The Road to Santa Fe, page 1
Table of Contents
The Road to Santa Fe (Wes Crowley Gap, #7)
Dedication
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
The Road to Santa Fe
Harvey Stanbrough
Novel 7 in the Wes Crowley Gap Series
and Novel 2 in the Santa Fe Subseries
StoneThread Publishing
http://stonethreadpublishing.com
Dedication
So I won’t forget
this novel is dedicated to my friend and first reader, Russ Jones of southwest Texas.
Russ reads everything I write, but he unabashedly enjoys the stories of the Wes Crowley series most of all.
Fortunately, Russ is kind enough to report back to me with any little flaws that pop out at him.
His invaluable input makes these books much less error-ridden than they might otherwise have been.
Gracias, mi amigo. Eres un hombre con quien cabalgar el río.
To give the reader more of a sample, the rest of the front matter appears at the end.
The Road to Santa Fe
Harvey Stanbrough
Chapter 1
That early summer morning, two men rode west out of Amarillo. A tall, lean gentleman named Lew Wallace, the recently appointed governor of the New Mexico Territory, rode on the left. He was princely, every inch the gentleman, with intense brown eyes and a square jaw. He was well-groomed, with a thick, full, dark-brown moustache and a squared-off beard that descended to a couple of inches below his chin. He wore a dark blue suit coat over a matching vest and a white shirt and collar.
He also wore a matching bowler hat and tall, polished black riding boots, and he sat precisely erect astride a black stallion. In its bearing, the horse reminded him of Old John, the blooded roan he’d owned during the war years. In the saddle boot off the stallion’s right shoulder was a Winchester repeating carbine. A double-barreled 10-gauge Greener shotgun rode securely in the saddle boot off the stallion’s left shoulder.
On either hip beneath the governor’s suit coat, a thin leather loop extended from the top of a black leather holster over the hammer of a Navy Colt revolver. Across the back of his gun belt, in lieu of the .45 caliber bullet loops usually found there, were four leather cups. Each was as tall as the belt and had been stitched into place. Each one held a pre-loaded cylinder that would fit either revolver.
The other man, a Texas Ranger named Wes Crowley, was on loan to the governor from Company D. He wore scuffed brown boots and trousers, a white shirt with thin, vertical black stripes, a brown suit coat and a weathered, pinch-front, brown western hat. Off the right shoulder of his horse, a sorrel gelding named Charley, he too carried a Winchester carbine in a saddle boot. At his waist he carried twin Navy Colts and a belt full of spare ammunition. He slouched slightly in the saddle, as if there was no more natural or comfortable place in all the world.
The sun was low in the sky behind them, there was no wind to speak of, and the day was still cool. In the distance, a low rim of promising looking rain clouds hovered over the western horizon, but if that became something to worry about the wind would pick up and warn them.
They were starting a trek to Santa Fe in the New Mexico Territory.
For almost an hour, the two men didn’t speak, each seemingly comfortable with his own thoughts. The horses moved at a good canter for well over a half-hour, the sound of their hooves almost mesmerizing. They raised only a low dust cloud that settled back to the earth soon after they passed. A short time later, as they approached the path that led off to the north and the Rangers’ static and mounted firing ranges, the governor raised one hand and slowed his horse to a walk.
The horse snorted and tossed his head as Wes slowed Charley too and brought him alongside. He grinned and looked to his left. “We’re makin’ pretty good time. I don’t think we’ve been ridin’ for an hour, but there comes the range already.”
The governor looked at him and nodded. “Not bad, but we have a very long way to go.”
“Oh, for sure.”
The horses’ hooves provided a calming background. The governor hesitated. “I guess I didn’t ask whether you’d ever been to Santa Fe.”
Wes shook his head. “No sir, I haven’t.”
“Ah. Well, it’s roughly 250 miles west-northwest.” He pointed, then dropped his arm and looked at Wes again. “I rode pretty steadily and made it in seven days.”
Wes whistled quietly. “That’d be what, around 35 miles a day? Ol’ Charley’d be happy to run that hard if he had to, but unless there’s a good reason I’d rather not push him.” He bent forward and patted Charley’s neck. “He always has all I need when I need it. I wouldn’t want to waste any when I don’t.”
The governor nodded. “Understood, and I agree. On my way to Amarillo I was on my own. I wanted to give the appearance of being on a mission.” He chuckled. “Like I’d whip anything that got in my way. Appearances are sometimes half the battle.” He paused.
“But of course, going back there are two of us. I was going to say if we make it back in ten days, that would be fine by me. And even a day or two longer won’t hurt anything.” He gestured broadly. “I much prefer this to the confines of the office anyway.”
Wes looked at him. “We’re in agreement, then. I was thinkin’ ten days’d be about right.” He hesitated. “So you don’t like bein’ the governor?”
“Oh, well, it’s an honor, certainly. Don’t get me wrong. And I guess President Hayes thought I was the right man for the job. Maybe partly because he knew my father, David.” He paused as if waiting for a reaction.
Wes only looked at him for a moment.
