Silence the Dead

by David Crossman

  By morning, Thomas had resolved to extend his credit at Burns’ store and lay in enough provisions, mostly corn, wheat, and beans, to see the band through ‘til spring.

  “What you do with all dees, Thomas? Your family she’s not so big, eh?” Manuelito seemed to spend most of his time leaning on the counter, helping himself to crackers and chili peppers and spinning gossip from whatever tidbits of news came his way. Thomas said he knew some people who needed help.

  “So many peoples?”

  “So many people, Manuelito. Help me load the wagon.” Thomas knew the best way to get Manuelito to shut up was to suggest work.

  “Oh, my back, senior. Iss terrible bad.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten.”

  “Apology accepted, senior.”

  “Tommy! I fought I ‘eard your voice. Wot you doin’ ‘ere?” Sadie – who was incapable of entering any room subtly – bounced in from the stock room. “Wot’s all this, then? You expectin’ comp’ny?”

  “I’ll explain later. Could you help me get this stuff to the wagon?”

  “Sure, luv.” She threw a bag of corn over her shoulder and followed him outside. “So, wot’s up? This is gonna cost a fortune. You come inta money, ‘ave ya?”

  Thomas explained.

  “It’s yer bleedin’ ‘eart, Tommy, that’s wot’s gonna keep you poor as a tinker’s stockin’s.”

  He tossed his bundle into the back of the wagon, then took hers and did the same. “I suppose so, Sade. I guess Conllans weren’t meant to be rich.”

  “Wot was we meant t’be, Thomas, you an’ me?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Good neighbors?”

  Sadie shook her head. “I adopted meself into the wrong fambly.”

  A few more trips and the wagon was loaded. “There you go, luv. Goin’ on tick, I suppose.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “T.D. know?”

  Thomas nodded. “He said he’d give me ‘til August to pay.”

  “Expectin’ a good year, then, are ya? Maybe yer ewes will birth four instead’ve two?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  As he climbed on the wagon, Sadie looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun. “You won’t be seein’ much of me after today, Thomas,” she said lightly.

  “No? Why?”

  “T.D. finally give me the run to Pagosa.”

  Thomas knew it had been Sadie’s dearest wish to be a real teamster – coach or wagon; it didn’t matter what she drove, as long as it had at least four strong horses in front of it and a lot of road to cover. Over the last year or so, T.D., widely known as a strong-willed man, had given in to her incessant begging and allowed her to fill in when other drivers were sick or otherwise incapacitated. He’d been impressed. Not only did she have a masterful command of the team, she once foiled a robbery by three masked bandits with only her whip. A trustworthy witness said she relieved one of them of his rifle with no more than a flick of her wrist. Another she had nearly strangled and pulled to the ground before he could cock his .44, and she stung the ass of the third as he rode away. “All without leavin’ her seat!” the witness testified in court.

  The two robbers were hung. The other, the men of Chama speculated, could probably be identified by the fact he never sat down.

  Word spread quickly of her uncanny ability, and Sadie did her best – with impromptu exhibitions – to give credence to the most outrageous exaggerations. This reputation, T.D. knew, would accompany the diminutive woman on her full-time career and, more than likely, save him a fortune. Plus, he didn’t have to pay her as much as he would a man.

  “That’s long hours, Sade,” said Thomas, looking down at her.

  “Six in the mornin’ ‘til eight at night, every bleedin’ day ‘cept Sunday.”

  “At least we’ll get to see you then, after church.”

  Sadie didn’t reply. “Tell Solly I’ll be up to say ‘good-bye’. Likely tomorrow, maybe ‘round noon.”

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  “I ‘spect she’ll be glad of a little female comp’ny.”

  “Female?” said Thomas with a wicked grin. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a woman! I keep forgetting!”

  He clicked his tongue and rode off, and never looked back.

