Authors: Jason Manning
"What do you mean?" asked Jeremy.
"Sounds to me like the Pueblo Indians had had enough," said Delgado. "They probably threatened to kill those two if they didn't surrender."
Wootton nodded. "I reckon that's the long and short of it.'
"What about Diego Archuleta?"
Wootton shook his head. "No sign of him. He's a slippery one. El Tomacito—he was the Indian leader—was placed under guard, and we were going to give him and Montoya a fair trial, except a man named Fitzgerald saved us the trouble. Fitzgerald's a dragoon, one of them that was too sick to go to California with Kearny, but when the shooting started, he joined up with the Missouri Volunteers. Doniphan let his men file past the room in the pueblo where El Tomacito was being held. Fitzgerald got in line, and when his turn came, quick as a flash, he drew a pistol and shot El Tomacito in the head. Killed him right off."
Delgado shook his head. "That won't help matters."
"Well, El Tomacito would have been hanged anyroad," said Wootton. "That's what'll happen to Pablo Montoya, or my name ain't Uncle Dick."
"But you've made a martyr of El Tomacito," said Delgado.
"I think we've knocked all the fight out of them Injuns," said a confident Wootton.
"Del's right," said Falconer. "Archuleta and a few rebels are still loose up in the hills, and when they hear about El Tomacito, they'll wonder if they should surrender, since the same thing might happen to them."
2
Returning to Santa Fe, Colonel Doniphan stopped off briefly in Taos, detaching a company of his Missourians as a garrison there, and handing over the captives taken at the Taos Pueblo to the local authorities for prosecution in the civil court. In addition to Pablo Montoya there were fifteen other men in irons. The court would be presided over by Judge Charles H. Beaubien, whose son was one of the two men Delgado had found murdered and hacked to pieces in the livery. The prosecutor was Frank Blair, son of Francis P. Blair, newspaper editor and politician, whom Delgado had met at Jacob Bledsoe's. Frank Blair had recently been appointed the territorial district attorney. Delgado was sure the jury would be staunchly pro-American. The defendants didn't have a prayer.
"Judge Beaubien will want vengeance," he told Jeremy, "and Frank Blair is desperate to prove that he was the right choice for the job of district attorney."
He and Jeremy had walked the short distance from the McKinn house to the square to join the hundreds of spectators who, in spite of the blus
tery cold day, were gathered to watch the arrival of the Missourians and their prisoners. For the past few days he and Jeremy had ventured out every afternoon, two of the walking wounded helping each other along. The snow was piled deep in the streets, and the cold wind knifed right through them, but they would not be deterred from escaping the confines of the house.
Delgado noticed that the Missouri volunteers were not the same brash and boisterous men with whom he had journeyed west from Fort Leavenworth. These were grim, haggard veterans of a difficult winter campaign against an elusive and determined foe.
As gaunt and weary as the Missourians looked, their prisoners looked much worse. Burdened by heavy iron shackles and chains, they shuffled single file under heavy guard across the square.
"They might as well have stood them up against a wall and shot them," said Jeremy.
"A trial is supposed to at least give the impression of justice," said Delgado, dryly.
Jeremy gave him a sharp look. "Don't tell me you feel sorry for them! These are the men responsible for your father's death."
"Diego Archuleta is the man I hold responsible."
"He's probably halfway to Mexico by now."
Delgado didn't think so. Archuleta was not the kind of man who would run away. He would fight on, even if his cause was lost.
They stood there, at the corner of the crowded square, their breath white vapor in front of their ruddy, frozen faces, watching as the prisoners were paraded in front of the Bent house. Clad head to toe in black, the governor's widow stood
at her front gate. A veil concealed her features. Delgado wondered what she was feeling. Did her soul cry out for revenge? Did she long to see these men hang? Or did she realize, as he did, that their deaths would not atone for the loss that both of them had suffered. Would the grief she felt be blunted the day these sixteen men were laid to rest in their graves? Delgado doubted it.
"Pardon me, Captain."
Jeremy and Delgado turned to see a young man clad in a long buffalo coat, his broadbrimmed hat pulled low over his face, standing behind them. He had addressed Jeremy, who wore his uniform beneath a woolen Regular Army longcoat.
