Springfield 1880 Read online

  Unlike Mariscos, this place was empty tonight. The owner and bartender, Juan Gomez, stood at the bar. The gringo with the thick gray beard and battered gray hat sat sipping coffee. Soledad Tadeo turned sharply and looked through the window, her back against the wall so the invaders could not see that she was staring at them.

  She was, and she knew it, a beautiful woman. Bronzed skin and long to her waist raven-like hair so dark it shined. Her eyes were darker, but they never shined. She wore a tight-fitting muslin dress, a red sash around her slim waist, nothing covering her legs from her knees to where the moccasins slipped over her feet and came up to her ankles. She was twenty-one years old.

  “Freighters, miners, or bandits?” the old gringo asked and sipped more coffee.

  “Yo no se,” she answered then switched to English. “Their mules and one horse say that they are soldados norteamericanos.”

  The man set the tin mug on the table.

  “You sure?”

  “Sí,” she replied.

  Silently, the old man rose from his chair. He checked the Colt holstered on his hip, pushed back his old hat, and let his bowlegs carry him to the other side of the window. His boots—big, tall, heavy—made no sound as he moved across the floor. He looked like a bear. He moved like a bird.

  When his back was to the wall, he, too, spied on the street as Soledad Tadeo did.

  She saw what he saw. Four wagons led by mismatched, worn-out mules. Most of the men had gone into Mariscos where they would fill themselves on frijoles, cerveza, and tequila. Six men, however, remained with the wagons. No, she realized, eight. One stood in the corner where he would have a good view of the road that crossed the border. But if he did not stop smoking his cigarette, whoever might be following them would see him first. The other had climbed into the bell tower of the church. She would not have spotted him had the moon not picked that moment to show itself from behind a cloud.

  “Eight outside,” the old man said. “How many inside?”

  She studied the old man again. He was good. Very good. His hair said he was old, but his eyes were that of a much younger man, which might explain why he was something else. He was alive.

  “Six.”

  That told her something else. They were protecting what they hauled in the wagons. “Those are Army wagons. Can’t read the brands from here on the mules.”

  He looked across the window at her.

  “You saw what those Studebakers are hauling.” It was not a question, but he was waiting for an answer, and his eyes were as intense as her own.

  “Canvas covered them, but they are boxes. Crates.”

  “What did the men look like?”

  “They were pigs.” She reconsidered. “Except one.” She nodded toward the hitching rail. “The one who rode that horse.”

  The old man looked outside again. His face changed.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Long hair the color of ripened corn. Mustache. Beard on his face, but the mustache will stay after he shaves. He looks young but may be older. Buckskin jacket. Buckskin gloves.” She would not let the old man know that she thought him handsome, dashing, so she added, “But he is no Amonte Negro.”

  “No.” The old man looked older now, worn out. Tired. “I reckon he ain’t.” He fished a coin from his vest pocket and tossed it to her. “Gracias.” As he walked past the table, he dropped more change beside his coffee and nodded at José.

  She heard him mutter a soft curse as he moved toward the back door.

  Then he was gone, leaving Soledad Tadeo holding a double eagle and feeling . . . rare for her . . . confused.

  CHAPTER 10

  Captain Jed Foster leaned against the bar. Without even having to ask, the Mexican bartender with the greasy black mustache poured tequila into a glass he slammed on the plank bar.

  Foster gave a weary grin.

  “That glass is dirty.”

  Without looking, the bartender said with a heavy accent, “Not anymore.”

  That made Foster laugh, and he lifted the glass, holding it up in a toast to the bartender’s humor and hard attitude against gringos. Even in a town like Rancho Los Cielos, if anyone actually called it a town, gringos often stopped here, leaving the American law fuming on the other side of the international boundary.

  His good mood did not last very long. Almost as soon as the bartender and his petite little helper in a tight-fitting dress had served all of Foster’s men, the doors banged open and in walked six Mexican hard-cases. Foster saw two others outside, standing in front of the one window to Mariscos. He did not think these men came for seafood, either.

