Chapter 21: New Mexico

After turning my prisoners from Springer and Las Vegas over to the Santa Fe County jail, it was nearly nine p.m. I had wired ahead and found a room prepared at the contract boarding house.

The next morning I walked over to the Marshals office.

After greeting me and inviting me to pour myself a cup of coffee, Marshal Garrison said, “So, tell me about the Jenkins brothers.” I sat down at the work table and filled him in.

“Nice work,” he said. “What would you have done if they hadn’t come out of the building when they did?”

“Probably look for a ground floor window that would give me a clear shot.”

“That’d probably work,” he said. Then he reached in his drawer and produced a business card, which he slid toward me, across the desk top. “Hector Guerrero’s attorney wants to talk to you. He’s in Albuquerque. It’s Edmund Ross. You know who he is, don’t you?”

I glanced at the card. It was Ross’s. “Yeah, we talked about him, remember? He’s the former US Senator who was one of the Republicans who voted to acquit President Johnson at his impeachment. He’s also representing the two boys charged with Ernesto Guerrero’s death.”

“Just wanted to be sure. Word has it, he’s getting to be something of a muckamuck in territorial politics. You might want to be prepared to pucker up if he turns away and drops his drawers.”

I laughed and asked, “Is that how you got this job, Marshal?”

He grinned broadly, “Damn betcha, Seneca. You need to take a lesson from that. Here.” he said, making as if to stand up, “I’ll just drop my drawers and you can practice.”

I held up my hands and laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ I want that bad, Marshal.”

He’d already settled back into his seat, but he said, “That’s not the way I hear it, Seneca. Word has it you’ve been paying court to a widow in Mora. Would she be worth a little ass-kissing?”

I felt the blood rise in my cheeks. “Damn it all to hell and gone! Is this whole damn territory a ladies’ sewing circle, where everybody’s business is everybody else’s? I never said I was payin’ court to anyone. Besides, it wouldn’t be proper while a woman’s in mourning.”

“I reckon that answers that,” Garrison said. “When does her mourning period end?”

I gave him a sullen look. “End of October,” I growled.

He glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was August fourth. “So, a couple-three months yet,” he said, grinning at me. Then he added, “You’re getting a bit of a reputation as a law man in this part of the territory,” he said. “People pay attention to what you say and do. You might want to keep that in mind.”

I wasn’t sure I liked that. “What kind of reputation?”

“Frankly, a bad reputation, at least among bad men,” he jibed. “But the kind of reputation law-abiding people cotton to, so it’s a good thing. Except that, people begin to have expectations about you.”

“Like what?”

“That they thought you’d be taller, or older, or better looking, or would be a perfect match for their spinster daughter, or have the solutions to all their problems. Once people hear something about you, they think they know you, because they fill in everything they don’t know with how they think it ought to be. Then, once they meet you, if you belch, or scratch your balls, or arrest their cousin for cattle rustling, it upsets their expectations.”

“When did cattle rustling become a federal crime?”

He gave me a piteous look. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I’m casting pearls before swine.”

Then, nodding toward the business card in my hand, he said, “Send Senator Ross a telegram telling him you’ll take the train down there tomorrow. He’s anxious to talk to you and will likely see you the next day, since the train doesn’t get into Albuquerque until after ten at night.

“You can probably stay with Charlie. He’s a bachelor, but he has a housekeeper who does all the cooking. She’s a pretty good cook, too. Charlie will appreciate the company, and it’ll be free. You’ll have to stay over a second night because the return train comes through down there at five-ten in the morning.”

It was seventy-five miles from Lamy to Albuquerque, and I knew from experience the arrival and departure times at Lamy. With the Albuquerque stops being part of the same train schedule, the timing didn’t surprise me. I didn’t mind so much. I liked Charlie Hackett, Garrison’s senior deputy, and learned a lot from him when I’d first signed on. I just hoped he was in town.

At Albuquerque there were a couple hawkers, seated in buggies just off the station platform, loudly touting the hotels they represented, including the free transport in their buggies. However, Charlie Hackett was on the platform, despite the late hour, also providing free transportation -- our feet.

