Chapter 15: Ojo Caliente

Contrary to Edward Stillwell’s assurances, Jeffrey McMillan failed to show up for his job at Stillwell Brothers Home & Farm Supply on Monday. Or Tuesday. And there was no one at his house.

I said to Mannie, “Apparently Jeffrey McMillan goes to Santa Fe now and again on personal business. Edward Stillwell either doesn’t know or won’t say what that business is. Do you have any idea what he does down there?”

“As far as I know, it is to see a doctor. He usually comes back two days later on the train. But once last year he was gone for nearly two weeks.”

“Do you know who his doctor is?”

“I have probably heard the name, but I cannot remember it. For some reason I do recall that the practice was called ‘plastic surgery,’ whatever that means. I reckon it has something to do with noses, since Jeffrey’s has been improved, of late.”

“You mean he used to look worse?”

“His nose used to be flat. He looked bad no matter where you stood. Nowadays you can look at him from the side and not even see anything wrong. Well, unless you stand close.”

“You can? But that doesn’t seem...” I’d been trying to picture Jeffrey McMillan’s face, but the image wasn’t certain. “How do you mean?”

“If you only see his face in profile, it looks quite normal. Of course, close up, you would see the surgery scars and the differing color and texture to his skin.”

“Which profile?”

“What do you mean?”

“From which side does it look normal, as you suggest, from a distance?”

“Much of his right cheek bone and jaw bone were shot away, or whatever happened, and that has not been repaired. One must view Señor Jeffrey’s left side, his left profile, for him to appear almost normal. Is that important?”

“Maybe. I need to talk to Edward Stillwell, again, and maybe Logan McMillan.”

Mannie snorted. “Good luck,” he called as I went out the door.

I found Stillwell in his office, the door open. I knocked on the door frame and he looked up expectantly.

“Deputy?”

“I need no more than five minutes of your time, Mister Stillwell, to clarify some matters regarding the night of your brother’s murder.”

He sighed but said, “Of course. Please come in and have a seat.”

I parked my hind quarters in a chair facing his desk, pulled out my notepad and a pencil stub, and I said, “This may seem repetitive to you, but I believe it is necessary. I would like for you to describe again, in detail, the sequence of events and exactly what was said, when, and by whom.”

He frowned skeptically. “Are you testing me?”

“No -- well, maybe in a way I am, by testing your memory. But it is important that we be absolutely sure of the details.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Begin by describing walking across the plaza from the bank.”

He shrugged. “Not much to it. We walked across the plaza and as we drew close to the store, I noticed the display lamps weren’t lit.”

“It was just you and Mister McMillan; there was no one else near you?”

“Not close by. I mean, there were two or three others on the plaza, but no one within the range of easy conversation.”

“Where was Mister McMillan positioned as you walked? To your right, to your left, a little ahead, a little behind?”

“On my left. We started out together, but when I saw the dark display windows, I may have hurried ahead a step or two.”

“As you entered the show room, was the hallway door open or shut?”

“Open.”

“Who stepped into the hallway first?”

“I suppose I did.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Come to think of it, my usual habit is to stand aside and let my guest precede me. But I can’t be certain. I may have been anxious about the lamps and pushed ahead, though I doubt it, since the courtesy is an ingrained habit.

“And as I reflect on it, I think that my memory may be colored by what we then found. The fact that a couple lamps weren’t lit...” He shruggged, then shook his head. “I just can’t be certain that would have enough to cause me to alter my customary behavior.”

“Fair enough. Go on with your description.”

He looked off absently toward the front window. “I remember Logan pointing and saying something like, ‘What’s Hector Guerrero doing here?’ and I looked up and saw him turning and going out the door.”

“You didn’t notice him prior to Mister McMillan pointing him out?”

“No. I was looking at the doorway to my brother’s office.”

“Nor did you recognize him before he turned and you saw his face?”

“What?”

“What I mean to understand is, did you recognize him from behind, before you saw his face?”

“No.” He paused. “Well, something seemed familiar, but it was but a second before he turned and I could see.”

“Did you say anything in response to Mister McMillan asking about Hector Guerrero?”

“I- I don’t know. I would usually respond to a business associate in some fashion, but it would have been inconsequential if I did. Maybe something as mundane as, ‘I have no idea.’ But I don’t remember.”