“David—my father—was the governor of Indiana.”
Wes tossed his head and then nodded as if that explained everything. “Ah.”
“I was pleased with the appointment, of course, and I was happy to accept, but—” He paused. “I spend all day every day making up rules that other people have to live by.” He paused again. “Of course, I did that in the army too, but this is different.”
Wes frowned, not because he didn’t understand, but because he was truly interested. “How’s it different?”
“It’s difficult to explain, but I think it boils down to distance.” He glanced at Wes.
Wes only nodded.
“In the army, the men and I were in the same place, often right next to each other. We experienced the same things, the same events and experiences, only from a slightly different perspective. I was their leader, I suppose. But I was down in the middle of it with them. I shared their life, their food, their stories. Their fears. I was responsible for them. Even for their lives.
“But over in the Territory, I’m not a leader at all. I’m a manager. No, not even a manager. I’m just an administrator. I get to lay down the rules everyone else has to live by, but I don’t have to live by them myself.” He paused. “Plus I don’t see them every day. I don’t walk among them. I’m not down in the trenches with them, so I don’t experience what they experience. So I don’t see the effect my rules have on their lives.”
Wes nodded. “Ah, I think I get it. Cap doesn’t get to ride out with us very often, but when he does he leaves most of the decisions up to whichever corporal’s around or to Ranger Stilson. Or me, I guess. Our second trip into the Territory, from the git-go he said it was my patrol. Probably partly because I’d been there before and kind’a knew what to expect.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. And I’m glad to hear that, by the way. Jim—I mean, Captain Wilson—is a good man. He has good sense and almost no ego. That’s a pretty good combination.”
Wes grinned. “I know he listens really well. And he’ll stand a turn at watch just like everybody else.”
Wallace looked to his right. Beyond Wes lay the path that led across the desert toward the twin ridges, one to the east and one to the west, that bordered the mounted range. The path stood out. It was darker than the surrounding desert because of all the fresh tracks from the Rangers’ horses having trod it yesterday.
The south end of the east ridge was maybe 500 yards away, but at the south end of the west ridge, the ridge itself gave way to smaller and smaller outcroppings. The nearest was only 50 or so yards away from the road.
But Wallace didn’t notice any of that. He saw the starkly due-north, plainly marked trail as a starting line. He grinned at Wes. “Ready to pick up the pace again?”
“Sure. I—”
The governor leaned forward, touched General Lee’s flanks with his heels, and the horse plunged into a full gallop.
Wes laughed and patted Charley on the neck. “Whaddya say, Charley? Let’s get ‘em!”
The big sorrel tossed his head and snorted, and they were off.
Neither the governor nor Wes noticed the man lying motionless b ehind the outcropping nearest the road.
When they were a good quarter-mile away, their dust cloud minuscule, the slight figure of a man rose and dusted himself off. He watched Wes for another moment, smirking, then stepped behind the larger part of the outcropping. There he mounted his horse, reined it around to the north, and started off at an easy canter.
Chapter 2
Only a few months before Jeremy Pinchot was shot from the saddle during an assault against a comanchero stronghold in Matamoros, Mexico, he had killed a Caddo Indian named Lighthorse Man in western Louisiana. According to Pinchot, it was self-defense. He offered that explanation even though killing an Indian—any Indian—didn’t require an explanation at all. But to Lighthorse Man’s family, there was no reason for the killing, and no excuse. It was murder, and it must be avenged.
Lighthorse Man hated the whites, especially the mezcla, as he referred to those so-called Acadian whites in Louisiana who bore the diluted genes of both Canadian French and the native Indian tribes in the far north country. None were mixed with Caddo blood, he argued. No Caddo woman would dishonor herself and her tribe by opening herself to a Frenchman, and no Caddo brave would lower himself to penetrate a French whore.
A few months after the killing of Lighthorse Man, his only son, Mikey Lighthorse, followed William Pinchot, brother of Jeremy, all the way from Louisiana to Amarillo in northern Texas for the purpose of exacting familial revenge. Mikey had worn white man’s clothing to blend in: grey trousers, a collarless shirt and even a hat and a pair of boots. He seldom got more than a passing glance from the citizens, and when he did they were probably concerned with his age rather than his appearance.
Thus far he hadn’t caught the young Ranger alone, but he discerned his habits and patterns in his behavior. He was getting close, and besides, he had inherited all the patience he needed from his ancestors.
Then one day a well-groomed gentleman came to town and everything changed. Pinchot and all the other Rangers changed their routine. Mikey’s desire for revenge remained strong, but guided by his intuition and his curiosity, his focus shifted to the gentleman and why the Rangers’ entire world suddenly revolved around his visit.
Passing for a young white cowboy with a mild tan, Mikey hung out in the dining room of the Amarillo Inn as often as he could at breakfast and supper times and learned what he could of the visiting gentleman. The man turned out to be the new governor of the New Mexico Territory, the vast land immediately to the west.
