The New Mexico Territory, page 1
The New Mexico Territory
Harvey Stanbrough
Novel 3 in the Wes Crowley Gap Series
StoneThread Publishing
http://stonethreadpublishing.com
To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.
Table of Contents
Title Page
The New Mexico Territory (Wes Crowley Gap, #3)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
The New Mexico Territory
Harvey Stanbrough
“The best thing you can do with death is ride off from it.”
Woodrow F. Call, Lonesome Dove
Prologue
When Texas Ranger Wes Crowley rode off from the death of Deputy Sheriff Susan May south of Amarillo and east of Hereford Texas, he rode west.
He was due back in Amarillo, but he thought Captain Wilson would understand. And if he didn’t, that was all right too. He was a 16 year old kid when he and his buddy Otis “Mac” McFadden had ridden south from Watson Texas to Amarillo and took their oath just over two years earlier. Today he was almost 19 and he’d just buried his first love.
And all in the effort to stem the tide of comancheros sweeping across the panhandle, raiding farms, torturing and killing the men and male children, and taking the women hostage for sale to the highest bidder south of the border.
He, the captain and Ranger Stilson had rescued Susan May only a few weeks earlier from some of those same comancheros. The Rangers had found her racing west in the desert from Hereford, barefoot. When they rode up on her, she brandished a thick mesquite log in an effort to keep them all away.
But Captain James Wilson, he of the sultry southern baritone, had spoken calmly with her as only a gentleman can. And soon she realized the men were her rescuers.
In that few weeks, Susan May had considered her options and become Deputy Sheriff May, the first woman ever appointed to that position. Then she and Wes had grown incredibly close, and he’d talked the captain into letting her ride south with him and Ranger Mendoza. It should have been a routine sweep of the south country between Canyon Texas and the border of New Mexico Territory.
But they’d happened on a burning farm only a few miles from the farm she had once called home. The comancheros, in typical fashion, had left a house in ashes, a barn on fire, and a man tied to the corral and killed. Wes was lured away by a comanchero and rode after him after ordering Susan to stay behind.
She helped Ranger Mendoza untie the man from the corral, and they heard the report of Wes’ Colt in the west. But when they went looking for shovels to dig the man’s grave, Susan thought she heard screaming coming from the barn.
She approached, but all she found was another sneering comanchero. He fired at the glint of the star on her chest, and she fell.
Wes got back in time to put six bullets into the comanchero who’d done for Susan. The last four went into a dead man. Then he crouched alongside her just in time to say goodbye.
He sent Ranger Mendoza back to Amarillo to brief the captain. He slung Deputy Sheriff May over the saddle of her black mare, and he took her home, to the farm she’d shared with her abusive husband and her lovely little daughter. He dug her grave, positioned her carefully in it, and covered it over.
He carried a large stone to place on her worthless husband’s grave in case he ever decided to try to come back. Then he picked a few wild flowers, crouched, and place them gently on Susan’s grave. Finally he said a few words and he was done.
He straightened, turned, walked steadily over to Charley and mounted.
He’d had enough.
Chapter 1
The infamous comanchero Francisco “Paco” Messina kept a camp up in No Man’s Land, same as the Comanche war chief Four Crows. And there was no doubt that those two were solely responsible for the terror north and west of Amarillo.
But even the horrors he’d seen in Four Crows’ wake marked the Indian as an honorable man. He only wanted to drive the whites from Comancheria. To that end, now and then he even raided the larger towns, and even Amarillo, the center of Ranger influence in the north.
Messina, on the other hand, wasn’t fighting for his home. He didn’t care either way about that, or about honor for that matter. He only wanted to raid the smaller, defenseless towns and farms. He stole whatever money, silver and gold he could find, and he and his men took women to ship south at their leisure.
That was in the north. But nobody with a brain tempered by time in the saddle believed Messina’s personal reach extended all the way down to the area southwest of Amarillo. Nor would anyone say that out loud, as if saying it might somehow cause it to be true. But that was the thought uppermost in Wes’ mind.
Wes was stubborn to a fault, but he’d never been hard of hearing.
On numerous occasions, he’d overheard the captain and the two corporals—Connolly and Edwards—wondering aloud how Messina could possibly wreak so much havoc that far south of his usual territory. But they’d finally and uneasily put brakes on their reasoning. They had decided he must have lieutenants based in the New Mexico Territory, from which they could raid east at will.
And that was possible, but it didn’t quite make sense.
In his interactions with comancheros to the south, he’d heard Messina’s name mentioned only a handful of times. Always in passing, and never with the awe and fear with which his name was mentioned in the north. And that led Wes to one conclusion, one that was driven home with Susan’s senseless death. These damn people weren’t Messina’s lieutenants. Maybe some of them had been, but now they were operating on their own. And Wes’ sole purpose in life was to put a stop to it.
Of course, he realized once he crossed the border, he’d be out of his jurisdiction. But the only way he knew to catch a rat was to go into the hole after it. And he’d make no apologies for that.