  Sadie watched until he was out of sight and the thick spring mud oozed back into the tracks of his wagon wheels. “Just one fing, afore ye go, Tommy,” she said to herself. “I love you, ya stupid Irish bastard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Conllan Ridge, New Mexico

  February 5h, 1885

  Sadie knew something was wrong long before she reached the cabin. First of all, there were too many hoof prints in the snow – shod hooves, not Indian mounts. Then there was Esmerelda’s behavior. The old mule had a sixth sense that Sadie had come to trust ever since she bought the animal from Amadeo when he took up mining. Much as he needed help in the mines at Monero, the long-suffering quadruped wouldn’t be persuaded with guns or roses to enter a hole in the ground. And so, after many long years together, they parted company.

  Amadeo liked Sadie, even if she talked funny, and if anyone was going to have Esmerelda, he was glad it was her. Still, he made the transaction contingent upon Sadie learning basic commands in Italian. “She too much old to learn Anglo,” he reasoned, fondly tickling the beast behind the ear. Sadie promised she would, providing Amadeo would teach her how to swear in Italian. “I can’t seem to help swearin’,” she had later explained to Thomas. “An’ I knows it gets some folks by the short hairs – ‘specially women, an’ that won’t do if I’m ever gonna be a parlor maid. So, I figure if I learn to swear in Italian – which nobody ‘round ‘ere knows but them in Monero – then no one’ll know wot I’m sayin’.”

  Thomas found Sadie’s logic startlingly reasonable and made no attempt to refute it.

  Esmerelda stopped and snorted in Italian. “Wot is it, girl?” said Sadie, patting the mule’s neck. It was much too quiet. Normally Josh would have barreled through the chest-deep snow to meet her with cries of ‘Aunt Sadie!’ Sadie listened. Nothing. There was smoke in the air, but it wasn’t rising from the chimney as might be expected on such a chilly morning, but from the clearing behind the house.

  She kicked Esmerelda in the sides. “Come on, girl!”

  Esmerelda wouldn’t budge. Sadie hopped off, tied her to a tree, and waded through the snow toward the house.

  The front door was open, an ominous sign this time of year, but both rooms were empty. The Conllan’s belongings, such as they were, had been thrown about the place, but nothing seemed to be missing. Then a subtle movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention to the single window at the back of the cabin. A body was hanging – by an arm – from a tree.

  It was Thomas.

  There was no back door, so Sadie had to run out the front, to the end of the porch, and around the house before she could get to him. When she did, she found him unconscious, but breathing, swinging slightly back and forth with his feet not six inches off the ground. Removing her gloves, she climbed the tree and, drawing the Bowie knife from her belt, cut him down. He landed heavily in the snow, but it cushioned the impact so that no further damage was done. She jumped down beside him and situated herself, as she had on the Crimea, so she could take his head in her lap. That accomplished, she took a fistful of snow, balled it up in her hand, and began massaging his brow with it.

  As she waited for him to come around, it occurred to her that danger might not have passed. She looked around. No one. Nothing but the pathetic little Jicarilla village Thomas had told her about smoldered in ashes. Between themselves and the remains of the nearest tent, three bodies lay prostrate in the blood-stained snow. A woman, an infant, and as far as Sadie could tell from the distance, an older man.

  It can’t have been much of a fight, given the condition Thomas told her the Indians were in.

  He groaned in her lap.

  “Thomas?”

  Sh
e had managed to get him into the house and seated at the table. His arm dangled uselessly, separated from its socket, all its interior biology had been destroyed. The only thing still intact and operating at peak efficiency were the nerves that registered pain. In between gasps, he told her what had happened. A couple of young Jicarilla had shot an elk on his property, but it ran off into the woods to the east – White’s property. They tracked it for a half a mile or more and dragged it back to camp. White’s foreman and several armed ranch hands had come to demand that Thomas drive the Jicarilla off the ridge. When he refused, they hung him as she had found him. Then they drove the Indians down the mountain. One woman said she couldn’t leave because her child was sick.

  “She’s the one . . . out there?”

  Thomas sank his head on his chest and nodded.

  “An’ the uvver one? An ol’ man?”

  “Her father. He tried to save her.”

  “Where’s Solly?”

  “They drove her away, too. That was the last thing I saw before I passed out.”

