Death Comes

by Sue Hallgarth

  With Blade well ahead of them on the trail and the rain over, Adam realized that he was finally getting the hang of riding bareback. His legs were stiff and sore when he dismounted but he forgot them when they started off again. And when they had to pick their way through scrub and branches to get back on the trail, Smokey actually seemed to make an effort to ensure that Adam didn’t fall off.

  It had never occurred to Adam that Smokey might like him or that horses would take care of their riders, but this horse was clearly trying to keep Adam safe. When they encountered a low-hanging branch, Smokey stopped on his own so that Adam had time to flatten himself against Smokey’s neck before moving on. And when the mule tried to hang back and Adam had to jerk her lead rope, Smokey slowed without stopping, to give Adam a chance to regain his balance. He even sidestepped a little to help Adam straighten himself. The mule, now, seemed also to be trying to be helpful and move forward more willingly. And Maria was easier in the saddle. She actually looked comfortable, though she, too, must be stiff and sore. Stiff or not they were, Adam thought, all four of them, a team. For the first time that day, he began to feel hopeful.

  When they reached the end of the trail, they turned onto a dirt road that was heavily used, though Adam saw no one on it now. Within half an hour they began to pass buildings, small adobe houses and sheds set back from the road. Smokey wanted to trot, but Adam slowed him back to a walk. With Blade ahead of them, Adam didn’t want to rush. Besides he felt more comfortable at the walk and he was sure Maria did, too.

  At the fourth house, Adam saw a man in a buckboard swinging through the gate. Spanish or Mexican, Adam couldn’t tell. The man wore a cowboy hat and a blue shirt. He turned his team toward them and slowed. Adam hoped he spoke English.

  “Howdy,” Adam ventured.

  The man nodded.

  “Maybe you can help us.” Adam stopped Smokey. The mule stopped, too. Maria dropped her head. Adam felt silly but forced himself to ask, “Am I heading in the right direction for Taos?”

  “Arroyo Seco, then Taos,” the man said, “maybe twelve, fifteen miles.”

  A horse walks four miles an hour, Adam remembered. He calculated and checked the sun. There should be enough time to make it to Spud’s before dark.

  “Where you coming from?”

  The question startled Adam. He didn’t want to say. “Up the mountain,” he finally managed.

  “Heard there were some women killed up that way. See anything?” The man’s eyes rested on Maria. She did not lift her head.

  “No, nothing,” Adam lifted Smokey’s reins. “Best get going,” he offered by way of goodbye and kicked Smokey on both sides. Smokey and the mule moved off in unison.

  Women killed? Dos mujeres asesinadas. He heard Maria’s voice say those words again in his head. Six women. Two killed. It was just as Maria tried to tell him. She had been one of the six. She told him two died. And now others knew. How did they know when he didn’t?

  The man said some women. Did some mean two? Had there been more? Adam shook his head. He turned to Maria. She lifted her head and smiled at him. Now he felt even more bewildered. Soon, he thought, soon there will be people who can translate. Then he realized he was holding his breath and let it out in an audible puff.

  Smokey stretched out his neck, pulling against the reins in Adam’s hand. Adam had snugged him up too tight. Nerves. Adam relaxed his grip. Fear is a difficult thing to ignore, but that’s exactly what he had been unconsciously trying to do. Terror is more like it, he corrected himself. His terror. Maria may have felt it, but she seemed calm. She always seemed calm. Had she realized the seriousness of their situation? From the beginning, had she? And now? They had just seen Blade. He must have been nearby the whole time. And those men who came to find him. Where had they gone and what were they doing? Adam shook his whole body this time, deliberately and fully, even his fingers. He wanted his fear to leave. He wanted to be calm like Maria.

  XV

  SPUD HAD NO idea why he felt restless. It seemed to begin when Tony snorted over the attempt to placate him about the danger in Red River. Tony’s snort surprised Spud. Tony never showed any reaction to anything. Tony, the stoic, the calm one. But Tony had not been calm. And now Spud wasn’t either.