“After finding your brother, did you call for a law officer?”

“Logan did. He got hold of Hugo Davila and brought him over while I stayed by William’s office.”

“Who told Marshal Davila it was Hector Guerrero who was seen leaving the offices?”

“Logan. Though Hugo confirmed it with me.”

I nodded. “I think that’s it, Mister Stillwell. I’d still like a chance to talk with Jeffrey McMillan, but I have to report to Santa Fe. Maybe I can find him down there. Do you know where he usually stays when he’s there?”

Stillwell frowned a little, then said, “Because of his disfigurement, his options are limited. Most of the nicer hotels won’t receive him” He shook his head, then half-shrugged. “There’s a saloon called the Rebel Yell where he can rent a room with a private entrance.”

I stood up and offered my hand. “You’ve been incredibly patient, Mister Stillwell. Thank you.”

“Well, I’d like to apologize for attempting to renege on paying that reward. I’d appreciate it if you’d accept the other ten dollars.”

“No, sir. We struck a fair bargain, and I’m satisfied. I realize that I caught you off-guard with my claim, so I harbor no ill feelings.”

“Then I’ll just mark this in my diary as the day I tried to give a man ten dollars and he turned me down.”

If you don’t mind adding about five miles to the trail from Taos to Santa Fe, there’s a hot springs called Ojo Caliente (O-ho col-ee-EN-tay, “Hot eye”) about fifteen miles from Taos. There’s a hotel resort and a series of heated mineral pools of different temperatures and mineral content, or so the brochure says, along with promising all manner of health benefits. Rumor has it that there are even private rooms with large tubs suitable for one or two people. For some reason, Feliza Guerrero’s smile came to mind as I thought about those private pools.

Be that as it may, I decided to cross to the west side of the Rio Grande and spend a dollar or two of that reward money on a comfortable room, a hot spring soak, a couple shots of good mezcal, and a big steak dinner. Since I was on vacation for the next sixteen-or-so hours, I even took off my badge and slipped it into my shirt pocket, then set Roscoe to an unhurried walk. No reason he couldn’t take it easy, too.

I was descending toward the Rio crossing above Embudo, when I saw a big man on a mule approaching from further down the trail. This crossing wasn’t a wagon road, like that at Embudo, just a narrow trail and somewhat steep, so I made sure to move over to the right.

But the man on the mule was riding right down the center of the horse path. As I studied him, it almost looked like he was asleep, his head swaying with his chin resting on his chest and he was rocking side-to-side in the saddle with the motion of the mule. I thought he was probably drunk. At about thirty feet, I realized that, if he continued to take his half out of the middle, there wasn’t enough room to pass.

I called, “Oye, señor, cuidado. Señor!” (Hey, mister, watch out. Mister!)

The man snorted and looked up at me and in that moment I recognized his face from a reward notice that Mannie had: Oriol Fidalgo, two hundred fifty dollars, dead or alive, offered by the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, for robbery and murder. Shit!

“What you want, gringo?” he snarled, fumbling for the gun at his hip.

I reached for my shotgun and drew it from the scabbard before he’d even located his pistol. I pulled back the hammers, lifted the stock to my shoulder, and looked down the double barrels at his head, and said, “Oriol Fidalgo, you are under arrest. If you draw that gun I will shoot you with double-ought buckshot.” I had just realized I had better not shoot him in the face if I wanted to claim the reward, so I lowered my aim point to his chest.

Then I heard a galloping horse -- Galloping? On this trail? -- coming from behind, and a pistol shot followed. I flinched as I heard the bullet whiz past.

A man’s voice yelled, “He’s mine, you asshole.”

I kicked Roscoe to turn him so I could see up the trail when I noticed Oriol fumble his gun out of the holster -- and promptly drop it to the ground, where it settled in a puff of trail dust.

Meanwhile, there was another pistol shot, and I heard that bullet go by on the other side.

I turned in the saddle, aimed the shotgun up the trail, and let go the right barrel, which was a full choke. The galloping horse went down and the man flew toward me, eyes wide, mouth open in a scream. His face hit the sand, rocks, and gravel with a sickening crunch and he skidded to a dusty stop about five feet away. There he remained silent and unmoving, his head and neck tucked under his torso at an unnatural angle.

