American Blood

by Jason Manning

  In the shadowed corner of the courtyard, Maria Jaramillo Bent watched her husband die and screamed. Several of Archuleta's assassins started toward her with murder in their hearts, but the colonel stopped them with a sharp command.

  "We do not war on women and children," he said. "Come, we have much more work to do this night."

  7

  It was a gunshot that woke Delgado from a sound sleep, but at first he did not realize it, and lay in his bed, listening, a vague disquiet dwelling within him. He gave some thought to getting out of bed and taking a look around, but the night had turned bitterly cold, and he was pleasantly warm beneath the covers. The coldness of the night was a warning; soon the first snows would fall. He could not delay his departure for St. Louis.

  Then he heard the men in the street—voices raised in anger, a horse galloping past the front of the house, another gunshot, this one quite near, and he sat bolt upright as Jeremy entered the room without wasting time with the formality of knocking. Jeremy had his shirt and trousers on, but was barefoot and coatless. He had a pistol in one hand, a saber, still sheathed, in the other, and his shot pouch slung over a shoulder.

  "Get dressed, Del," he said, with a fierce calm. "I'll wake your parents."

  He was gone before Delgado could form any questions.

  Dressing swiftly, Delgado stepped out into the hall, derringer in hand. His mother and father were emerging from their room to join Jeremy, and at that instant all heard a heavy hammering on the front door. Delgado led the way to the front of the house. As they reached the front hall, the door burst open with a splintering of wood, cracking back on its hinges.

  The first man through was a Pueblo Indian. Delgado saw the cane knife in the man's grasp and without hesitation raised the derringer and discharged one barrel. The Pueblo was coming at him, and there were others pouring in behind him, but Delgado's attention was fixed on the first man through, and he saw the Indian's features, twisted in a rictus of hate, seem to melt in a black mist as the bullet stuck him in the forehead. His legs ran out from under him, and he hit the floor hard and went into convulsions. The cane knife skittered across the tiles and came to rest at Delgado's feet.

  "Out through the courtyard!" yelled Jeremy.

  The other end of the hall was filled with men now; they jostled one another as they surged forward. Delgado saw a muzzle flash, then heard the deafening report of a pistol, and his body tensed involuntarily, but he wasn't hit, and he triggered the second barrel of the derringer, firing into the press of men. At the same instant Jeremy's pistol discharged behind him and to his right, so close to his face that Delgado felt the pinprick burn of fleck's of powder on his cheek. Two more of the intruders fell, one sprawling on his face, the other sinking to his knees in agony, and the forward surge of the men faltered. Delgado bent to retrieve the cane knife; he couldn't be certain in the semi-darkness, but the broad blade seemed to have black stains on it—blood.

  Then his father lunged forward. "You bloody bastards!" yelled Angus, infuriated. "Get out of my house!"

  "Father!" cried Delgado. "Get back!"

  A pistol spoke, and Angus McKinn, with a shuddering groan, fell. Delgado dropped to his knees beside him and stared in disbelief at the bullethole in his father's forehead. His lifeless eyes looked right through Delgado.

  Jeremy yanked him to his feet. "Come on, Del! For God's sake, come on!"

  Delgado had given no thought to retreat. In cold fury he had resolved to stand his ground, to avenge the cold-blooded murder of his father. But of course Jeremy was right. To stand meant to die. And he had to make sure his mother got safely away. They had purchased a few precious seconds by their stern resistance in the hallway. Now was the time to withdraw. He could grieve later.

  They turned and ran, following Juanita out into the courtyard, and Delgado realized that in the confusion Juanita had not seen her husband fall. When their prey bolted, the band of assassins gave chase, their bloodthirsty shouts not unlike the baying of hounds.

  Reaching the courtyard, Delgado saw that his mother was at the back gate. Juanita was struggling at the stubborn iron latch on the heavy timbered door. Delgado turned, once more to confront the killers. The nearest man raised his cane knife, running full tilt at Delgado, a snarling shout on his lips. Delgado parried the man's downward stroke with almost contemptuous ease, forcing the man off balance. He had mastered the art of fencing at Oxford—had in fact relished the lessons as a break from the seemingly endless hours spent at his studies. The cane knife was a clumsy weapon compared to a rapier, but some of the technique he had learned still applied. With a deft twist and slash—and a twinge of pain from his just-healed shoulder—he opened the man from hip to armpit. The man screamed in agony and fell.