  “Wot we gonna do?”

  “I want to kill ‘em,” said Thomas, and from the look in his eyes, she had no doubt that if they were put in his hands at that moment, he would have no difficulty making good the threat.

  “Wot we gonna kill ‘em wiv? You still got the gun you took from Billy the Kid?”

  “I said I want to kill ‘em,” said Thomas, wincing as a slight miscalculated motion sent searing pain up his arm. “But I ain’t goin’ to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, with this arm, I can’t. Because I’d probably only succeed in gettin’ myself and who knows how many innocent Indians killed. Because an eye-for-an-eye only makes everyone blind. Because it’s what my heart wants to do, but my heart is a damned ass that’d just as soon sacrifice everyone else to my pride or see me go out in a blaze of glory as hang around ‘til I die of old age.”

  “You can’t mean you ain’t gonna do nothin’ to get Solly back! She’s your wife!”

  “That’s the best reason I ain’t strikin’ off after six armed murderers in this condition.”

  “So, what’re we gonna do?”

  “We’re goin’ into Chama and round up some men and go after ‘em.”

  “Why not T.A., it’s closer.”

  “Because White’s Anglo. The Anglos will deal with ‘im.”

  “Let ‘im off, just as like,” Sadie scoffed.

  “They can’t. There’s a lot of tension in the Valley right now. I’ll make ‘em see that if White and his men get away with this, the whole place’ll blow. On the other hand, if they can be seen to do justice, it’ll go a long way toward bringin’ peace.”

  In this instance, Thomas proved a prophet. The sheriff of Chama rounded up a group of leading citizens and formed a posse – no drunks allowed – seventeen men in all. They rode to T.A., at Thomas’ suggestion, to request permission of the sheriff there, a quick-tempered man named Willy Valdez, to track down White’s men, last seen heading up Cañones Creek, and bring them to justice. Not content to simply grant permission, Valdez got together fourteen men of his own, plus Indian agent Sam Russell, and joined the men from Chama to make a little army.

  Cañones Creek Canyon is a great place to hunt. It’s a terrible place to hide because there’s no way out. White’s men were easily tracked down and, after a brief skirmish, taken in to the jail in T.A. to stand trial. The Jicarillas, including Soledad, had been released near Los Brazos and told never to return to the mountains, on pain of death.

  When it was discovered that White himself, though not taking part in the raid, had authorized it, he was tried as an accessory before the fact and sentenced to hang for the deaths of Miro Vincente, his daughter, and her child. Huerito Mundo, however, begged the court to allow the Jicarillas to administer a sentence they felt would be more apt to bring to an end the type of abuse they had suffered. In the interest of peace, the judge granted the request.

  The justice administered by the Jicarillas sent shockwaves crashing through the valley. They had taken the corpse of the infant whose death White’s actions had brought about and sewn it to his back, flesh-to-flesh, and set him free in the wilderness near Stinking Lake. When the seven days of his sentence had passed and he was cut free of his ghastly burden, he was insane. Over and over again, he said he had felt the breath of the child’s whisper in his ear the whole time, telling and re-telling the secret torments of hell.

  Some weeks later, on the day Mrs. White shepherded her imbecile husband aboard the train in Chama for the long trip to Missouri and the asylum where he would spend the rest of his life, she spied Thomas Conllan – recently returned from Colorado Springs, where his arm had been amputated – among a group of men, Anglo, Jicarilla, and Spanish, who had come to witness the departure. She flew at him in a rage.

  “Why couldn’t you have just killed him! You don’t know! You don’t know what they did to his family . . . ” She threw a hate-filled glare at Huerito Mundo. “Tell him! Tell him what happened on the Red River in ’49!”

  “That wasn’t us,” said Mundo.

  “It was Jicarilla!” Mrs. White screamed. “You’re all the same. The sins of the father are visited upon the son.” She turned to Thomas. “They murdered his mother and sister – his baby sister. Who’s going to sew their corpses to his back!” she screamed leveling an ineffectual blow at the Jicarilla chief and returning to her husband in tears. White gaped at her through eyes of terror, submitting to her as to a demon of judgment whose fetters he could not loose.