At that juncture, his horse, with piercing squeals of pain, struggled to its feet, stumbled to turn its bloody face the opposite direction, and ran crookedly back up the trail, all the while screeching like a train whistle. Then the hapless animal ran off the edge of the narrow trail, falling into the canyon where the screaming abruptly ended.

I turned back to Oriol, who was still fumbling at his empty holster, searching for his pistol.

“What in heaven?” Mannie said. “I thought you were headed to Santa Fe. Who is -- oh, I see, Oriol Fidalgo. What is he worth, again?”

“Two hundred fifty from the D and RG.”

“So why bring him here? Some poor deputy US marshal will just end up transporting him to Santa Fe.”

“That’s not why I brought him, but it did finally occur to me on the ride back that, since there’s no federal warrant, I wouldn’t get mileage for carrying him to Santa Fe. But as a prisoner transfer from Taos, I’ll get mileage.”

“So, then, why did you bring him here?”

“You were closest, and I’ve got a dead body over at the undertaker’s and I have no idea who the man is.”

“A dead body? How did he die?”

“I shot him. Or, actually, I shot his horse.”

Mannie shook his head. “And...?”

“I happened upon Oriol just by chance, on the track down to the upper rio crossing. I was going down, Oriol was coming up.”

“What were you doing over there?”

“I had decided to visit the hot springs at Ojo Caliente and spend the night there.”

“Oh, yeah. Fatima and I have gone a couple times. They have these private rooms with these big tubs..., well, never mind that. You were saying?”

“I had just ordered Oriol to disarm when this red-headed yahoo comes galloping down the trail behind me, yelling ‘He’s mine,’ and shooting at me. I turned my shotgun that direction and let fly. His horse went down, the rider landed on his head and probably broke his neck. It’s a sound I’ll hear in my nightmares.”

While we’d been talking, we had searched Oriol, removed everything from his pockets, then locked him in a cell.

Mannie asked, “Red hair, you say? Clean-shaven man, about thirty-five, freckles, Spanish rowel spurs, riding a big gray?”

“Couldn’t say about the freckles after the way he landed, but yeah to the rest. You know him?”

“Sounds like Joe Leonard. He chases outlaws and fugitives for the bounties. Word was he did not take kindly to competition in that business. It got him arrested once when he challenged my deputy. Let’s go over to the undertaker’s and see. He came in here to look at the reward notices while you were on your last trip. He asked me if I knew Oriol.”

“Prepare yourself. He skidded on his face across some rough ground.”

“What happened to the horse?”

“Dead. Got up and ran off the cliff. My buckshot must have blinded it.”

“How did you get both of them back here?”

“Oriol was riding a big molly. She carried them both easy.”

With Oriol Fidalgo in tow, I rode back to Embudo the next day, to catch the D&RG train to Santa Fe. I’d rented a couple horses at the livery and would turn them in at a livery in Embudo, which had reciprocal rental agreements with several stables in the area. The rental horses were nags and, after I saw the livery’s rental saddles, I decided to use my own, the older one of the two I had. It was still serviceable, it was just starting to come apart at the seams, and not worth fixing. I’d haul it with me to Santa Fe.

The Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, also referred to as the D and RG or simply as the Rio Grande, had recently built a narrow gauge line from Alamosa, in Colorado’s San Luis Valley, into the gold and silver fields of the San Juan Mountains in the southwestern part of Colorado. That narrow gauge track looped down along Colorado’s border with New Mexico. From Antonito, about thirty miles south of Alamosa, they had built a one hundred forty mile extension directly south into New Mexico, all the way to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad at Lamy, twenty miles south of Santa Fe.

The D&RG ran a passenger service from Alamosa to Lamy, departing Alamosa at eleven fifteen in the morning, reaching Embudo Junction at four-oh-five in the afternoon and Santa Fe at six PM. It went on to meet the westbound AT&SF passenger train at Lamy at seven o’clock that evening, then reversed its course and traveled through the night to return to Alamosa at three in the morning of the next day, a three hundred thirty-eight mile round trip. On the return, it reached Santa Fe at nine that same night and Embudo Junction at ten forty-eight.