His home, which he owned, was a twenty minute walk from the station. It was a pleasant walk as we caught up on the other’s recent activities, though he expressed disappointment with my abbreviated descriptions of the two incidents in Las Vegas. He said he’d be expecting more detail tomorrow. We passed a saloon and a couple cantinas on our walk and he offered to buy me a drink but I begged off, as I was actually pretty tired; I hadn’t been sleeping all that well lately.

Charlie’s house was adobe with a small courtyard enclosed on two sides by the house and the other two sides by an eight-foot adobe wall. There was a covered veranda outside the house portion of the courtyard and there were plum, peach, and apricot trees in front of the walls on the other two sides. Except where the trees grew, the courtyard was paved with large ceramic tiles interspersed with a couple raised gardens that were planted with herbs, peppers, and tomatoes. There was, of course, the obligatory enclosed privy beyond the courtyard.

But seeing all that would have to wait until daylight. After evening ablutions and a cool lemonade, I turned in, using a small alcove off the main room.

Senator Ross had responded to my wire with his own, inviting me to his office at eight the next morning, even though it was a Sunday. I’d put on my court clothes, my only full dress outfit, consisting of black wool trousers, black brogans and stockings, a white shirt, a white paper collar, a black cravat, a black waistcoat, a dark gray frock coat, and my one and only high hat, a black topper somewhat shorter than the stovepipe style popular in President Lincoln’s day. It was another reason to dislike cities. It was much simpler in the army, even when I later had to purchase a formal mess uniform. The ladies did seem to appreciate that uniform.

Being reminded of serving in uniform, I feel inclined to mention a subject I haven’t touched on when describing my army experience: female “companionship.”

In the vicinity of army garrisons, it was easy to come by, assuming you had the cash. Most of the scouts availed themselves, from time to time. However, the colored scouts knew better than to patronize a white hooker as that could result in a fatal assault by an outraged white mob. Short of that, a punitive discharge from the army was assured.

I bought companionship twice, once from a white woman and a second time from a colored woman Jordie had recommended. I enjoyed both encounters, but they were hardly more satisfying that tending to myself. Then three of the men contracted gonorrhea and the silver nitrate treatment was so disturbing and painful that it put me off of paid socialization for the duration.

In later settings I would enjoy personal liaisons with women who came to occupy my heart. That was a different experience altogether and finally spoiled the appeal of paid comfort.

The Senator’s office was a block from the Bernalillo County Courthouse, which also served as a Territorial District Court venue. The office was on the second floor of a two-story brick building with a facade that included decorative half columns made to look as if they supported the slight overhang of the second floor above the entrance. This was definitely the high-rent part of town.

I checked the sign next to the door and realized that the Senator’s concerns occupied all of the second floor.

There was a door at street level that opened into a small reception space. That reception area led, in turn, to a stairway to the upper floor. No one was in the reception area, but the door had caused some bells to jangle, and a voice called down the stairs. “I’ll be right down, Deputy Becker.”

The man who emerged from the stairwell appeared to be a hale fifty-year-old; I later learned he was fifty-five. He was of medium height and had wavy graying hair. He sported a chin beard but was otherwise clean shaven, and had a patrician, though not unkind face.

He offered his hand and said, “Deputy Becker, I’m Edmund Ross and I’m very glad to make your acquaintance. Hector Guerrero thinks highly of you and he urged me to get in touch. With what I’ve seen of the prosecution’s case, I think Mister Guerrero is correct.”

He paused and I said, “Hector’s in a situation that could be termed ridiculous if it weren’t so serious. I’m just glad he was able to be released on bail.”

“Indeed,” he said, then he looked at a pendulum clock mounted on the wall.

“Would you mind talking over breakfast?” he asked. “Everything is closed but for the hotel restaurants because its Sunday, and those will be crowded soon with people wanting a meal after church. I’ve been here working since five-thirty and could use some coffee, if not some scrambled eggs and bacon.”

“That’s fine, Senator. Do you have a place in mind?”

“On the next block, the New Mexican. It’s pretty dependable in its restaurant quality. Have you had breakfast? It will be at my expense, or, rather, Mister Guerrero’s.” He chuckled as he led the way out the door. Once we were on the street, he turned to lock the door.

I said, “I’ve eaten, thanks, though I wouldn’t mind another cup of coffee.”

He turned and said, “It’s this way,” and led off further north. “Where are you staying?”

