American Blood (20 page)

"What was the plan?" asked Delgado.

"They were fanning the flames of discontent among the peons and the Pueblos. In the dead of night they were going to take me as a hostage and storm the arsenal at Santa Fe. Every American soldier was to be killed on sight. No quarter would be given. It was a devilish plot. But the danger has passed. My only regret is that we failed to capture those two, Archuleta and Ortiz. Colonel Doniphan has several patrols out searching for them, but I fear the fugitives will make good their escape into Chihuahua.

"Sadly," continued Bent, "it has come to light that a number of Santa Fe's leading citizens were actively involved in the planned uprising. Manuel Chaves, Miguel Pino, and his brother Nicholas, to name a few. Furthermore, we suspect Father Antonio Martinez of playing a key role in inciting the people to revolt. We don't yet have enough evidence against the padre to arrest him."

"What do you intend to do with these men?" asked Angus.

"I will show them more mercy than they intended to show us," replied Bent. "If they agree to take an oath of allegiance to the United States, I will set them free."

"Set them free?" roared Angus. "You canna do that, Charley. They'll have another chance to slit our throats while we sleep."

"It's absolutely the right thing to do, Father," said Delgado.

"I think so, too," said Bent solemnly. "I want to prove to the people that they will be fairly treated as long as I occupy the Palace of the
Governors. My predecessor no doubt would have already executed the conspirators."

"It will be seen as a sign of weakness on your part," insisted Angus.

"You've become quite bloodthirsty, Angus."

"Aye, that I have—ever since my son was nearly murdered by one of these rascals."

"Thank heavens you were forewarned, Charles," said Juanita.

"Yes, but it's all over now. To celebrate, I would like to invite all of you to dinner tomorrow evening."

"We'll be there," promised Angus.

"We'd be delighted to accept," said Juanita.

"That's settled, then. If you will excuse me, I have a few more calls to make this morning. Until tomorrow."

That evening, at the dinner table, Delgado announced his intention to return immediately to St. Louis. "If I leave in the next few days," he said, "I should reach my destination before the worst of winter sets in."

"I think you should definitely wait until spring," said Angus. "I'll be sending a caravan up the trail in April. It would be safer for you—"

"I won't be traveling alone, Father," said Delgado. "Hugh Falconer is eager to see his family again. He will jump at the chance to go with me."

"Still," said Angus grimly, "I don't see why—"

"Dear," said Juanita with a smile, "our son has made up his mind. He is in love, and you will not persuade him to stay. I remember how determined you were thirty years ago, even though my family counseled patience."

"Because they hoped you would come to your senses and turn me away," said Angus, chuckling.
"Oh, very well then. But what about Jacob? And this fellow you told us about—Horan?"

"Sarah has written that her father is beginning to come around," replied Delgado happily. "As for Brent Horan, she says he is seldom seen outside of Blackwood these days. His father died a few months ago. They still aren't sure what killed him. Ever since then Horan has kept to himself. It sounds to me as though Horan wants nothing more to do with Sarah. And why should he? She's become what he despises most—an abolitionist."

Angus rose and came around the table. Delgado also got to his feet, not knowing exactly what to expect. His father extended a hand, and when Delgado took it, Angus embraced his son.

"My prayers and good wishes go with you, boy."

"I would not leave," said Delgado, his voice thick with emotion, "except that matters here seem finally resolved."

That very night, when the streets of Taos ran red with blood, he found out how wrong he was.

6

In the early morning hours angry voices in the plaza and an insistent hammering at his front door roused Charles Bent from deep slumber. As he got up to don a heavy cloak over his nightshirt—the night was cold and the fire in the hearth had burned down to embers glowing in a gray mound of ash—his wife, Maria, awoke startled and fearful from bad dreams and asked him what the matter was.

"I don't know, my dear," he replied. "I have
no idea who could be at our door at this ungodly hour."

"Don't go, Charles. Don't open the door."

Bent smiled and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Now, now, my dear. There is no cause for alarm."

"I fear for your safety, my husband," she confessed, suffering a strong premonition of disaster.

