American Blood

by Jason Manning

  He saw a thread of pale morning light up ahead. Reaching a pile of rocks which concealed the exit, Delgado pushed against them, and the rocks gave way, tumbled and clattered down into the dry wash. Delgado squeezed through the hole and rolled down the rocky slope, gasping as he banged his ankle against stone. Falconer emerged right behind him, and together they crawled up to the rim of the wash.

  Black smoke plumed from the windows of Turley's home. The shooting had ceased, but there was a great deal of shouting inside the compound. Delgado grimaced. The insurgents were celebrating. Turley and Amos Marsh and all the others were dead. Delgado could hardly believe he was still alive. He didn't expect to be for very much longer.

  "Let's go," said Falconer.

  They moved down the wash in a crouch, Falconer draping Delgado's arm around his neck and lending him support. Reaching the trees, they paused again to peek over the rim. It seemed that all the rebels were in the compound—they saw no one in the trees or along the Arroyo Hondo. Now that the killing was done, it was time for the looting to begin, and nobody wanted to miss out on collecting his share of the spoils.

  Moving on to the Arroyo Hondo, Falconer and Delgado turned south, in the direction of Taos.

  Chapter Nine

  "I want to see Diego Archuleta's corpse."

  1

  Once again Delgado found himself bedridden, a virtual prisoner in his own room.

  He and Falconer had made it back to Taos without mishap. Knowing that Delgado could not go all the way on foot, and refusing to even consider Delgado's suggestion that he go on alone and return with help, Falconer had staked out the main road north of Taos. Within the hour an old man driving a carreta appeared. Falconer stopped him, questioned him, and was convinced that the man remained blissfully unaware that a revolution was under way. The ancient one was merely transporting his produce to market, and he readily agreed to take them into Taos. Delgado rode the rest of the way home in the back of the two-wheeled cart.

  In Taos all was peaceful after the storm. Diego Archuleta and his rebels had struck swiftly and then vanished, leaving the populace stunned and fearful. The streets were empty, the doors and windows closed and latched. It reminded Delgado of the reaction of the people to the arrival of the Army of the West.

  His mother was safe. She and Jeremy had returned home, to find the butchered body of Angus McKinn where he had fallen. A doctor was summoned to remove the bullet from Jeremy's shoulder. He, too, was an invalid, and though he kept insisting that his duty was to rejoin Colonel Doniphan and the Missouri Volunteers, he was too weak to get out of bed, much less ride to Santa Fe. He had lost a lot of blood.

  The day after Delgado's return, Colonel Doniphan himself came to visit. Only then did Delgado learn the full extent of the rebellion.

  In addition to the slaughter in Taos and at Turley's Mill, two more mountain men, Harwood and Markhead, had been waylaid at the Rio Colorado, a few miles north of the Arroyo Hondo. Both men were killed, scalped, mutilated, and left for the wolves and buzzards. The village of Mora had also been attacked. Several Missouri traders, having left Bent's Fort in the belief that the American occupation of New Mexico had gone off without a hitch, were killed. Their names were Romulus Culver, Lewis Cabano, and Ludlow Waldo. Several other Americans also lost their lives in and around Mora.

  "Obviously," said Doniphan, "the object of the rebels is to put to death every American in New Mexico, as well as every New Mexican who has aided us."

  "What are your plans, Colonel?" asked Delgado.

  "I am told the rebels are holed up in the village of Canada. I have five companies of my Missourians and a company of Santa Fe volunteers commanded by Ceran St. Vrain, Charley Bent's business partner. I also have four mountain howitzers. I intend to take Canada and capture or kill every last insurrectionist."

  "I know that place," said Falconer. "There is high ground to the south of town. They'll likely dig in there and make you drive them out."

  "Which is precisely what I intend to do," said Doniphan. "These rebels are murderers and cowards, who slaughter innocent, helpless civilians. I doubt they will hold their ground in a stand-up fight against trained soldiers."

  "You weren't at Turley's Mill," said Falconer.

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "He means you wouldn't underestimate these people had you seen them in action at Turley's Mill," said Delgado.

  "Nonsense," said Doniphan. "There were—what?—two or three hundred of them and nine of you? I hardly think that situation called for heroics on their part."

