The column of dust, kicked up by the oncoming wagon and its escort, hung like a pall of grey smoke in the morning air. Quinnell and Bob Wheeler made their way down the slope towards the hole which had been dug to receive the stoneware flasks. The other men positioned themselves so that they were quite out of sight of the men heading their way. There were four men positioned on either side of the rocks overlooking the road and their intention was to maintain a flanking fire; killing every member of the detachment as soon as possible after the nitro-glycerine had been detonated.
In addition to the Whitworth which Wheeler would use to set off the charge, two of the other men were also armed with the same weapon. It would be their job to take out the driver of the wagon, along with anybody else who survived the explosion. Those without Whitworths would just throw as much lead down into the defile as they could. It was of course absolutely vital that none of the troopers escaped and rode to Las Cruces to raise the alarm.
Even Wheeler, whose nerves were all but undetectable, felt a little uneasy at the speed with which Captain Quinnell sprinted down the slope, carrying the bottles of nitro; one in either hand. It would take only the slightest slip of his foot and there would be no putting matters right in this world. By God’s mercy, they gained the floor of the little valley without any mishap and the captain placed the two bottles carefully into the hole that they had earlier excavated. Although they were in a great hurry, neither Quinnell nor Wheeler just flung handfuls of dirt and stones into the hole containing the explosives. Instead, they very carefully packed damp soil around the bottles and then sprinkled dry earth around them; leaving only the corks visible above the surface of the roadway.
“You have enough to aim at?” asked Quinnell.
“The size of ball I’m using, it’ll be ‘nuff if’n I just hit nearby,” replied Wheeler, “Don’t fret, I ain’t about to miss.”
“Never thought it for a moment.”
The two men scrambled back up the rocks to join the other men on that side of the ravine. Five pounds of nitro makes a pretty sizeable explosion and they had all been sure to take up positions which would be far enough from the roadway that they weren’t likely to be injured by any stones sent in their direction when Bob Wheeler fired. None of the others would, in any case, be showing themselves above the rocks until the mine had been detonated. Only one man’s head needed to be peering down into the valley and that was the one who was actually going to trigger the massacre.
Everybody kept utterly still and quiet as the rattle of the wagon and steady drumming of the horses’ hooves could be heard more and more clearly. Only Bob Wheeler could actually see the little group of riders surrounding the wagon which they were guarding. Even so, he could see them just from the corner of his eye; he certainly had no intention of turning his head to the left to see the formation with greater clarity. He had seen operations spoiled in that way, when some alert man caught the faintest glimpse of movement up ahead and then the enemy scattered and took cover. All Wheeler’s attention was focused upon the tiny dot in the road below, which indicated where the bottles of nitro-glycerine had been buried.
It was a matter of the finest judgement. A fraction of a second too soon and only the front two riders might be incapacitated by the blast; a moment too late and the wagon itself and its precious load might be fearfully damaged. Through the telescope, Wheeler could see the cross hairs centred a little in front of the corks. With his left eye, he was aware of the little cavalcade coming ever closer. He gauged that the lead riders were ten feet or so in front of the corks when he took a deep breath, held it for a heartbeat and then squeezed the trigger.
The results of the shot surpassed all expectations. The roadway in front of the horses blew up like a volcano; killing the leading horses and their riders instantly. As they had guessed, there were four riders leading the wagon and two trailing a little way behind it. Before the echo of the blast had time to travel back and forth between the rocky strewn slopes which lines the defile, the other men had opened up on the survivors; every one of whom was killed in that first round of firing. Although as soon as he had set off the explosives, Wheeler had reloaded as swiftly as he was able, by the time he had done so and was sighting once again along the thin brass tube of the telescope; there were no living targets at which to aim. Two of the horses seemed to be uninjured, but that was all. Every one of the seven men who had entered the ravine a few seconds earlier, now lay dead.
Without delay, the whole band of Quinnell’s men went scooting down the slopes to the road. The captain shouted as they ran down, “Cartwright, get yourself in that cave and be ready to stack the rifles and ammunition. And take their side arms too, carbines and pistols. I dare say we can use them.”
