Río Chama Read online

  He was halfway through his El Pervenir when he saw the riders, loping across the pasture between the forks, mounted on horseflesh too good to belong to some Mexican peasant or any of the smaller ranches south and west of Cole land. His riders. Looking for him.

  Cole wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he felt certain they were coming for him. Joints popping, he stood, stepped out of the shade, and waited, still smoking his Havana. Anyone who rode for the Cole brand would know where to find him. He’d let them come.

  The Chama valley seemed cut off from most of New Mexico. Some folks said it should belong to Colorado, for the border was just a few miles north. The trains, part of the Denver & Río Grande Railroad’s San Juan Extension, ran from Antonito, Colorado, as did the telegraph line, when it was operating. Most of the news came from Colorado. Denver might be some three hundred miles away, and Santa Fe only one hundred, but, to those who lived in the valley, it often felt that Santa Fe was as far removed from Chama as the gold fields in the Yukon.

  Roman Cole really didn’t care one way or the other, but he understood the way New Mexico worked, knew all too well of la mordida, the bribes one paid to those in power to get things done. Sometimes, such payments went to Senator Roman Cole. Other times, he paid whoever he needed to pay. It was considered part of the business of doing business here. He had learned to accept it, had learned to use it. He had used it again on this latest trip.

  A good trip, he thought. He had lined up Dan Augustine, and paid la mordida, and now had to wait. Wait for this whole insignificant affair to blow over like an afternoon monsoon in late July.

  A rider on a dun horse veered from the rest, waving his massive cream-colored sombrero, yelling back to the other five riders.

  Cole crushed the cigar with his boot heel. They’d seen him, and now made a beeline for the hill. He had never been much for worrying, but his gut felt odd, and he spat out the taste of tobacco, tried washing it down with sour mash. Something had gone wrong. He could feel it, knew it, and he suddenly cursed.

  Matt Denton, the Triangle C rider with the big Mexican hat, led the others up the hill and was the first to dismount, glancing back hopefully at his companions, as if wishing someone else would take charge.

  He turned back, pushed up the brim of the stupid hat, said—“Mister Cole.”—and waited.

  Idiot! Cole tossed the flask underneath the pine. “You’ve rode for me nigh four years, Denton,” Cole said. “You know damned well who I am.”

  “Yes, sir.” The kid stared at his scuffed boots.

  Denton and Jeremiah were pals. The young rider with the sombrero had even acted like Jeremiah’s brother since Billy, Cole’s oldest, had died. Cole regretted speaking sharply to him, but he refused to soften. “Then spit out what you got to say, Denton.”

  Matt Denton took a deep breath, exhaled, and made himself look into Roman Cole’s cold eyes. “Well, it’s Jeremiah, sir. He got took.”

  “Took?”

  “Yes, sir. Took right out of jail. The jail in Santa Fe. By Britton Wade.”

  “What do you mean took? Busted out? What?”

  “Dan Augustine come down, just as you ordered him to, only, by the time he got there Monday morn, the sheriff said somebody else had done come and fetched Jeremiah. He had a letter from Sheriff Murphey, had a commission as a federal deputy . . . so the sheriff down there didn’t think nothing of it. Bought a couple of horses at the livery across the street, and lit a shuck. Augustine’s gone after them. Says he’ll earn his pay.”

  Cole looked around behind him, wished he had not tossed away that flask. He could use a snort. Nothing made sense. Taken from jail by Britton Wade?

  “Britton Wade, that gunman and cardsharp?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cole blinked. He hated to be like this, confused, uncertain, downright taken aback. He had steeled himself to hear that Augustine’s plan had not worked, that some bean-eater seeking vengeance had shot Jeremiah Cole dead on the streets of Santa Fe. He could have handled that, easily. He would have fetched Jeremiah home, buried him beside his brother and mother, then taken vengeance himself. But this . . .

  “This just beats the Dutch,” he said. “Britton Wade?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I never done no bad turn on Wade, never even met the man. Why would a killer like him . . . a damned lunger . . . why would he take Jeremiah out of jail?”

  Denton wet his lips, looked back at the other riders, and once again found no help.

  “Where’s Murphey?” Cole demanded.

  “Back in Chama, I reckon. Maybe T.A. He brung word to the ranch, said he had to get back to town.”