Judge Bergman had approved the prisoner transfer, since the train robberies and killings had occurred in the federal Territory of New Mexico. Had it been just a robbery, or just a killing, then the territorial court would likely have been assigned the case. But the combination of robbery, homicide, and railroad pushed it up to the federal district court. Judge Hiram Bergman presided over that court. He was nominally my boss, as he had oversight of the federal marshals, though I’d done little more than exchange pleasantries with him while I was acting as his court bailiff late last year.

“So, Deputy Seneca, have you tracked down your mystery killer?”

Marshal Garrison’s greeting caught me off-stride because no one in New Mexico knew me by my Seneca nickname. It had sort of died out after I left the army, as I always introduced myself as Judah. In fact, I don’t think I ever told anyone, even in the army, that I was called Seneca, unless as necessary to clarify my identity with an officer or another non-com in relation to operations. But I otherwise referred to myself by my given name. Even so, the name Seneca persisted through my army years. Thankfully, though, the use of “Seneca’s War Party” stopped altogether at the end of The War. That one was just plain embarrassing.

“I think I’ve identified him, Marshal,” I replied, though feeling a bit uncertain. I set my papers down on the large varnished oak table that the deputies used as a desk when in Santa Fe.

“Ah, gotcha, didn’t I?” He was grinning. “So, how come you never told us about this name you had for all those years?”

“Truth is, I never called myself that, just other people kept using it. I’ve always told folks my name was Judah Becker. So would I be right in assuming you’ve had contact with someone from my time in uniform?”

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a slip of note paper and held it up between his fore- and middle fingers, his elbow resting on the desk. “A colored man came in a couple days ago, a cowboy, said he was working at a ranch up by Española.” He looked at the writing on the paper. “Said his name was Zeke Saltell, but that you might remember him as Hawkeye. He’s working for Don Emilio Castellano, on his ranch, east of Española. It’s a big spread, mostly running red Angus in the foothills. By your dopey grin, I’ll assume you know this Hawkeye.”

“I certainly do, sir.” I’d found the habits of military address and courtesies a hard habit to set aside. “I met him right at the end of Sherman’s Atlanta campaign, in Dalton, Georgia.” I chuckled. “He was the only man younger than me in the scout platoon, and that was only by a couple months. We were both eighteen. But he sure could shoot. That boy had an eye that started where most others’ left off, and as steady an aim as the best of us.”

I sighed. “We both stayed in the army after the war, but I lost track of him. We were both out here scoutin’, but he was up north in Nebraska and Wyoming, while I was stationed mostly in Texas, ‘cept for that chase in New Mexico I know I mentioned.” My face drew a slight frown. I heard about him, now and then, and I’d heard he’d been wounded.” I looked at the Marshal expectantly.

“Not that I could tell. He’s a tall, lanky one, with a fierce look about ‘im. Not the sort of fella I’d want to have to go up against.” He grinned and shook his head. “Hell, he’s a colored version of you, Judah.”

“He was a good man, so I’ll take that as a compliment, Marshal.”

“As it was meant,” he said, nodding. He reached across with the slip of paper. “Here’s the particulars. He invites you to stop by at supper time, as they have some pretty good vittles, he said.”

I accepted the note paper from him. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll stop by there on my way home.”

Garrison gestured toward a coffee pot sitting in the sun on the windowsill. “Want some coffee? Should still be warm.”

“I think I would. Thanks.” I got up, went to the window and used one of the cups resting on the sill near the pot. In the summer time, when the offices’ stoves weren’t lit, coffee was made at an outdoor stove.

He asked, “What’s the story on the Stillwell murder? You say you might have a culprit?”

I paused for a moment, looking out the window, but not really seeing, putting my thoughts in order. Then I turned around and leaned by butt against the windowsill and said, “I do, but Mister Dahl ain’t gonna like it. And, even if he would, his boss will hate it.”

“What about me?” he asked. “Am I supposed to like it?”

I grinned. “I think you’re going to enjoy seeing what happens.”

He gave a we’ll-see-about-that tilt to his head, then with a chin-bob, he indicated that I should proceed.

“In a nutshell, Marshal, I’m all but certain that Jeffrey McMillan, Logan McMillan’s son, stole over five hundred dollars from the Stillwell brothers, who he worked for as a bookkeeper. Then he killed William Stillwell to cover it up. My only real question is whether Logan McMillan knew what his son did. But I think he did know.”

