Authors: Jason Manning
"You wanted to see me?"
Archuleta was sitting in the corner, a blanket over his shoulders, knees pulled up tight against his chest as he tried to contain his own body's heat—the only source of heat in this cell block. He
looked up upon hearing Delgado's voice. Lost in his own thoughts, he had not heard Delgado coming. Delgado wondered what he was thinking. About his family, perhaps? Archuleta had sent his wife and children to safety—relative safety—in Mexico before the arrival of the Army of the West. Quite possibly they did not even know their husband and father was about to be executed for murder. And, oh yes, treason. Or was he thinking about his country? Or about what lay on the other side of that long drop on the scaffold? What
did
a condemned man think about in those last precious hours of life?
"Yes. Thank you for coming."
He rose, shedding the blanket. His face was gaunt and bearded, the cheeks hollow, the eyes dark-rimmed with sleeplessness. But there still burned a fierce flame of pride and courage in those eyes. Delgado had heard that some of the men executed last week had not met their fate too well. A few had begged for mercy. One had been carried up onto the scaffold. Another had voided himself, whimpering like a puppy, as the hangman slipped the black hood over his head.
Delgado knew that Diego Archuleta would meet his death with dignity.
He came to the cell door, and Delgado had to make a conscious effort to stand his ground, within Archuleta's reach if the man put his arms through the strap iron; he was afraid of Archuleta and didn't mind admitting it to himself. Still, he did not want Archuleta to know.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"I want to know why."
Delgado said nothing.
"Why did you betray your country, McKinn? I want to hear it from your own lips."
Delgado sighed. "I don't care about politics," he replied. "I only wanted to prevent bloodshed."
Archuleta nodded. "The blood of your people? Or American blood?"
"It's all the same."
"You care about your people. So do I. I believe you were misguided. You were never truly one of us."
"I don't know. I am willing to concede that you are a true patriot, and that I am not, if it will make you feel any better."
Archuleta made a dismissive gesture as he turned away, walked to the back of the cell, and then spun on his heel to face Delgado again.
"I have known about you for many years," he said. "Before you went away, I believed you to be a young fool, a knave, who cared only about his own pleasures, and gave not a thought to more important things."
He paused, waiting perhaps for Delgado to defend himself. But again Delgado remained silent.
"I see that you are still such a man, McKinn. That makes you well-suited to become an American. Your father was the same way. Concerned only with himself."
"Is that why he had to die?" Delgado shook his head, disgusted. "Men like you are all the same. It has nothing to do with patriotism. It's power. You have the power to make other men kill for you, or die for you. You held sway over these people, and you didn't want to give that up. Without that power, you felt you were nothing. That's why you were willing to die to keep it. If you couldn't lead the people, you would just as soon
see them dead. That's the way you think, Archuleta."
"I fight for the people!" snapped the rebel leader.
"No. The people fought for you. But no longer. Not after tomorrow."
"You will see," sneered Archuleta, coming to the cell door as Delgado turned to go. "You will regret having taken the side of the Americans. The people will know who betrayed them when the Americans make slaves of them."
"That won't happen," said Delgado, "and you know it. That's just your excuse, your way of playing upon the fears of others to make them do your bidding. This has nothing to do with race, or nationality. I have met Americans who are just like you. Englishmen, too, for that matter."
He left the cell block. The same lieutenant he had met before was on duty.
"Stay alert," Delgado advised. "I would not be surprised if an attempt is made to free Archuleta tonight. And he must die tomorrow. If he is freed somehow, more innocent people will lose their lives."
"You can count on us, sir."
Delgado nodded and stepped out into the cold and wind and snow. He caught a whiff of tobacco smoke. A figure cocooned in a long buffalo coat was inclined against the outer wall of the jail-house. Painfully aware that he was unarmed, Delgado recognized Langdon Grail.
"You saw Archuleta," said Grail, pushing away from the wall with a shrug of his shoulders. "Was he seeking absolution for his sins?"
"Not at all."
"You have to admire the man. He sticks to his principles."