  “Like hell.” That fool sheriff would rue the day. Coward. Numbskull. Oh, Luke Murphey was fine beating up drunks and old men with those giant fists of his, but the sheriff was anything but a man. Hiding either at the courthouse in Tierra Amarilla or at the jail in Chama. Hiding from Roman Cole’s wrath. Twenty years ago, Roman Cole would have stomped Sheriff Murphey into the ground with a boot heel. Thirty years ago, he would have shot him dead on the streets. Even ten years ago, Roman Cole could have picked ten men better suited to wear a badge. Times had changed, though. Look what he had for a sheriff. Look what he had for men—mere boys—riding for the Triangle C.

  “Archie Preston told us to not quit riding till we found you,” Denton said.

  Archie Preston was his foreman, one of the few good men Cole had these days. Just knowing Archie was up to snuff made Cole breathe a little easier.

  “Archie said to tell you he’d ride up to Jawbone Mountain and fetch Zechariah Stone. They say old Zech can track a fly across the Tusas Mountains.”

  “What else did that jackleg Murphey say?”

  “He just brung the telegram.” Suddenly remembering that, Denton fetched the slip of yellow paper from his vest pocket, handed it to Cole, who read it quickly. It said nothing other than what Matt Denton had told him.

  “Britton Wade,” Cole said again, just to say something. After balling the telegram in his hand, he tossed it in the wind.

  “Well, there’s one thing you ought to hear, Mister Cole,” Denton offered reluctantly.

  “Go on,” Cole snapped.

  “Murphey didn’t say none of this, but Tom Oliver . . .” He craned his neck toward a lanky cowhand with the thick brown mustache, who sat gripping his saddle horn and looking mighty uncomfortable at having been drawn into the conversation. “Tom and me heard that Murphey up and locked up Britton Wade for . . . for . . .”

  “Vagrancy,” Tom Oliver said, now even more annoyed.

  “Turned him loose first of last week,” Denton finished.

  “That still doesn’t explain why Wade would take my son out of jail.”

  “Well, maybe it does, sir, because that was about the time them Mex preachers was begging that Murphey do right by the law. This is what those padres was saying, Mister Cole, not us. But we heard that that old Father Virg-something-or-another was offering a reward of two hundred dollars to the man who got Jeremiah up here for the hanging.”

  Cole sighed. Oddly enough, he felt better now that he understood how things were working. The priests, Virgilio and Amado, were stirring up trouble again. That he had expected. He just hadn’t counted on Britton Wade’s gumption.

  “Wade could have stole the papers,” Tom Oliver said. “Stole ’em right off Murphey’s desk. The papers that allowed the law in Santa Fe to turn loose of Jeremiah. That’s just a guess, though. That was what Luke Murphey was guessin’.”

  Probably more words than Tom Oliver had spoken in three months, but Cole nodded at his rider, even thanked him.

  “I think you’re right, Tom. Money. That’s what all of this is about.”

  “Yes, sir,” Denton said.

  Cole couldn’t help himself. He simply laughed, shook his head, and walked back to pick up his flask. A lunger, a damned saddle bum, planned on bringing his son to Río Arriba County. And for what? Two hundred dollars. Cole took a drink, laughe
d again, and shoved the flask into his saddlebag. Two hundred dollars? He had spent more than that on la mordida, slipping a donation to the attorney general, to Sheriff Murphey, to some Army commanders, the warden at the territorial prison, the editor and publisher at the Santa Fe New Mexican, even the archbishop. He had paid everyone except that greaser sheriff in Santa Fe, who had shown all along how much he sided with all those other Mexicans who wanted Jeremiah to die. They didn’t want Jeremiah Cole to hang for what he had done, though. Oh, no. Roman Cole knew those sons-of-bitches better than that. They wanted to punish Roman Cole for all of his crimes, for taking their land, for running Río Arriba County the way it needed to be run, for bringing progress to the Chama valley, for getting richer while they remained poor.

  “To hell with them.” He hadn’t realized he had said that aloud until he looked at his riders again. Ignoring them, he stared across the valley, and shook his head.

  “Mister Cole?”

  With a sigh, Roman Cole shot a glance at Matt Denton and the other riders.

  “What do you want us to do, sir?”

