Hard Country (39 page)

“Very savvy,” Judge Fall said as he stood. “I’m due in court, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to make all the necessary arrangements. Good day.”

Fall left, and Ascarate pushed back his chair. “Come, let’s get you sworn in.”

* * *

A
fter meeting with the men who’d scoured the Tularosa for Fountain and his son, Cal left Las Cruces the following morning headed for Lincoln. He’d read all the reports turned in by the posses that had searched for Colonel Fountain, including the discovery of the ambush site, the tracking of the bushwhackers east toward the Sacramento Mountains, and finding the buckboard and one of the harness horses abandoned in the desert.

He’d carefully studied the evidence Fountain had used to present his indictments against Oliver Lee and his partners, William McNew and Jim Gilliland, and found it compelling. He thumbed through stock-thieving warrants filed by Texas Rangers against Lee and his companions and found them equally persuasive.

Fountain had been attacked by three riders at the eastern foot of Chalk Hill. Saturnino Barela, the stage driver, had seen three unidentified men following Fountain at a distance when he stopped to talk to the colonel. And the Apache scout who had followed the killers’ tracks from Chalk Hill lost them a mere three miles from Oliver Lee’s Dog Canyon ranch, where a herd of cattle had been driven across the tracks, obliterating all sign, a questionable coincidence.

At the eastern foot of Chalk Hill, Cal stopped to look over the spot where the colonel and Henry Fountain had been attacked. As he expected, all traces of the incident had disappeared, blown away by wind and covered by sand. The leader of the posse that came upon the scene had reported finding a pool of blood and the tracks of the three killers, along with two powder-burned coins and a bloody handkerchief.

Cal thought on all of that for a spell. Dried blood had been found on the seat of the buckboard, so Fountain most likely was shot while driving. Putting it together, Cal reckoned Fountain died on the spot and the killers had quickly moved the wagon off the road and out of sight. He imagined a terrified young Henry clutching the coins left over from the money his father had given him to buy some candy. He pictured a momentarily remorseful killer wiping blood off the boy’s face with the handkerchief after he’d been shot dead.

Even if the killers had worn masks to hide their identities or were strangers in the territory, Henry had seen too much to live. Any eight-year-old worth his salt could describe the ponies, recognize a brand, remember what the killers wore, or recall a distinctive saddle or a fancy long gun or six-shooter.

In Tularosa, on the day Cal had run into Fountain and his son in the general store, he’d glanced at their buckboard. On the seat was a lap robe with dogs’ heads on it, surely belonging to Henry, and a handmade quilt. Neither the lap robe nor the quilt had been recovered. Cal figured the killers had wrapped Henry’s body in the robe and the colonel’s in the quilt. Then they lashed the boy’s body to the pony, put Fountain’s body in the buckboard, and rode away, with one of the murderers driving the wagon. Maybe one of the killers had simply used the handkerchief to wipe blood off his hands. The attack had been a cold-blooded deed, premeditated, not a crime of passion.

Cal moved on, wondering why only one harness horse had been found near the abandoned buckboard. Had the killers also lashed Fountain’s body to one of the horses? If so, did the trio separate sometime after the tracks were erased, with two killers taking the victims one way, while the third man drove the wagon in the opposite direction to throw off anyone who might follow?

That could explain why only one horse had been corralled near the buckboard and why the other animals hadn’t been found yet. Maybe they had been disposed of along with their gruesome cargo.

For the time being, Cal figured focusing only on Oliver Lee and his boys would simply stir up more unrest. Best to first see if witnesses could identify any other likely suspects during the colonel’s fateful journey.

He pushed on until he raised up La Luz, where he spoke with Dave Sutherland, who’d hosted Fountain and Henry the night before they disappeared. Sutherland said he’d talked politics with his old friend, but there had been no mention of any worries on Fountain’s part about being followed by riders.

Cal stood with Sutherland on his front porch and asked if there were any suspicious characters or strangers around in the village during Fountain’s overnight visit.

Sutherland shook his head. “There was nobody like that,” he said. “You know, I believe Albert and Henry would be alive today if Miss Fannie Stevenson hadn’t changed her mind about riding to Las Cruces with Albert because of the bad weather.”

“Or maybe she’d be dead too,” Cal said. “Is Miss Stevenson in town?”

