Come Sundown (19 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Come Sundown
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October 20, 1861
Lt. Col. Christopher Carson
First New Mexico Volunteers
Fort Union, Territory of New Mexico
To: Mr. H. Greenwood, esq.
Dear Mr. Greenwood,
Duty calls. Our honor and courage, our love of country, and our loyalty to the flag beckon us into the fray. A glorious struggle lies before us.
Our distant sources in Texas inform us that the erstwhile Maj. H. H. Sibley, United States Army, now commissioned Brigadier General H. H. Sibley by the Army of the Confederate States of America, is raising, equipping, and drilling an army in San Antonio, Texas. The purpose and aim of this army, according to our intelligence, is to invade New Mexico and Colorado, secure the gold and silver fields for Confederate exploitation, and conquer California, providing the secessionist government with the California gold fields and western ports.
In advance of Sibley's Brigade, Rebel Col. J. R. Baylor has already invaded the Mesilla Valley from the south and taken Fort Fillmore. It is possible that the Mexican states of Chihuahua and Sonora may be persuaded to join the Confederacy.
The war has come to our country, Mr. Greenwood. Liberty is at stake. The secessionists must not achieve their goal of conquering the southwest. I call upon your devotion to freedom and your duty to your government. I need the services of a scout and courier. There are few here that know the country like you, Mr. Greenwood, and none that I trust more.
I urge you to ride immediately for Fort Craig, where our
army will soon amass to repulse the invaders from Texas. I appeal to you as my friend. I need your help. Please come.
Yours truly,
Lt. Col. Christopher Carson
First New Mexico Volunteers
P.S., I am blessed once again. Charles Carson was born to me and Josepha just days ago in Taos.
That letter from Kit worked a curiously profound effect on me. He was calling me to defend a country I did not even claim. I still thought of myself as a fugitive from France; a man with no country, other than my adopted Comancheria. True, I had served the U.S. Army as a spy, scout, and courier in the Mexican War. True, I had ties to New Mexico, which had remained loyal to the Union, and, yes, she was being invaded by an enemy. Still, I did not consider myself a legal citizen and would never have thought of voting.
I did not go once again to war in pursuit of some lofty ideal or glorious call to sacrifice. I went because Kit Carson was my friend and he had called for my help. Time was, I had called for Kit's aid, and he had come. The moment to settle up had arrived. Kit must have known this when he dictated the letter. Why else would he appeal to my friendship, then add that personal postscript about his new son. He may as well have written,
You must come help me protect my wife and children from the invaders.
My honeymoon was over. I left the trading at Adobe Walls to John Prowers. Westerly would return to Boggsville with Amache and John. Westerly understood. A Cheyenne woman took pride in a husband who rode away to seek honors in battle. Our last night together was at once sad and wonderful. She drifted away in my arms, but I could not sleep. I held her, and thought about the beautiful warmth of her body. In the middle of the night she rolled away from me. I touched her hair so as not to wake her, and took my leave. In the moonlight that poured in through the vent hole of the lodge, I wrote a love letter to her in Spanish, saying I would miss her, but that I would
think of her every day while I was away, and then return to her embrace as soon as I could.
I cinched my Mexican saddle on a good horse and rode for Fort Craig.
I
caught up to Kit in Albuquerque, New Mexico, awaiting orders for his volunteers to march south to repel the Texans. A soldier pointed out his adobe house to me, and I rode wearily after the grueling miles from Adobe Walls to meet with my old friend. Approaching his house, I saw Kit burst out through the front door with a Navaho blanket over his shoulders. A bunch of children came clambering after him, tugging at his sleeves and coattails, giggling and squealing with joy. There were seven of them. Four were his own, and the other three were either playmates of the Carson children, or orphans Kit and Josepha had adopted. They ranged in age from ten to two. Josepha came outside after them, holding her baby in her arms, her face beaming with joy at having Kit home for a while. Some eighteen years younger than Kit, Josepha still appeared the radiant young Spanish beauty who had stood loyally by her husband for over a decade and a half.
I reined in my pony to watch, as Kit took the blanket from his shoulders and spread it on the dusty ground. Now he made his children line up along one edge of the blanket and stand at attention like soldiers. Kit lay down on the blanket, his children staring down at him, anxious and excited.
“Listo …”
he said, telling them to get ready in Spanish. “Go!”
The children pounced on their father like vultures on a corpse and began rifling through the pockets of his coat and his trousers, as Josepha laughed and Kit groaned in fake agony. The children mined all manner of Christmas candy, trinkets,
and toys from Kit's pockets, giggling with delight as they found their surprises. Finally, they withdrew from the field of conquest, comparing their winnings—except for five-year-old Christopher, who straddled Kit's torso as if he were a horse, and tasted a peppermint candy cane.