"He has no principles, any more than you do."
Grail was smoking a cigarillo. His black smile formed around it. "You don't like me. That's a shame. You're a big augur in these parts now, McKinn. Someday you might have need of my services. You know, if there's anything that troubles you. Or anyone. I can deal with it."
Delgado thought of Brent Horan. If he paid this man, he would go to St. Louis and do away with Horan. Simple as that and no questions asked. The right or wrong of it didn't matter to Langdon Grail. How could one so young be so twisted? Grail was barely more than a boy, and yet he was a killer, a killer without compunction or remorse, and he was very good at what he did—he'd proven as much in the Truchas fight.
"I'll take care of my own problems," said Delgado.
"Maybe." Grail scanned the empty, windswept plaza. If anything, the day was darkening. There would be more snow tonight. "I'll be headed for Bent's Fort tomorrow. Are you staying to watch Archuleta hang?"
Delgado said he was not, watching Grail closely, not daring to take his eyes off the man. It was like standing next to a rattlesnake coiled to strike.
"I am. That way I can tell William Bent that I've seen him dead with my own eyes."
"Even though you weren't the one to kill him. I'm sure Mr. Bent will be grateful. Thanks to you, he was captured."
Grail shrugged. "Better that than nothing, I sup
pose. Guess I'll be going now. Maybe we will meet again, McKinn."
God forbid
, thought Delgado as he watched the slender shape of Langdon Grail angle across the plaza, the angry, bitter wind obliterating his footprints in the show. It was as though he had never passed this way.
3
That evening, when he visited his mother for the last time, Delgado was encouraged to see with his own eyes that her condition, however slowly, was improving. The doctor had told him that what Juanita McKinn needed most of all was a reason for living. She had lost that the day Angus died. Delgado was afraid his mother would try to talk him out of returning to St. Louis so soon, perhaps telling him that she needed him to stay. To her credit, she did nothing of the sort, though she could not deny that she was concerned for his safety on the Santa Fe Trail in the dead of winter.
"I just can't wait until spring," he said. "But don't worry. Hugh Falconer will ride with me, and Jeremy, as well."
"You must love this girl very much."
"I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with her."
"You will bring her here so that I may meet her?"
"Of course I will." Delgado was relieved that she did not ask him if he intended to bring Sarah to Taos to stay. Where they made their permanent home would be left entirely up to Sarah. He
would go anywhere, do anything, just as long as he was with her.
"I am happy for you," said Juanita McKinn, stroking his cheek with a trembling hand. "Your father and I often wondered if you would ever settle down. Now you will have a wife and a family. You must promise to give me many grandchildren so that I may spoil them."
Delgado took her hand and raised it to his lips. "I have taken care of everything here, Mother. You need not concern yourself with anything. Just rest and get well. I'll expect to see you up and about when I return."
As he was leaving her room, there came a knock on the front door. Falconer, who had been warming himself by the fire, reached the door first. Delgado noticed that the mountain man had a hand resting on the yellowed bone handle of the Green River knife sheathed at his hip.
I hope the day will come here in Taos
, thought Delgado,
when a man can open his own door without fear of violence
.
Three men entered. One was Donaciano Vigil, who had succeeded Charles Bent as territorial governor. He had been on Manuel Armijo's staff, but switched his allegiance to the Americans, and Bent had rewarded him with an appointment to the position of secretary of the territory. As a soldier Vigil had commanded several successful campaigns against the Navajos, and as a politician he was trusted by Americans and most New Mexicans alike.
With Vigil was Ceran St. Vrain and Francis Blair, Jr. A former partner of the Bent brothers, St. Vrain had led Santa Fe volunteers in the recent campaign against the insurgents. Blair, of course, had prosecuted Diego Archuleta and the other
ringleaders; it was he who had constructed what Delgado believed were the unwarranted charges of treason against the defendants.
"Senor McKinn," said Vigil, "pardon our intrusion at this late hour, but we wished to speak with you before your departure."
McKinn gestured toward the chairs closest to the roaring fire in the big stone hearth. "Please, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. Drinks?"