"Who would wish to harm me? I refuse to believe that these people, whom we know so well, and who know me as a man who has always had their best interests at heart, would threaten me or my family over, of all things, a political issue. My own children have Mexican blood in their veins! And in the early days, before Taos had a doctor in residence, was it not I who nursed so many men, women, and children back to health? No, my dearest Maria, we have nothing to fear from these people."

A moment later, he opened the door to confront a mob of about twenty individuals. Some of them were Mexicans, while the majority were Indians from the Taos Pueblo.

"Two of our people are in jail," said one of the Pueblo Indians. "We want you to release them."

Bent smiled grimly. He felt sure they were just testing him. Would his responsibilities as governor prevent him from doing a favor for his neighbors?

"I cannot interfere with the process of law," he replied, affable. "I could not, even were I so inclined. But I assure you that if it is within my power to show clemency to these individuals of whom you speak, I will do so. What are their names and what are the charges against them?"

A man in the rear of the crowd, whose features
were concealed from Bent by the hood of his cloak, spoke up.

"They are charged with being patriots to their country. For trying to defend their homeland against the American plunderers. From people just like you, Bent."

Bent caught a glimpse of the knife's blade just before it was plunged into his belly. He gasped as the cold steel ripped through him. The man who had attacked him, a swarthy Pueblo, stepped back. Bent clutched at the wound, felt his own hot blood sticky on his hands, and gaped in disbelief at the man.

"In the name of God, what have you done?"

The man in the hooded cloak brandished a pistol and fired. Bent was blinded by the muzzle flash. The bullet struck him in the chin. He reeled backward and fell, then tried to crawl away, tried to shout a warning to his wife and children and the old Indian woman who had been Maria's devoted servant for more than thirty years. As he crawled, the men surrounded him. Grim and silent men, they stood and watched him in his agony. One of them slashed at him with a cane knife, inflicting wounds upon the arms that Bent threw up in a feeble attempt to protect himself. His mouth was full of blood, and he could make only incoherent sounds.

Somehow he reached the courtyard around which his house was built, in the Mexican style. Here the man in the cloak said, "Finish it."

By a supreme effort of will, Charles Bent grabbed the man's cloak and pulled himself upright. He threw the hood back so that he could identify the man who had ordered his execution.

Diego Archuleta's stern, hawkish face was
creased by a faint, chilling smile. "Yes, Governor. It is I, Colonel Archuleta. Did you think I would forsake my country without putting up a fight?"

He shoved Bent away, and the American fell to the cold stones of the courtyard. Archuleta nodded to one of the Pueblo Indians. A cane knife rose and fell. The stroke completely severed Bent's head from his body.

In the shadowed corner of the courtyard, Maria Jaramillo Bent watched her husband die and screamed. Several of Archuleta's assassins started toward her with murder in their hearts, but the colonel stopped them with a sharp command.

"We do not war on women and children," he said. "Come, we have much more work to do this night."

7

It was a gunshot that woke Delgado from a sound sleep, but at first he did not realize it, and lay in his bed, listening, a vague disquiet dwelling within him. He gave some thought to getting out of bed and taking a look around, but the night had turned bitterly cold, and he was pleasantly warm beneath the covers. The coldness of the night was a warning; soon the first snows would fall. He could not delay his departure for St. Louis.

Then he heard the men in the street—voices raised in anger, a horse galloping past the front of the house, another gunshot, this one quite near, and he sat bolt upright as Jeremy entered the room without wasting time with the formality of knocking. Jeremy had his shirt and trousers on, but was barefoot and coatless. He had a pistol in
one hand, a saber, still sheathed, in the other, and his shot pouch slung over a shoulder.

"Get dressed, Del," he said, with a fierce calm. "I'll wake your parents."

He was gone before Delgado could form any questions.

Dressing swiftly, Delgado stepped out into the hall, derringer in hand. His mother and father were emerging from their room to join Jeremy, and at that instant all heard a heavy hammering on the front door. Delgado led the way to the front of the house. As they reached the front hall, the door burst open with a splintering of wood, cracking back on its hinges.

