Fatemeh drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She thought about the ranch hands who had worked with Ramon. They all seemed friendly, but she couldn’t imagine any of them risking their lives to get Ramon out of jail. Her thoughts turned to Ramon’s cousin Eduardo in Palomas Hot Springs. He would help if he could, but Fatemeh wasn’t certain what skills he had. Finally she looked at Duncan. “I’m afraid you’re right. We need someone who knows what they’re doing. Still, I would feel better if the person we were entrusting our story to wasn’t a complete stranger.”
Duncan nodded, then looked at the sun in the sky and the mountains in the distance. “We better step up the pace. We still have quite a ride ahead of us.” He prodded his horse into a canter with Fatemeh following close behind.
<< >>
Ramon awoke to the sound of the deputy sheriff shoving a plate of flapjacks and a cup of coffee under the bars of his jail cell in Mesilla. Sunlight already streamed through the windows. He rubbed his eyes, then sat up and retrieved the plate. The flapjacks were cold and there were none of Mrs. Castillo’s delicious preserves to sweeten them. He rolled one of the flapjacks and chewed it half-heartedly. The coffee was bitter, but at least it was hot.
Once Ramon finished with his rather lackluster meal, Deputy Barela opened the cell and ordered him to hold his arms out. The deputy cuffed his hands, then led him outside. They walked through the streets, toward the Mesilla Park. As they walked, Ramon looked around, wondering if Fatemeh would be there to see him off. He didn’t see her anywhere. As he passed the street with the Castillos’ rooming house, he wondered what she was doing. Was she enjoying a good breakfast? Was she worried about him? Was she making her own plans for the future?
An old coach, probably retired from one of the stage lines, was waiting at the Mesilla Park. Deputy Barela gave Ramon’s shoulder a slight shove. Awkwardly, he grabbed the handle with his cuffed hands and pulled himself into the coach.
Inside was Ray Hillerman. Once Ramon was seated across from him, Hillerman banged on the coach’s roof. The driver snapped the reins and the horses took off down the road. The way the coach rattled and thumped, causing him to bounce on the wooden seat, Ramon felt his suspicions were confirmed. The coach was old and its springs were shot.
As the coach made its way northward, Ramon’s thoughts returned to Fatemeh. She enchanted him like no other woman had. When he was a teenager, girls laughed at him because of his glasses and because he was short. His father taught him how to use guns to hunt and defend himself, but also instilled in him a sense of right and wrong and taught him to respect the law of the land. Respecting their new country—the United States of America—Ramon’s father had joined the Union Army in 1861. He died less than a year later, killed at the Battle of Glorietta Pass outside of Santa Fe. Despite that, Ramon continued to respect the law and eventually became a deputy sheriff. A few years later, he was elected Sheriff of Socorro. Through all of that, Ramon sensed women respected him. A few even batted their eyes at him when they said “hello” in the morning, but none of them seemed all that seriously interested in him.
Fatemeh was the first woman he really felt he could talk to. She indicated she was interested in considering marriage. Yet, she was not even there to see him off. As he bounced on the hard wooden seat of the coach, he wondered if their love had merely been an illusion. If he lived through his sentence in Socorro, he wondered if he would ever see her again.
<< >>
It was late when Luther Duncan and Fatemeh Karimi arrived in Silver City. They found a hotel and obtained rooms for the night. Both slept late into the next day. After breakfast they asked directions to the sheriff’s office. It was only a few buildings away from the hotel.
As they approached the sheriff’s office, they saw a tall, clean-shaven man enter the building. He gripped the arm of a scrawny kid. Fatemeh figured the kid couldn’t be much older than fifteen. The teenager limped and winced.
Fatemeh and Duncan looked at each other, then continued toward the sheriff’s office. Duncan opened the door for Fatemeh. When she entered, she saw the tall man opening the jail cell at the back of office. He shoved the kid inside and slammed the door shut, then turned the key in the lock.
Turning around, the tall man removed his hat. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“We’re looking for Dan Tucker,” said Fatemeh.
“Well, you found him,” said the tall man. “I’m Tucker.”