"My name is Langdon Grail," said the stranger. "I am from Missouri, by way of Bent's Fort."
"I'm a Missourian as well," said Jeremy and introduced himself. "This is Mr. Delgado McKinn."
"You're the one whose father was killed, then," said Grail, shaking Delgado's hand. "My sincerest condolences. And you, sir, must be the son of Mr. Jacob Bledsoe of St. Louis."
"You know my father?"
"I know of him. You might say I am in the same business. I came west with a trading caravan out of Westport Landing. I was at Bent's Fort when news arrived of the rebellion. William Bent recruited me to come to Taos and avenge the death of his brother."
Delgado stared at Grail. This amiable youth, who could scarcely be more than twenty years of age, was a hired assassin? He certainly did not seem to fit the part.
"You're a little late, Mr. Grail," said Jeremy.
"The rebellion is over. The leaders are the men you see over there, and they are as good as dead."
"Justice is swift in Taos," said Delgado. "Always has been. There's a saying here that a convicted murderer is hanged before the transcript of his trial is finished."
"I've been asking questions around town," said Grail, "and I understand that the man I am seeking is still at large."
"Diego Archuleta," said Delgado. He noticed that Grail's eyes were so dark blue in color as to appear black. They were cold, piercing eyes, untouched by the warmth of the young man's callow smile.
Grail nodded. "Indeed. I would think, Mr. McKinn, that you and I are after the same thing."
"And that would be what?"
"Archuleta's demise."
"Is William Bent paying you to hunt down Archuleta?"
"No, I volunteered for the job."
"Wouldn't hurt to have a man like William Bent beholden to you," said Jeremy tersely. He did not care for Langdon Grail, and that was evident by his tone of voice.
"Quite so," agreed Grail. "I think questioning those prisoners yonder about Archuleta's whereabouts might be productive. Don't you think so, Mr. McKinn? Perhaps you would consent to help me."
"Help you? In what way?"
"You know the judge, I imagine, and other people in positions of authority and influence here in Taos, do you not? Perhaps you could arrange it?"
"That wouldn't do any good. Those men would not betray Diego Archuleta."
"Not even if their lives were spared in return for information?"
"I could not offer them their lives. It is not within my power to do so. Neither could you."
"Couldn't I? Well, perhaps I will see you gentlemen at the trial. Good day."
They watched Grail melt into the crowd of onlookers.
"I wouldn't want to be Archuleta," muttered Jeremy. "There is something about that fellow—I would hate to have him hunting me."
Delgado could only agree.
3
The trial of the sixteen insurgents began immediately. All were charged with murder. In addition, the charge of treason was leveled against five of them. Thanks to the McKinn name, Delgado was allowed into the packed courtroom, and he took Jeremy along with him. Hugh Falconer had expressed no interest in witnessing the trial. The mountain man seemed perfectly content with waiting out the winter in Taos. He planned to leave for home as soon as the weather allowed. He wanted to get back to Lillian as badly as Delgado wanted to see Sarah Bledsoe again.
The treason charges troubled Delgado. How could a person conquered in war be tried for treason against the conquering country? He doubted that these men had ever sworn allegiance to the United States of America. They were only defending their homeland.
The prosecutor, Frank Blair, produced the Kearny Code as evidence that the defendants had
indeed committed treason. These laws, drawn up by Alexander Doniphan and promulgated by General Kearny in his capacity as military governor prior to the arrival of Charles Bent, were, by the admission of the very man who had produced them, of dubious constitutionality. They purported to establish a permanent territorial government in New Mexico and to bestow upon the people all the rights enjoyed by citizens of the United States—actions that properly could only be carried out by the Congress. With the rights of citizenship, argued Blair, came certain responsibilities, one of which was to refrain from taking up arms against your own country. Delgado did not accept his argument. One could not commit treason against a country of which he was not a citizen, and these sixteen defendants were not citizens of the United States just because the Kearny Code said so. He had argued as much with Colonel Doniphan, who, the previous night, had enjoyed the hospitality of the McKinn house.
