"Governor Bent's been murdered. Along with some others."
"Charley Bent—dead?"
"Yes. They broke into his home tonight and cut off his head."
"They?"
Delgado shook his head. "Some Pueblo Indians, along with some New Mexicans. I don't know who they were."
"Well, whoever they were, God damn their mangy hides," muttered Turley.
A bullet smacked into the willow tree that provided all three of them with partial cover.
"We'd better pull back," advised Falconer.
"I second that motion," said Turley. He put two fingers in his mouth and cut loose with a piercing whistle. Several men began to fade back through the trees, away from the creek and toward the compound.
"Can you walk, Del?" asked Turley.
"I can do better than walk. I can run."
And he did, although now he could feel shooting pains in his ankle. Falconer stuck close by him, in case he stumbled and fell, but Delgado made it to the compound, and took cover behind the four-foot adobe wall that ran from Turley's home to the trading post. Falconer and the other man vaulted the wall and spread out, rifles loaded and ready, but suddenly the gunfire died down. Their adversaries had pursued them through the trees, only to fall back to the Arroyo Hondo.
"Well I'll be," muttered Turley, amazed. "Why'd they quit, you reckon? Must be fifty, a hunnerd of 'em."
"More," said Falconer, and he didn't sound like he was making a wild guess.
"They could have run right over us," said Turley, mystified. "You figure they gone and lost their nerve, Hugh?"
The moon had just set, and the night had become suddenly much darker. Falconer searched the blackness, but even his keen eyes could not see much.
"I think they're mostly Pueblo Indians," he said. "Maybe a few Mexicans thrown in for good measure."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning a lot of them probably don't have guns. We gave them a bloody nose down at the creek, and my guess is they're thinking things over. They can't be too sure of our numbers."
"How many are here?" asked Delgado.
"Well, let's see," drawled Turley. "There's Tom Tobin, Ike Claymore, Billy Russell, and that breed partner of his. Stump Willis, and Amos Marsh, too. Then there's me and Hugh, of course. You're the ninth man, Del. Two women—my wife and Ike's squaw. I'd sure like to get them clear of this. Problem is, I know for a gold-plated fact that my woman wouldn't leave. And I reckon Ike's little Cheyenne gal's made of the same stuff."
"Nine men," mused Delgado. "Against a hundred? Maybe we'd all better try to make a run for it."
Neither Turley nor Falconer made a quick response to this suggestion. Delgado assumed they were giving it careful consideration.
"If we do," said Falconer, "we'd better go tonight."
"I dunno," replied Turley, dubious. "I don't cotton to being run off my own place. But then again, I'd like to keep the little hair I got left."
His back to the wall, Delgado closed his eyes, wincing at the pain. His ankle was swelling up nicely.
A shot rang out on the other side of the compound, followed by a shout and a short but fierce flurry of gunfire. A moment later, when all was quiet once more, another buckskinner came loping across the hardpack in a running crouch.
"I've got good news and bad news, gents," he said, dropping to one knee. "Amos and me dispatched a couple more of them scoundrels. That's the good news. The bad news is, we're plumb surrounded." He gestured at the steep slope of the high ground looming above the compound. "That butte yonder is fairly crawling with Injuns and such."
Turley drew a long breath. "So much for escaping."
Falconer introduced Delgado to the buck-skinner, who turned out to be Tom Tobin. Tobin crushed Delgado's proffered hand in his big paw.
"If you've got any notions," said Tobin amiably, "as to why these Injuns are all of a sudden so riled up, I would purely love to hear them."
"Revolution," replied Delgado.
"Charley Bent's been kilt," Turley told Tobin. "Charley's dead? That sure burns my bacon."
"How many others, Del?" asked Falconer. "Was your family spared?"
"My father is dead. But my mother is safe. Jeremy is with her now. I think it's all over in Taos. For the time being, at least."
Falconer didn't offer any sympathy, and that suited Delgado just fine. Once again Delgado found himself trying to set aside his grief. Time enough for grieving later—if he survived.
"How's that ankle?" asked Falconer.
"Not too bad."
