The Killing Season (38 page)

Melanie returned to the Dodge House, there to wait and worry.

 

Chapa Gonzolos and his men had driven the teams unmercifully, and by sundown of the day following the ambush, they had crossed the Rio Grande into New Mexico.

“It was as you say,” Kalpana laughed. “We watch for the wagons and they come south to us for the taking.”

Gonzolos said nothing, but he was pleased, for he had regained the confidence of his followers. No more would they pursue the trains. They would take the silver as it came from the mines, before it reached the railroad.

 

Nathan rose at first light, saddled the bay, and rode south, breakfasting on more of the jerked beef. He watched for barren ground, found the wagon tracks, and on top of them, tracks of many horses. He had no trouble identifying the scene of the ambush, for there was dried blood on dead leaves and grass, and bits of torn, bloody clothing. He rode on, knowing he must be careful. Just because they had gunned down one posse didn't mean there wouldn't be another. Once he had determined the direction they were traveling, Nathan rode a mile west and again rode south, paralleling their trail. When he reached the bank of the Rio Grande, he followed the river south until he found where the wagons had crossed. They had been traveling southwest, but after crossing the river, they followed the west bank. From a railroad map in Hagerman's office, he recalled that Santa Fe was practically on the banks of the Rio Grande. As a precaution, Nathan crossed the river, and keeping well away from the east bank, began following it south. It would allow him to keep on their trail without the possibility of riding up on them or stumbling into an ambush. There had been no recent rain, and the next day after reaching the Rio Grande, Nathan saw a thin plume of dust ahead. He eased the bay down to a walk. The sun was two hours high, and he reined up and dismounted. He rested the horse for a while and then led the animal down a low bank to water. Tonight, he would reach the outlaw camp.

 

Chapa Gonzolos and his men had begun to feel safe, and with Santa Fe near, they were in a jovial mood. Just before dark, one of them had shot an antelope, and they were broiling huge slabs of meat over an enormous fire. While every man had a weapon handy, they had not felt the need to post sentries. Suddenly, Gonzolos dropped his hunk of meat in the fire and snatched his Winchester.

“What is?” a companion asked.

“Silencio,”
Gonzolos snapped. “I hear something.”

But there was no sound except the crackling of the fire, and they laughed as Gonzolos attempted to rescue his meat from the ashes.

 

Taking his Winchester, Nathan left the bay at least a mile north of the outlaw camp. There was no wind to betray him and the moon had yet to rise. The land was hilly, thick with cedar, and the starlight didn't penetrate the shadows. There were few dead leaves, and needles from pine and cedar made no noise under his boots. Once, as he neared the outlaw camp, Nathan stepped on a dead limb and it snapped. He froze as the outlaws became silent and watchful, moving ahead as they resumed their conversation and laughter. They were in a clearing, and he could see the firelight dancing off the canvas of the stolen wagons. Loss of this particular silver shipment didn't bother him nearly as much as the possibility of the outlaws escaping to steal and kill again. Strangely enough, he thought of the times Captain Sage Jennings had urged him to join the rangers, and wondered if there wasn't more of the lawman in him than he realized. But for that, what kind of damn fool would go after a dozen deadly outlaws who had virtually wiped out a sheriff's posse?

As near the camp as he dared go, Nathan paused. Now that he had caught up to the outlaws, what was he going to do? As he had learned in General Lee's army, one man with a rifle could raise hell within a larger force, with hit-and-run tactics. It was the simplest kind of warfare, where a sniper hurt the enemy as much as possible, and then escaped to launch a new attack. In daylight they might ride him down, but they would never find him in the dark. With that in mind, he raised his Winchester and firing rapidly, shot three of the outlaws. He rolled away as they fired at his muzzle flashes, and like a cat, was on his feet. He slipped among the cedars, keeping to the shadows, making his way back toward his horse. He loosed the reins, mounted, and rode several miles back up the river, until he could no longer hear any sound of pursuit. He had no idea how near they were to Santa Fe, and he suspected the town was large enough that the outlaws could lose themselves if they chose.