  The little multicultural deputation did their duty, as required by the court, and watched until the train was out of sight, and as they watched, Thomas sang an old Irish song:

  “‘Me granddad hated your granddad, and

  Though we don’t recall his name

  or his face,

  nor his views,

  and we’ve sold off his shoes

  Yet, I’m boundin’ to hate you the same.’”

  The Village of Farran

  County Kerry, Ireland

  September 28th, 1933

  The doorframe was still intact, and most of the walls, though the roof had long ago fallen in and rotted away. Grass had broken up the hard-packed dirt floor, and brambles grew throughout the house.

  “Are you sure . . . are you sure you want to stay here?” Father Murphy asked. “There’s nothing to . . . ”

  “I’ve spent many nights in places less civilized than this,” Thomas interrupted. “I’ll have to tell you about it some day.”

  The priest studied him. “I’d like that.”

  “Besides, I’ve plenty of company here. Plenty of memories to keep off the cool.”

  “Aye.”

  Thomas removed his bedroll from the suitcase and spread it in the corner. “Thanks for walkin’ along with me, padre.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Conlan. As soon as you’re . . . whenever you’re up to it, we can see to finding your father’s . . . to moving him.”

  “That’ll be tomorrow,” said Thomas. He lay down, expecting the priest to make his ‘good-night’ and depart. He didn’t.

  “Is there something else, padre?”

  Murphy descended slowly to the window sill, where he sat in the gathering gun-metal blue of the gloaming. “I know you’re tired.”

  “What’s on y’er mind, father?”

  “Nothing more than curiosity, really,” said Murphy. “None of my business . . . ”

  “And what’d you be curious about?”

  “Well, feel free to tell me if I’m being impertinent . . . ”

  “Oh, that I will, father. You may rest easy on that account.”

  “Yes. Well, I was just wondering . . . I’ve been wondering a long time, actually . . . whatever became of your brother and sister? Did they move to New Mexico with you?”

  And so Thomas set sleep aside for a few hours, and because of the way one thing leads to another and the young priest kept asking questions, poured the las
t fifty-three of his seventy years into the willing ears of the young priest.

  “And did you ever see her again? Katy, I mean?”

  “Yes, I did as a matter of fact. On the way here.”

  “What?” said Murphy excitedly. “Just now? Just . . . just recently?”

  “Aye.”

  “What happened? Did she recognize you?”

  Beacon Hill

  Boston, Massachusetts

  September 12th, 1933

  The bustle might have given way to the flapper’s spangled skirts, but apart from seeming smaller, nothing much had changed on Beacon Hill. There might be electric wiring and more indoor plumbing and telephones, but these things were hidden in the walls. The red brick house across the street from the little postage-stamp sized park was exactly as he’d remembered it, down to the gleaming white trim, the shiny black door, and the polished brasswork, and he had no doubt that – whatever their Christian names might be – the surname of the family in residence was Saltonstall.

  Funny, he thought, as he stood there with his hat in his hand – after all he’d been through – that he should be nervous now. Suddenly he was seventeen, head of a family that had come unraveled. He’d never shaken the feeling that he’d abandoned Katy. What would she say if they met? And it was still a question of if. His feet had brought him this far on impulse, but his heart had to take him the last thirty feet across the street, and he wasn’t sure it was up to it.

  “Come on, Thomas,” he said aloud. “You’ve faced wild Indians, bears, mountain lions, railroad pirates, the Depression, an’ bein’ burned outta the home you built with your own two hands, only one of which you got left; sure’n you can stand toe-to-toe with a butler.” He put the hat on his head, swallowed hard, and crossed the street. At the top of the steps, he lifted the brass knocker – a rampant lion – and let it fall. He heard the echo of the clap within. A moment later, the door was opened by a girl who seemed to be in the middle of cleaning. The outfit she wore might have been handed down from the maid of fifty some years ago, yet it was timeless, appropriate to the house.