Fatemeh tried to place his accent. “You’re from Canada, aren’t you?”
Tucker chuckled. “Very good, ma’am. Most people around here seem to think I’m a Southerner.” He made his way over to a desk and indicated a pair of chairs. “Now tell me, how can I help you?”
Fatemeh introduced herself and Luther Duncan. Duncan tipped his bowler hat and sat down.
“A friend of mine is in trouble,” explained Fatemeh. “His name is Ramon Morales and he used to be Sheriff of Socorro.”
Tucker nodded knowingly. “I’ve heard of Búho Morales. He seems like a good man. I was really surprised when Sheriff Whitehill got a wanted poster for him a couple weeks ago. I never figured he was the kind of man that would assault a bishop.”
“That’s not the way it happened,” interjected Duncan. “The bishop was hosting a lynching party and Fatemeh here was the guest of honor. Morales put a stop to it.”
It was more like a barbecue than a lynching, thought Fatemeh. However, she decided Duncan’s explanation took less time. “Ramon was tried two days ago in Mesilla and the jury found him not guilty of assaulting the bishop. He acknowledges he was wrong to leave his duties as sheriff, and he’s willing to serve his time, but they’re taking him to jail in Socorro.”
“And you’re afraid that it’s now Búho’s turn to be guest of honor at a lynching party, is that it?” Tucker leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk.
A derisive laugh came from the jail cell. “And you’ve come to ol’ Dangerous Dan for help? That’s a real hoot.”
“You shut up.” Tucker pointed his finger at the cell.
“Come make me!” called the cocky teenager.
Tucker shook his head.
“Who’s your prisoner?” Duncan looked toward the cell.
“Calls himself Kid Antrim.” Tucker chuckled to himself. “He’s been making a real pain in the ass of himself over at Fort Grant in Arizona.” He blushed and tipped his hat at Fatemeh. “Pardon my language, ma’am. They say he keeps stealing their supplies out from under them. His mother lives here in Silver City and I finally caught him this morning.”
“You wouldn’t o’ caught me if it wasn’t for this ankle,” grumbled the kid.
Fatemeh stood and stepped over to the cell. “What happened to your ankle?”
“Sprained it, hopping onto a horse.” The kid looked as his feet, apparently embarrassed at the notion of being clumsy.
“A horse he stole.” The deputy sheriff scratched the back of his head. “I’m taking him back to Arizona tomorrow so he can stand trial at the fort. Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure there’s anything I could do to help Búho Morales. What you need is a good attorney and a judge sympathetic to your case, not a deputy sheriff like me—no matter how much I admire his reputation.”
“Whacha really need is someone to break him outta jail,” said the kid.
Fatemeh ignored the comment and returned to her seat at Tucker’s desk.
“Is there anyone you know that could help us?” Duncan leaned forward.
Tucker dropped his feet back to the floor. “Not around here. You might try Albert Fountain in Mesilla. I hear he’s pretty good with difficult cases.”
Fatemeh looked at Duncan with narrowed eyes. He gave an apologetic shrug. She redirected her gaze to the deputy sheriff. “I’m sorry we’ve bothered you, Mr. Tucker.”
“No bother at all, ma’am.” Tucker smiled faintly. “May I ask what the bishop was going to lynch you for?”
“His brother-in-law, Randolph Dal
ton, accused me of running off his miners. I was a better curandera than the ones in his parish…” She began counting off items on her fingers.
Tucker held up his hand and smiled. “I get the idea. If you’ll excuse my language again, you were a pain in his ass.”
Fatemeh grinned at that. “I think that about sums it up.” She looked toward the cell. “I wonder if you would allow me to treat the young man’s sprained ankle?”
Tucker shrugged. “It would sure make getting him to Arizona a lot easier if he could walk on his own two feet.”
Fatemeh nodded, then stood and left the sheriff’s office. She tried to think if there was anything else she could say to persuade Dan Tucker to help them out. It was clear he admired Ramon’s good reputation as a lawman. However, he was right. They needed a lawyer to get Ramon out of jail, not a deputy sheriff. She approached her horse and patted it on the nose, then went to her saddlebag and retrieved a bottle and some bandages. A few minutes later, she returned to the sheriff’s office.
