Río Chama, page 5
The priest said something about bringing Wade stew and coffee, and left. Wade remembered the bicycle.
“You stealing bicycles now, Clint?”
The gunman shook his head, and knelt beside Wade.
“The boys and me figured on riding up to Las Vegas and joining up to fight the Spanish and free the Cubans. Sounds like a mighty fine adventure. Give me a chance to see something other than juniper and dust. I read this advertisement in the New Mexican, and it said something like . . . ‘Cuba Libre and Our Bicycles Go Well Together’ . . . and that looked so damned patriotic I had to buy one. Buy one, Brit. Not steal it. I was going to ride it, and the boys would trot their horses, all the way to Las Vegas. That was the plan. But Randy, well, he mentioned that he knew this little señorita in Española, so we lit a shuck there first. Lucky, ain’t it? Fate? Meeting up with you like it all played out?” He bent over, laughing until tears formed in his eyes. His breath smelled of wine. “I mean to tell you, Brit, that was the funniest-looking posse ever I did ride with.”
“That’s because most times,” Wade said, “the posses were chasing you.”
Clint Paden wiped his eyes, and slapped his thigh. “That’s certain sure. But this was different. Mexicans runnin’, most of ’em barefoot or in sandals, and my boys on their horses they had left at the livery across the street. And that big, tall Mexican ridin’ that palomino. And me on my brand new bicycle. All chasin’ you, and Jeremiah Cole.”
Shaking his head, Paden continued. “That’s all you read about in the newspapers of late. The war in Cuba. The gold in the Klondike.” His eyes bore into Wade’s. “And Senator Cole’s son.” His head nodded in approval. “That was a smart move you made, Brit. Askin’ for sanctuary. I never would have thought of it.”
“Father Marcelino says I should thank you.”
He shook his head. “Maybe. But I’d say that little padre kept the rest of ’em Mexicans out of here. He wasn’t sure what to do at first, but he come through. Tiny as he is, and a Mexican to boot, that little feller’s one to ride the river with.” He tapped the Marlin’s stock on the floor. “Although, me and the boys might have helped persuade those gents. Helped ’em get right with God.”
“Who are the boys?” Wade inquired.
“You wouldn’t know ’em,” Paden replied. “Randy and Stew. We been ridin’ together about six months. I left ’em in the church, to keep an eye on Jeremiah Cole.” He made a sweeping motion with his free hand. “Tell you what. This is a mighty big spread. Church, boneyard, stable, some other buildings, and this here . . . where you’re at . . . is what they call the rectory. All surrounded by a high adobe wall. Reminds me of the Alamo down in San Antonio, where Davy Crockett and all ’em Texicans got carved up by the Mexican army. But don’t fret none, Brit. We’ll fare better here than how Travis done in Texas. And it ain’t likely Cole’s got sand enough to sneak out of the church. The Mexicans would really like that. They want the boy dead. Ain’t that somethin’?”
Silence.
Paden frowned. Tapped the Marlin on the floor again. Serious at last, and getting to the point. “I figure it this way, Wade. You aim to bring Jeremiah Cole to the senator. Maybe Senator Cole hired you to do the job. Yeah, I figure the senator would pay a right smart of money to get his boy away from that noose.” He lifted the rifle, balancing it on his thigh, aiming the barrel slightly at Wade’s shoulder. “I also figure, seein’ as how shot up you are, seein’ as how your coughin’ is a damned lot worser than it was ten years ago, seein’ as how every Mexican betwixt here and Chama would like to hang Jeremiah Cole hisself, I figure you’d be obliged to take on me and the boys as partners. Yes, sir. That’s how I figure it.”
“You’ve figured it wrong.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m not working for Roman Cole. I’m bringing the kid in to hang.”
Paden stared at him incredulously. He cleared his throat. “What . . . what are they payin’ you for that job?”
He made Paden wait before answering. “Nothing.”
A longer silence.
“That’s gritty,” Paden said softly. After a while, the smile returned. “But I reckon, your shoulder like it is, and you without your armory, I guess me and the boys could just take Jeremiah Cole from you, and fetch him to his daddy. Yes, sir, I reckon we could collect a right handsome reward, and not have to split it with you.”