“With Deputy Marshal Charlie Hackett. He has a housekeeper who’s an excellent cook.”

“I’ve heard him brag on her. So it’s true, then?”

“I’d say so. I had a delicious omelet with cheese, ham, onions, tomatoes and a green chili sauce. Oh, yeah, and fresh flour tortillas. We ate in Charlie’s courtyard. It was very pleasant.”

“I’ll have to find a way to wrangle an invitation. Where does he live, just out of curiosity?”

“About ten blocks that way,” I pointed to the west, lower into the Rio Grande valley.

“In the barrio?”

“Just short of it, though most of his neighbors seem to be Mexican.”

“Sundays mean barbacoa in the barrio. It will be redolent with smoking meats down there this afternoon.”

“Charlie was putting two sides of ribs in his pit when I was leaving this morning. He promised they would be ready by three o’clock.”

“He dug a pit this morning?”

“No, he has a permanent cooking pit lined with bricks. He secures it with a wooden cover when it’s not in use.”

We arrived at the hotel and were seated in a nice restaurant dining room, the tables complete with white tablecloths. A guitarist sat on a stool in the corner, strumming softly.

I said, “All the talk of food has made me revise my plan, though the sight of that glass case with the pastries had a considerable influence. I believe I’ll have a Napoleon so that the coffee will have something to wash down.”

“An excellent idea, I may have one as a chaser for the eggs and bacon.”

We talked of more general topics during the meal. He asked my opinion about various concerns, including whether I thought statehood would be of benefit to New Mexico.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? I’ve heard that some people are opposed, but I really don’t understand why.”

“I know. I’ve heard personally from many people who are opposed. Most think that becoming a state would somehow allow Washington City to wrest control of the government away from the locals. They somehow are blind to the fact that it is exactly the situation which we have now. Our governor is appointed by the President, not elected by New Mexicans. He holds veto power over the elected legislature. Federal offices, like your own, hold jurisdiction over state agencies and local elected officials.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But I had a wise uncle who told me, many years ago, that people believe what they want to believe. He was a Seneca, who lived in upstate New York. He told me how so many tribal leaders believed they could defeat the white man despite the large numbers of whites who continued to move into their territory, and with armies equipped with firearms and even artillery. But they needed to believe they would win, and so that was what they believed.”

“He was your uncle?”

“My father’s uncle, actually. My paternal grandmother’s brother, Samuel Cayuga. We called him Uncle Sammie. I lived with him for two years when I was a teenager. That was a tradition for my brothers and I, though I’d stayed an extra year. Uncle Sammie taught us the old ways.”

“Is that where you’re from, upstate New York?”

“My Pa and Ma grew up there, near a farming village called Conesus. But then he and Ma moved to northwest Ohio after they got married. That’s what I call home.”

“Ohio? Really? Where?”

“Defiance. It’s on the Maumee River and the Miami and Erie Canal. That’s where I grew up.”

“I’m from Ashland, Ohio, south of Cleveland, and my wife’s from Sandusky, Ohio, on Lake Erie, east of Toledo about fifty miles.”

“I’ve been through Sandusky on the train, though I’ve never been to Ashland. But you know what people say about Ashland, don’t you?”

“No, what?”

“Not much.” I grinned.

“Oh, I can’t believe you caught me with that old chestnut. And just when I was beginning to trust you,” he jibed in return.

Back in his office, I accepted his proffered cigar. While lighting up, he said, “I’ve read your reports of your investigation of William Stillwell’s murder and of the execution of the search warrant on Jeffrey McMillan’s home. But I’d like you to tell me about them.”

“If you have a copy of my report, I could use it to make sure I don’t forget anything.”

“I’d rather hear it as you remember it. I want to see what stands out in your memory.”

“Oh, then, that’s easy. That darn revolver sticking out of the pile of crap. That will stand out in my memory as I lie on my deathbed.”

He was laughing, but finally managed to say, “I imagine it might. It stands out in my memory, and that’s just from reading your report. But what else?”

We spent the next hour in that exercise.

At one point, he asked me, “To be clear, when you say ‘paper knife,’ in your report, you’re talking about a relatively dull-bladed instrument used chiefly to slit open envelopes, what some call a letter opener or an envelope opener.”