“Holy shit, Judah,” Garrison exclaimed, then began shaking his head. “Lord almighty, Dahl is gonna rupture a blood vessel. And Pete Ferguson ... I don’t even want to be in the same building when he hears this. He and the Speaker are the unofficial leaders of the anti-Sheldon faction.” He gave me a serious look, “If you can back it up, then you’ve really broken open a hornet’s nest, Deputy.”

Nodding toward the window, the Marshal said, “Bring that pot over here and park your bones. I think we’ll be finishing that off before we’re done. Now tell me what you’ve got.”

I reached for my notes from the table and began. “By way of facts, first we have an identification of Hector Guerrero based on a mere second of time, certainly no more, by Edward Stillwell’s own telling. And that view was at nearly forty feet in a dark hallway, with the only light on the man’s face from a low-burning lamp with a sooty glass.

“Second, I have two bloody shoe prints found just outside Edward Stillwell’s office. Though it’s been months since the killing, the prints were still fresh enough with enough residue remaining to smear this paper.” I lifted the folded poster from the table.

“What’s that?” he asked, looking at it.

I opened it on his desk. “I found the two shoe prints directly across the hall from the office where William Stillwell bled out from a cut throat. That opposite wall is mostly window glass looking to the plaza outside. It appeared the man stood at the window looking out, immediately after leaving Stillwell’s office.” I explained the process I’d gone through in duplicating the prints and Edward Stillwell’s observation and his certification of the finished product.

“Then, last evening, when I took Oriol Fidalgo to the Santa Fe County jail, I asked to see Hector Guerrero and I measured this tracing against his shoes, which are much larger. Even his stockinged foot was bigger than this trace, by almost a couple inches. It might have been his size once, when he was a youngster, but not this past March. For all that, Edward Stillwell expressed his certainty that this would be the evidence that certified Hector’s guilt. On the contrary, I believe it exonerates him.”

“What’s this about stolen money?”

“It’s a third fact, one of circumstances. On the evening in question, Edward Stillwell and Logan McMillan were at McMillan’s bank. They’d been trying to reconcile discrepancies in the Stillwell’s accounts. The Stillwell brothers used McMillan’s bank and had an outstanding loan that was about to come due. However, the bank’s records showed their bank deposits had been less than their business receipts should have provided, and the loan payoff was in jeopardy. Logan McMillan suggested to Edward that his brother William was responsible for the missing money. Edward found that notion preposterous. He and McMillan decided to ask William and they left the bank and walked across the plaza to the Stillwell’s store where William was working into the evening. Instead, they found William dying and the man they identified as Hector Guerrero rushing from the building through another door.

“That cash discrepancy, a bit over five hundred dollars, was never reconciled. Edward could not find the money nor anything for which it might have been spent, nor did William’s wife have any idea. In addition, and this is fact number four, a thirty-two caliber revolver was missing from William’s office, also never found.

“Logan McMillan had insisted to Edward that his brother, William, had been the one to handle the deposits, so William must have known where the missing money went. However, it turns out there were six people who could have been involved in handling the deposits: Edward Stillwell, who was general manager, William Stillwell, who was the business manager, their bookkeeper, Jeffrey McMillan and, at the bank, Logan McMillan and the two cashiers. The bank was less likely the problem as there were always two men attending the deposits: a cashier and Logan McMillan. Logan McMillan didn’t have to be there, he just liked to show personal attention to his larger accounts.

“On the other hand, at the Stillwell Brothers, only William Stillwell or Jeffery McMillan carried the deposit to the bank and had final access to the cash and the deposit slip. I think Jeffrey McMillan is the culprit in both crimes.”

“And you think the murder was about the missing money?” he said, more as a statement.

I nodded.

He sighed, “You’re probably right. It would seem too much of a coincidence, otherwise, two major crimes happening at the same time and place but not being related.”

He looked around, then stood and said, “C’mon, let’s go get some decent coffee.” He pulled on his frock coat, settled his bowler on his head, and led the way out the door and down the hall. I had donned a frock coat and business attire for my day at headquarters, but wore a black string tie to justify wearing my Stetson. If I were testifying in court or attending dinner with the Governor, I’d have appointed myself with a more formal tie or a cravat. But for purposes, I was fine.