“Maybe,” Wade said. “But first you’d have to get past those angry men waiting just outside the church compound. If you somehow managed to do that, well, then you’d have to get past Dan Augustine and his boys.”
A brief flash of fear shown in those bright green eyes. “Augustine?” Paden said. “What’s he got to do with this?”
“Roman Cole paid him to fetch his son home.”
Wetting his lips, Clint Paden considered this.
“Sixty, seventy miles to the courthouse in T.A.,” Wade said. “Another dozen or so to the stronger jail in Chama. Even farther to the Cole Ranch. Against every man in the territory who wants to avenge a priest’s murder. Against Dan Augustine and his thirty men.” Wade had no idea how many men Augustine had hired, but would guess it to be hardly thirty, probably not even ten, although now, since Wade had changed the course of events, that number might have grown. “Against Roman Cole’s men, who are probably eager to bring Jeremiah home, too.”
“How was you gonna get that job done?”
“I have a plan,” Wade said.
The priest’s sandals clopped on the floor, closer, and Paden smiled his biggest grin yet. Leaning over, he slapped Wade’s wounded shoulder. Wade gasped, bit back a curse. “Just like old times, Brit,” Paden was saying. “Looks like you need me as much as I need you. Because you can’t get Jeremiah Cole to Chama without me and the boys.”
Using the Marlin, Paden pushed himself to his feet. “I ain’t buyin’ your story that you’re doing this for nothin’. One way or the other, there’s money involved, and I aim to collect.” Passing the priest as he walked through the doorway, Paden said with a laugh: “Padre, take good care of mi amigo. We’s pards.”
* * * * *
“You are a learned man,” Father Marcelino told him, handing him the Gladstone. “I myself prefer Balzac and Hugo over Dumas and Dickens, but . . .” Eyes beaming, the priest shrugged.
They sat at an uneven table in the rectory, washing down their supper of cabrito and corn tortillas with black coffee. Wade set the tin cup on the table to take the grip. It felt too heavy. He placed it on the floor, unfastened the latches, found the .44 and gun belt inside. When he looked up, the priest flashed a curt smile.
“Señor Paden removed it when he brought you inside the church,” the little man said. “The one called Randy had been wearing it, but I took it from him this morning before you awoke. They did not argue with me.” He couldn’t match Clint Paden’s smile, but he tried. “Well, un poco.”
Wade checked the pistol, which had been reloaded, but not cleaned. He stood to buckle on the rig, then shut the Gladstone without checking for anything else. His left shoulder felt sore, stiff, but the bleeding had stopped—Paden had cauterized the wound with a hot knife after digging out the lead slug the night Wade had arrived at the church, pleading for asylum before passing out. He knew what the priest was doing now. Politely asking us to take our leave. Couldn’t blame the man. Besides, he had stayed too long already. Two full days, with evening coming shortly. By now half of New Mexico Territory knew that Jeremiah Cole was holed up at an old Catholic mission in Santa Cruz. Including Dan Augustine.
“I can never repay you for your hospitality,” Wade said.
“Sí,” the priest said. “You can.” He sat at the table, staring out the window. “You can do this by leaving this place.” His head shook with a heavy sadness. “My people are poor, but they are good men all. They are devout. They are simple.” Shaking fingers found the cross hanging around his neck. “They are human. They want blood. They must not have it!” A tear rolled down the priest’s cheek. “For their own souls, they must not have it. You, I beseech you, you must see that they do not spill the blood of Señor Cole.”
A similar sermon to what Wade had heard in Chama, even in Santa Fe.
“You know what Cole did,” Wade said. It wasn’t a question.
“Sí,” the priest answered anyway. “As does everyone.”
“You can’t blame them for wanting to kill him.”
It was snowing. A wet, driving snow, fueled by winter’s last breath. From the window, Wade couldn’t even see the adobe walls of the church compound.