“That’s right. I grew up with the term paper knife, though I’ve also heard them called letter openers, as you say.”

“Giving your imagination free rein, why do you suppose that item was among Jeffrey’s possessions?”

“In a nutshell, I think it was the murder weapon. I’d guess that he walked out with it, probably not even aware that he was still carrying it. Or maybe he’d dropped it into his pocket without thinking.”

“Was there any sign of dried blood on it when you found it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I imagine he washed it.”

“So why not throw it down the privy with the gun?”

“Based mostly on speculation, I’d say he was in a bit of a panic when he left for Santa Fe. The shelf was likely just above his line of sight, and he’d forgotten the knife was there. I think he threw the revolver down the privy just before he left. Had he thrown it in several months earlier, just after the murder, it would have likely been entirely lost to sight.”

“Why use a letter opener to kill William? Why not shoot him with the revolver?”

“Still speculating, I’d say the murder was on impulse, when William confronted him with the account discrepancies. The letter knife, in a holder on William’s desk, was the first thing that came to hand. The revolver was out of sight and not convenient, in a closed drawer, likely blocked by William seated in his chair.”

“But he took the time to search the drawers for the pistol?”

“Yeah, I reckon that doesn’t fit my theory.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe William was holding the gun, or had it in his lap, expecting to take Jeffrey into custody.” I shrugged.

The Senator sat there, hands partially folded on his desk, his forefingers tapping against one another, apparently lost in thought.

Finally, he said, “I’m going to file a motion with the court to dismiss the charges against Hector. If the prosecution contests the dismissal, which I think Mister Ferguson will, then there will be a hearing. Should it come to that, I’ll want you as a witness.”

I nodded.

He went on: “As soon as we have a date for the hearing, I’ll issue a summons for you to appear, but I’ll have it served on Marshal Garrison. The purpose of all that will be to extract you from whatever your assignment is at that time, putting the onus on the man with the authority rather than on you, while at the same time forestalling any machinations by Mister Ferguson to make you unavailable.”

I said, “There shouldn’t be a problem. Marshal Garrison has taken an interest in Hector’s case. He knows Hector is being used by the anti-Sheldon faction to stir up trouble in the pueblos.”

“By that same token,” he rejoined, “the dismissal hearing will take on a larger dimension as a political battleground. This is especially true as it paints one of the anti-Sheldon leaders, Speaker of the House Logan McMillan, in a bad light, a very bad light, possibly as an accessory to embezzlement and aiding and abetting the flight of a murderer.” He leaned back in his chair. “This could be interesting.”

After leaving the train at Lamy the next morning, I took the stage from the AT&SF station up to Santa Fe, a two-hour trip. Then I walked to the federal courthouse and filed the Senator’s dismissal motion, being handed a receipt in return. The clerk had written the date and time of day on the receipt, then used a numbered ink stamp to impress the same identifying number on both the motion form and the receipt.

I walked over to the telegraph office and sent the receipt number, date, and time to Senator Ross, then purchased an envelope and sent the receipt to him, via railroad express.

After that, I walked to the Marshal’s office, arriving just in time to find Marshal Garrison putting on his frock coat to go to lunch. He invited me along, but on my own hook. Of course, we went to his favorite bakery cafe, just a short walk up East Marcy Street.

Today the lunch featured a split pea soup and a ham sandwich, with a special honey-mustard sauce available as a condiment. I had a lemonade and Marshal Garrison enjoyed a root beer. Both drinks were agreeably cool as the beverages were kept in a special cellar lined with ice manufactured in Las Vegas and brought in by train.

“What if I moved to Las Vegas?” I casually asked my boss.

He paused in his chewing and looked at me, then took a swallow of root beer. “I know that area’s growing over there, but we still have the larger population in the Rio Grande Valley and we’re seeing more mining over here than over there.” He shrugged. “Besides, I hear the Denver and Rio Grande is going to begin running a steam trolley between here and Lamy to meet the Santa Fe trains whens the Rio Grande passenger train doesn’t run.” He took another bite from the sandwich.

“That will be nice,” I said, “but I don’t live here. The nearest train station to my place is near to thirty miles.”

He set the sandwich on his plate and wiped his lips with his napkin. “It’s only twenty-seven miles. Quit embroidering.” Then he changed the subject. “How was your interview with Senator Ross.”