  “Cut dirt, boys.” A quarter mile off, a mule deer drank from an aquecia. Silence. He stared at the sky. Clearing up. Might even warm up come tomorrow. He hadn’t heard the creaking of saddle leather, knew those young riders were just waiting, staring at him blankly, wondering just what in hell he wanted them to do. Finally he heard Matt Denton’s drawl.

  “Well, sir, where is it that you want us to go?”

  Cole turned, glaring. “It took me three days to ride from Santa Fe,” he said, “but I ride mighty hard. Wade’s taking Jeremiah to Tierra Amarilla or Chama, and there’s only one road that leads up here. Ride south.”

  “What about the stagecoach?” another rider—Cole couldn’t recall the name—began. “That gunman might bring . . .”

  “He won’t take the stage. Wade’s too smart for that.”

  “What about Zechariah Stone?” Denton asked.

  “I’ll send Zech after you. And Dan Augustine, too. Cut dirt, boys. Time’s wasting. Fetch Jeremiah back to me, and bring me Britton Wade’s head in a gunny sack.”

  Denton’s face paled. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, sir, I mean, Archie Preston, he says that Wade might not be doing this for that reward the padre posted. I mean, sir, well, two hundred dollars ain’t that much money when you figure things. Archie warrants that Wade might plan on delivering Jeremiah to you, and not the Mexicans.”

  “I know that.” Unless Britton Wade was a complete fool. Roman Cole would gladly pay more for his son’s safety. But I’ll be damned if I’ll pay la mordida to a greedy lunger son-of-a-bitch, Cole thought.

  “I said bring me his head,” he said. “Now, ride out.”

  Chapter Four

  They were gone in an instant, the quickness of the paint horse surprising Wade. Maybe the piebald wasn’t so worthless a mount. Whirling, the startled livery man leaped out of the way with a Spanish curse, barely missing being trampled. Equally surprised were the men in front of the cantina. To keep them that way, Wade fired a round over the flat-crowned hat worn by the vaquero.

  The mare thundered across a little wooden bridge. Wade tugged the reins, turned east, kicked the horse’s ribs, wishing he wore spurs. He wanted to look back, but didn’t. Shouts. A bullet zipped past his ear. Jeremiah Cole’s grip tightened around Wade’s stomach. Curses. The clanging of the bell grew louder, and moments later they passed a square adobe church on the right, a white cross barely visible on the pitched tin roof, door wide open, a white-haired man pulling the bell rope urgently. Into the gloaming, they rode, faster, down a narrow trail lined with thick cottonwoods. Suddenly the bells from the church ceased, replaced by the sound of a running horse. The vaquero.

  Another mistake, Wade thought. I should have shot his damned horse.

  A dog barked. They galloped past a frightened woman, hiding behind a cottonwood, eyes wide, mouth open, small hand clutching the throat of her dress.

  He didn’t know where he was going, knew little about this part of the territory. More horses had joined pursuit, and, as hard as this piebald ran, Wade realized the small horse couldn’t carry the weight of two, not for long. He had covered perhaps two miles when he spotted flaring yellow lamps ahead of him. Although still game, the piebald was faltering, already lathered in sweat.

  Another shot. Then another. The pursuing hoofs sounded closer. A voice called out in Spanish. The vaquero. Seemed to be telling the men riding with him not to shoot.

  The trail narrowed. A jacal on the right. Stone wall surrounding what appeared to be a small vegetable garden. Coyote fence on the left, hiding a small adobe, white smoke pouring from the chimney. They were coming into another village. No wonder the vaquero with a conscience wanted his comrades to hold their fire. A door slammed. Another dog barked, and was answered by hordes of mongrels. Wade turned the piebald left. His lungs fought for air. Jeremiah Cole squeezed harder. They entered a small plaza.

  “¡Vete al carajo!” came a curse from behind, and the vaquero’s response was lost to a gunshot.

  Squealing, the piebald stumbled, and Wade knew the mare had been hit. He tried to kick free of the stirrups, tried to tell Cole to jump. Too late. Gunfire ripped through the growing darkness again. He hit the cobblestones, hard, saw a blinding flash of orange as his head struck. Coughed. Opened his eyes. Tried to stand. Couldn’t.

  Hoofs. He had to move. “God,” Cole moaned.