"For better or worse," said Doniphan, "the Kearny Code remains the only version of American law in New Mexico. It was put in place for the purpose of preserving order and protecting the rights of the inhabitants, and if any excess of power has been exercised, it stems from a patriotic desire to extend to the people here the privileges and immunities cherished by all Americans and which can only improve their condition and promote their prosperity."
"Besides," said Jeremy, who sat with them and drank more than his share of brandy, "what difference does it really make? Those rebels will hang for murder anyway. The charge of treason is of no consequence. You can't kill a man twice."
"In a way you make a valid point," said Delgado. "Why even level a charge of treason in the first place? It will only serve to alienate some of the people. They can understand why a man must be executed for committing murder, and few will argue that the rebels killed innocent civilians. But they will not understand the treason charge. Some would say that I am the real traitor. That I turned against my people when I helped you."
"You are not a traitor according to the Kearny Code," said Doniphan. "You are an American, Mr. McKinn, and you have served your country well."
"My country?" Delgado smiled. "And if Santa Anna marches north and recaptures New Mexico am I a Mexican citizen again at that moment? Do I have any say in this? Or does my citizenship solely depend on which flag happens to be flying above the Cabildo today?"
"I thought you understood," said Doniphan, frowning. "I thought you wanted New Mexico to become part of the United States, that you realized the advantages inherent in that reality."
"I wanted to do what I could to prevent bloodshed. Obviously, I did not do enough. But I must be careful, Colonel, lest I say the wrong thing and find myself charged with treason."
The trail was swift. The witnesses touched their lips to the Bible and then, pointing accusing fingers, condemned the prisoners to certain death. When the testimony was completed, the jury retired to deliberate. They were absent from the courtroom less than fifteen minutes. The verdict: guilty on all counts. Judge Beaubien sentenced each man to be hanged on Friday, traditionally the hangman's day. After uttering the sentence, the judge solemnly concluded with
"Muerto,
muerto, muerto."
The defendants accepted their fate with admirable stoicism. There was a heavy stillness in the chamber—no jubilation, no cheers, no weeping, nothing. The people filed silently out.
That evening, Langdon Grail knocked on Delgado's door.
"Judge Beaubien has consented to see me," said Grail. "Would you like to come along, Mr. McKinn?"
"What for?"
"I wish to persuade the judge to let me interview the prisoners for the purpose of learning the present whereabouts of Diego Archuleta."
Delgado was of half a mind to decline. But in the end his curiosity got the better of him, and he agreed to accompany Grail.
Judge Beaubien was in his study, slumped in a chair by the hearth, brooding in the darkness, when they were ushered in to see him. The servant lighted a lamp and withdrew. Beaubien gestured at a sideboard.
"Help yourselves, gentlemen. Forgive me for not rising. I am an old man, and of late very tired. I confess that I have not slept at all well since the death of my son."
Delgado felt sorry for the judge. A widower, the only joy in his life had been his son, Narciso.
"You must be Senor Grail," said Beaubien as the young Missourian sat in a chair facing him. "Of what service can I be to you?"
Grail told him what he was after. Delgado watched Beaubien, and when Diego Archuleta's name passed Grail's lips, the judge's eyes blazed with a vengeful light. In that instant Delgado knew that Langdon Grail would get his wish.
When Grail finished making his request, Beau
bien pondered for a moment in grim silence. Delgado thought he knew what the man was thinking. He wanted all sixteen of the men whom he had today sentenced to die to keep their appointment with the hangman. There was no mercy in Beaubien. It had died the night Narciso was cut to pieces by the insurgents. Now the judge had to weigh letting live one of the men he held responsible for his son's death against the chance to bring Archuleta to task for his role in the uprising. By all accounts, not one of the sixteen men doomed to death this day in Beaubien's courtroom had been among those who, for an hour or two, had wrought such terror and bloodshed in Taos. But that didn't matter. That was a minor point. They were the available targets for the vengeance burning in Beaubien's grief-ridden soul, and he was loath to let even one of them live past Friday.
Finally, he raised his haunted eyes and fastened them on Delgado.
"I assume by your presence here that you support Senor Grail in this scheme."