“‘Bout like you’d expect. We went over the reports I submitted.”

He frowned at me and shook his head, “And...?”

“And I brought his motion to dismiss the charges to the courthouse this morning.”

Garrison grinned and nodded. “Now the fat’s in the fire.”

“That’s pretty much what Edmund said.”

“Edmund, is it? Since when?”

“Since we discovered we were neighbors back in Ohio.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I grew up near Defiance and Edmund was from Ashland and his wife was from Sandusky. They’re each barely a hundred miles from Defiance.”

The Marshal nearly spit out the spoonful of soup he’d just put into his mouth. “Neighbors? A hundred miles? And that gives you the right to use his given name?”

“Nah, I’m pulling your leg. We got on well. He invited me to call him by his Christian name.”

“Maybe I should station you over in Quemado. It’s so far from any railroad that there isn’t even one to call nearest”

Later that afternoon, a young man in business attire came to the Marshal’s office, where there was a large table available for use by visiting deputies. I was at one end, going over my reports, trying to decide if I could have made clearer statements. I recognized the young man as an assistant from the federal court clerk’s office.

He stepped up to the Marshal’s desk and said, “Are you Albert Garrison?”

Marshal Garrison shook his head resignedly and held out his hand. “No, Sean, I’m Robert E Lee. Just hand me the paper. How often do I have to admit to you who I am?”

“You know it’s the rules, Marshal,” Sean said as he handed over the legal notice. “Why do you always ask?”

“Just so we can have these wonderful conversations, Sean, me lad. Can I offer you a cigar?”

“You know they make me sick, Marshal.” Indeed, Garrison smoked these twisted stogies that all the deputies were sure were made up from sweepings from the floor of the cigar maker’s privy.

Garrison was reading the notice. “Hold on, Sean. This is for Deputy Marshal Becker, over there.”

“I know who Deputy Becker is, Marshal,” he turned and nodded to me, then turned back to Garrison, “the one they call Seneca.” What? I thought. No one knows me by that -- Oh. Zeke Saltell. He must have been telling stories when he was in town looking for me. But now Sean was saying, “Mister Ross specified the summons be made to you to produce Deputy Becker for the hearing.”

“On your way then, Sean,” Garrison said. “No need for you to witness the unpleasantness that’s about to befall Deputy Seneca.” Sean scooted out the door, tossing me an apologetic look.

“Sorry, boss,” I pleaded. “I forgot to mention that. Edmund, uh, Senator Ross was concerned that I might be on an assignment at the time of the hearing and knew that you would have the authority to recall me.”

He gave me a frown. “Next you’ll be wanting to take Charlie’s post in Albuquerque near your old pal, Edmund.”

‘No, no thanks. Albuquerque looks like it’s going to get too big. I like the small towns.” Albuquerque, like Las Vegas, was a railroad town, and was attracting settlers and businesses to the railroad-owned developments.

With obvious doubt, he said, “A couple hours ago you asked to move to Las Vegas. Las Vegas is the second largest town in the Territory.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I reckon I didn’t plan to live right in Las Vegas.”

He shook his head and gave me a weary look. “Mora is thirty miles from Las Vegas. It’s not exactly a suburb.”

I said, “How ‘bout I buy you a coffee, boss?”

The next day, Tuesday, August seventh, I hitched a ride on a northbound D&RG freight train, giving the conductor four bits to let me ride in his caboose as far as Española. The hearing to answer the motion to dismiss the murder charge against Hector had been set for the following Monday, the thirteenth. Marshal Garrison didn’t have an assignment for me, so I thought I might look up Zeke.

At Española, I asked at the depot’s ticket window for directions to the ranch of Emilio Castellano.

A colored man, wearing D&RG livery and pushing a freight cart across the platform, overheard my question. Before the station master could reply, the freight handler asked, “You the marshal they call Seneca?”

“I’m Deputy Marshal Judah Becker, but some folks know me by Seneca.”

The man, who looked to be in his late forties, nodded and came over to shake my hand. “Mordecai Johnson, Deputy. Hawkeye said you’d be along.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Johnson. Can you tell me how to find Hawkeye?”