“Aye aye, Captain!” Cartwright shouted back facetiously. They were all of them laughing gaily; relieved that the ambush had gone so smoothly, with no losses to their own side. It took half an hour to hide the armaments in the cramped cave and another ten minutes to disguise the opening with rocks and plants. There was no earthly reason to suppose that the Yankees, when they came, would be hunting for any hiding place. Most like, they would assume that the raiders had carried off the guns; somehow concealing their tracks very well. Once everything was done, they took a couple of thorny branches and swept the tracks away from the entrance to the cave. Then they did the same around the wagon. Once this had been done, all the men except Bob Wheeler retreated back up the slopes to where their horses had been tethered out of sight. Wheeler took a small flask of lamp oil from inside his jacket and sprinkled it liberally over the wagon. Then he struck a Lucifer and dropped it on the oil, which immediately flared up. Wheeler backed away quickly, brushing away his own tracks until he reached the rocky ground leading upwards. Then he darted off the road and dashed up the slope.
The wagon was blazing merrily; sending up clouds of grey-blue wood smoke. The two parties led their horses down through the hills until they reached level ground again. Then they trotted off along the road; their tracks mingling with those made earlier by the cavalry unit. When men were sent out from Las Cruces, probably later that same day, they would have a pretty riddle to read! Perhaps they would assume that Indians were responsible for the murder of the troopers and the theft of the rifles. One thing was for sure; they would be most unlikely to find the guns where they had been hidden by the side of the road. In forty eight hours, Captain Quinnell and his men could collect them and then make for the Rio Grande and their new life as soldiers of the Emperor Maximilian.
***
Once Colonel Lopez and his eleven companions landed on the far shore of the river, they became, in effect, spies; soldiers masquerading as civilians. By all the rules and usage of war, they would be liable to a drumhead court martial, followed by summary execution if caught. Their first aim was to make their way to a little place on the edge of New Mexico, called Pike‘s Landing, where, it was rumoured, gun runners were in the habit of meeting. Lopez and Carlos alone knew that this was a futile exercise and that whatever action they took against the transport of arms across the border, weapons would soon be flooding into El Paso and then handed over wholesale to Juarez and his supporters.
The colonel’s mind was torn between two impulses and he could not for the life of him decide which would prevail. He had promised Maximilian that he would come here and deal with the American gun runners and that is just what he was doing. Having pledged his word, he felt that whatever else he decided to do in the future, he at least owed the emperor this. After that; that was the question. He was, it seemed, a man in great demand. The Emperor Maximilian had as good as assured him that he would be given the command of the Imperial army, if he succeeded in this matter. Juarez too wanted him to lead the rebels who supported him. It is not often that a man is offered command of both sides in a war!
But the thing tormenting Lopez most was the plan which Juarez had explained to him; the Emperor Maximilian’s enterprise for ensuring that he remained on the throne forever and handed the rule of this country down to his descendents throughout the ages. Even if he had not trusted the word of the former president and known him for an honourable man, the story he told made sense and fitted in with a number of things which the colonel himself had been hearing in recent months.
In short, the idea was to turn Mexico into a European colony; like the one that Britain had created in India. Maximilian had invited any defeated Confederates to come and live in his country; offering them as an inducement, grants of land. These men would be so grateful, that they might very well be prepared to fight for the emperor against those who opposed his rule. This area of colonisation, which lay between Mexico City and Vera Cruz, had been named New Virginia and there the Confederates would be able to live pretty much as they had in the southern states before the recent war. The Indian peasants would play the part of the negroes and do all the backbreaking labour on the land.
More than this, Maximilian had apparently sent word to the countries of Europe, inviting emigrants to come to the country and begin “civilising” it. The aim was clear; to turn it into a nation of white Anglos like the United States. The Indians would be worked to death on plantations or herded into reservations, just as they were north of the Rio Grande. And if he, Miguel Lopez, took up the emperor’s offer of promotion to general, then he would presumably be in command of the troops who would enforce such a detestable policy.
The more he turned the matter over in his mind, the greater became Lopez’ determination that such a fate should never befall his beloved country. The only question was how best he would be able to thwart Maximilian’s designs; by fighting against him on the side of the rebels, or by commanding the imperial army. He would need to come to a firm decision about this before the time came for him to return to Mexico City and accept his promotion.