He even thought briefly of removing his Ranger star, slipping it into one of his saddle bags or his pocket before he crossed that imaginary line. But that would be a lot like hiding your light under a bushel. Better that folks good and bad alike could see who he was and what he stood for. There was a clean honesty about that, and he had a feeling Susan would agree with him.
His first target was Kiker, a village he’d heard of from Corporal Connolly. It was supposedly located near the source of the Red River. If it was actually there, the village lay 75 miles almost due west of Hereford, a long two-day ride. It would be a slow start, but he had nothing but time.
He could even check farms along the way, if there were any. Maybe he could even feed and water Charley at those. Eventually he would get to Kiker. And from there, he’d go wherever his Colt led him.
But a surprise lay in store.
The border itself was a good 50 miles from where he’d lain Susan to rest. He figured to cross it at around sundown on the second day. If he saw the light from a burning farm he would stop to render aid, but otherwise he couldn’t do anyone any good as long as he was still in Texas.
He rode hard in the early going, pushing both himself and Charley almost to their limits. Late into the night, judging by the stars and always bearing due west, occasionally he spotted the lights of farms in the distance to the north or south. But those were still in Texas so they were of no concern.
He finally happened on a natural tank with a few inches of water in the bottom and stopped there to rest Charley for a while. He caught a few hours of sleep himself, then woke with the pre-dawn light and continued on.
In the mid-afternoon of the second day, he spotted a farm maybe a half-mile to the south. They might have some oats or hay he could feed Charley. So for the first time, he varied his course.
*
It was a typical farm for this area. A small corral made of posts and split rails stood out front. Four horses stood at the fence, facing northeast and watching him approach. Four saddles were balanced on the top rail of the corral at various places. On the south side of the corral, a short hose extended from a water pump over a portable trough that set beneath the bottom rail, half inside and half outside the corral.
A small wood-slat house stood twenty yards or so farther on. Otherwise there was only a barn to the right with the single bay door standing open. To the left was a privy complete with a crescent moon cut into the door. A little farther south, a low-slung chicken coop was nestled inside a cage. The chicken wire was interrupted only by a narrow, wood-frame gate. But it was apparently vacant. No chickens were moving about.
In front of the house a series of planks were laid side by side on the ground to form an uncovered porch, but there were two well-worn hitching posts out front. A vast field that had obviously been turned in the past extended behind the house and barn. Wes frowned. The field looked completely fallow, though scattered weeds grew here and there. Why hadn’t they planted anything?
Then again, what did he know? He was a long way from being a farmer.
It all looked normal enough, but something didn’t seem quite right.
As he approached, nobody was moving about outside either. But the day was hot. Probably the owner had gotten his work done in the cool of the morning.
As he rode past the north end of the corral, the horses turned to watch him.
He straightened in the saddle and called, “Hello the house!”
There was no response.
When he was almost to the hitching posts, again he called, “Hello the house! Anybody home?”
Still no answer.
He reined-in near the northernmost hitching post, started to dismount, then thought better of it. He turned Charley and rode toward the barn.
He walked Charley just inside the door and looked around. It smelled dusty and hot. A buckboard wagon filled most of the front of the barn. A workbench ran along the left wall. Behind the wagon, straw was stacked on the right, and what looked like alfalfa hay was stacked on the left. Some horse tack hung from nails on the right wall. There was very little else. He didn’t see any feed bags or barrels or bags of oats.
He turned Charley and started back toward the house. Again he yelled, “Anybody home?”
When he reached the hitching post again, he dismounted and whipped the reins around the post, then stepped up on the planks and approached the door.
Just as he raised his right hand to knock, a shadow filled the 4-pane window that formed the top half of the door. Then it was jerked open.
“Damn, mister! Don’t you take silence for a sign that we don’t wanna answer the door?”
Chapter 2
In the open doorway, his left arm extended behind the door, stood a large man, around 6’2 and probably 250 pounds. Maybe he was gripping the doorknob. Maybe he was holding a cocked revolver or a shotgun.
He didn’t appear to be Mexican, but his skin was greasy and dark from long days in the sun, his dark brown hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes were brown and bloodshot. He was either starting to grow a beard or he just hadn’t shaved for several days. He was dressed in heavy boots, filthy trousers, and a dark shirt that was stained with blood. A wide, sun-faded straw sombrero hung down over his back by a thin dark leather chin strap. His body odor wafted out through the vacuum created by opening the door.
Wes took a half-step back and looked up at him. “Sorry to bother you. I thought maybe my horse could get some—”
“Yeah? Well, you thought wrong.” He started to close the door.
What the hell? Wes leaned back slightly, raised his right boot and shoved the door open. He pulled the Colt from his right holster as he stepped through the door, then leveled it at the man, who was lying on his back, propped up on his elbows. His eyes were huge and glaring. His nose was bleeding and his forehead was slightly creased where the edge of the door had caught him.
