by Lyle Brandt
The raiders, thankfully, had not attempted to steal any private horses from the rancho’s barns. Parnell sat astride his dapple gray gelding, the sisters mounted on a snowflake Appaloosa (for Dolores) and a varnish roan (for Sonya). Expecting to be gone two nights minimum, on a round trip of one hundred seventy miles, the trio carried guns and ammunition, ample food and water for the trail, and blankets that would swaddle them around a fire on frosty desert nights. Upon returning, either they would have a pledge of government assistance—for whatever that was worth—or else they’d pursue a secondary plan, drawn up in haste, which placed them all at greater risk.
Departing from the ranch, the sisters rode on either side of Clint Parnell, Dolores to his left, facilitating conversation on the trail. Some of the older women living on the hacienda whispered criticism of them, leaving their padre Alejandro on his own with no kin left to care for him, although he was unlikely to lie abed complaining of his injury.
If the twins were conscious of those few whispered objections, they revealed no sign of it and frankly did not care. Both knew the origins of Doña Ana County, founded back in 1852 and named for Ana Gomez Robledo, who’d died there at age seventy-six, after fleeing with relatives from the Pueblo Revolt of 1860, near the present site of Santa Fe. While neither twin would consciously have chosen Doña Ana as a role model in life, they understood her grim tenacity, having acquired it from their father as they grew from children into women.
The riders could have saved themselves a day, at least, by traveling directly to Las Cruces and the county sheriff’s office, but all three agreed with Papa Alejandro that it would have wasted time, which they could not afford. Sheriff Patrick Lucero was a politician first and foremost, nothing like the man he had succeeded ten years earlier. That sheriff, Patrick Garrett, was best known for killing one Henry McCarty—alias William Bonney or “Billy the Kid”—at Fort Sumner in 1881, and while he might have led a posse to pursue and punish the Aguirre rancho raiders in his day, those times were gone.
Today, it was the U.S. Army or a private effort, which the three determined riders knew might see them killed across the border, dumped in shallow graves, or left to feed coyotes where they fell.
But none of them were backing down.
For the Aguirre sisters, lethal insults to their family demanded vengeance, as the theft of property cried out for recompense. Their brother’s death, the wounding of their father, and the theft of animals whose sale would see them through another year in style required that Sonya and Dolores do their utmost to eradicate that slight against their clan.
To Clint Parnell, devoid of blood ties to the family he served, the task was simpler. He was paid, and well by present standards of the time and place, to safeguard the Aguirre property. The theft of nearly fifteen hundred horses on his watch hurt Clint more deeply than a slap across the face or swift kick to his groin. He knew honor was involved, and he would do whatever was required to make things right.
Or, failing that, to stain the desert of Old Mexico with outlaws’ blood.
And if that effort meant his own death . . . well, so be it. He would be remembered, at least briefly, as a man who understood his duty and spared no expense to follow through with it.
No great believer in an afterlife himself, Parnell guessed that would have to be enough. He knew himself too well to make believe that he would ever pass through pearly gates or walk down streets of gold. And if there was no heaven, then what did he have to fear from hell?
Clint had seen death aplenty in his thirty years, first as a soldier chasing red men, later as a drover, finally as vaquero and foreman on the Aguirre ranch. Last night aside, he’d personally killed at least a dozen men, though skirmishes with Navajo and Jicarilla renegades made a precise accounting of the adversaries he had put down impossible.
Clint never bragged about it, nor was he ashamed. In each case where he’d pulled the trigger on an adversary, the decision had been his life or the other guy’s, and he had no regrets about surviving any life-or-death encounter fate had sent his way.
This time around, as in the past, Parnell would do whatever was required, and when the smoke cleared, if he was aboveground, he would learn to live with it.
* * *
* * *
Fort Bayard, located eighty-five miles northwest of the Aguirre ranch in Grant County, would not have been the trio’s choice for army contact points, but time was of the essence, forcing them to settle for a poor bargain.
Founded in 1866, one year after the War Between the States, Bayard had started as an outpost for the U.S. Cavalry defending local farms and settlements against attacks by hostile Native tribes. The facility was named for Brigadier General George Dashiell Bayard, a Union officer fatally wounded at the Battle of Fredericksburg in 1862. Most of its troops in those days had been African Americans, dubbed “buffalo soldiers” by their opponents, who compared their curly hair and dark skins to the bison that were even then being eradicated nationwide to clear the plains for railroad tracks. Despite their recent service in suppressing the Confederacy, they were relegated to the Southwest’s hinterlands under the leadership of white commanding officers who treated them with varying degrees of credit or, more often, racist disrespect.
In either case, Fort Bayard’s tenure—as an active fort, at least—was not destined to last. Within two decades of its opening, after Apache chief Geronimo surrendered for the third and last time in September 1866, shipped off to die in Florida, the U.S. War Department slated Bayard for deactivation. What eventually saved it was tuberculosis, an increasing plague among both Native tribes and Anglos in the West. Military leaders transferred control of the ex-fort to the U.S. Army surgeon general in 1900, whereupon it had become—and still remained—Veterans Hospital, a treatment center for military veterans who had contracted the “white plague,” also referred to as “consumption.”