Once the boats were beached, it was a matter of some urgency to start marching north towards the New Mexico Territory. They first endeavoured to conceal the dingies. Each man had a pack and these were of varying sizes, shapes and colours. Anything in the least uniform was to be avoided at all costs. In this pack were stowed short carbines, which had had the barrel detached from the stock. Along with this, each man had also a pistol, flask of powder, box of caps and a dozen paper cartridges for their carbines, a canteen of water and iron rations. On top of the packs, every man had lashed an entrenching tool, short pick or spade. They looked just exactly like what they purported to be; that is to say itinerant miners who had crossed over to the United States in search of work. When the men were all assembled and their packs on their backs, Colonel Lopez addressed them.
“Men, we are heading north on a forced march. It will take us two days to reach the village for which we are heading. As some of you know, the Anglos are busying themselves in the affairs of our nation by smuggling arms across the border. We are to discourage them from this activity and perhaps make an example of one or two of them. Does anybody have any questions?”
Soldiers in the Imperial army of Mexico were not in general encouraged to query the orders of their superior officers and so nobody asked anything. Lopez had a few final words to say. “I do not wish to see anybody marching in step or behaving in any way like a soldier. You may slouch along as you will, talk, smoke, spit and generally behave like a band of peons, lately escaped from servitude. Is this clear?”
It was clear and the men rejoiced to discover that they could relax a little. This expedition promised to make a very pleasant change indeed from endless drilling and guard duty; which was the lot of the soldiers in the forts which lined the frontier.
***
Having wiped out the cavalry detachment and hidden the weapons which they had been after, it might perhaps have been thought that the members of Captain Quinnell’s group would now be happy to relax and take it easy for a few days at the farmhouse where they were living. Unfortunately, men of that type are happy enough when they are in action, but if they have no external enemy, then it is all too often the case that, like caged animals, they will turn upon each other.
It was Quinnell’s ruling that nobody should be seen outside the farmhouse for the forty eight hours after the massacre at San Angelo. His reasoning was that the army might be sniffing around the area and if they came across an isolated house containing a dozen men, it might invite inquiry. So apart from answering calls of nature, nobody left the farmhouse, once they got back from their action. By the afternoon of the next day, some of the men were getting restless and irritable. Maybe it was a mild form of cabin fever or some such, because these fellows were not really ones for reading and study. Indoor life did not suit them. There were one or two desultory games of poker to pass the time and it was in the course of one of these that the trouble flared.
The first anybody knew of it was when a shouted insult was heard from an upstairs room of the house. Most of the men were sitting in the kitchen, with its vast iron range and plentiful supply of coffee. There came an angry yell from overhead; “You lyin’ cowson. You never did get that hand by fair play.”
There was a noise of scuffling and then a piece of furniture was evidently overturned. The captain got to his feet and said, “I’ll deal with it.”
It would have been quite natural and less alarming if, as Quinnell made his way up the stairs, he could have heard the sound of a fist fight in progress. But he did not. The only sound was of low voices, hissing in fury. He went to the room above the kitchen and found Jack Cartwright and another man who was universally known, for some reason, as “Chips”, standing facing each other; their faces white with anger. “Now then,” said Quinnell cheerfully, “What’s all this about?”
“That bastard accused me of cheating,” said Chips, “Claimed as I’d palmed a knave, the hand before, and produced it to beat his pairs.”
Quinnell, who wasn’t much of a one for play at cards, said soothingly, “Well, well, I dare say there’s been some kind of mix-up. Why don’t you fellows just shake and then come downstairs and have a coffee?”
Cartwright said. “I’ll see that whore’s son in his grave, ‘fore I drink with him again.”
“Now there’s no call for talk like that…” began Quinnell, a little more firmly.
“See me in my grave, will you?” said Chips, in a low, dangerous voice, “I’d like to see you lay me there, boy!”
“You would? Why then, ain’t you the lucky one? You want to try conclusions with me? Fetch your iron and meet me out in the yard.”
Quinnell had the feeling that things were spiralling out of control. He said sharply, “Nobody’s going to start shooting outside. Are you both quite mad? The army have patrols all over, looking for hide or hair of the men who killed those troopers. You’ll bring them down on us like a duck on a June-bug. There’ll be no shooting outside and attracting attention to the house in that way.”
“Then we’ll fight in here,” said Jack Cartwright. Less’n this one’s too yellow.”
“Yellow, is it? You’ll see who’s yellow.”