She took the chair from in front of Dan Tucker’s desk, placed it in front of the jail cell and sat down. “I have something to help your sprain,” she said.
“Much obliged, but these things heal themselves with time.” Kid Antrim looked at the bottle suspiciously.
“This will help. I promise.”
Kid Antrim limped over to the bars. Gingerly, he pulled off his boot, then stuck his foot through. Fatemeh uncorked the bottle and the kid quickly pulled his foot back. “What in the name of Hell is that?” he cried, wrinkling his nose.
“Horse liniment. It’s the best thing I know for sprains.”
“I ain’t no horse.”
“Stick your foot back through the bars.”
He complied and she massaged his ankle with the liniment. Then, she wrapped his ankle snugly with the bandages.
“Hey, that feels better already.”
“Sure you don’t want to help me get him over to Arizona?” asked Tucker. “He listens to you better than he listens to me.”
“I would consider it, if you could help me with my problem.” Fatemeh put the cork back in the bottle of horse liniment.
The deputy sheriff scratched the back of his head, as though giving it serious thought. “The problem is I just don’t see any way I can help you, short of breaking Morales out of jail. If I really thought he’d been wronged, I might even help you do that, but from what you tell me, he admitted he was guilty of running away from his duties. It sounds like he may be facing a bad situation in Socorro, but how do I know what you’re telling me is true?”
“You don’t.”
“If you can think of any way to help, send word to me at the Mesilla News,” offered Duncan.
“I’ll do that.” Tucker stood from the desk and showed the visitors to the door.
That evening, Fatemeh and Duncan ate dinner at the hotel. Afterwards, they planned to get some sleep and ride back to Mesilla the next day.
“So tell me, Mr. Duncan, why exactly did we ride all the way out here, when we could have just spoken to this Albert Fountain back in Mesilla?”
Duncan sighed. “Albert Fountain is a very high powered attorney. I thought his services would be more than you could afford.”
Fatemeh looked down at her plate and stirred the food around with her fork. “I suppose you’re right.” She looked back up into Duncan’s eyes. “So what exactly are we going to do?”
Just then, the hotel door flew open and the scrawny fifteen-year-old kid from the sheriff’s office appeared. He slammed the door behind him and looked around. Seeing Fatemeh and Duncan he made for the table.
“What are you doing here?” Duncan’s eyes were wide.
“My ankle felt better, so I broke out of jail.” The kid smiled. “I didn’t feel like waiting around to go back to Arizona, so I thought I’d come here and see if I could help you all.”
“We don’t need your help.” Duncan made a shooing motion.
“I think you do,” said the kid.
“Why do you want to help us?” Fatemeh turned so she faced the kid.
The kid’s grin broadened. “Dangerous Dan said you were a pain in the ass. That makes you my kind of people!” A moment later, his expression turned serious and his gaze fell to Fatemeh. “More than that, though, you helped me. I appreciate it.”
“Not many people have seen fit to help you, have they?” Fatemeh reached out and took the kid’s hand.
He shook his head.
“What’s your name?” asked Fatemeh. “I presume it isn’t really ‘Kid Antrim’.”
“My name’s Billy…Billy McCarty.”
“How do you think you can help us?” Luther Duncan sat back and folded his arms across his chest.
“I can get your friend outta jail.”
“And how exactly would you do that?”
Billy pulled his hand back from Fatemeh’s and held his arms wide, as though his presence there should be all the explanation required. “I’ve been getting in and out of Fort Grant for the better part of a year without being caught. Plus, I got myself out of jail with a sprained ankle.”
“Maybe you can help.” Fatemeh stood. “However, I think we’d better get moving soon. It won’t be long before Sheriff Whitehill or Dan Tucker come looking for you.”
Billy jumped to his feet and winced when he landed on the sprained ankle. His grimace quickly dissolved into a fresh smile. “My thoughts exactly.”
Luther Duncan shook his head. “I don’t know if I like this.”
When they left Silver City the next day, Fatemeh was surprised they rode to the northwest, further into the mountains and away from both Socorro and Mesilla.