“I confess to you, my friend,” Father Marcelino said, “I wished for the death of Señor Cole myself, for what he did. It was so horrible, his crime. I also tell you this. Were it not for the guns of Señor Paden, your compadre, and his friends, I might have lost to the temptation of Satan. Once I opened the doors to the santuario, I might have . . . no . . . I would have, with pleasure, upon recognizing this mad killer, I would have denied you refuge, would have let those men take Jeremiah Cole with them.” His voice rose as he continued, unaware that he was gripping the cross so tightly his knuckles whitened, his fist trembled. “Gladly would I have tightened a rope around his neck. Gladly would I have kicked a chair from underneath his feet. Gladly would I have denied him a burial in the consecrated land beyond these walls!” His head bowed. Letting go of the cross, he studied the imprint left in palm and fingers.
Wade had been holding his breath. He exhaled only when the priest looked up, trying to smile again.
“I am glad Our Father stayed with me on that night.”
Wade wanted to speak, yet didn’t know what to say.
“Word has reached Roman Cole,” Father Marcelino said wearily. He looked through the window. “If he comes here, he or his men, Santa Cruz will flow with blood. This must not happen.” With a heavy sigh, the small man turned back to Wade. “It takes a long time for the people in northern New Mexico to accept outsiders,” he said softly. “No matter their blood, no matter the color of their skin, yet they are especially distrustful of . . .”—he forced a grin—“. . . you gringos.” He tapped a finger against the frosted windowpane. “I come from the village of Santiago Papasquiaro in the Sierra Madre many, many kilometers from here in Mexico. During the first few years I was here, I longed to return to that village, but now I could not dream of leaving Santa Cruz, of leaving this church. My people have grown to trust me, love me, and I love and trust them. Nor could I leave New Mexico. There is a beauty to this place. You will not find it elsewhere.” He tapped the glass again. “The snow is so whiter. The sky so bluer. The light as if it shines directly from heaven. The water flows clearer.” Turning slowly, he shook his head. “Alas, the blood is redder. Forgive me, mi amigo, but you must leave. You and your friends. You must take your prisoner.” He was staring out the window again. “And go.”
Wade stood, put on his hat, picked up the Gladstone. He was already wearing his Mackinaw for the ancient adobe building did not hold heat very well.
“The storm will give you cover,” the priest said without looking at him. “That, and the darkness. You will find five horses in the stable in the west corner, beyond the santuario. They are saddled. Do not ask from where these horses came. Just take them, and go.”
Wade was at the door when the priest finished talking. Before he left the rectory, Wade said, not looking back: “Vaya con Dios.”
Before the door slammed shut behind him, Father Marcelino responded, but the bitter wind howled down the priest’s blessing.
Chapter Seven
Affidavit of Juan Gregorio Callas,
Dated September 7, 1898
United States of America,
Territory of New Mexico
1st Judicial District Court
of the United States
In the United States District Court for the County of Santa Fe in the 1st Judicial District of the Territory of New Mexico, August Term, A.D. 1898:
I, Juan Gregorio Callas, duly elected sheriff of the County of Santa Fe, Territory of New Mexico, and a citizen of aforementioned county and territory, and also commissioned as a deputy United States marshal for said territory, do hereby swear and affirm that on or near 5 May 1898, I was in my office, having just returned from dinner, when I received word that the fugitives Britton Wade and Jeremiah Cole (testimony regarding them attached hereto) had taken refuge in the Holy Cross Church in the village of Santa Cruz, County of Río Arriba. Using the authority vested in me as deputy marshal, I, and I alone, purchased a ticket on the Denver & Río Grande Railroad, and traveled by that railroad to the town of Española, Río Arriba County, where I there procured transportation by wagon to the town of Santa Cruz. Upon my return to Santa Fe, I filed a request for payment from the 1st Judicial District Court of the United States to reimburse my expenses (to wit, round-trip train ticket of $3.35, round-trip wagon trip of 75 cents, per diem expenses of $6, $10.15 total). A check for that amount from the court was received by me on or near 17 June 1898.
When I arrived in the village of Santa Cruz, on the evening of 5 May 1898, I found the people in a state of great anxiety. Also, a late snowstorm had struck, reducing visibility to only a few meters. With no local constabulary in the vicinity, I took charge of the situation, discharging some of the men who had laid siege to the church, deputizing four men whose honor and courage I knew, from past experience, to be above reproach. I interviewed several citizens and learned that what had been reported to me in Santa Fe was true, that Britton Wade and Jeremiah Cole, or at least two men matching those descriptions, had been seen and recognized at a livery stable in Española and pursued to Santa Cruz.