Kit sat up and hugged the little boy, smiling even as he winced against the pain in his troublesome left shoulder. The boy ran away to play with his siblings, and Kit laboriously rose from the blanket, rubbing the shoulder that galled him so these days. He happened to look my way about that time, and his eyes grew large with surprise as he recognized me astride my mount.
“Chepita!” he said to his wife, for that is what he always called her. He pointed at me.
“Mira!”
Josepha gasped with joy and handed the baby to Kit. She ran from the front door to greet me, wrapping the rebozo tighter around her shoulders against the December chill. I dismounted and led my horse toward her. We were like brother and sister, and her embrace melted the miles of cold camps lingering in my bones.
Josepha led me by the hand toward the house. Kit had his eldest son, William, take my horse away. Putting their arms around my shoulders, one to each side, the couple beamed at me and led me to the door, the younger children trailing behind. “Kid, there will be no talk of war today,” Colonel Carson ordered. “This is Christmas. You'll feast with us and rest your carcass.”
They began lavishing me with a variety of leftover victuals, and we talked about friends, but as promised, we made no mention of war. After young William Carson came back from caring for my horse, Kit whispered something to him and sent him outside again on some mission. It was an hour or so later that the boy showed up, and with him two familiar faces entered the little adobe serving as the Carsons' temporary home. The first face belonged to my old friend Blue Wiggins. The second I scarcely recognized, for the boyish visage of Toribio Trevino—the former captive whom I had ransomed from the Comanches years before—had grown into young manhood.
“Hola, Mucho,”
he said. Short for my Comanche name, Mucho Hombre—Plenty Man. There were more handshakes and
abrazos
among us than we could notch on a tally stick, and
we spent the rest of the day telling one another of our travels and exploits. Blue had been back to California several times and had given up gambling. He had bought some land and was trying to make a living farming and raising stock. Toribio's people had never been located in Mexico, so he had continued to live on Lucien Maxwell's ranch and had become a skilled vaquero in recent years. Both Blue and Toribio had joined Kit's company of New Mexico Volunteers. I told of my wanderings among the Indians, but we still refrained from war talk at Kit's insistence.
“There's another old acquaintance of ours among the volunteers,” Blue said.
“Who's that?” I asked.
“That gambler. Luther Sheffield. He's with Pino's company—the Second New Mexico.”
My mouth dropped. “Does he remember you?”
“I'll say he does. Pulled a gun on me the instant he saw me.”
Kit chuckled. “You boys should know better than to make enemies of gamblers and the like. There's nothin' like a good game of seven-up with your friends, but you all should know to stay out of them gamblin' dens.”
“Yes, sir,” I said to Kit, then turned back to Blue. “How did you keep from getting shot?”
“I was with a bunch of our boys, and when Sheffield pulled the pistol, they jumped on him and took it away from him. He was pretty riled. Said he'd kill me sure before it was all over.”
“I don't guess he'll be too happy to see me, either, will he?”
“Your name came up. John Hatcher's, too. Luther's got a good memory.”
“Where is John Hatcher these days?”
“He tried to make a farm out of some land out on the Rayado. Got a corn crop in, but a grizzly bear come through in the night and ate just about his whole field. Stomped down what he didn't eat. So John built him a platform out in the cornfield and slept up there every night till that griz come back. Shot him dead. Big ol' boar. After that, John took bear huntin' fever and went on the warpath for griz. Claimed he'd rid the whole territory of 'em.”
I could just see old John Hatcher out there in the mountains,
checking tracks and claw marks on the aspens. It was well in my heart that he had not ended a farmer.
 
 
THE NEXT DAY, Kit, Blue, and I took a stroll down to the camps to look over the Union troops. Colonel Carson, of course, was immensely popular among the soldiers of the First New Mexico Volunteers, which he commanded, and they virtually mobbed him as he made his unannounced inspection of the camp. Blue and I finally had to break away and continue our observations on our own.
Blue and I had always had a knack for getting ourselves into trouble when together, and we wandered into the camp of the Second New Mexico Volunteers. Both of us knew very well that Luther Sheffield had been elected a lieutenant in this regiment, and that we were quite likely to run into him, and we did.
We saw him carrying an armful of clothing to the laundry tubs situated downhill from camp.
“I'll be damn,” Blue said. “There's Luther.”
“Looks like he's unarmed.”
“Not likely.”
“He sure has changed,” I said. “He doesn't look like much of a dandy gambler now.”
“I think he's seen some hard times. I heard he lost that gaming parlor of his in Santa Fe a long time ago.”
“Let's go talk to him,” I suggested.
“Huh?”
“Maybe we can smooth things over.”
Blue shrugged, and went along. “Not likely.”
We approached Luther Sheffield as he sorted his clothing on a rude wooden table next to a collection of leaky wooden washtubs, and a metal caldron suspended over a bank of coals.
“Hello, Lieutenant Sheffield,” I said, still ten steps away.