  Spud walked partway home with Andrew, then took the long way around to divert his mind from dwelling on what might be happening in Red River. Good things maybe, he tried to tell himself. Maybe they’ll come home with everything solved and the murderer under arrest. More likely not, he had to admit. And probably they’ll be late. That thought sent him out for a stroll on his way home to get ready for dinner. He needed a change of scene.

  Spud picked his way through the cemetery and open field across from Los Gallos. He had shorter ways to get to his house but few as peaceful. Kit Carson was buried here next to his wife, Josefa. Not far away was Padre Martinez, the priest who would always be known locally as “La Honra de Su Pais,” The Honor of his Homeland. Martinez brought the printing press to northern New Mexico and converted even Kit Carson to the church during his forty years as the most powerful Catholic padre in New Mexico. That was before Archbishop Lamy took control and excommunicated him. Northern New Mexicans never forgave Lamy. Many went underground as Penitentes, the group Martinez founded.

  Kit Carson’s reputation fared less well than Martinez’s in Taos, at least among the Pueblo Indians. They knew Carson as the United States Army fighter who forced the Navajo to walk their own trail of tears to Bosque Redondo. Hundreds died before the government finally allowed them to return to Canyon de Chelly. Only the Anglos in Taos seemed to revere Carson. The natives didn’t.

  Funny, Spud thought, looking at the graves of the two men and their family members. Willa was about to get it backwards in her new novel. Wrong, many northern New Mexicans would say. She had asked an amazing number of questions about both men because she said she wanted to be fair and accurate. But her book was about Lamy’s struggle to civilize New Mexico. From that point of view Martinez never had a chance. He represented everything Lamy set out to overcome, so even if Willa wants to, she can’t say otherwise. Odd, Spud pushed a clod of dirt with the toe of his boot against Carson’s headstone, death comes but it doesn’t end a man’s life. History, they call it. Carson and Martinez were dead and buried within a year of each other over fifty years ago, but they’re still very much alive in the minds of northern New Mexicans.

  Still, Spud thought, three women died within a year of each other right outside Taos and, except for Willa’s and Edith’s persistence, their deaths had barely been noticed, much less avenged. Funny how that works. Maybe their deaths were ignored because they were murdered? No, Spud caught himself, that would draw more attention to them. Maybe because they were women? Unknown? Mexican? Well, he thought, however Willa decides to handle Lamy and Martinez, she and Edith are doing everything they can to bring about justice for those women. Spud was pretty sure some people in Taos would think it a waste of time and effort. The sheriff seemed to think that anyway.

  The sun in its long descent threw shadows over the cemetery. Spud felt a chill. He rested his hand on Carson’s headstone for a minute. The stone was still warm. Well, Spud thought, we will just have to deal with whatever comes in this upside-down world. It was only eight years ago that the madness of “the war to end all wars” ended. The Great War had been absolutely terrifying. People feared the world might end. And in a way it had. Spud patted the gravestone again. Its warmth and the grittiness of its texture pleased him.

  The Great War broke the world in two. What had been was gone. But who were they kidding, “the war to end all wars.” Wars live on. The feud between Martinez and Lamy still raged even though they were long dead. Taos Indians still peed on Carson’s grave when no one was looking. Fear remains. And hate. And violence. And death.

  Spud’s way of dealing with human turmoil had always been through satire. Others often joined him, contributing their commentary to his Laughing Horse magazine. Even Lawrence, wh
o couldn’t win his argument with Mabel about the eternal battle of the sexes, turned to fiction to kill her off in “The Woman who Rode Away.” End of argument. Through satire, not fisticuffs or murder or war.

  But satire, Spud had to admit, would do nothing to help catch the men who killed three women and buried them in shallow graves. At the very least, Spud thought, those women should have gravestones as substantial as Carson’s.

  Mabel throttled down to let one of the bigger trucks coming toward them pass on the inside on its way up the mountain. Edith looked at the view below, a long, long way below, where the stream that had been running alongside their gravel road crossed over and dropped into the valley where it stretched out and lazed into ponds and marshlands.

  “Beautiful,” Willa exclaimed.

  “It is, if you’re sitting on your side of the car. Looks like a safe distance from there. From here it is simply breathtaking, which means,” Edith whispered, “that I’m breathing as little as possible.”

  “Have to agree,” Agent Dan laughed. “One’s perspective does affect how you see things.”