  He recognized the one who stopped about fifteen paces in front of him with two others stepping a little behind him and to either side. He wore russet-colored boots, blue denim britches with two percussion revolvers low on both hips. His shirt was red velvet, and bandoliers of ammunition hung in pairs across his chest for the heavy rifle he held in both hands. His kepi, most likely, had been a trophy from the Rurale he had killed to get it. His eyes were as black as his teeth.

  “Amigo,” the bandit said, “you are a man of your word. You brought the rifles and ammunition you promised. You have helped our revolution with your generosity.”

  Holding the glass of tequila in his left hand, Foster raised it in salute. He grinned again, amused at the thought that anyone would consider this lieutenant’s leader, Amonte Negro, a revolutionary. Negro was no George Washington, not even a Benito Juarez, but a cutthroat and killer.

  “I told Amonte Negro that the rifles, bayonets, and ammunition would go to the highest bidder,” Foster said. “I told him, and you, when and where my auction would take place.”

  The man’s big head nodded. “We decided that you would take our offer . . . tonight.” He smiled his dark smile. “Why waste time?”

  Foster finished the tequila, and put the glass on the plank.

  “I think you’ve decided that Amonte Negro doesn’t need those wagons. You’d like them for yourself.”

  The man answered with a shrug.

  “I like a man who shows enterprise,” Foster said.

  “We will take the wagons,” the bandit said.

  “How much will you pay?”

  “We might let you live.”

  Foster’s smile widened. “Take the wagons then.”

  That surprised the cutthroat.

  “The mules are all but done in. Probably couldn’t carry even an empty wagon back to the border . . . which is what you’d be buying, amigo. Empty wagons.” Foster stepped away from the bar. “Do you think we’d be foolish enough to bring the Springfields, bayonets, and ammunition to a miserable town like this?”

  The Mexican bandit spun, shouting at the two men he had left outside, “Buscar en los vagones,” and suddenly realized his mistake. Swinging back toward Foster, he tried to bring the barrel of his rifle up, but the revolver was already in Foster’s right hand, and the last thing the leader saw was the fire and smoke that belched out of Foster’s Colt.

  Keeping his legs spread wide part, Foster did not move anything but his head and right arm. He always figured that men who moved were those who died. Stand your ground. That was something else George Custer had told him during the war. If a bullet or shell is meant for you, no matter how you duck, dip, dance, or dive, you will still just die. Besides, it’s hard to hit a target when you’re moving. Be still. Focus. Don’t blink. Don’t worry. Don’t hesitate.

  He bent his wrist to the right, thumbed back the hammer and shot the man who had been standing to the now dead bandit’s left . . . shot him in the throat.

  Too high, Foster thought as blood spurted and the man left his feet and landed on a table, overturning it, and rolling to the floor, leaving a trail of crimson behind him.

  Straightening his wrist, Foster brought the Colt to his left and fired again. That bullet hit the outlaw to the dead leader’s right . . . in the gut. The man spun around, dropping his old pistol, clutching his belly, and dropping to his knees. The dying man tried to lift one of his hands to make the sign of the cross, but Foster put a bullet in the man’s back, shattering his spine. He collapsed in a heap, groaned, coughed, shuddered, and lay still.

  Foster’s gunshots were echoed by his own men as they cut loose on the men who’d come to steal their wagons. Glass shattered from the window, which was broken in two places before they had even ridden into town. The barmaid was on her knees, clutching a bottle of mescal, eyes tightly closed as she grimaced. The bartender, frozen in shock, stood against what passed for a back bar in a hellhole like Rancho Los Cielos.

  Foster decided that his men could handle the pathetic, two-bit thieves, so he began shucking the empty casings from his Colt and reloading as he moved back to the bar. He found the bottle the bartender had left, studied his glass, and used the clear liquid to rinse out dirt. He added two fingers of the rotgut, laid the Colt on the table, and sipped.