“It’ll be harder for ol’ Dangerous Dan to track us,” explained Billy. “We’ll circle around and come back to Socorro from the west.”
“Won’t that give Tucker time to warn people in Socorro about us?” asked Duncan.
“First off, he’ll be more concerned about me than you two,” said Billy. “I don’t think he’ll consider it a possibility that I’m helping you. He’ll waste time checking at my ma’s place, then checking over at Fort Grant. That’ll give us lots of time to get ahead of him. Even if he does think I might be helping you all, he’ll either be behind us on the trail, or he’ll ride into Mesilla and then go up through Jornada del Muerto. Either way, he’ll take as long or longer getting to Socorro than we will.”
“He could always send a wire from Mesilla.” Duncan appeared dubious.
“Do you think any telegram he could send would give people in Socorro a good enough description they’d spot me out of a crowd?”
“All I can say is that I hope you’re right,” grumbled Duncan.
<< >>
General Alexander Gorloff stood outside a meeting hall in Windsor, California, just a few miles away from Call Ranch. He took a deep breath, inhaling the pine scent. He admired the tall trees that surrounded the area. He was reminded of the forests of his homeland and smiled at the thought this territory would soon be part of Russia if all went according to plan. He loved the American West and understood his kinsmen who had chosen to call it home.
He turned around and entered the meeting hall. It was a simple log structure with benches on either side of a central aisle. At the front of the room was a podium. He estimated three dozen people occupied the benches. Of them, about a dozen had gray hair and wrinkled skin. These were the older people who stayed behind when the Russians left Fort Ross thirty years before. The younger people in the room were probably their children, many of whom likely felt they had claims on their parents’ land, but actually lived in Windsor or other nearby towns. It was also possible one or two of those present were, in fact, George Call’s men, there to see what Gorloff said to the settlers.
Call might have spies, but Gorloff did too. The general felt his spies were superior to any the rancher might send to the meeting. He still didn’t fully understand the creature called Legion, but he could feel it in the back of his mind. A pa
rt of him worried he was going crazy and he was imagining the voices he heard. However, he proposed to put that idea to the test during this meeting. He knew Legion somehow understood him, even when he did not speak aloud.
Seek out the Russians that are here, he thought. Ignore any that are not my kinsmen.
“What if they react poorly to our presence in their thoughts?” asked Legion.
Don’t overwhelm them with images, thought Gorloff. Just listen to what I say and let them picture it in their minds. Gorloff felt Legion’s agreement to this course of action.
The general reached the podium and introduced himself to those assembled—in Russian. He continued speaking in his native language. “I am told George Call has occupied Fort Ross and has purchased the surrounding land. He does not recognize your claims.”
Many of those gathered in the room nodded their assent.
“I tell you, there is no hope George Call will relent his claim,” said Gorloff, sternly.
There were many shocked murmurs around the room. One of the old men stood up. “Can’t you negotiate with Mr. Call?” he asked in Russian.
“The time for negotiation has ended,” growled Gorloff. “However, I do not feel you need to relinquish your land to George Call. This land is rightfully yours. It was claimed by the Russian Empire and it must stay in the empire’s hands, not in the hands of the Americans.”
A younger man stood. “Our people relinquished their claim to this land thirty years ago. How can we expect help from Mother Russia?”
“It was a mistake for Russia to leave.” Gorloff folded his arms across his chest and looked from the young man’s eyes into the eyes of the older man next to him. Legion informed Gorloff that the old man was the young man’s father. “Many of you in this room came to this land to help strengthen the empire. You stayed because you fell in love with the land, but now new settlers refuse to recognize your claim. Is that right?”
Most of the people gathered nodded agreement. Some had blank stares, as though they didn’t understand the words.
Gorloff paced in front of the hall. “Those who came from Russia sought to build a future for their children in this new land. They sought to leave houses and farms their children could inherit, but now a rancher seeks to take that away.” The general stopped and turned, facing those assembled. “You must be prepared to fight for what belongs to you. I tell you, Russia will reclaim this land and it will be yours.”
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