  Delgado didn't feel up to arguing the point. Doniphan was merely exhibiting that same arrogant overconfidence he had seen portrayed by so many other Americans. The lawyer turned soldier and his volunteers were aching for a fight. Now they would get their wish—and learn the hard way that Delgado and Falconer were right. Delgado found himself wishing General Kearny was still in New Mexico, and that Charles Bent was still alive. Those two men would not underestimate Archuleta and his rebels, and many lives would probably be saved as a consequence.

  Jeremy, of course, was upset that he would not be able to participate in the big fight. That was a part of the young Bledsoe that Delgado did not understand: his desire to place himself in harm's way.

  "I would have thought," Delgado told him, after Doniphan had gone, "that after what happened here a few nights ago you'd have seen enough of the rebels. I know I have."

  "Some men are born to be soldiers and others are not," replied Jeremy, sullen.

  "Well, I'm certainly no warrior. But Jeremy, twice in the span of one year you've nearly been killed."

  "I don't care about that."

  "Do you want to die?"

  Jeremy didn't answer. Delgado was troubled. Jeremy had become more than a friend in the past months; he was almost like a brother. But there was part of him that Delgado could not fathom—a dark, angry, violent part. What was Jeremy trying to prove by flirting with death?

  A fortnight later, news arrived of the battle at Canada. As Falconer had predicted, the insurgents occupied the high ground south of the village. The Missouri volunteers charged valiantly up the steep slopes, even though the rebels outnumbered them by a ratio of three to one, their ranks having swelled as a result of the revolution's initial success. But many of the insurgents did not have guns, and they could not take the pounding from Doniphan's mountain howitzers. The Americans dislodged the rebels and sent them running. A few more well-placed rounds from the howitzers and the retreat became a rout. Only the advent of night prevented Doniphan from pursuing. Miraculously, the volunteers had only two men killed, with six more wounded.

  After two days of regrouping at Canada, Doniphan pressed on after the rebels. The Missourians ran into eighty guerrillas in a canyon near the village of Embudo, brushed them aside, and then ran into a much stronger force, nearly six hundred insurgents, dug in on the slopes of a mesa. While Ceran St. Vrain led his Santa Feans around one flank of the enemy position, a detachment of Missourians went up and around the other side. Once again the rebels slipped away. Doniphan lost one man. His adversaries left twenty dead behind.

  By now the Missourians were beginning to suffer from two weeks of hard marching across snowy, rugged county to come to grips with an elusive foe. Then Doniphan got the break he was hoping for. The rebels sought refuge in the Taos Pueblo. They had finally stopped running. The Missourians encircled the pueblo and prepared for the final confrontation.

  The rebels enjoyed a strong defensive position, and Doniphan ordered an artillery barrage. But the cannon shot had little effect on the thick exterior walls of soft adobe brick. The next day Doniphan ordered an assault. The rebel stronghold seemed to be a church on the northern side of the pueblo. Under cover of the artillery, two companies of volunteers hacked through the northern perimeter wall, reached the church and, using ladders to gain the roof, chopped holes in the ceiling large enough to drop artillery shells by hand into the building. Meanwhile, a pair of six-pounders we
re rushed into the pueblo through the breach in the north wall. Round after round of grapeshot wrought havoc upon the rebels, who tried to drive the Americans out of the pueblo. Finally, they abandoned the attempt. While some took refuge in various parts of the pueblo, sixty tried to escape. All but a few of these were cut down by St. Vrain's men, who had been posted on the other side of the pueblo to prevent any insurgents from fleeing into the mountains.

  As a day of hard fighting drew to a close, Doniphan was confronted with the prospect of having to clear the pueblo of rebels house-by-house. The losses on both sides would be extremely high. He was saved from having to give the order to proceed in such costly but necessary work by the arrival early the next morning of several Indian residents of the pueblo, under a flag of truce. They wanted to surrender and save their homes from destruction. Doniphan agreed to spare the pueblo if the leaders of the revolt were handed over. In addition, all firearms would be confiscated. A few hours later, two ringleaders, Pablo Montoya and El Tomacito, were delivered into Doniphan's hands.

