American Blood (21 page)

But the assassins did not press the attack. They looked warily at Delgado and Jeremy and, with a muttered exchange, returned to the courtyard. The last one expressed himself in a parting shot by spitting contemptuously at the ground. Then he, too, was gone.

Delgado and Jeremy looked at each other in disbelief.

"I suppose," said Jeremy, "we charged too high a price for our lives."

"Let's go."

Leaving his mother in the sanctuary of the church, Delgado and Jeremy crossed the plaza at a run to the Bent house, drawn there by a commotion. Seeing what had happened to the governor, Delgado's blood ran cold.

"I must warn Falconer," he said. "I will ride to Turley's Mill tonight."

"I'll go with you," said Jeremy.

Delgado shook his head. His friend had suffered more than a mere flesh wound. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood. It dropped from his fingers. He was pale and trembling. But Delgado instinctively knew better than to try to convince
Jeremy that he was in no condition to ride, that he would not even make it halfway to Turley's Mill.

"Stay with my mother, Jeremy. I can trust only you to see to her safety."

"She is safe enough in the church, surely. Not even those bastards would commit murder on holy ground."

Delgado glanced briefly at the decapitated body of Charles Bent. The governor's wife was on her knees on the blood-slick stones, rocking slightly, hands clasped in prayer as silent tears coursed her cheeks. Several men—neighbors who had come running when they heard her screams—stood about in grim, stunned silence.

"There is no way of knowing what they are capable of doing," replied Delgado. "Please, my friend. Do this for me."

Jeremy nodded. He knew in his heart he could not ride with Delgado. "She will be safe. I swear it, on my life." He wanted to tell his friend how sorry he was that Angus McKinn had fallen. One look at Delgado's face, and he decided not to. "But you," he said, "I'm not so sure."

"Hugh Falconer saved my life," said Delgado. "I owe him this, at least."

He made it to the stables without mishap, and there learned that the killers had preceded him. The old man who worked in the stables and slept at night in the hayloft was cowering in the shadows. Two men lay dead in one of the empty stalls. They had been hacked to bloody pieces.

"Who were they?" asked Delgado. The old man stammered an incoherent reply; he was so terrified he could barely stand. "Calm down and tell me who they were."

"Pablo Jaramillo," said the old man. "Brother
to the governer's wife. I think the other was . . . was Narciso, Judge Beaubien's son. They ran in here to hide, senor. But there was no escape for them. Madre de Dios, what is happening?"

"Revolution," replied Delgado, tasting bile. "Go to the church, old man. You will be safe there."

He quickly saddled the bay and rode full tilt through the streets of Taos, expecting at every turn to be waylaid by the men who had murdered his father and Charles Bent. But the streets were silent and empty, abandoned by the living, walked only by the ghosts of those recently slain.

Chapter Eight

"He believes himself to be a patriot."

1

D
elgado felt certain that the Americans at Turley's Mill would be a target of the revolutionaries. He just hoped he could get there in time to warn them.

His destination was only a few miles from Taos. He knew the way—knew his country like the back of his hand. In his younger, more carefree days he had ridden over every foot of it. But this night's ride seemed to go on forever. At any moment he expected to be attacked from the shadows. He was weaponless now, having left the bloody cane knife at the stables. He wasn't sure why, really. Wasn't sure of a lot of things. The whole affair was like a nightmare from which he had yet to awaken. Worst of all was his father. Tears of grief streaked his cheeks as he rode on through the night.

He was calm, though. Not unafraid, but he had the fear under control, and the fear served to sharpen his senses. In a way he was relieved that this business, however bad, however bloody and tragic, had finally begun. The waiting, the wondering, was over. Thank God it hadn't started a few days later, for then he would have been on the trail for St. Louis, and in all likelihood his mother would have been murdered, too, by the killers who roamed the streets of Taos.

It was madness, but there was method to it, and he was not so grief-stricken that he could not think it through. Foreigners and those native-born New Mexicans who were viewed as collaborators with the Americans were the targets. And the revolutionaries were a mix of Mexicans and Pueblo Indians. They had been biding their time until Kearny and his dragoons had marched away. How many of them were up in arms? Probably not many. Yet. They would be hoping that the murder of Governor Bent and other prominent figures would trigger a massive uprising.