  The men he had hired had done a poor job at the ambush near Dos Cabezas, but they’d learned quickly—most of the Mexican bandits were dead. Some of the boys were busting out into the streets to find and kill any more bandits who had ridden up to Mariscos to steal the wagons.

  Foster glanced through the shattered window. He could see the four wagons and knew that he had lied about those wagons being empty. Eventually, they would move the guns, but there had not been any time to do that chore yet.

  He saw one badly shot-up bandit crawling on the floor near the bar.

  Foster picked up his Colt, aimed, and shot the man in the head. Then returned to his tequila.

  When everything had quieted down, he reloaded his Colt again, holstered it, and nodded to the man who called himself Cossey.

  “You and the boys take whatever you want off th
ese fellows, not that it’ll amount to much, then strap them on to their horses. Fire a couple shots, and the horses, most likely, will take these fools back to Amonte Negro’s camp . . . if this was Negro’s idea. Then I guess we can ride out of here and put these wagons in a safe place. Help yourself to some tequila for the trip.”

  He looked at the bartender, still frozen in terror, and dropped a few greenbacks on the plank. He nodded at the girl on the floor, but with her eyes open, and tossed a half-eagle in her direction.

  “Custer’s luck,” he said with a smile. “Foster’s luck.” He reached inside his buckskin jacket and pulled out his papers.

  That’s when he saw the ripped piece of paper. That’s when he had a bit of a scare that Foster’s luck might be running out.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Lieutenant Holden?” The voice sounded respectful and came after a soft tapping on the door.

  Grat Holden folded the piece of paper he had pulled out of Captain Jed Foster’s uniform and slid it into his pants pocket.

  “Yes?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’ve been ordered by Colonel Smythe to escort you to headquarters.”

  Holden sat up, considered that, and rose from the bed. He never cared much for spending all day lying around in bed anyway. “I’ll be right there.” He pulled on his tunic, found his hat, and went to the door.

  Lieutenant? Knocking on the door? Even a “Begging your pardon, sir?” Something was up. Something had changed.

  * * *

  “Grat Holden,” Colonel Smythe said with no hesitation, and nodded at the gray-haired, lean man in Mexican denim trousers, Apache-style moccasins, a calico shirt, tan vest, and gray hat. “This is Sam Florence.”

  Holden straightened. He had heard a lot of stories about Sam Florence, one of the best scouts in Arizona Territory, a man who had known Cochise, Mangas Coloradas, and even Geronimo, not to mention old Crooked Nose himself. So . . . Florence didn’t stand seven-feet tall and he didn’t look like Hercules.

  Still, Holden bet the old man could handle just about anything thrown his way. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Florence.”

  The man ignored the comment. “This the bub who lost the wagons?”

  Holden felt his shoulders slump.

  “Yes. Now do you mind telling me what this is all about, Sam?”

  “From what I hear,” the old man said, “you say that Captain Foster, Captain Jed Foster, winner of the Medal of Honor, rode up to you near Dos Cabezas. Then he whacked you on the head with his pistol just as bandits started firing at the wagons, and the troopers in them.”

  “That’s what I say.”

  “Which is preposterous,” Smythe chimed in.

  “Shut up, Colonel,” Sam Florence said, and Carlton Smythe obeyed with meek resignation.

  “You were knocked out?”

  “I came to,” Holden said. “Twice, I think. I know at least once I got into a bit of a scrap, but Foster hit me again. Then I woke up. That’s about it. Passed out. Next time I woke up I was in handcuffs in the back of a wagon returning here.”

  The old man nodded.

  “You’d swear that to my face.”

  “I’m waiting for a chance to swear it before a court-martial.”

  “Swear it to me. But know this. Jed Foster saved my life in the war.”

  Holden stared at the old man, trying to match the fierceness in his eyes. He said in a respectful voice, “As much as you may worship Captain Foster, and as much as I respected him before last week, I swear to you that Jed Foster led the ambush that left all nine men under my command dead. And I believe the only reason I was spared was so I would get the blame. I wish to God that it had been the other way around.”