  “Mmmm,” Willa nodded. “So tell us more about how you saw things at The Watering Hole. Can you make an arrest?”

  “Have to take a closer look,” Agent Dan shook his head. “No obvious liquor around and I didn’t see any actual evidence of a crime, just had the impression those women were not there willingly.”

  “How do you think they got there?” Willa followed up.

  “That’s a good question, and I don’t begin to know the answer.” Dan’s fingers drummed a tattoo on his windowsill. He made no attempt to hide his frustration.

  “Do you think we should try to rescue them?” Mabel’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. The car jolted forward again. She glanced at Agent Dan.

  “How would you suggest we do that?” Agent Dan responded. “We have no army and no real certainty they need rescuing.”

  “Well, maybe not now,” Mabel nodded. “But you can call on other federal agents in New Mexico, can’t you? I’m certain they need rescuing, even if you aren’t.”

  Agent Dan did not answer and for the moment ignored the magnificent scenery on both sides of the road. Instead he stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. Then he placed a hand over the area on his shirt where bandages held him together.

  “Pain?” Willa asked.

  “Some,” he acknowledged after a moment. “It’s been a long day.”

  “And a rough ride,” Edith added.

  “Bet you’re tired,” Willa suggested, “and hungry. We’ll be home soon enough.” Her voice turned cheery, “Amelia’s food and a good night’s sleep will put you right again.”

  Mabel geared down as a giant truck approached them on its way up, its motor wailing with the effort. Once it passed, another, smaller vehicle presented itself, its engine laboring, but more quietly. A Cadillac, somewhat larger than Mabel’s and just as covered in dust.

  “That looks like one of those Harvey cars,” Willa noted as it passed them. “Even says Tours on the door.

  “But there’s no Harvey, no Detours, just Tours,” Edith pointed out.

  Mabel squinted in the rearview mirror. “Looks older than Harvey’s touring cars. Not sure what it is.”

  “Or what it’s doing up here.” Edith twisted in her seat to see behind them, but the car had already chugged around a hairpin curve and disappeared.

  “Like you said, not many tourists go to Red River,” Willa observed. “And that car didn’t seem to have any tourists in it.”

  “You’re right,” Edith sat up a little straighter. “That car looked empty.”

  Adam began to feel more than a little hopeful. They were already through the village of Arroyo Seco, and for some time now they had been passing buildings on their right, not many but enough to suggest they were getting close to Taos. The fields around them looked increasingly familiar, and Adam was certain the open land on their left belonged to the pueblo. This was the road he had taken when he headed for the Lawrence ranch almost a week ago. He was sure of it.

  Adam flexed his knees and swung his legs in celebration, something he couldn’t have done with his feet in stirrups. Smokey didn’t seem to notice, but twenty feet farther on he ambled off the road toward a small stream. Adam let him have his head. The mule followed and both animals took a long drink. Without a word, Maria untied the canteen and passed it over to Adam. He took a swallow then passed it back. They were running low on water. Maria dropped her feet out of the stirrups and swung her legs back and forth, too. She took a swallow, just one.

  “Stiff?” Adam asked and demonstrated by sticking his legs out straight on each side of Smokey’s flanks and moaning.

  Maria laughed and nodded.

  Her laugh made Adam laugh. He had been worried that the trip was too much for Maria, but she seemed to be taking it in stride. More worrisome, now that they were getting close to Taos, was his fear that they might run into Blade or that their appearance — horse, mule, young Anglo man, Mexican woman — would draw unwanted attention. So far the only person who noticed them was the man Adam hailed in the buckboard, and he was going in the opposite direction.

  Adam gathered up his reins and urged Smokey back to the road. Maria kicked the mule to pull alongside. She could ride next to Adam now that they were done with narrow trails, and the mule seemed interested in keeping up with Smokey. It was almost as though both animals knew they were coming to the end of their long day and were looking forward to food and a good night’s rest. Certainly Adam was. “Won’t be long now,” he smiled at Maria and patted Smokey’s neck. “Soon, soon,” he repeated. Maria returned his smile.