As Nathan had hoped, the outlaws soon gave up any thought of pursuit, for a gunman could pick them off one at a time in the dark. Gonzolos had put out the fire, lest the lone gunman circle around and attack from another direction.

“Sangre de Cristo,”
Kalpana said, “he is
El Diablo.
He shoot three time, in the dark, and three
companeros
die.”

“El Diablo
or not, he don't get away with this,” said Gonzolos, seething with rage. “He leave tracks, we follow.
Por
Dios, come the dawn, we leave the wagons here. We find and kill this
bastardo
if we never do anything else. I, Chapa Gonzolos, have spoken.”

 

Nathan was in the saddle at first light, prepared to stalk the outlaws, but to his dismay, they began stalking him. He could see puffs of dust at regular intervals, as they advanced. He retreated. There were several outcroppings of rock where he could have taken a stand, but with several of them keeping him pinned down, the others could circle around and get him from behind. He had to keep moving, lest they surround him, but his dust was as visible as was their own. Already, their skirmish line had taken on the shape of a large horseshoe, with its open end moving to engulf him. The sun was growing hot, and already the bay was sweating. They would stalk him until his horse gave out, and then ride him down. He had but one chance, and that was to break through their line to the south and outride them. He returned the Winchester to its boot and kicked the bay into a fast gallop. As long as they couldn't actually see him, he had a chance, but only if he broke through the line that was advancing to surround him. Two of the approaching riders discovered what he had in mind and converged on him, shooting. Returning their fire, he watched one man pitch from the saddle, but before he broke free, the other man fired and he felt the lead rip into his side. Hearing the shooting, the rest of the riders had circled and were on his trail. Another slug struck him in the back, high up. His bay was heaving and could not continue. Ahead, stretching across the Rio Grande, was a ridge of stone, over which a cascade of water fell. There was an upthrust of stone on the east bank, head-high. Nathan reined up the heaving bay and all but fell from the saddle. He stumbled into the rocks just above the falls, realizing that he had left his Winchester in the saddle boot. But he had his Colts with enough shells to last him until he bled to death. Already the outlaws had begun to fire, and lead spat against the rocks. It would be a matter of minutes until some of the outlaws crossed the river and cut down on him from the west bank. In desperation, he began searching for a way out and discovered a narrow, treacherous path down the rocky slope alongside the waterfall. Holstering his Colts, he started down. The outlaws intensified their fire, and a slug burned a fiery path just above Nathan's left ear. Off balance, he fell into the roiling water at the foot of the falls.

“Por Dios,”
Gonzolos shouted, “ride in and be sure he is dead.”

Several of the outlaws dismounted and made their way to the precipitous bank from which Nathan had fallen. There was no sign of a body in the water below, and after a while, even Gonzolos was convinced the man they had sought was dead.

“Back to the wagons,” Gonzolos ordered.

Before sundown, the wagons rumbled along the rutted Santa Fe Trail and reached the outskirts of the town of Santa Fe. There the caravan turned eastward, and five miles into the barren land that was northeastern New Mexico, they reached a sprawling ranch that had come into existence more than a hundred years previous, by Spanish grant. In an arch above the gate hung a long wooden slab. In Spanish, burned into the wood in large letters, were the words CASA DE EL AGUILA.
¹⁷

One man dismounted and opened the gate, allowing the two wagons to pass through. They were taken beyond and around the ranch house, to a barn. Chapa Gonzolos and his riders dismounted before the house he had inherited from his father, and Gonzolos laughed triumphantly. Again, as had been his father before him, he was a respected citizen of Santa Fe, and the owner of a Spanish grant older than the town itself.

 

From the slug that had grazed his head, Nathan had blacked out, coming to his senses only when he was under the cold water. There was a narrow shelf of rock behind the fall, and after several failed tries, Nathan dragged himself up on it. So near to the fall was he that spray from it was flung in his face, but he was concealed from the men who had tried to kill him. While he couldn't understand their words, he could hear their voices on the bank above him. There was little he could do but wait until they presumed him dead and rode away.