  Somehow, he still held the pistol in his right hand, but his left shoulder felt numb. Coughing slightly, he cocked the .44, aimed over the dead mare pinning his right leg, and fired. Once. Twice. Worried, the riders quickly reined up. A bullet whined off a rock, and the vaquero cursed. Wade’s head throbbed, his ears rang, and he could catch only pieces of the vaquero’s commands. Something about a priest, sacred land, children, women, the Blessed Mother. With a grunt, Wade pressed his left leg against the saddle, pushing, dragged himself from underneath the piebald.

  A door flung open, casting light briefly from a coal-oil lantern, just long enough for Wade to spot the Gladstone a few rods from the dead horse. Many of its contents, Hoyle’s, the laudanum, had spilled onto the plaza. He heard a woman’s gasp before the door slammed, shutting off the light and the woman’s prayer.

  “God,” Cole muttered somewhere behind Wade.

  Wade had also seen something else, just ahead of him, could still make it out as the skies darkened.

  He fired again, heard the bullet’s ricochet, and shoved the .44 into his holster, stood, weaving, looked back. His left arm wouldn’t work.

  “Cole,” he said. “Get up.” He didn’t wait, just moved to the kid, jerked him to his feet with his right hand. “That way,” he said, shaking his head, trying to clear it, then pushed Cole forward. “Through the gate!” he yelled, ducking to pick up the Gladstone, stumbling, staggering more than running.

  A rifle boomed, immediately followed by a shotgun blast, and an instant later the pursuers from Española were shouting at each other. Across the plaza raced Cole and Wade, underneath the adobe archway, down a shrub-lined path. Wade could just make out the adobe building, pitched roof, the twin pointed bell towers on either side. He hoped he had guessed right—for once.

  More shouts.

  Cole reached the door first, pushed, grunted, cursed, turned back to yell: “It’s bolted shut!” He started to run, but Wade grabbed him, threw him back against the door, surprised at his own strength.

  His head was bleeding. He jerked on the iron pull.

  “It’s locked, I tell you!” Cole screamed at him. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Wade’s strength was quickly ebbing. He didn’t know why. He felt himself slipping, sliding down the door. Yet he drew the Merwin & Hulbert, grabbed the barrel, twisted, pounded the walnut butt against the heavy oaken door that was adorned with carved wood painted white, eight-point stars and fancy crosses. He yelled words he long thought lost to him, somehow seeing, although he was probab
ly imagining it, Jeremiah Cole’s shocked face, his mouth agape, as Wade beat on the door, shouting: “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” He cried out something in Latin, thought better of it, tried again in Spanish. The last thing he heard was his own weak voice pleading, “¡Pido santuario! ¡Pido santuario!”

  Chapter Five

  It all had begun in the Chama jail.

  Britton Wade had stood behind some impressive bars in the past decade, like that rotary jail in Gallatin, Missouri, which folks said resembled a squirrel cage with its pie-shaped cells on a well-greased axis turned by the jailer’s crank. Once, years ago, he had found himself chained to a large mesquite—The Jail Tree—in the blistering summer sun in Wickenburg, Arizona Territory. Down in Chloride, back in 1889, he vividly recalled joking to the beer-jerker who worked at The Gem Saloon about how he often felt an urge to write a book about all the jails he had struck. Although he had thrown more than his share of men into such confines, lately he found himself locked away for hours, sometimes months.

  There was nothing special about the log building that housed him on that dark spring morning in Chama. Stone floor. No windows. Iron bars sunk deeply into earth and timber. More like a dungeon. He lay on cold flagstone, close to the bars, trying to breathe, watching a stream of water crossing the dark hallway toward him, hoping it was water, but the pungent smell reached him first, and he rolled away, groaning, to escape the urine.

  From the opposite cell came laughter, followed by a conversation in Spanish.

  Using the bars, Britton Wade pulled himself up, head still pounding, his dry mouth tasting of forty-rod whiskey and perhaps his own vomit. Whatever had landed him in this unholy place had been blacked from his memory, but he didn’t need to remember. He could guess. No, it wasn’t a guess. He knew. He had gotten drunk, again, started a fight, again. Wade felt the knot over his left ear. Had lost the fight . . .

  Again.

  He recalled something else. When he stepped off the train, he had been broke. Either he had pawned something of value for money, had gotten lucky and won some poker hands early, or had stolen the whiskey. It didn’t matter. Here he was.