He also learned why the governor was in Amarillo and why his visit has caused such a stir. He was a longtime friend of the Ranger Chief, Captain Wilson, and he was visiting specifically to recruit Ranger Wes Crowley and convince him to come to New Mexico to help him ready the territory for statehood. That, as Mikey learned from eavesdropping on conversations, would include putting a stop to comanchero activities in the Territory.
Everyone who knew his way around north or west Texas knew the names of four people: comanchero chief Paco Messina, Comanche war chief Four Crows, Captain James Wilson, and Ranger Wes Crowley. Which two you wanted to appease and which two you wanted to avoid depended on where you stood in relationship to the law.
As he became more used to the people in Amarillo and as they grew more used to him, the realization slowly dawned on Mikey that he had no reason to return to northern Louisiana after he exacted his revenge. He also never considered the possibility of moving farther west or north or south. Texas was fine with him. And he was only a little ambitious.
The three main industries were working on a ranch or farm, or joining one of the burgeoning train companies. He definitely didn’t want to work as a cowhand. He knew little to nothing about farming and wasn’t interested. And the trains were more than a little frightening. If you were the slightest bit inattentive around them, you could quickly lose an appendage—as his friend, ironically called Gregory Hand had done—or even a limb.
He liked his freedom and making his own choices, and he liked the way the mere mention of Messina’s name invoked fear in people. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped he might join Messina’s band.
He began to form a plan.
Messina would appreciate knowing anything new about the Texas Rangers. Not so much the minor players like Mikey’s quarry Pinchot, but especially about Wes Crowley and the captain.
Those two, in particular, had been a thorn in his side. Along with Corporal Connolly, they had also been a major concern for Four Crows. What Mikey had learned in Amarillo would be of value to Messina and would further endear Messina to Four Crows. Delivering the information would practically guarantee him a place in Messina’s group.
He knew Ranger Crowley was going to go to New Mexico with Governor Wallace and even approximately when they were leaving. But that wasn’t enough. Even on the basis of giving Messina advance information, he couldn’t ride into the comanchero’s camp with hearsay or possibilities or even probabilities. He had to be sure. He had to actually see the two men headed west and well on their way. He knew they would be leaving soon, so he stayed close, paid particular attention.
Of course, he hadn’t yet exacted his revenge on Pinchot either, but this was far more important. Besides, there was no real time limit on that. Only a deadline he himself had set, but that was when he had planned to return to Louisiana after the thing was done. That was ancient history. Circumstances change deadlines. He could even kill Pinchot, though maybe not as slowly, after he was a comanchero alongside Messina.
He waited, biding his time. Once he heard the governor and the Ranger themselves agree to leave after breakfast on this fateful morning, he had returned to where he had been living, a small compartment hollowed out of the stacked hay in the back of the livery stable. There he slept, then awakened early and said life-extending prayers.
Had he been on his way to exact his revenge, he would have donned his traditional Caddo garments and adorned his face. First, two narrow blue stripes, one descending from each eye, to indicate the tears he had shed for his father. A small red dot on each cheek and one centered above the nose foretold those who would die in revenge for his father’s death—Pinchot, the captain, and Ranger Crowley—and finally the lightning bolt in black and the feather in white across his forehead to indicate his vengeance on the offenders and his own ascension from Caddo to comanchero.
But for today there would be no attack. He put his Caddo clothing in the bottom of one of his saddlebags then put his buckskin vest in on top of it. Today, near the turnoff to the Rangers’ own mounted range, he would practice his ability to stalk and his ability to disappear in plain sight as he had been doing ever since he’d come to Amarillo. For that he donned clean dark trousers, a white shirt dyed with tea to create a color that would blend with the sand, his boots and hat. That and his beat-up old Remington revolver in a black holster and gun belt.
Finally, in the predawn darkness he mounted his mare. He rode north away from town first, then turned back west and rode hard. He reached his hiding place as the eastern horizon was growing lighter.
After he staged his mare behind the broadest part of the rock outcropping that was nearest the road, he quickly snuggled into the wind-excavated natural shallow on the west side of the quartz and shale outcropping. For an instant he froze, his every nerve on end. Was that the faint, raspy buzzing of a rattlesnake? Had one taken up residence in the hollow beneath the boulder? In his haste to get into position, he hadn’t checked.
Then the buzzing paused, then started again. He followed the sound with his gaze and spotted the creosote branches that were responsible, the wind moving them lightly against the rough face of the stone. And he was able to breathe again.
This was the first place that offered any real cover west of Amarillo, and it was also the best place to lie in wait east of Tucumcari. He had decided, in order to prove his determination and worthiness he would lie here until darkness if necessary. But he was certain the two men would be along hours before that.
As it turned out, the governor and the Ranger were also in the mood to knock time off their journey. They neared and passed the turnoff and then the outcropping only a little more than an hour after Mikey had settled in. And when they passed, when he saw with his own two eyes that they were definitely headed for New Mexico, he stood up and dusted himself off. Despite himself, he glanced back toward the base of the boulder. The shallow depression did extend beneath the boulder, but none of the snake clan were in residence.