The first man through was a Pueblo Indian. Delgado saw the cane knife in the man's grasp and without hesitation raised the derringer and discharged one barrel. The Pueblo was coming at him, and there were others pouring in behind him, but Delgado's attention was fixed on the first man through, and he saw the Indian's features, twisted in a rictus of hate, seem to melt in a black mist as the bullet stuck him in the forehead. His legs ran out from under him, and he hit the floor hard and went into convulsions. The cane knife skittered across the tiles and came to rest at Delgado's feet.

"Out through the courtyard!" yelled Jeremy.

The other end of the hall was filled with men now; they jostled one another as they surged forward. Delgado saw a muzzle flash, then heard the deafening report of a pistol, and his body tensed involuntarily, but he wasn't hit, and he triggered the second barrel of the derringer, firing into the press of men. At the same instant Jeremy's pistol discharged behind him and to his right, so close
to his face that Delgado felt the pinprick burn of fleck's of powder on his cheek. Two more of the intruders fell, one sprawling on his face, the other sinking to his knees in agony, and the forward surge of the men faltered. Delgado bent to retrieve the cane knife; he couldn't be certain in the semi-darkness, but the broad blade seemed to have black stains on it—blood.

Then his father lunged forward. "You bloody bastards!" yelled Angus, infuriated. "Get out of my house!"

"Father!" cried Delgado. "Get back!"

A pistol spoke, and Angus McKinn, with a shuddering groan, fell. Delgado dropped to his knees beside him and stared in disbelief at the bullethole in his father's forehead. His lifeless eyes looked right through Delgado.

Jeremy yanked him to his feet. "Come on, Del! For God's sake, come on!"

Delgado had given no thought to retreat. In cold fury he had resolved to stand his ground, to avenge the cold-blooded murder of his father. But of course Jeremy was right. To stand meant to die. And he had to make sure his mother got safely away. They had purchased a few precious seconds by their stern resistance in the hallway. Now was the time to withdraw. He could grieve later.

They turned and ran, following Juanita out into the courtyard, and Delgado realized that in the confusion Juanita had not seen her husband fall. When their prey bolted, the band of assassins gave chase, their bloodthirsty shouts not unlike the baying of hounds.

Reaching the courtyard, Delgado saw that his mother was at the back gate. Juanita was struggling at the stubborn iron latch on the heavy timbered
door. Delgado turned, once more to confront the killers. The nearest man raised his cane knife, running full tilt at Delgado, a snarling shout on his lips. Delgado parried the man's downward stroke with almost contemptuous ease, forcing the man off balance. He had mastered the art of fencing at Oxford—had in fact relished the lessons as a break from the seemingly endless hours spent at his studies. The cane knife was a clumsy weapon compared to a rapier, but some of the technique he had learned still applied. With a deft twist and slash—and a twinge of pain from his just-healed shoulder—he opened the man from hip to armpit. The man screamed in agony and fell.

Jeremy had unsheathed his saber and closed with another of the assassins. This one was armed with a club and a dagger, and Jeremy made short work of him. The saber cleaved the man's shoulder, cracking the collarbone, driving him down to his knees and wrenching a guttural cry of pain from his lips. Then a pistol was fired, and Jeremy was spun around, falling to one knee. Delgado helped him up and they ran for the gate which Juanita had forced open. Only now did she realize that her husband was not behind her. She stood with her back to the gate, horror dawning in her eyes, and Delgado pushed her on ahead of him before she could ask the question she did not want to ask and he did not want to answer.

Beyond the gate was a narrow passageway between high adobe walls. Delgado was relieved to see that his mother remained calm; she knew now that Angus was dead, but she had been bred to remain dignified no matter what the situation. Jeremy sagged against Delgado, and Delgado kept him on his feet. "Are you badly hurt?"

"Just a flesh wound," said Jeremy through clenched teeth. "Where now?"

"To the church. It is our only refuge. Hurry!"

They had gone only a few yards when the gate swung open and several of the assassins ventured into the alley. Delgado and Jeremy turned, wielding cane knife and saber, ready to stand and fight right here in order to let Juanita escape. At that moment Delgado felt admiration and gratitude beyond measure; here stood Jeremy Bledsoe, no less willing than he to fight, and die if necessary, so that his mother might survive.