Straight ahead of Wes across the room, a colorful Mexican blanket hung over an open doorway. To the right was a crude wooden table with a tin coffee cup at each end and the upright remains of a candle on a small tin plate in the center. A chair sat near each end of the table too. Two more chairs hung on pegs on the wall.
To the left was a square iron cook stove, and on top was an blue enameled coffee pot. Burn marks had scorched up over the bottom, probably from when it was last sitting on a campfire.
The man wiped his upper lip with his left sleeve and scowled up at Wes. “Hey, you can’t just—”
Wes cocked the Colt and the man fell silent. His gaze shifted to Wes’ chest. “You some kind’a law or somethin’?”
Above his Colt, Wes said, “Texas Ranger. Now, I’m just on my way to—”
The man sneered and sucked blood back into his nose, then cleared his throat. “Don’t matter. You got no jurisdiction here.” He rolled his head to the right and spat a glob of blood and mucus onto the plank floor. “This is New Mexico.”
Wes frowned. “You sure?”
As some of the fire drained from the man’s eyes, he said, “Border’s about two miles east.” He paused, then gestured with his right hand. “Back that way.” He frowned. “Hey, you with that bunch up in Amarillo?”
“I guess that all depends. But why would you be concerned with that? You ain’t one’a them low-life, egg-suckin’ comancheros, are you?”
The man only looked at him for a moment. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, accompanied by a short, cut-off snort. Then he burst out laughing.
Across the room, the curtain over the door was moved aside.
Wes raised the Colt slightly.
The man in the door was almost as large as the one on the floor. He raised his hands to show he was unarmed. He too sported a few days’ growth of whiskers. A dark apron hung from his neck and was tied around his middle. It also was stained with what looked like blood. “We ain’t comancheros, mister. Can’t stand the bastards.”
Wes nodded, then gestured with his Colt toward the table. “Why don’t you come on in and join us? Have a seat, Mister...?”
“Bill. Resoney.”
“Come on in, Mr. Resoney, and let’s figure this out.”
As the man moved toward the table, Wes said, “As I was tellin’ your friend here—”
The man on the floor said, “Name’s John Garner.”
Wes nodded. “Wes Crowley. Good to meet you.” Then he shifted his gaze back to the man at the table. “As I was tellin’ Mr. Garner here, I was just on my way to Kiker, over by the headwaters of the Red River. But I’ve never been there. Is it real?”
Bill nodded. “It’s there, if that’s what you mean. Full’a skunks, but it’s there.”
“Good. Good. Anyone else live here with you gents?”
John shook his head. “Just us. Could I maybe get up?”
Wes stepped back and gestured with his Colt toward the table. “Go ahead.” He also lowered the hammer on the Colt and noticed that Bill watched as he did so.
Wes held up the Colt. “At the moment this is just a club, but if I have to cock it again someone’s gonna die.”
As Garner sat down, both men nodded.
“Now then, if only two of you live here, how come there are four horses in the corral?”
Bill said, “We’ve got a wagon in the barn, so—”
Wes grinned, but his eyes were serious. “Nope, wrong answer. There’s also four saddles out there dryin’ in the sun.”
John said, “The comancheros.”
Bill’s eyes grew wide. “No, John!”
But John only raised one hand. “Bill and I are caught in the middle, see. They leave a couple horses here, sometimes more, depending. They take fresh horses and ride into Texas. Then they swap off again when they come back through.”
“And they come from where?”
John said, “Probably over in Kiker, but some of them live in abandoned farmhouses west of—”
Bill said, “Live in ‘em or meet in ‘em.”
John nodded. “But we don’t help them except for hay and water.” He shrugged. “Ain’t the horses’ fault who owns ‘em.”
Bill said, “Besides, if we don’t, they’ll—” He paused, then sighed. “Ranger, John and I are—different.” He looked at John, then reached across the table to take his hand. “We’re in love.”
Wes only looked at the men for a moment. Then he nodded. “Well, I guess that’s all right. Ain’t my place to judge. I mean, I reckon the heart knows what it wants, doesn’t it?” He holstered his Colt. “Listen, the farmhouse where they live or meet, where is that exactly?”
Still holding Bill’s hand, John said, “We don’t know. We’ve only heard them mention farmhouses. You know, in passing. But they always ride in from due west.”
Bill said, “Mostly when they’re here, they’re outside and we’re inside.”
Wes gestured toward the blood on their clothing. “So where’d the blood come from?”
Bill flushed slightly, and his voice seeped frustration. “We want to plant crops, but they won’t let us. They say we don’t deserve to grow crops, whatever that means. So to eat we take rabbits and the occasional armadillo or deer. We were butchering a javelina hog—” and he pointed toward the curtained doorway, “through there—when you first called out. That’s why we didn’t answer the door.”
Wes nodded. “All right. Good enough.” He paused. “Well, I guess I’ll head on out toward—”