  Jeremy had unsheathed his saber and closed with another of the assassins. This one was armed with a club and a dagger, and Jeremy made short work of him. The saber cleaved the man's shoulder, cracking the collarbone, driving him down to his knees and wrenching a guttural cry of pain from his lips. Then a pistol was fired, and Jeremy was spun around, falling to one knee. Delgado helped him up and they ran for the gate which Juanita had forced open. Only now did she realize that her husband was not behind her. She stood with her back to the gate, horror dawning in her eyes, and Delgado pushed her on ahead of him before she could ask the question she did not want to ask and he did not want to answer.

  Beyond the gate was a narrow passageway between high adobe walls. Delgado was relieved to see that his mother remained calm; she knew now that Angus was dead, but she had been bred to remain dignified no matter what the situation. Jeremy sagged against Delgado, and Delgado kept him on his feet. "Are you badly hurt?"

  "Just a flesh wound," said Jeremy through clenched teeth. "Where now?"

  "To the church. It is our only refuge. Hurry!"

  They had gone only a few yards when the gate swung open and several of the assassins ventured into the alley. Delgado and Jeremy turned, wielding cane knife and saber, ready to stand and fight right here in order to let Juanita escape. At that moment Delgado felt admiration and gratitude beyond measure; here stood Jeremy Bledsoe, no less willing than he to fight, and die if necessary, so that his mother might survive.

  But the assassins did not press the attack. They looked warily at Delgado and Jeremy and, with a muttered exchange, returned to the courtyard. The last one expressed himself in a parting shot by spitting contemptuously at the ground. Then he, too, was gone.

  Delgado and Jeremy looked at each other in disbelief.

  "I suppose," said Jeremy, "we charged too high a price for our lives."

  "Let's go."

  Leaving his mother in the sanctuary of the church, Delgado and Jeremy crossed the plaza at a run to the Bent house, drawn there by a commotion. Seeing what had happened to the governor, Delgado's blood ran cold.

  "I must warn Falconer," he said. "I will ride to Turley's Mill tonight."

  "I'll go with you," said Jeremy.

  Delgado shook his head. His friend had suffered more than a mere flesh wound. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood. It dropped from his fingers. He was pale and trembling. But Delgado instinctively knew better than to try to convince Jeremy that he was in no condition to ride, that he would not even make it halfway to Turley's Mill.

  "Stay with my mother, Jeremy. I can trust only you to see to her safety."

  "She is safe enough in the church, surely. Not even those bastards would commit murder on holy ground."

  Delgado glanced briefly at the decapitated body of Charles Bent. The governor's wife was on her knees on the blood-slick stones, rocking slightly, hands clasped in prayer as silent tears coursed her cheeks. Several men—neighbors who had come running when they heard her screams—stood about in grim, stunned silence.

  "There is no way of knowing what they are capable of doing," replied Delgado. "Please, my friend. Do this for me."

  Jeremy nodded. He knew in his heart he could not ride with Delgado. "She will be saf
e. I swear it, on my life." He wanted to tell his friend how sorry he was that Angus McKinn had fallen. One look at Delgado's face, and he decided not to. "But you," he said, "I'm not so sure."

  "Hugh Falconer saved my life," said Delgado. "I owe him this, at least."

  He made it to the stables without mishap, and there learned that the killers had preceded him. The old man who worked in the stables and slept at night in the hayloft was cowering in the shadows. Two men lay dead in one of the empty stalls. They had been hacked to bloody pieces.

  "Who were they?" asked Delgado. The old man stammered an incoherent reply; he was so terrified he could barely stand. "Calm down and tell me who they were."

  "Pablo Jaramillo," said the old man. "Brother to the governer's wife. I think the other was . . . was Narciso, Judge Beaubien's son. They ran in here to hide, senor. But there was no escape for them. Madre de Dios, what is happening?"

  "Revolution," replied Delgado, tasting bile. "Go to the church, old man. You will be safe there."