When he saw his destination, a collection of structures that included Simeon Turley's home, a trading post, and a mill, Delgado's spirits soared. All seemed peaceful enough. Turley's Mill straddled a rocky creek, the Arroyo Hondo, lined with willows and cottonwoods. The other buildings were back up on the sloping foot of a steep butte. Water, timber, shelter from the bitter cold north wind of winter—these were the attributes Turley had been looking for in a piece of land, and he had found all of them here.

The house, trading post, and still—Turley was justly famous for his home-brewed whiskey, Taos Lightning—were connected by low adobe walls or brush fences, forming a compound. Beyond the still house was a fenced vegetable garden, adjacent to a corral, which was full of horses; Delgado estimated about twenty head. He could see it all quite clearly as he neared the Arroyo Hondo, the bay resolutely picking its way across broken ground; the moon, about to set, provided plenty of illumination on this crystal clear night. Beyond the butte the snowy peaks of nearby mountains seemed to
float in the star-spangled sky, detached from the earth. All in all, a peaceful and picturesque scene.

Delgado saw someone rise up from the concealment of rocks and cedar brush to his right, perhaps a hundred yards away. A blossom of yellow flame appeared in front of the dark, sinister shape; Delgado felt the bullet strike the bay just forward of the saddle, felt it even before the gunshot reached his ears. With a shrill whinny the bay went down, mortally wounded. Delgado landed like a cat, on his feet and running.

Shouts pursued him as he plunged into the icy cold water of the creek. The bank of the Arroyo Hondo opposite Turley's Mill was suddenly swarming with men. More gunshots. Delgado flinched at the
crack!
of a bullet passing very close to his head. Instinctively, he hurled himself down into the shadows. Sharp rocks just beneath the surface knocked the wind out of him. Though shallow, the creek was fast-running. The current rolled him over on his side as he thrashed painfully about, wheezing to get air into his lungs and choking on a mouthful of water instead.

Several men were leaping into the creek after him. They were bent on killing him; Delgado doubted if they knew who he was, or that they even cared. They had obviously been waiting for moonset to attack Turley's Mill, and he had blundered into the trap and now he was fair game. A part of his mind remained very lucid and analytical while the rest screamed in panic; they would have done better to let him pass through their lines unhampered. Now Falconer and Turley and whoever else happened to have the great misfortune to be in the compound were alerted. This was small comfort to Delgado; he had come here
to warn them, and now they were warned, but he was going to die for his trouble.

Confronted with certain death, Delgado managed to move his pain-racked body. Stumbling over rocks, slipping, getting back up, lurching forward, he dared not look back. He knew they were hot on his heels. If he could only make it to the other side. If he could just reach solid ground, then he might have a chance. Perhaps then he could outrun them and reach the compound. But down deep he knew this was a forlorn hope. He wasn't going to make it out of the Arroyo Hondo alive. The swift waters of the creek would carry his blood away. A sudden image came to his mind's eye—of Sarah Bledsoe standing in the upstairs hallway of the house in St. Louis, so becoming in her pink
crepe de chine
dress, with that brave sweet smile and those words, those wonderful words,
I will wait forever
. She would indeed, thought Delgado, despairing. She would wait until eternity before she ever saw him again . . .

His feet were like blocks of ice. He couldn't feel anything from the calves of his legs down. So he wasn't surprised when he slipped on the smooth stones below the surface, wrenching his ankle, falling clumsily, hurting his arms and hands in an attempt to break his fall. He caught a glimpse of a man only a few feet behind him. Immediately, the man was on him, raising a hand axe.
My God, he is going to hack me to pieces
, thought Delgado, curiously detached from the scene of his own destruction. I'd rather a bullet in the brain.

He closed his eyes.

Then he heard the rifle, and his eyes snapped open, and he saw the man looming over him suddenly jackknife, saw the hatchet fly from a dead
man. Delgado was stunned. He was still alive. He couldn't believe it.

"Run, Del! Get up and run!"

It was Falconer!

Delgado got up and ran.