The Aguirre sisters and Clint Parnell did not relish visiting a nest of pestilence, but in their present circumstances it remained the nearest contact point from home to any formal military outpost. There would not be healthy troops enough on hand to mount an expedition into Mexico, assuming that unlikely prospect was approved from Washington, but with the hacienda’s telegraph cables waiting to be repaired, it was the next best means of contact to authorities who could decide the matter.
The travelers had little hope of ultimate success, considering the Taft-Díaz agreement signed at Ciudad Juárez during October of last year. On the first day of that meeting, two Texas Rangers traveling with William Howard Taft as bodyguards had captured a would-be assassin whose expressed intent was the elimination of both presidents. Despite that rude surprise, the U.S. had agreed to give Porfirio Díaz a helping hand with his eighth presidential race, thereby protecting several billion dollars of American capital then invested south of the border. Another result of the summit was short-term agreement that the disputed Chamizal strip—six hundred acres of land connecting El Paso to Ciudad Juárez, caused by a shift in the Rio Grande’s course—would be considered neutral territory with no flags of either nation on display until the matter was resolved in later talks, however long that took.
No one at the Aguirre ranch expected Washington to roil those muddy waters with a border crossing to pursue horse thieves, regardless of the personal and economic damage to their owners. Buyers for the U.S. Cavalry would simply find more horses elsewhere, but despite the futile nature of that mission, Papa Alejandro had decreed that they must try.
And even wounded, hobbling about his hacienda with attendants and a crutch, his word was law to the remainder of his family and those in his employ.
* * *
* * *
At sundown, still some thirty miles short of their destination, Parnell and the twins agreed to camp out for the night. They were prepared for that, and for a second night of sleeping on the trail when they returned to Doña Ana County, and had not considered pushin
g on through darkness when potential risks from man and beast alike increased.
The sky was clear, no likelihood of rain during the night or anywhere along their route of travel for the next two days, so they had packed no tents, deciding to make do with blankets only and a fire to keep them warm. That was a risk, potentially attracting drifters bent on robbery or worse, but Parnell and the twins were all well armed, in no mood to be merciful with interlopers who approached their camp.
Aside from that, they had agreed to stand watch through the dark hours, in shifts. Parnell initially had volunteered to stay awake all night, but the Aguirre sisters quickly vetoed that, insisting that they do their share, regardless of their rank as his employers in their father’s absence. For her part, Dolores settled things by taking the last shift, from one a.m. until sunrise, ostensibly allowing her companions to catch up on sleep before the break of dawn.
In fact, although she’d kept it to herself thus far, Dolores realized that sister Sonya had a crush of sorts on Clint, although she could not say how deep the feelings ran. It would be Sonya’s job to break that news if liking should develop into something more, and she would have to hash that out with Papa Alejandro, if and when the time came. Her affection for the hacienda’s foreman had not yet passed beyond the stage of watching him at times as he proceeded through the routine of his working days, growing distracted from her own appointed tasks.
Dolores had not mentioned it and would not, until such time as her twin saw fit to raise the subject of her own accord. Despite their naturally close relationship, it would be intrusive and impertinent.
The trio ate a frugal meal of beans, tortillas, and coffee, expecting to see it repeated at breakfast and once again on their homeward journey from Fort Bayard, when they would spend another night out on the trail. Once they had cleaned their metal plates with sand, conserving precious water in their various canteens, Dolores left her sister and Clint Parnell chatting by the fire and tucked into her bedroll. Sonya would rouse her when the time came for her turn on guard.
Until then, she could only wish away what all of them assumed would be two days of wasted time, before the journey to retrieve their vanished herd began.
CHAPTER THREE
Veterans Hospital, Grant County
Breakfast had been hasty, barely tasted, following an uneventful desert night. Coyotes howling at the moon had wakened the two sleeping campers around midnight, but they posed no threat, and nothing larger than a beetle had trespassed within their homey ring of firelight, while the landscape’s other predators—ranging in size from scorpions to rattlesnakes and Gila monsters—wisely shied away.
Dolores, on the graveyard shift, had started cooking well before first light, letting aromas still familiar from their supper rouse Sonya and Clint Parnell from their bedrolls set twenty feet apart, flanking the campfire. By full daylight they had stowed their gear and watered their animals, and were progressing toward their final destination.
Thirty miles might be traversed at a killing gallop, but the travelers restrained their horses to a combination walk and trot, conserving energy and sparing them from damaging overexertion as the morning’s heat increased. Thus, it was nearly nine o’clock before they glimpsed Fort Bayard—now Veterans Hospital—standing athwart the old Apache Trail.
A sentry on its southward-facing elevated catwalk spotted them from half a mile distant and called a warning down to someone else, concealed from few behind the military base’s stockade wall. As they approached within earshot, the lookout hailed them with a gruff command.
“Stop where you are and state your business!”