  Taos mountain was dead ahead. Adam had recognized its distinctive curves and watched it grow and change as they drew closer. Now shadows etched its face. They would still have daylight for a while, but Adam hoped he was right about reaching Spud’s soon. Maybe not so soon, he interrupted his thought. A spiral of dust indicated a rider coming their way, coming fast. Adam’s first impulse was to head for cover, but there was no cover now that they were out of the mountains. Sage and grama grass but no piñon or juniper trees, no arroyos, nothing taller than Smokey’s knees. They would have to meet this rider head-on or hightail it into the sage with no idea how they might hide.

  Might be nothing to be alarmed about, but Adam tightened his grip on the reins and clamped his legs against Smokey’s ribs. He urged Maria to do the same, pointing to the rising dust and showing her how to shorten the length of her makeshift reins. He also took the precaution of having her tie the extra lead rope below her saddle horn and reminded her to grab the horn and stand in the stirrups should the mule run off. When they first started out he felt a need to lead the mule, but once Maria took charge with her makeshift reins and the mule seemed happy to do whatever she asked, Adam felt no need to control them.

  Adam could only hope the mule’s compliance would hold under duress. He wanted both animals to be alert and under control when this galloping rider came upon them. Adam took comfort in the fact that the horse and mule were hardly excitable, but if anything could rouse them, it would be a fast-moving stranger. The situation itself could spark a runaway. The pace of the dust spiral told Adam that the rider was still moving fast and coming directly toward them. He would be in full view any minute now. Adam pulled Smokey to the side of the road and headed both animals toward an open field on the right. Then he waited.

  The rider who burst into view was exactly the man Adam most feared. Blade saw them and jerked his horse to a sliding stop, shouting, “Come here, you!” But Smokey reared and plunged into the sage-covered field, the mule tight against him, and they took off at a full gallop. Adam grabbed mane and bent low over Smokey’s neck. He shouted to Maria but she was already gripping the saddle horn and leaning forward in the stirrups. After that everything was a blur, the sky, the sage, the dirt, which he hit with a resounding thud. He heard rather than felt himself hit the ground. Smokey’s hooves thundered in his ear
s and then Smokey was gone and Maria and the mule with him.

  Adam managed to lift his head to see Blade swing off his horse, drop his reins, and pull his pistol out of its holster. Two shots missed Maria, who clung like a burr to the mule. With the second shot, Blade’s chestnut took off after Smokey and the mule, leaving Blade in the middle of the road shooting at a rapidly disappearing target in blue. When Adam counted four more shots, he rose to his knees in time to see Blade fling his gun onto the road and throw his arms into the air. Adam rose out of his crouch and took off running in the general direction the horses and mule had gone. They were no longer in sight. When he glanced back, he saw Blade jumping up and down still in the same place, and in a minute Blade’s howls reached his ears. Adam laughed and increased his speed. The horses and mule would eventually stop somewhere. He would follow their tracks and hope Maria was still astride. In the meantime, he might not catch up with Maria but he could certainly put distance between himself and that idiot doing a jig in the middle of the road behind him.

  Spud puttered around his courtyard, pulling a few weeds and watering his three tomato plants. He didn’t know why he insisted on growing tomatoes. He knew from experience that the growing season was far too short in these mountains to produce a real crop, but he dutifully planted them in the spring and spent the summer months nursing them along. This spring at least he had put them in a sunny location against an adobe wall that would provide shelter from wind and added warmth from the sunbaked adobe bricks. His reward so far had come in blossoms, several of which he thought were really turning into fruit. The thought lifted his spirits.

  This was the sort of lift he needed. Worrying about his friends among the criminals he imagined in Red River and dwelling on injustices and the atrocities of war or the unwarranted oppression of the Navajos and other tribes had taken its toll. Fear. Hate. Torture. Murder. Even genocide. All in the name of making the world a better place, a sanctuary of peace and prosperity. How humans could be so cruel, so unfeeling, so unthinking, so merciless. Well, Spud plunged his hands into the loose dirt surrounding his tallest tomato plant. Well, his mind sputtered in futility. But the earth felt real to his fingers, a cool reminder of possibilities and sustenance. Gritty and life-giving, luring him into replanting each spring. Hope. Spud rocked back on his heels and smiled.