Sheffield looked quickly my way, hawklike and suspicious. The years had drawn his facial features tight around his cheeks and jaw. The elegant gambler I had outsmarted years ago was gone. The hands that had once expertly palmed cards now fumbled with soiled uniforms. I saw the gleam of recognition
flare in his eyes, and he reached for the pocket of his trousers, where he probably still carried that little revolver. I was wearing my Colt in a holster, and that alone stopped Lieutenant Luther Sheffield from pulling his gun on me, for he knew I would get to mine first.
“Just like you two bastards to gang up on me again.”
“We don't want no trouble.”
“That's what you said the night you ruined me.”
“Who ruined who first?” Blue said.
“Nobody made you sit down at my table.”
“Nobody turned me away when I came to win my money back.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said. “In games of chance somebody has to win, and somebody has to lose. That's been years ago, and we're on the same side now.”
“You're not on my side, Greenwood. You ruined me. My luck went bad the night you walked out of my gambling parlor. You leave a trail of that goddamn Indian medicine everywhere you go. I couldn't win enough in poker to keep my head out of water after you left. You busted me back to a whiskey peddler and a pimp.”
“I didn't do any such thing, Luther. I helped a friend win some money back. I used the same kind of tricks you used.”
A tiny, shriveled old woman was walking up behind Sheffield, lugging two buckets of water. She had a hand-rolled corn-husk cigarette jutting from her mouth. The water buckets looked as though they weighed more than she did, and I felt sorry for her, but I couldn't help her and keep an eye on Luther all at once.
“You don't know a goddamn thing about my tricks, and you never will, you amateur. No professional would ever enter a colleague's own gambling den and fleece him with the kind of rude cheating you used. There's a code among professionals, and you broke it.”
“I'm not a professional gambler,” I said.
“You're a dead man, is what you are.”
“Now, hold on—” Blue said.
I silenced Blue with a wave of my hand. I knew I was in no
danger from Sheffield at the moment, but the rage was building in his eyes and I could tell he meant to kill me at his first opportunity.
The old laundry wench had come up to the tubs with her buckets of water. Her hair, streaked gray and black, was hanging in her face. She poured the water from the buckets into the caldron, and stooped to throw another stick or two of wood on the fire under the caldron. From the glance I risked at her, she struck me as witchlike.
“Cup of black coffee,” Sheffield said, shaking his head. “What a low grade of trickery. When that little whore who helped you fessed up about that coffee she kept bringing you, I gave her a beating she'd never forget. And every blow had your conscience on it, Greenwood.”
Now the old hag at the laundry fire paused in her toil, whipped her hair out of her face, and looked at me and Blue with beady black eyes. I scarcely recognized her.
“Isn't that right, Rosa,
my love
?” Luther Sheffield gestured toward her as if he were an actor in a play.
I could not believe it was her. The young Latin sprite I had once known had aged three years for every one. She took the half-smoked cigarette from her wrinkled lips and gave me a sad little smile, then shot a glare at Sheffield.
“I am too busy for your
shit,
” she said.
“Busy, busy, busy,” Sheffield said in a singsong voice. “Washing all day, whoring all night. You made her a slut and me a pimp, Greenwood. I'm not proud of it, but how else is a man supposed to make a living when his gambling luck's been tainted? At least a pimp can get elected lieutenant in the volunteers.”
Rosa refused to take another look at any of us. I felt sick to my stomach, and I could see the same look of self-disgust on Blue's face when I glanced at him. I wanted to argue with Sheffield. I wanted to convince him that he had chosen his own path in life and that he had no right to blame me for his misfortune. The truth was that I would have to convince myself, first. In the end, all Blue and I could do was to back away until we were out of range of the pocket revolver we suspected Luther Sheffield carried in his pants.
“You'd better watch your back in the heat of battle!” was the
last thing Sheffield shouted as we turned away from the pimp and the whore we had created.
 
 
THREE DAYS LATER, Kit sent me south with dispatches for Colonel Canby, at Fort Craig. Canby sent me farther south to look for the Confederates, who were supposed to be marching from San Antonio by way of El Paso del Norte. All this involved days of hard riding, which led me to the Confederates in camp at Fort Bliss. I knew better than to get captured by Confederate scouts, so I watched from safe distances, covering my tracks and sneaking around at night, Indian style, when I moved. I estimated the strength of the Confederate brigade at two thousand, five hundred men. With optics supplied by Colonel Canby, I spotted General Sibley, himself, and his second in command, Colonel Thomas Green.
The most peculiar discovery I made was a company of lancers. Yes, lancers! The lances seemed to be all of sixteen feet long, each with a fluttering red pennant, triangular in shape, and a steel blade that glinted in the sunshine. Each steel blade seemed a foot long. There were fifty-two of these Confederate lancers attached to the Fifth Texas Cavalry.

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