“Yep, she’s at her place up the road a small piece on the right,” Sutherland replied. “Doing poorly. She has weak lungs. Look for the picket fence.”

Cal thanked Sutherland, made his way to Fannie Stevenson’s cottage, and knocked on the door. A tiny, frail woman in her middle years who looked liked a stiff breeze could easily bowl her over opened the door. After he introduced himself and stated his business, Miss Stevenson invited him in.

“Tragic, simply tragic,” she said when Cal mentioned the Fountains’ disappearance again. She sat primly on a fancy cushioned sofa with a high stuffed back. An oval cast-iron mirror hung on the wall behind her.

“On the day the colonel and Henry left for Las Cruces, you decided not to travel with them,” Cal said.

“Yes, that morning the weather was terrible.” She put a hand to her chest. “I walked down to Mr. Sutherland’s to tell Colonel Fountain I’d changed my mind about going, and my lungs burned the whole way. They would have certainly failed me in the cold during such a long trip.”

“Did you see any strangers on your walk?”

“Yes, one man I didn’t recognize,” Fanny replied. “He was red faced and had a full beard. He was on horseback, leading a pack animal.”

“Heading in what direction?”

Fannie coughed politely into a lace handkerchief. “West, out of town.”

“Did he wear an eye patch?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you see anyone else you didn’t know?” Cal asked.

“No. You must catch the men responsible for these terrible crimes, Deputy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cal replied. “I’m obliged for your time, Miss Fannie.”

“Come visit any time,” Miss Fannie said wistfully.

Outside, he mounted Bandit and thought about the red-faced bearded man Miss Fannie had seen that morning. He’d been traveling west—the same direction the colonel and his son would take on their journey home. One-Eye Bill Carr, an Oliver Lee saddle partner, fit her description almost perfectly.

He stopped at Meyer’s store and asked if the colonel had come in before leaving La Luz.

“He sure did,” Meyer replied. “Came in early with his son, who had a sweet tooth. His pa gave him a quarter to buy some candy. He made a ten-cent purchase and tucked his change in the corner of his handkerchief.”

A nickel and a dime, change for a quarter, had been found at the foot of Chalk Hill, along with a bloody handkerchief. Now he knew that the handkerchief belonged to Henry, he could probably forget his speculations about how blood came to be on it.

“Did the colonel say anything about being shadowed by riders?” he asked.

Meyer shook his head. “All he said was he was anxious to get home.”

“Did you see Bill Carr in town around the same time? Or somebody who looks like him?”

“I sure didn’t.”

“Thank you kindly,” Cal said.

He bought a tin of canned peaches and rode to the livery, where he fed his pony some oats and turned it out in the corral. He talked to the owner and asked if he saw any strangers the night Fountain and his son had stayed with Sutherland.

“Two riders trailing a packhorse stopped for water and feed, but they moved on before nightfall,” the man answered.

“Did you know them?”

“Strangers, like you said.”

“Not Bill Carr?” Cal asked.

“I know One-Eye Bill, and it weren’t him,” the man replied, “although folks might have mistaken him to be Bill with the same beard and all. About the same height too. Both men had beards.”

“What about their ponies?”

“A red chestnut and a brown. Pack animal was a flea-bitten gray.”

Cal thanked the man, paid for stabling his pony and a place to rest his head, broke out the biscuits and jerky he’d purchased in Las Cruces, and finished his cold meal with the canned peaches for dessert. He put Bandit in a stall and settled down for the night on a bed of straw with a soft wind whistling through the cracks in the stable walls. He fell asleep quickly, but not until the thought of young Henry Fountain gunned down so heartlessly cleared from his mind.

* * *

I
n Tularosa the following morning, Cal talked to Adam Dieter, the proprietor of the general store where he’d met the Fountains on the day they had passed through town.

“I invited them to stay for a meal,” Dieter said, “but Colonel Fountain wanted to push on to La Luz. Besides the hard candy for Henry, he bought some horse feed, forty pounds of oats.”

“Did he talk about being followed on the road from Lincoln?” Cal asked.

“Nope,” Dieter replied. “But you should talk to Saturnino Barela, the stage driver.”

“I already have. Did you see Bill Carr on the day Colonel Fountain and his boy were here?”