  A mountain man who called himself "Uncle Dick" Wootton showed up at the McKinn house, looking for Falconer. Since the fight at Turley's Mill, the latter had been a guest of the McKinns, taking upon himself the responsibility of protecting the other occupants. Every night he had maintained a tireless vigil in case the assassins returned to make another attempt on the lives of his friends.

  As he polished off a bottle of aguardiente, Wootton told Falconer, Delgado, and Jeremy what had happened at the Taos Pueblo.

  "I was up north a ways when I heard the news about what happened at Turley's," said the shaggy, fierce-eyed buckskinner. "Some of my best friends got themselves kilt that day. Figured you were gone beaver, too, Hugh. I was happy as a pup with two tails to learn otherwise. I come down to hit a lick agin them what kilt my friends. Got here in time for the big scrape at the pueblo. I was right surprised you warn't there, Hugh."

  "Not much interested," said Falconer.

  Uncle Dick gave him a funny look. "What about Sime Turley and all them others?"

  "What about them?

  "An eye for an eye, Hugh. That's the way we've always lived."

  Falconer shook his head, "Maybe I'm just getting old, Dick, but live and let live sounds better to my ear."

  Wootton grunted in amazement. "Well, you sure as hell must be. The Hugh Falconer I knew twenty years ago would have spilt a river of blood on account of what happened at Turley's place. Hell, ain't you the one who curled Wolf Montooth's toes for takin' your plews and leavin' you to the mercy of the Blackfeet?"

  "I was young and foolhardy then, Uncle Dick. I've got more to live for these days."

  "Oh, yeah. You got hitched to a white woman, didn't you?" Wootton gulped down some more aguardiente, gasped as the liquid fire exploded in his belly, and chuckled. "Gettin' squawed up is bad enough, but marryin' a white woman is downright dangerous. They'll make a gelding out of a man ever' time."

  Listening to this exchange, Delgado expected Falconer to take offense, but it didn't happen. Falconer just smiled tolerantly.

  "It's not so bad," he replied. "You should try it, Dick. A good woman might even be able to make a halfway decent human being out of you."

  Wootton guffawed at that notion.

  Jeremy leaned impatiently forward in his chair. "What happened at the Taos Pueblo, Mr. Wootton?"

  "Mister Wootton? Good God, call me Uncle Dick, boy! I'll tell you what happened." The mountain man related the events of the battle—the artillery barrage, the assault, the taking of the church, St. Vrain's cutting off the rebels' escape, and the appearance the following morning of the delegation under the white flag.

  "I reckon," added Wootton, "that Montoya and El Tomacito chose between the lesser of two evils when they gave themselves up to Colonel Doniphan."

  "What do you mean?" asked Jeremy.

  "Sounds to me like the Pueblo Indians had had enough," said Delgado. "They probably threatened to kill those two if they didn't surrender."

  Wootton nodded. "I reckon that's the long and short of it.'

  "What about Diego Archuleta?"

  Wootton shook his head. "No sign of him. He's a slippery one. El Tomacito—he was the Indian leader—was placed under guard, and we were going to give him and Montoya a fair trial, except a man named Fitzgerald saved us the trouble. Fitzgerald's a dragoon, one of them that was too sick to go to California with Kearny, but when the shooting started, he joined up with the Missouri Volunteers. Doniphan let his men file past the room in the pueblo where El Tomacito was being held. Fitzgerald got in line, and when his turn came, quick as a flash, he drew a pistol and shot El Tomacito in the head. Killed him right off."

  Delgado shook his head. "That won't help matters."

  "Well, El Tomacito would have been hanged anyroad," said Wootton. "That's what'll happen to Pablo Montoya, or my name ain't Uncle Dick."

  "But you've made a martyr of El Tomacito," said Delgado.

  "I think we've knocked all the fight out of them Injuns," said a confident Wootton.

  "Del's right," said Falconer. "Archuleta and a few rebels are still loose up in the hills, and when they hear about El Tomacito, they'll wonder if they should surrender, since the same thing might happen to them."