He could feel the blood oozing out of his wounds, and if he did nothing else, he had to stop the bleeding. Besides being alive, there was one thing for which he could be thankful. There were exit wounds, telling him that neither slug had struck bone, for such a ricochet was almost always fatal. The spray in his face had a refreshing effect and kept him conscious most of the time. While he was fearful of sliding off the narrow shelf, it seemed impossible for him to keep his eyes open, and he slipped into unconsciousness for he knew not how long. He listened, and hearing nothing but the sound of the falling water, decided he must make his move. The constant spray had not allowed the blood to clot. He slid off the rock shelf and was in water neck-deep.

Fighting his way through the fall, he found it was late in the afternoon, the sun not more than an hour high. He waded to the shallows, and stood there listening. Somewhere, it seemed he could hear a horse cropping grass. The riverbank was high and he waded farther downstream. There, to his surprise, his saddled bay was grazing. The horse had been heaving with exhaustion, which accounted for the outlaws not having taken it. Nathan took handfuls of mud, and squeezing the water out of it, applied it to his wounds. His skull ached like seven kinds of hell from the graze, and a faint stream of blood still trailed down his jaw. Despite having been soaked to the hide most of the day, his face felt hot. It was the beginning of a fever that would rob him of his consciousness as it wore on.

Slowly, slipping and falling, he climbed the riverbank and headed for his grazing horse. The effort brought fresh blood flowing from his wounds. He knew not how far he was from Santa Fe. It would be his only source of aid, for he was three days south of Pueblo. Three times he tried before he was able to drag himself into the saddle. He kicked the bay into a lope, following the river south. The horse slowed to a walk, and Nathan allowed it to continue, for he wasn't sure how long he could remain conscious. A faster gait might jolt him out of the saddle, and he was in no condition to stop and rest the horse. He awoke to a cool night wind and darkness, aware that the fever was taking him. He never saw the light in a distant window or knew when the horse halted. He fell from the saddle and lay with unseeing eyes turned to the purple sky, with its silent, twinkling stars....

It was late, and but a single lamp burned in the window of Loretto Academy of Our Lady of Light. Assistant Pastor Thomas Hayes had been reading, and he paused, listening. There were hoofbeats, and when they ceased, Father Hayes went to the window and drew the curtain aside. At first, in the starlight, he could see only the riderless horse, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see the body of a man on the ground. He hurried down the hall and knocked on the door of Father Augustine Truchard, the pastor.

“Yes,” came a sleepy voice, “what is it?”

“There is a man—a horseman—lying in the yard, Father Truchard, and he appears to be hurt.”

“Very well,” said Father Truchard. “Allow me time to dress. Perhaps you should awaken Mother Magdalen.”

“I am awake,” Mother Magdalen said, when Father Hayes knocked on her door.

“There is a man lying in the yard,” said Father Hayes, “and he appears to be hurt. Father Truchard and I are going to bring him inside. Perhaps you should prepare to receive him.”

“Very well,” Mother Magdalen replied. “Bring him into the room that adjoins your study. I will be there.”

The priests carried the unconscious Nathan into the academy foyer and then into the room Mother Magdalen had suggested. Already she had clean sheet spread over a couch, and Sister Francisca had come to assist her. A medicine chest had been opened and Mother Magdalen was removing items she would need. She spoke quietly to Father Truchard.

“If you will leave him with us, we will do what we can.”

The priests went out, closing the door behind them.

“I will unsaddle and care for his horse,” said Father Hayes. “The animal is exhausted.”

Father Truchard went into the study of Father Hayes and sat down. He had seen gun-shot wounds before, and the stranger had been shot twice. It would be a long night.

 

Nathan suffered a raging fever for a day and a night. Mother Magdalen, Sister Lucia, Sister Rosana, and Sister Francisca took turns looking after him. After the fever broke, he slept for another day before regaining consciousness.

“Where am I?” he asked, when he finally could speak.