busy merchant’s market at the western end. In between, on the northern side, stood the Palace of the Governors, a long, one-storey adobe building, which had been the Spanish centre of government and was now the American one.
I melted into the shadow of a building at the very back of the densely packed plaza. Fortunately all eyes were forwards, on the Palace of the Governors. I climbed to the top of the stone steps so I could see over the crowd and waited for my cue.
It was twelve days since the massacre at Dry Gulch had rocked Santa Fe back on its haunches. And ten days since Captain Uriah Bull and his men had left Santa Fe, bellowing for Coyote Jack’s head. But earlier today, Captain Bull’s forward scout had brought bad news. Now, the whole population of Santa Fe, several thousand strong, had turned out to witness the Americano soldiers return from their failed mission.
And — from the shouted complaints — demand an explanation.
The seething crowd gathered before the long, deep porch in front of the Palace of the Governors was fried to a crisp from hours of waiting in the blistering sun. The faces were overwhelmingly Hispanic, from richly dressed landowners surrounded by their spur-clad vaqueros to poor farmers standing with their families huddled at their side, brought into town for safety.
Under the shady porch packed in like sardines stood all the Anglos.
Well-dressed American ranchers, supported by their well-armed, grizzled cowboys, flanked the new governor of New Mexico to the left and right. In the very middle stood Governor Carvil Gortner, his face bloated with a defensive impotence. Clustered around Gortner was a handful of suit-clad, middle-aged Anglos who berated him, their body language urging swift and stern action.
Governor Gortner was a morbidly obese man of below average height with such a short neck that his bullet head appeared to sit directly on his well-padded shoulders. Instead of a gun he wore a huge black leather bullwhip. He stroked the handle angrily with short pudgy fingers, as though itching to use it. Gortner was known to lash out with it at the slightest provocation and the rumour was that he’d personally horsewhipped one of his enemies into an early grave.
Carvil Gortner would die of a stroke in three years’ time, after being arrested for corruption and removed as governor of New Mexico. The details of his scandalous case were murky, mainly unproven allegations as he would die on the way to the courthouse in an indignant rage … which, of course, put an end to the investigation.
It s
eemed everyone wanted to keep his skeletons buried.
I’d gathered what details I could in what time I’d had, but I knew better than to ever completely trust the history books. The winners write them and even authentic historic documents can lead you up the garden path.
A huge block of a man with winter-sky-grey eyes, greying butter-yellow hair and the shoulders of an ox leant down to whisper in the governor’s much lower ear. From their shared expression they were talking tactics. I didn’t recognise the big man, but then my sources for this time were incomplete. The Wild West hadn’t been that big on paperwork. My sources had been excellent on some topics; scarce or non-existent on others.
There were enough serious gaps to keep me sweating, heat or not. This mission was going to take some major guesswork and a whole barrelful of good timing. That or just sheer good luck.
Governor Gortner listened to his huge ox of an adviser intently. He looked like a mouse being given the address of the nearest cheese shop by the local tomcat.
There was the sound of galloping hooves …
Raising a fresh plume of dust, a boy on a paint pony raced up to the very edge of the crowd and flung himself off, shrieking, ‘They’re here! They’re here!’
The crowd groaned, as though in anguish that now the bad news would finally be confirmed, and turned to search the street from whence the boy had raced.
They fell silent as the US cavalry came into sight, their blue uniforms a dusty grey-brown. The Stars and Stripes at the front was drooping in the still air. There were more than one hundred and fifty horsemen, all armed with rifles. They filed down the street towards the silent plaza in two reluctant, wobbly lines.
Captain Uriah Bull, a career soldier, led his company sitting his fine bay horse with unyielding military rigour. Bull had fought with great valour in the Civil War and when that finished had unquestioningly followed his commander, General William Teucumseh Sherman, into the campaign to tame the Wild West. He would bitterly regret that decision for the rest of his life and retire, his honourable record besmirched, after being named in the corruption charges laid against Governor Gortner.
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