  He quickly saddled the bay and rode full tilt through the streets of Taos, expecting at every turn to be waylaid by the men who had murdered his father and Charles Bent. But the streets were silent and empty, abandoned by the living, walked only by the ghosts of those recently slain.

  Chapter Eight

  "He believes himself to be a patriot."

  1

  Delgado felt certain that the Americans at Turley's Mill would be a target of the revolutionaries. He just hoped he could get there in time to warn them.

  His destination was only a few miles from Taos. He knew the way—knew his country like the back of his hand. In his younger, more carefree days he had ridden over every foot of it. But this night's ride seemed to go on forever. At any moment he expected to be attacked from the shadows. He was weaponless now, having left the bloody cane knife at the stables. He wasn't sure why, really. Wasn't sure of a lot of things. The whole affair was like a nightmare from which he had yet to awaken. Worst of all was his father. Tears of grief streaked his cheeks as he rode on through the night.

  He was calm, though. Not unafraid, but he had the fear under control, and the fear served to sharpen his senses. In a way he was relieved that this business, however bad, however bloody and tragic, had finally begun. The waiting, the wondering, was over. Thank God it hadn't started a few days later, for then he would have been on the trail for St. Louis, and in all likelihood his mother would have been murdered, too, by the killers who roamed the streets of Taos.

  It was madness, but there was method to it, and he was not so grief-stricken that he could not think it through. Foreigners and those native-born New Mexicans who were viewed as collaborators with the Americans were the targets. And the revolutionaries were a mix of Mexicans and Pueblo Indians. They had been biding their time until Kearny and his dragoons had marched away. How many of them were up in arms? Probably not many. Yet. They would be hoping that the murder of Governor Bent and other prominent figures would trigger a massive uprising.

  When he saw his destination, a collection of structures that included Simeon Turley's home, a trading post, and a mill, Delgado's spirits soared. All seemed peaceful enough. Turley's Mill straddled a rocky creek, the Arroyo Hondo, lined with willows and cottonwoods. The other buildings were back up on the sloping foot of a steep butte. Water, timber, shelter from the bitter cold north wind of winter—these were the attributes Turley had been looking for in a piece of land, and he had found all of them here.

  The house, trading post, and still—Turley was justly famous for his home-brewed whiskey, Taos Lightning—were connected by low adobe walls or brush fences, forming a compound. Beyond the still house was a fenced vegetable garden, adjacent to a corral, which was full of horses; Delgado estimated about twenty head. He could see it all quite clearly as he neared the Arroyo Hondo, the bay resolutely picking its way across broken ground; the moon, about to set, provided plenty of illumination on this crystal clear night. Beyond the butte the snowy peaks of nearby mountains seemed to float in the star-spangled sky, detached from the earth. All in all, a peaceful and picturesque scene.

  Delgado saw someone rise up from the concealment of rocks and cedar brush to his right, perhaps a hundred yards away. A blossom of yellow flame appeared in front of the dark, sinister shape; Delgado felt the bullet strike the bay just forward of the saddle, felt it even before the gunshot reached his ears. With a shrill whinny the bay went down, mortally wounded. Delgado landed like a cat, on his feet and running.

  Shouts pursued him as he plunged into the icy cold water of the creek. The bank of the Arroyo Hondo opposite Turley's Mill was suddenly swarming with men. More gunshots. Delgado flinched at the crack! of a bullet passing very close to his head. Instinctively, he hurled himself down into the shadows. Sharp rocks just beneath the surface knocked the wind out of him. Though shallow, the creek was fast-running. The current rolled him over on his side as he thrashed painfully about, wheezing to get air into his lungs and choking on a mouthful of water instead.

  Several men were leaping into the creek after him. They were bent on killing him; Delgado doubted if they knew who he was, or that they even cared. They had obviously been waiting for moonset to attack Turley's Mill, and he had blundered into the trap and now he was fair game. A part of his mind remained very lucid and analytical while the rest screamed in panic; they would have done better to let him pass through their lines unhampered. Now Falconer and Turley and whoever else happened to have the great misfortune to be in the compound were alerted. This was small comfort to Delgado; he had come here to warn them, and now they were warned, but he was going to die for his trouble.