Clint, their chosen spokesman for the necessary introductions, called back with a summary of the attack on the Aguirre hacienda and their urgent need to see Lieutenant Colonel Stern. The sentry shouted back, “Hang on a minute,” then ducked out of sight, presumably conferring with someone of higher rank.
More like three minutes passed before the stockade’s double gate began to open, one blue-coated soldier manning either side, straining against their weight, while two more armed with rifles watched the visitors advance.
Once the trio were all inside the walls made out of upright logs, the gates swung shut again, preventing any change of heart and hasty exit from the compound. Under guard, the travelers dismounted, left their weapons stowed in saddle scabbards, and proceeded toward the base’s central structure under guard.
Dolores trailed a step behind her sister and their foreman, not at all enthused about their entry to the hospital with its contagious patients. Even though one of their escorts had assured the trio that Lieutenant Colonel Stern’s headquarters were completely separate from any active wards, she knew tuberculosis was an airborne pathogen, and could not fully shake the sense that she was walking into danger.
Even so, uneasy as she was, Dolores forged ahead.
The fort or hospital’s command post was constructed out of logs, like the stockade. Considering the open desert that surrounded it, Dolores could not guess how far building materials had been transported overland to reach the site, or what that effort might have cost. Three wooden steps rose to the headquarters’ covered porch, reminding her a bit of home until a young soldier wearing lieutenant’s bars emerged to greet the visitors. He introduced himself as Cyrus Finch, shook hands with Clint Parnell, and nodded to the sisters without offering his hand to either one.
“This way to the lieutenant colonel, if you please,” he said, a Boston accent audible.
The new arrivals followed Finch inside and through a foyer where the walls were lined with wooden filing cabinets, along a short hallway, to reach a door marked private, where Finch knocked and waited for an answer from within.
“Enter!” a deeper male voice ordered, offering a vague hint of an Irish brogue softened by elocution lessons over time.
Finch ushered the three visitors inside, snapped off a quick salute to his commanding officer, and then closed the door behind him as he left.
* * *
* * *
Facing the man they’d traveled overnight to see, Clint Parnell doffed his flat-brimmed hat while sizing up the office and its occupant. He judged the room was twelve to thirteen feet on any given side, well kept, but not without the dusty air that desert climates add to any manmade structure over time. Its only furniture, a spacious desk with three plain chairs in front of it, was overshadowed by a portrait of the current U.S. president, his image flanked by Old Glory immediately to the right, and to its left, the red-and-yellow banner of New Mexico.
Their host, Lieutenant Colonel Stern, stood ramrod straight behind his desk, so the solemn face of William Howard Taft loomed in the background and his famous double chins appeared to rest atop the base commander’s head.
Stern moved around his desk to greet the unexpected visitors, repeating his aide’s ritual of shaking hands with Clint Parnell, then bowing slightly to the twin Aguirre sisters. Clint made the introductions for his team, feeling the heat that radiated from the twins, unhappy with their relegation to the role of hangers-on, with Stern assuming that a man must be in charge.
The camp’s commander was approximately six feet tall, an inch or so shorter than Clint, but made up for it with his uniform and grooming. The brass buttons on his jacket had been polished till they gleamed like freshly minted golden coins. His riding boots were spit shined to the gloss of mirrors, and he wore a pistol holstered on his left hip for a cross-hand draw favored by members of the U.S. Cavalry. His auburn hair was parted on the right and thinning at the temples, while Stern compensated with a handlebar mustache that framed thin lips the color of raw veal.
“Please, sit,” Stern said, with a vague gesture to the three chairs facing toward his desk.
Clint took the left-hand seat, with Sonya to his right, Dolores just beyond. As he sat down, Parnell noted the base commander’s polished desktop, decorated with a lamp, a fountain pen and inkwell
, plus a broad red leather blotter. As for the anticipated paperwork, no trace was visible.
“My aide informs me that there’s been some trouble at your ranch,” Stern said as he relaxed into his tall-backed swivel chair. “A raid of some sort, I believe?”
Dolores spoke before Clint had the chance. “Yes, sir. It left our father wounded, killed our only brother, and the bandidos escaped with nearly fifteen hundred horses under contract to your cavalry for a delivery next month.”
Stern raised a hand, its index finger stroking his luxuriant mustache. “Ma’am, if you’ll pardon me,” he said, “it’s not my cavalry. We operate a hospital, as I presume you are aware.”
Sonya Aguirre spoke up out of turn. “Yours is the nearest base that we could reach in time, sir,” she replied.
Stern frowned across his desk. “In time for what, exactly?”
Clint’s turn now. “To fetch the horses back,” he said, “and meet the deadline for delivery.”
Lieutenant Colonel Stern leaned back, forcing a squeak out of his chair, tenting his fingers underneath his chin as he replied.
“I see,” he said. “But as to that, we have a problem that I should explain to you.”
* * *
* * *
Seated behind his desk, Stern normally expected deference from the subordinates who stood before him during any given day. The presence of civilians—and two women in the group, both of them clearly Mexican in ancestry—put him off stride, feeling as if he’d been transported from his normal element into an atmosphere distinctly alien.