Snow covered a horse that had been shot to death in the village plaza. It was later determined and affirmed that the dead animal was the same paint horse purchased by Britton Wade at Yakov Chavez’s Livery Stable in Santa Fe. The horse, witnesses attested, had been shot and killed during the pursuit of Wade and Cole. The fugitives had been forced to leave a mule, also purchased from Yakov Chavez, in Española, thus the paint horse had been carrying both men, Wade and Cole, when it had been killed.
Cloaked by the darkness of the evening, Wade and Cole managed to run to the Holy Cross Church, where they asked the priest for asylum, which was granted. Three white men, names unknown, who had joined the pursuit of the fugitives in Española, then, brandishing weapons at the posse from Española, forced the men, using the threat of violence, back outside the gate surrounding the church property. Said wall is constructed of adobe, about two feet thick, circling the churchyard at a height that ranges from four to twelve feet.
Descriptions of the men as given to me are as follows:
1. White male, approximately twenty-five years old, round shoulders, approximately 140 pounds, about 5 feet, 5 inches tall, never looks you in the face while talking, light hair, brown eyes. Armed with a shotgun and large-caliber revolver, the latter reportedly either a Remington or a Colt. Was seen riding a black horse, but neither horse nor saddle was ever found. Likely stolen by one of the pursuers from Española that I discharged upon my arrival in Santa Cruz.
2. White male, approximately thirty years old, 6 feet tall, 170 pounds, armed with a repeating rifle and revolving pistol. No distinguishing marks. Was riding a bicycle, which was found leaning against the church wall. Subsequent investigations upon my return to Santa Fe revealed that the bicycle, a Monarch model, was purchased at City Cyclists, a shop on Sandoval Street, by a man matching the suspect’s description. Shop owner, however, could not provide the name of the purchaser, who paid cash and is not believed to be a resident of the city.
3. White male, approximately twenty-five years old, 5 feet, 6 inches tall, about 150 pounds, long straight black hair, black eyes, light whiskers. Armed with a Colt Lightning pump rifle of small caliber and Colt revolving pistol. Was riding a sorrel gelding, branded on the left hip 3-Bar-Lazy-7. Subsequent investigations upon my return to Santa Fe revealed that the brand was registered to Milton Barstow, rancher, Lincoln County. Communicating by telegraph, the sheriff of Lincoln County informed me that the horse in question had been reported stolen in February. Sorrel horse, which was left behind in Santa Cruz by the suspect, was returned to its rightful owner in the latter part of May. Saddle and tack, if either belonged, legally, to the alleged thief, revealed nothing about the owner.
During a brief lull in the winter storm, I avowed to approach the church and parley with the priest with the intention of persuading the priest to turn over the fugitives under the promise that I would return them, unharmed, to Santa Fe. Leaving my Colt pistol and Winchester carbine with one of the men I had deputized, and, waving a white apron given to me by one of the ladies of Santa Cruz, I approached the church, and, to my surprise, found the front door unbolted.
Inside the church, I discovered, praying at the alter, a small priest, approximately 5 feet, 2 inches tall, perhaps thirty years old, who warmly greeted me and introduced himself as Father Marcelino Eusebio de Quesada y Azcárranga. I informed him that I was sheriff of Santa Fe County and a deputy United States marshal, and asked him to release into my custody the two men to whom he had granted sanctuary. I also said I would not arrest the three men who had assisted the fugitives, and would equally ensure their safety.
“This,” he said to me, “I cannot grant you.”
Hearing this, which I had expected, I told him that Jeremiah Cole had been sentenced to death for the most heinous murder on territorial record, and that Britton Wade had been charged with an assortment of crimes. I told him that I did not wish to see anymore bloodshed. I also told him that if Senator Roman Cole, Jeremiah’s father, or any of his men arrived in Santa Cruz, there was little I, alone, would be able to do to prevent escalating violence.