Dieter shook his head. “I haven’t seen Bill or any of Mr. Lee’s associates for a while.”

Before Cal could take his leave, Dieter’s missus stepped over to ask how Emma liked the dresses he’d bought her.

“Just fine,” Cal replied, suddenly remembering his promise to get Emma the pants she wanted. He pulled out the piece of paper with the sizes on it and gave it to Mrs. Dieter. “She’d like some pants now, ma’am.”

“We have what she needs right over here,” she said.

Within ten minutes, he was at Ignacio’s house carrying a package for Emma. He spied Ignacio plowing a nearby field by the river, gave a shout, and rode over through the rich, dark, moist soil.

“Isn’t it early to be planting?” Cal asked.

“Plowing and planting are two different things,” Ignacio said with a laugh. “Better you stick to ranching, my amigo, and leave farming to me. You’re wearing a badge again. Why is that?”

“The Fountain murders.”

Ignacio’s smile faded. “Have the bodies been found?”

Cal shook his head. “I doubt they ever will be.” He held out the package. “If I leave this at the casa, can you get it out to Emma at the ranch?”

“More clothes?” Ignacio asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep, but this time she paid for them, so don’t give me that look.”

Ignacio raised a hand in mock surrender. “Okay. Teresa has been asking me to take her to the ranch to visit Emma. We should do it now before winter is gone. This week or next maybe.”

“I’m obliged.”

“How is Patrick doing with his courting?”

“He’s moved in with Emma.”

“Madre de Dios,” Ignacio said, crossing himself and grinning. “A miracle.”

“Well, it sure has seemed to improve his disposition,” Cal said, “so I guess that’s something of a miracle.”

Ignacio chuckled. “Come, Teresa will want to hear all the news. I will leave this stubborn mule stuck here in the mud and we will go eat.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Cal replied.

40

F
illed up with good food and pleasant talk, Cal rode at a leisurely pace to Blazer’s Mill, located on the south fork of the Tularosa River. Surrounded by the Mescalero Apache Reservation, it was the home of Dr. Joseph Blazer, a former dentist and a friend of Albert Fountain. The tiny settlement, tucked in a narrow valley, consisted of Blazer’s two-story house, a smaller residence, a sawmill and gristmill along the ten-foot-wide river, a general store, and some barns and corrals. Once there had been a post office, but it had been moved to the Indian agent’s headquarters in the Mescalero village down the road a piece.

It was here John Kerney had bought the milled lumber to build the barn he planned to raise, only to die carting it home.

Cal reined in at Blazer’s adobe house next to a saddled pony hitched to the post. The house had a cupola on top of the second story that looked over the sawmill and gristmill two hundred feet downstream. Blazer stepped out to greet him before he could dismount. An old-timer who’d come to the territory soon after the War Between the States, Blazer was in his late sixties. He had a full white beard, white hair, and a long face with narrow eyes.

Doc Blazer had been a witness to one of the most famous gunfights of the Lincoln County War: a shootout in which Billy the Kid and the Regulators traded lead with Buckshot Roberts at the gristmill. The fight had left a Regulator dead and Roberts mortally wounded.

“Cal Doran,” Doc Blazer said genially. “Light and set a spell. There’s fresh coffee on the stove.”

“Now, that’s a remedy I could use on this bone-chilling day,” Cal said as he eased out of the saddle.

Doc Blazer ushered him into the kitchen, where James Kaytennae sat at the table with his hat pushed back, feet crossed, and a biscuit in his hand, completely at ease. A tribal police officer badge was pinned to his shirt. He nodded a wordless greeting.

“I thought you’d given up on the police,” Cal said as he shucked his coat.

“I tried,” James answered, eyeing the tin star on Cal’s shirt, “but Lieutenant Stottler says I track too good and speak too good white-eyes lingo to go back to being a camp Indian. Seems you the same.”

Cal nodded. “Yep, I got drafted into keeping the peace again. I’ve been hankering to hear about the Apache who gave Henry Fountain that pony. What can you tell me?”

“He went to live at White Tail. Somebody said the colonel had long time done a favor for the old man; that’s why he gave the pony.”

Cal waited for Kaytennae to say more, but he ate another biscuit instead.

“I wonder if the old man saw any strangers following Fountain,” Cal said.