  2

  Returning to Santa Fe, Colonel Doniphan stopped off briefly in Taos, detaching a company of his Missourians as a garrison there, and handing over the captives taken at the Taos Pueblo to the local authorities for prosecution in the civil court. In addition to Pablo Montoya there were fifteen other men in irons. The court would be presided over by Judge Charles H. Beaubien, whose son was one of the two men Delgado had found murdered and hacked to pieces in the livery. The prosecutor was Frank Blair, son of Francis P. Blair, newspaper editor and politician, whom Delgado had met at Jacob Bledsoe's. Frank Blair had recently been appointed the territorial district attorney. Delgado was sure the jury would be staunchly pro-American. The defendants didn't have a prayer.

  "Judge Beaubien will want vengeance," he told Jeremy, "and Frank Blair is desperate to prove that he was the right choice for the job of district attorney."

  He and Jeremy had walked the short distance from the McKinn house to the square to join the hundreds of spectators who, in spite of the blustery cold day, were gathered to watch the arrival of the Missourians and their prisoners. For the past few days he and Jeremy had ventured out every afternoon, two of the walking wounded helping each other along. The snow was piled deep in the streets, and the cold wind knifed right through them, but they would not be deterred from escaping the confines of the house.

  Delgado noticed that the Missouri volunteers were not the same brash and boisterous men with whom he had journeyed west from Fort Leavenworth. These were grim, haggard veterans of a difficult winter campaign against an elusive and determined foe.

  As gaunt and weary as the Missourians looked, their prisoners looked much worse. Burdened by heavy iron shackles and chains, they shuffled single file under heavy guard across the square.

  "They might as well have stood them up against a wall and shot them," said Jeremy.

  "A trial is supposed to at least give the impression of justice," said Delgado, dryly.

  Jeremy gave him a sharp look. "Don't tell me you feel sorry for them! These are the men responsible for your father's death."

  "Diego Archuleta is the man I hold responsible."

  "He's probably halfway to Mexico by now."

  Delgado didn't think so. Archuleta was not the kind of man who would run away. He would fight on, even if his cause was lost.

  They stood there, at the corner of the crowded square, their breath white vapor in front of their ruddy, frozen faces, watching as the prisoners were paraded in front of the Bent house. Clad head to toe in black, the governor's widow stood at her front gate. A veil concealed her features. Delgado wondered what she was feeling. Did her soul cry out for revenge? Did she long to see these men hang? Or did she realize, as he did, that their deaths
would not atone for the loss that both of them had suffered. Would the grief she felt be blunted the day these sixteen men were laid to rest in their graves? Delgado doubted it.

  "Pardon me, Captain."

  Jeremy and Delgado turned to see a young man clad in a long buffalo coat, his broadbrimmed hat pulled low over his face, standing behind them. He had addressed Jeremy, who wore his uniform beneath a woolen Regular Army longcoat.

  "My name is Langdon Grail," said the stranger. "I am from Missouri, by way of Bent's Fort."

  "I'm a Missourian as well," said Jeremy and introduced himself. "This is Mr. Delgado McKinn."

  "You're the one whose father was killed, then," said Grail, shaking Delgado's hand. "My sincerest condolences. And you, sir, must be the son of Mr. Jacob Bledsoe of St. Louis."

  "You know my father?"

  "I know of him. You might say I am in the same business. I came west with a trading caravan out of Westport Landing. I was at Bent's Fort when news arrived of the rebellion. William Bent recruited me to come to Taos and avenge the death of his brother."

  Delgado stared at Grail. This amiable youth, who could scarcely be more than twenty years of age, was a hired assassin? He certainly did not seem to fit the part.

  "You're a little late, Mr. Grail," said Jeremy. "The rebellion is over. The leaders are the men you see over there, and they are as good as dead."

  "Justice is swift in Taos," said Delgado. "Always has been. There's a saying here that a convicted murderer is hanged before the transcript of his trial is finished."

  "I've been asking questions around town," said Grail, "and I understand that the man I am seeking is still at large."

  "Diego Archuleta," said Delgado. He noticed that Grail's eyes were so dark blue in color as to appear black. They were cold, piercing eyes, untouched by the warmth of the young man's callow smile.

  Grail nodded. "Indeed. I would think, Mr. McKinn, that you and I are after the same thing."