“Better ‘n that, I c’n get you a ride.” He looked past me at the station-master. “Okay I take the Deputy over to Upton’s, Mister Loeffler?”

“Go ahead, Mordecai.” Then the station-master reached into his pocket and slapped a twenty-five cent piece on the counter. “How ‘bout pickin’ us up a couple a’ them cold sarsaparillas at the store on your way back?”

Johnson took the two bits. “More ‘n happy to, boss. Be right back.” He looked at me and, with a sideways tip of his head, said, “The livery barn’s this way, Deputy Seneca,” And he led off across the platform and down the step.

Three minutes later I was shaking the hand of a broad-chested colored man. He wore a homespun shirt and a heavy leather apron.

Johnson was saying, “Deputy, meet Josiah Upton. This is his smithy and stables. Josiah, this is Deputy Marshal Seneca.”

“You’re Hawkeye’s Seneca?” Upton asked, jovially pumping my arm.

“I suppose I am,” I replied, extracting my hand from his over-large grip.

“Well I’m damn glad to mee’cha, boy, damn glad. That Hawkeye’s salt of the earth an’ if you’re anything like him, then you’re fine as frog hair. But he never said you was white,” Upton finished, surprise and uncertainty in his tone.

“That’s just Hawkeye’s way,” Johnson said to him. “You know what a joker that boy is.”

“I’ll show him how funny I think it is next time he comes sparkin’ my Luann.”

“Oh, now,” Johnson chided. “You’d a thought it plenty funny if it had been me taken in.”

“Well, sure. That would a’ been funny.”

“Oh, forget it, you ox. Fix this boy up with a horse, tell him how to find Hawkeye. I need to get back to work.” Then Johnson turned to me and offered his hand. “Pro’bly see you around.”

“Pro’bly will.” I agreed.

After we shook, he found a quarter in his hand. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Let me buy the sarsaparilla for you and Mister Loeffler, for the hospitality and kindness.”

“This here’s enough for five bottles, even the chilled ones.”

“Then you can have two more tomorrow, and then bring one to Mister Upton.”

“Oh, I won’t have the time for that. I’d have to stay and make sure he didn’t eat the bottle.”

Late morning saw me ten miles south of town, on the lower slopes of the Sangre de Cristos, riding along a road across a large rancho and approaching an extensive hacienda villa surrounded by a low adobe wall, the wall of a height, about four feet, to exclude livestock rather than people. There was a wide wrought iron gate and a man came out from the house as I dismounted. He was either Mexican or Indio -- or both -- I often couldn’t tell, and he wore a collarless white dress shirt and a tan waistcoat, and dark dungarees. He smiled broadly as he reached the gate. “Buenos dias, Deputy Becker. We’ve been expecting you. I am Emilio Castellano,” He offered his hand and we shook. Except for the initial “Good day,” he was speaking a lightly-accented English

“It seems you have, Señor Castellano. Thanks for the use of this horse.”

“Da nada “(It’s nothing, meaning, “you’re welcome”), Castellano said as he came through the gate. He took the reins adding, “Let’s take her around to the stable, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Señor.”

He led the way along the outside of the wall, then along the south side, toward some barns, sheds, granaries, a chicken coop, and a stable, all behind the villa on a shallow slope leading down toward a creek. Piñons, low-growing oaks, and bushy cedars provided a gray-green relief from the sun.

“You have a lovely setting, here, Señor. And the view over the valley is dramatic.”

“Thank you, Señor Becker. My family has been on this land for over two hundred years. It was a grant to my several times great grandfather by the king of Spain.”

“So you’re probably not interested in selling?”

He stopped short, looked at me, and then started laughing. “Truly, you are of a kind with that rascal, Ezekiel. He should be back soon. He’s been working close to the hacienda in recent days in anticipation of your arrival.”

“What kind of work does he do for you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. Hawkeye is my gerente del rancho, my ranch manager. He oversees everything to do with the livestock: cattle, horses, sheep, goats, mules. We run about three thousand head of beef cattle. Twice that in wool sheep.”

“And the poultry, sir?”

He smiled. “And the poultry.”

He checked his watch. “Almost lunch time. He should be here shortly.”

No sooner had he tucked the timepiece back into his waistcoat than Zeke came galloping up and leapt from his horse, then was hugging me to his dusty, sweaty form.