There were five or six men right behind him, some of them yelling bloody murder. Delgado forgot all about his twisted ankle and sprinted like a man pursued by the devil himself. He saw a few dark shapes separate from the trees on the Turley side of the Arroyo Hondo. One of them was in the creek now, running toward him. Falconer, the moonlight in his long yellow hair. More gunshots; he heard a yelp of pain behind him. He kept his legs churning. Falconer went right by him, going the other way, closing with the men pursuing him. There was a savage expression on the mountain man's bearded face. He had a pistol in one hand, a Green River knife in the other. Delgado slowed and turned, saw Falconer drop one man with a point-blank shot from the pistol, duck under a machete, and gut the man swinging the blade with the Green River. A third man fell, shot from the bank—one of the men on Turley's side had hit his mark. That left only two survivors of the six who had chased Delgado into the creek. They stopped dead in their tracks, confronted by a vision of death in buckskins called Hugh Falconer.

"Come on, boys," said Falconer, a fierce shout. "Come and meet your Maker."

Delgado wasn't sure if they understood the words, but they understood the meaning well enough—and they turned tail.

Guns were popping on the far bank, yellow blossoms of muzzle flash in the rocks and scrub cedar. Falconer spun, saw Delgado standing there,
grabbed him by the arm in passing. "Head for the timber, Del. They're slinging lead our way." Delgado didn't need to be told twice. Bullets slapped at the water, whanged off a rock, and buzzed in the air like angry hornets.

They reached the trees on the Turley side, by some miracle unscathed. Sheltered by the trunk of a split willow, Delgado sank to the ground, wheezing like a blacksmith's bellows.

"Are you hurt?" asked Falconer, standing over him.

"Twisted my ankle," gasped Delgado.

"Well, that's not so bad."

Delgado laughed—a mildly hysterical laugh. "No, it could have been much worse."

Someone was running toward them, running the gauntlet of hot lead still being slung by the ambushers on the other side of the Arroyo Hondo.

"Delgado McKinn!" exclaimed Simeon Turley, dropping down onto his haunches in front of Delgado as he tossed Falconer's rifle to its rightful owner. "Careful, Hugh. That there buffalo gun is loaded."

"Obliged, Sime."

"Don't mention it. Del, what the infernal blazes are you doing out here?"

"I came to warn you."

Turley glanced up at Falconer. He was a wiry, leather-skinned character with a full black beard, cut from the same cloth as Falconer, but dark-haired and smaller in build.

"That was a mighty Christian thing for you to do, Del," he drawled. "I take it there's been some blood shed in Taos."

"Governor Bent's been murdered. Along with some others."

"Charley Bent—dead?"

"Yes. They broke into his home tonight and cut off his head."

"They?"

Delgado shook his head. "Some Pueblo Indians, along with some New Mexicans. I don't know who they were."

"Well, whoever they were, God damn their mangy hides," muttered Turley.

A bullet smacked into the willow tree that provided all three of them with partial cover.

"We'd better pull back," advised Falconer.

"I second that motion," said Turley. He put two fingers in his mouth and cut loose with a piercing whistle. Several men began to fade back through the trees, away from the creek and toward the compound.

"Can you walk, Del?" asked Turley.

"I can do better than walk. I can run."

And he did, although now he could feel shooting pains in his ankle. Falconer stuck close by him, in case he stumbled and fell, but Delgado made it to the compound, and took cover behind the four-foot adobe wall that ran from Turley's home to the trading post. Falconer and the other man vaulted the wall and spread out, rifles loaded and ready, but suddenly the gunfire died down. Their adversaries had pursued them through the trees, only to fall back to the Arroyo Hondo.

"Well I'll be," muttered Turley, amazed. "Why'd they quit, you reckon? Must be fifty, a hunnerd of 'em."

"More," said Falconer, and he didn't sound like he was making a wild guess.

"They could have run right over us," said Tur
ley, mystified. "You figure they gone and lost their nerve, Hugh?"

The moon had just set, and the night had become suddenly much darker. Falconer searched the blackness, but even his keen eyes could not see much.

"I think they're mostly Pueblo Indians," he said. "Maybe a few Mexicans thrown in for good measure."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning a lot of them probably don't have guns. We gave them a bloody nose down at the creek, and my guess is they're thinking things over. They can't be too sure of our numbers."