"Better take him on up to the house," suggested Turley. "I'm going to bring the horses in here and then I'll join you."
Falconer helped Delgado across the hardpack to the adobe house. Now that the swelling had increased, Delgado could not support any weight on the damaged ankle and had to lean heavily on the mountain man. He was no burden to Falconer; Delgado remembered how Falconer had handled his heavy valise on the St. Louis levee. Though in his forties, and some would say past his prime, Hugh Falconer had the strength and stamina of two or three ordinary men, which was no surprise to Delgado when he remembered the kind of life Falconer had led.
Though furnished in a simple, rustic fashion, the Turley home was a comfortable one. The fire on the stone hearth made Delgado feel warm for the first time that night since leaving his bed. Falconer put him in a chair close by the fireplace and propped his injured leg on a three-legged stool and had to cut Delgado's boot with his Green River knife in order to get to the ankle. When the frontiersman touched the ankle, Delgado hissed at the pain through his teeth. His body went rigid. Mrs. Turley, a plump and pleasant Mexican woman who was trying very hard to act as though nothing was amiss, looked on with genuine solicitude.
"Doesn't seem to be anything broken," said Falconer after moving Delgado's foot this way and that—much to Delgado's detriment. "But it's as severe a sprain as I've ever seen." He turned to Turley's wife. "If you have some lard and turpentine, we'll make a poultice that should take the swelling down some."
She nodded and left them to fetch the makings.
Another shot rang out from the far side of the compound. Delgado listened with bated breath, then sighed with relief when all was quiet again. Falconer was watching him with an unfathomable expression.
"I wish you hadn't come, Del," said the mountain man. "I appreciate what you've done, why you came out here. We all do."
"But you already knew they were out there, didn't you?" That was why Turley and Falconer and some of the others had been hiding in the trees down at the Arroyo Hondo.
Falconer nodded.
"What happens if they're still around when the sun comes up?"
"They'll know how weak we truly are."
Delgado had guessed as much. "And then we'll have no chance, will we?"
"Anything can happen." As he said it, Falconer looked away.
"No. You're lying. You know we're finished. There is no hope. Aren't you afraid, Hugh? Afraid to die?"
"We all die. We don't usually get to choose the time or place. Guess that's the price we pay for getting to live."
Delgado's thoughts turned to Sarah. He hadn't had a chance to live, not really, because his life had started, in a way, the moment he'd met her. He'd left her letter behind in Taos and wished now that he had it with him, so that he could read the words again, imagine he could hear her say those words, because now he knew he would never actually hear her voice again.
2
As dawn approached, they had done all that could be done to prepare for an attack by overwhelming numbers. The horses had been brought into the compound from the corral. The trading post had been emptied of all powder and shot and the few firearms it contained. All the men had been fed by the industrious and seemingly tireless Senora Turley. The last couple of hours of this, without question, the longest night in Delgado's life, were uneventful. No further gunfire, no more probes by the Pueblos and their Mexican allies to test the defenses of Turley's Mill. Delgado began to e
ntertain the hope that the insurgents had withdrawn. But Falconer and Turley knew better.
"We'd hear 'em go, just like we heard 'em coming," explained Turley.
He and Falconer and Delgado were in the house, busily using molds to make shot. Though exhausted, Delgado had insisted on making himself useful. Falconer had tried to talk him into getting few hours of sleep, but Delgado knew that sleep would be impossible. Soon enough he would sleep for all eternity.
Turley explained that a man he did not know had galloped up to the compound yesterday morning, an old Mexican on a swayback nag, and warned them that they would soon come under attack. Turley had been holding a reunion of sorts, an old-fashioned rendezvous with Falconer and the other mountain men now trapped here. From that moment on every man had kept his eyes peeled and his rifle ready. Not one of them, Turley pointed out, had opted to make for the tall timber. "You can always count on Hugh and the others to stick when the fur starts to fly. I wasn't gonna be run off my own place, and they knew it, so they decided to stand with me."
Falconer smiled. "Or you could say we were just too plain dumb to know any better."