The Marshal’s office, along with several other federal and territorial government offices, was in a building on East Marcy Street, a half block from Washington Avenue, about midway between the Palace of the Governors and the federal courthouse.

Marshal Garrison turned northeast on Marcy, saying, “There’s a bakery about two blocks down. Not only do they have good coffee, but they have French pastries. While we walk, tell me why you think Logan McMillan was aware of the deception.”

“Mostly it’s suspicious things he did. For instance, he was the one who said the fugitive was Hector Guerrero, before either of them had even that brief glimpse of the man’s face. Second, it was Logan who pressed the idea that William was stealing the money. Third, I think Logan saw his son standing in that window as they approached the Stillwell’s store and Logan saw Jeffrey begin to flee.”

“Why didn’t Edward see him?”

“Edward was focused on the storefront. The display window lamps had not been lit as was their custom. As long as one or the other of the brothers were at their office, they considered the store open for business. They both usually worked into the evening.”

“Did you question the Speaker?”

“I thought about it. But if I was right about him, he’d have just lied. And then he probably would have begun putting political pressure on us.”

“What about his son?”

“It looks like he’s vamoosed.”

The Marshal looked at me with the question on his face.

“Late last week he left Taos, supposedly to come here, to Santa Fe, where he sometimes sees a doctor. He was supposed to be back at work on Monday. He still wasn’t there on Wednesday. I think he heard I was asking questions and he ran.

“I asked at the station here if they’d sold him a ticket. They had, it was on the stage-coach to Lamy. I think he caught the AT and SF and has likely gone to Mexico, where he’d lived for a while.”

“How could the ticket-seller remember him?”

“Jeffrey McMillan had some terrible injury to his face a few years ago. He won’t say what happened, but it’s why he returned from his former sojourn in Mexico. He’s missing parts of his jaw bone and cheekbone. His nose was all but gone, too, but the doctor here in Santa Fe had repaired the nose. Even so, I’ve seen the man. It’s still ghastly. His nose is a patchwork. The ticket agent knew him from prior encounters.”

Garrison stopped and turned to me. “Then how the hell would he be mistaken for Hector Guerrero?”

I sighed. “Because most of the damage was to the right side of his face. From his left side, in a dim light, from a distance, the repairs to his nose aren’t noticeable. He could look quite normal under those conditions.”

He shook his head and we resumed walking.

“Beyond that, I don’t think he was mistaken for Guerrero. I think Logan McMillan planted that idea in Edward Stillwell’s mind when he said Hector’s name. McMillan knew Guerrero was a business rival, and he’d have to have heard the rumors that the Stillwells may have killed Ernesto Guerrero. What Edward Stillwell didn’t know was that Hector Guerrero had been in Mora for several weeks at the time of William’s murder.”

He just looked at me, with a growing frown.

I asked, “Your eyes never play tricks on you? See a word that says one thing, but you thought it said something else? You’ve never seen a stump in the woods and thought it might be a bear for a second or two. Now answer this, have you ever seen a stump and mistook it for a buffalo calf? Of course not. They might be roughly the same size and shape as a bear, but, while you might expect to see a bear in the woods, the buffalo aren’t around, now. That’s why the stumps always look like bears: it’s what we expect to see. Not buffalo calves, not gorillas, not kangaroos, just plain old bears. But it always turns out to be a stump.”

“I’ve seen real bears in the woods,” he insisted, in a defensive tone.

I just grinned at him.

There was stage-coach service to Lamy on the days there was no train. It left at noon for the twenty-mile, two-hour trip, and I returned on the stage, arriving at five that afternoon.

Marshal Garrison was waiting for me at the stage stop, which was also the train station, since the D&RG ran the stage, too.

“Well?” he said.

“He bought a ticket to San Carlos Nuevo Guaymas. I was told it’s a beach resort on the Gulf of California, on the southwest coast of the State of Sonora. The Santa Fe tracks go past there, terminating at the seaport of Guaymas just south of San Carlos. San Carlos itself has little cabins right on the beach. Swaying palm trees. Crystal clear water. Good fishing. They gave me a pamphlet.” I grinned at him. “Want me to go after him?”