Vigil and Blair declined, but St. Brian gratefully accepted a brandy.
"We have today received startling news," said Vigil. "Santa Anna has seized power in Mexico City."
Delgado glanced at Falconer. He wondered if these men knew that Santa Anna's return had been accomplished with the connivance of the President of the United States. He turned to Blair.
"Does this surprise you, sir?"
Blair seemed to realize what Delgado was getting at. "No, sir, it does not. As you know, my father has many important friends in Washington."
Not least, mused Delgado, a man named James Knox Polk. Frank Blair, Sr. had been one of Andrew Jackson's most trusted advisers. The current president was Old Hickory's protégé. The connection was obvious. The prosecutor's father would always be welcome in the White House while Polk resided there, and would be privy to important matters of state. It had seemed likely to Delgado that Frank Blair, Jr. would be kept appraised of noteworthy events by his father.
"In my opinion," said St. Vrain gruffly, "this means a prolonged war. Santa Anna considers himself another Napoleon. He will never give up
the northern provinces of what he believes to be his empire. Not without a stiff fight." The French-American frontiersman finished off his brandy and, with a nod from Delgado, poured himself another.
"I fear he will try to reconquer New Mexico," said an anxiety-ridden Vigil.
Delgado was aware that Donaciano Vigil had good reason to be fearful. If Santa Anna did retake the province, men who had gone over to the American side would surely forfeit their lives—and Vigil would be one of the first to stand before a firing squad. Delgado sighed. President Polk had been a gullible fool to trust Santa Anna, to actually believe such a scoundrel's guarantees that he would make peace the moment he again ruled Mexico. And that was what he would do—rule. Santa Anna was a tyrant, a dictator, the worst of the lot.
So it wasn't over, after all.
"What is it that you gentlemen want from me?" he asked.
"We want you to stay, Senor McKinn," said Vigil. "I will appoint you secretary of the territory."
Which was, in effect, the second highest position in the new territorial government, making Delgado, if he consented, the governor's successor.
Delgado was dumbstruck.
"We are fearful of what the people might do once they find out about Santa Anna," said Blair. "There might be another rebellion."
"What could I possibly do about that?"
"Perhaps you don't realize how much influence you actually have over the people," remarked St. Vrain.
"Yes, I do. I have absolutely none."
"On the contrary," said Vigil. "Many people on both sides of the conflict profess to have the interests of the people at heart. Yet the people can see that this is not true. With you they know it
is
true. You have always done what you believed to be first for them, without consideration of your own interests. A case in point is your intervention at Truchas to prevent the murder of Diego Archuleta, even though he is responsible for your father's death. The people know of these things. They aren't blind. And they aren't stupid. There are precious few leaders whom they trust anymore. You are one of those leaders, whether you know it or not."
"And," added Blair, "whether you
like
it or not."
Delgado shook his head. "Santa Anna will have his hands full holding onto Mexico. He poses no threat to us here."
"Perhaps not," conceded Blair. "But you must admit it is possible—it would be just like him—to send agents provocateur into the territory in order to foment unrest."
"You would have a calming influence upon the populace," said Vigil. He seemed on the verge of dropping to his knees and begging Delgado for his help.
Delgado made up his mind. "I am sorry, gentlemen, but I am bound for St. Louis. I have . . . very important business to attend to there."
"But your country needs you, sir," insisted Blair.
Delgado's temper flared. "And what country is that, sir?"
"Why, the United States of America, of course."
"At the risk of facing the charge of treason," Delgado fired back, "I feel, sometimes, like a man without a country."
Falconer stepped forward. "Ceran," he said, addressing St. Vrain, whom he knew best of the three visitors, "you and your friends will just have to make do without Del. We're going to St. Louis in the morning, and that's final."
St. Vrain nodded. There was a layer of steel beneath Falconer's affable demeanor, and he knew better than to test that steel.
"Forget it, Frank," he told Blair, finished off his brandy, and turned to Delgado. "Have a safe journey, Mr. McKinn. See you around, Hugh."