Turley chuckled. "Can't say as I'm surprised by all of this, boys. Figured something was bound to happen, sooner or later. I wonder who's behind it all? You reckon that scoundrel Armijo is back, Hugh?"
"It isn't Armijo," said Delgado. "Mrs. Bent said that Diego Archuleta was leading the men who murdered her husband."
"Archuleta!" Turley grimaced. "He's worse than Armijo, because he's got guts. And he's smarter, too. That's a bonafide piece of bad news, Del."
"And he believes himself to be a patriot," added Delgado.
"That's a good point," acknowledged Falconer. "Armijo was thinking about putting up a fight to hold onto his power. He's a greedy man who cares only for himself. Archuleta, on the other hand, doesn't care about himself, only for his people. He believes his cause is just, and he'll be willing to die for it. Which makes him a very dangerous adversary."
"But a blind man could see that the people in these parts would be better off with American rule than they would under the likes of Manuel Armijo," said Turley.
"All they know is what they've been told," replied Falconer. "Told by men they're accustomed to obeying—men like Armijo and Archuleta and the priests."
Turley glanced with furrowed brow at Delgado. "You know better, though, don't you, Del? So if you know, how come these other folks don't?"
"What I know is that men like Governor Bent and General Kearny have the best interests of my people at heart. But that isn't true of all Americans. Some Americans just see my people as obstacles to their fulfilling a manifest destiny, as John O'Sullivan so aptly put it."
"O'Sullivan?" asked Turley. "Don't think I know that pilgrim."
"As for the Pueblos," continued Delgado, "they don't want to swear allegiance to the Stars and Stripes or any other flag. In their opinion we are all interlopers, and when given the chance to fight they seize it."
A buckskinner Delgado did not know burst through the door, to find himself staring down the barrel of Turley's percussion rifle.
"Got a bad case of nerves, do you, Sime?" The new arrival grinned.
"Go to hell, Amos."
"Reckon we'll all be going there together, soon enough," said Amos Marsh cheerfully. "And the devil will rue the day. But first there are some people out here who want to palaver with you."
They all moved to the door to look out, Delgado hopping on his one good leg. In the pearly gray half-light of dawn they could make out a group of five men in the cleared ground between the east wall of the compound and the trees that marked the course of the Arroyo Hondo. Two were mounted, the rest afoot. The riders were Mexicans, the others Pueblo Indians; the latter in breechcloths, brightly colored himpers, and wearing red or blue cloths tied around their heads.
"Might as well go see what they want," muttered Turley. "But whatever they're selling, I don't reckon I'll buy any."
"Cuidado, marido," said Senora Turley.
"Don't fret, gal. You ought to know by now that I'm dang near indestructible."
They watched Turley cross the compound and go out through the gate, bold as brass. He conferred with the delegation for about five minutes. One of the mounted Mexicans did most of the talking. At this distance Delgado couldn't hear a word or read their expressions. But he was sure that neither of the mounted men was Diego Archuleta. That made him think that Archuleta wasn't even here. No doubt the man was making mischief elsewhere.
When the parlay was over, the Mexicans and their Pueblo cohorts melted back into the trees. Turley was wearing a grim smile when he returned to the house.
"Don't tell me, Sime," said Amos Marsh. "Let me guess. They want to surrender."
"You got it all backward, hoss, as usual."
"You mean they want us to surrender? Us?" Marsh snorted. "That'll be the day."
"They said they'd let the woman live if we gave up," said Turley. "We all know that's a bald-face lie if ever there was one. They claim to number three hundred."
"Which means maybe half that," mused Falconer.
This was cold comfort to Delgado. Nine against a hundred and fifty was still pretty steep odds.
"Come on," said Turley. "I want to show you folks something."
He pushed a table aside, lifted a rug, and pulled open a hatch cut flush into the floor. A black hole yawned at them.
"I dug this when I first come here," explained Turley. "Dang near kilt me, but I done it. Goes down about five feet, then straight south." He pointed in the proper direction. "Runs about eighty feet, beyond the wall, and empties out into a dry wash. A pile of rocks hides the exit hole. The wash wanders on down into the trees, toward the crik. If this business takes a turn for the worse, we might have a slim chance of gettin' out this way."