  The only sound inside the colonel’s office was the ticking of the Regulator clock on the wall . . . until Colonel Carlton Smythe spoke again. “As I said, preposterous. Scandalous. I shall add slander to the charges for which we will drum you out of this man’s Army.”

  “Shut up, Colonel.” The old man’s shoulder’s sagged, and he moved to the settee in front of Smythe’s desk. Wearily, joints in his knees popping, he sat and hung his head. Finally, he removed his hat, laid it on the floor, and ran his fingers through his thick head of hair.

  At length, Sam Florence raised his head. “The kid ain’t lying, Colonel. I was across the border the other night. Just a little place west of Agua Prieta. Fourteen men rode up in the middle of the night . . . outriders and four wagons. Army wagons.”

  Smythe protested, “Lieutenant Meade is leading a scouting party, trying to find where the bandits took those wagons.”

  Florence shot back, “And when your Lieutenant Meade rides back here, he’ll tell you that they crossed the border into Mexico.”

  “You rode that far.” Smythe tried to sound respectful and astonished so he wouldn’t be told to shut up again.

  “Jed Foster was leading them, Colonel.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I saw his horse. The steel dust. A young revolutionary described him to a T.”

  “But . . .” Now it was Smythe who sank into his chair.

  “Have you alerted the Mexican government?”

  “Well . . . no . . . not . . .”

  Grat Holden decided to join the conversation. “Colonel, have you alerted General Willcox or anyone with the Department of Arizona?”

  “I hoped . . . well . . . if we can get . . . You see . . .”

  “Did you let anyone in Washington know?” Before Smythe could answer, Holden asked another question. “Or the Springfield Armory?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Colonel Carlton Smythe hemmed and hawed for a while, made his way to the cabinet against the wall where the American flag, a cavalry guidon, and a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hung, and found the decanter. After filling a snifter and refortifying himself with Napoleon brandy, he managed to say, “There’s no sense in passing blame around or wondering who knows what. The bottom line is that we must get those weapons back before they fall into the wrong hands.”

  “They’re already in the wrong hands,” Sam Florence said.

  “But maybe Captain Foster—” Smythe sighed, shook his head, finished the brandy but did not refill his glass, and walked back to his desk. He kept the glass with him, likely not realizing he had not left it on the cabinet. He set it down on the edge of the desk. “I cannot believe Jed Foster, a Medal of Honor winner . . .” He sighed again and sank into his chair. “Why? Why would he do it?”

  “Money.”

  Florence and the colonel turned to stare at Holden.

  After breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly, Holden tried to explain. “We all know Jed. He can be reckless. He loves to gamble. Horses. Cards. A shooting contest. He likes to be showy. He likes to dress to the nines. And he would rather be rich.”

  Florence nodded. “How many investments has he made that went south and took his pay with them?”

  After grunting and groaning, Colonel Smythe shook his head, “I just can’t believe Jed Foster would turn outlaw. No, not just turn outlaw but betray his very country.”

  “Greed changes a man, Colonel,” the old scout said.

  The lengthy silence that followed was broken by a solid tapping on the door.

  “Yes?” Smythe said with irritation, and the door opened.

  The sergeant major, a lean man, clean shaven, and well-tanned for a man who spent his days behind a desk, came in, holding a piece of paper in his left hand. “Beggin’ the colonel’s pardon, sir, but I have a message from the post commander at Camp Huachuca.”

  Smythe seemed even more irritated. “Can it wait, Sergeant? We’re busy here.”

  “I see that, sir.” The sergeant saw the snifter on Smythe’s desk. “I don’t know, sir. The message is being relayed to all forts and camps in Arizona and New Mexico. And”—he scratched the side of his face with his left hand—“It’s sorta . . . well . . . peculiar.”

  There came that sigh again, and that look on Colonel Smythe’s face. “All right, Sergeant. Read it. And skip all the pompom and crap that I don’t need to hear.”