  Confronted with certain death, Delgado managed to move his pain-racked body. Stumbling over rocks, slipping, getting back up, lurching forward, he dared not look back. He knew they were hot on his heels. If he could only make it to the other side. If he could just reach solid ground, then he might have a chance. Perhaps then he could outrun them and reach the compound. But down deep he knew this was a forlorn hope. He wasn't going to make it out of the Arroyo Hondo alive. The swift waters of the creek would carry his blood away. A sudden image came to his mind's eye—of Sarah Bledsoe standing in the upstairs hallway of the house in St. Louis, so becoming in her pink crepe de chine dress, with that brave sweet smile and those words, those wonderful words, I will wait forever. She would indeed, thought Delgado, despairing. She would wait until eternity before she ever saw him again . . .

  His feet were like blocks of ice. He couldn't feel anything from the calves of his legs down. So he wasn't surprised when he slipped on the smooth stones below the surface, wrenching his ankle, falling clumsily, hurting his arms and hands in an attempt to break his fall. He caught a glimpse of a man only a few feet behind him. Immediately, the man was on him, raising a hand axe. My God, he is going to hack me to pieces, thought Delgado, curiously detached from the scene of his own destruction. I'd rather a bullet in the brain.

  He closed his eyes.

  Then he heard the rifle, and his eyes snapped open, and he saw the man looming over him suddenly jackknife, saw the hatchet fly from a dead man. Delgado was stunned. He was still alive. He couldn't believe it.

  "Run, Del! Get up and run!"

  It was Falconer!

  Delgado got up and ran.

  There were five or six men right behind him, some of them yelling bloody murder. Delgado forgot all about his twisted ankle and sprinted like a man pursued by the devil himself. He saw a few dark shapes separate from the trees on the Turley side of the Arroyo Hondo. One of them was in the creek now, running toward him. Falconer, the moonlight in his long yellow hair. More gunshots; he heard a yelp of pain behind him. He kept his legs churning. Falconer went right by him, going the other way, closing with the men pursuing him. There was a savage expression on the mountain man's bearded face. He had a pistol in one hand, a Green River knife in the other. Delgado slowed and turned, saw Falconer drop one man with a point-blank shot from the pistol, duck u
nder a machete, and gut the man swinging the blade with the Green River. A third man fell, shot from the bank—one of the men on Turley's side had hit his mark. That left only two survivors of the six who had chased Delgado into the creek. They stopped dead in their tracks, confronted by a vision of death in buckskins called Hugh Falconer.

  "Come on, boys," said Falconer, a fierce shout. "Come and meet your Maker."

  Delgado wasn't sure if they understood the words, but they understood the meaning well enough—and they turned tail.

  Guns were popping on the far bank, yellow blossoms of muzzle flash in the rocks and scrub cedar. Falconer spun, saw Delgado standing there, grabbed him by the arm in passing. "Head for the timber, Del. They're slinging lead our way." Delgado didn't need to be told twice. Bullets slapped at the water, whanged off a rock, and buzzed in the air like angry hornets.

  They reached the trees on the Turley side, by some miracle unscathed. Sheltered by the trunk of a split willow, Delgado sank to the ground, wheezing like a blacksmith's bellows.

  "Are you hurt?" asked Falconer, standing over him.

  "Twisted my ankle," gasped Delgado.

  "Well, that's not so bad."

  Delgado laughed—a mildly hysterical laugh. "No, it could have been much worse."

  Someone was running toward them, running the gauntlet of hot lead still being slung by the ambushers on the other side of the Arroyo Hondo.

  "Delgado McKinn!" exclaimed Simeon Turley, dropping down onto his haunches in front of Delgado as he tossed Falconer's rifle to its rightful owner. "Careful, Hugh. That there buffalo gun is loaded."

  "Obliged, Sime."

  "Don't mention it. Del, what the infernal blazes are you doing out here?"

  "I came to warn you."

  Turley glanced up at Falconer. He was a wiry, leather-skinned character with a full black beard, cut from the same cloth as Falconer, but dark-haired and smaller in build.

  "That was a mighty Christian thing for you to do, Del," he drawled. "I take it there's been some blood shed in Taos."