A gunshot, then another, and several rifles spoke at once, dimly audible above a chorus of bloodcurdling shouts from beyond the compound. Amos Marsh bolted out the door, with Turley on his heels. Falconer hesitated just long enough to order Delgado to stay put. Then he, too, was gone. Gone, Delgado was sure, to his death.
Delgado glanced at Turley's wife. She was kneeling near the fireplace, hands pressed together, face upturned to heaven, her eyes closed. She murmured a prayer and crossed herself and then opened her eyes to look at Delgado, and he had to look quickly away, because her eyes reflected the hopelessness of their situation. She had resigned herself to her fate. Delgado wasn't quite ready to do the same. Snatching up a rifle, powderhorn, and a bag of shot, he hopped one-legged out onto the adobe's weathered wooden porch.
They were coming in from all sides, down from the high ground to the west, swarming out of the trees to the east. Some had already entered the compound—the perimeter could not be held by so few men. Knots of them formed around the frontiersmen, and one by one the mountain men fell beneath the cane knives and clubs of the Pueblos, fighting to the last breath. They died as they had lived—valiantly.
A quivering arrow sprouted from the post against which Delgado leaned for support. Several Pueblos were rushing the house, and one of the mounted Mexicans was galloping forward, too, aiming a pistol at Delgado. He fired before Delgado could bring his rifle to bear, but the shot went wide. Delgado's didn't, and the man was hurled backward out of the saddle. He was dead when he hit the ground.
Before Delgado could reload, the three Pueblos reached the porch. He knocked one down with the rifle, using it like a club and splintering the stock against the Indian's skull. The Pueblo sprawled and lay still. The second Indian plowed into him, and Delgado fell, grappling with the man, clutching at his arm as the cane knife came sweeping down.
The third Pueblo apparently believed his companion could make short work of Delgado and made for the front door. Turley's wife blocked his path. He snarled an obscenity at her and struck with his club—just as she drove the knife, previously hidden in the folds of her skirt, into his belly. She went down, the bones in her shoulder smashed by the
club, but she proved hard to kill, and with her last breath she twisted the knife and opened the Indian up from sternum to groin. The club split her skull open, and she fell in a heap. The Pueblo pitched forward to lay on top of her, writhing a moment before death claimed him, too.
Delgado managed to pitch the Pueblo sideways and rolled clear as the big knife came down where his head had been just an instant before. Grabbing a shaggy cedar post, one of the porch uprights, Delgado hauled himself to his feet, ducked as the Indian swung the knife again. This time the knife, biting deep into the post, stuck fast. Delgado punched the Pueblo in the face. The Indian staggered back on his heels, spitting blood. Then a bullet drove him sideways and down. Delgado turned to see Falconer running across the hard-pack, reloading his Hawken on the move.
"Into the tunnel, Del!" yelled the mountain man.
Glancing past Falconer, Delgado could see that the compound had been completely overrun. He did not see any other buckskinner left standing.
Reaching the porch, Falconer grabbed Delgado and virtually lifted him into the house, vaulting over the bodies of Turley's woman and the Pueblo Indian who had killed her. Falconer slammed the door shut and dropped the bar—a few seconds later, Delgado heard bodies thump against the door. The bar splintered but held. He knew it would not hold for long.
"Go on!" snapped Falconer. As Delgado lowered himself through the trapdoor, the mountain man snatched up a lantern that had been lit last night and was still burning and smashed it against the door. Flames licked hungrily at the timber and spread swiftly across the puncheon floor. Falconer dropped down through the hatch. Delgado was already dragging himself blindly along the pitch-black tunnel. It was barely wide enough for him to squeeze his broad shoulders through. Over the roar of the flames above he heard the door give way. But the fire was already too much for their pursuers, and no one could follow them down through the trapdoor.
Ignoring his pain, Delgado clawed and squirmed his way through the tunnel as fast as he could. Falconer was right behind him. The mountain man did not urge him to go faster; Delgado knew he was slowing Falconer down, but he was doing the best he could and Falconer was aware of that.
American Blood Page 17