Barnabas Quinnell had a good deal of experience of life. He had owned a plantation before the war and spent the last four years commanding men in various situations. He could see that these two young fools were absolutely determined to fight each other in mortal combat. It was a damned nuisance, but there was little he could do to prevent it. The most he could hope was that their hot-headed antics did not cast the rest of the group in hazard and end with them being hanged for carrying out the attack at San Angelo. He said, “If you boys are sure you want to fight, then at least you can do it in here. That way, you won’t be risking our necks as well.” Even as he was speaking, Quinnell was wondering if he couldn’t discourage the men from actually shooting at each other, by making the circumstances of the duello such that it would be sure to result in death for one or both of them. It might bring them to their senses.
“You both best arm yourselves, if you’re fixed upon doing this.” Quinnell told the two youngsters. They went off, not looking one at the other and a few minutes later returned, having buckled on their holsters. In the meantime, the captain had fetched a silk cravat which he sometimes affected.
When the three of them were once more together in the upstairs room, Quinnell tried one last time to stop the two men from fighting. He said, “Listen, you both showed that you’re ready to fight. I reckon as that should be enough. Why don’t the pair of you just shake hands now and call it a misunderstanding. I know you’re friends in the usual way of things. What do you say?”
For a moment, the matter rested on the edge of a razor. The two men looked into each other’s eyes and it was clear that they were wavering. Then Jack Cartwright broke the spell by saying, “If’n he apologises to me for sharpin’ the cards, then I guess we can call it quits.”
“Sharpin’? Boy, you better be ready to back that up.”
“Enough,” said Quinnell, suddenly tiring of the folly of the business. He liked both young men and felt sure that this was no more than a silly misunderstanding. “You’re both right handed? Then take this scarf in your right hands and face each other. You’ll have to go for your pieces with your left hands. I’m going down those stairs and I’ll count to three from the bottom of the staircase. On three, you fire as best you can, without letting go of that cravat of mine. And mind you don’t get it all bloodied up, I set a store by that thing.”
With great reluctance, Captain Quinnell walked slowly down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he called up, “Can you boys hear me now?” There were cries of assent and he sighed at the stubborness of youth. Those young fools were quite prepared to kill or be killed over this nonsense. The most stupid aspect of the whole affair was that the men hadn’t even been playing for money! He had seen the slivers and chips of wood with which they had been using. Quinnell shouted, “One!”
The men in the kitchen were clustered in the doorway, peering out into the hall at the captain. He shook his head wearily, to indicate that he had no liking for the role in which he now found himself. “Two!” Most of the men in the house had either witnessed or indeed been party to this kind of thing. In nine cases out of ten, nobody was killed by such contests. Just the firing of a few wildly aimed balls was sufficient to satisfy the honour of those participating such affairs. This was slightly different though. It was one thing to fire drunkenly at a man in the street, from a distance of fifty feet or more. The two men upstairs were cold sober though, and in the same room; it would be sheer murder.
Captain Quinnell took a deep breath and cried, “Three!” Immediately, there came the crash of gunfire; first a single shot and then a veritable fusilade of fire. Following this, there was dead silence. With heavy heart, the captain walked up the stairs and looked into the room. Through the thick smoke, he could see that both men were laying on the bare boards. Their right hands were still entwined in his cravat, but the pair of them were stone dead. His cravat, he was pleased to observe, had not a mark upon it.
The others crowded into the room and gazed sadly at the lifeless bodies of their former comrades. Bob Wheeler said, “What was it all about?”
“Cartwright accused Chips of cheating at play. Said something about a knave turning up too soon, thought Chips had palmed it or something.”
Wheeler picked up the deck of cards and leafed through it curiously. It was a standard design, with a vaguely geometric red pattern on the backs of the cards. Bob Wheeler laughed bitterly and said, “You see what’s happened here? Anybody know where they got this deck?”
“Found it in a drawer downstairs, I think.” said somebody.
“Well then, here’s what’s what. There’s one complete deck here and a few cards from another pack. Same design on the back, but a mite older by the look of it. Look now, there’s six knaves and five aces. Chips weren’t cheatin’, but it’s easy enough to see how Jack Cartwright jumped to that conclusion. He must o’ folded and seen the knave of hearts go on the bottom of the deck here and then the very next hand, he sees Chips has the knave of hearts again. Must o’ seemed like a right suspicious circumstance.”
“You mean,” asked another man, that it was all for nothing? They killed each other for naught?”
“That’s the strength of it,” said Wheeler, “It’s the hell of a thing to happen.”