Chapter 7: Taos

As I carried my saddle and gear into the blacksmith shop, Miguel said, “Oye, Diputado, bienvenido a casa.” (Hey, Deputy, welcome home.)

“Hola, Miguel, como esta la familia?” (Hello, Miguel. How’s the family?) We continued in Spanish.

“Everyone is fine, Judah. You missed one hell of a rainstorm a few days ago.”

“I saw where the arroyos had been scoured out. Was there any damage?”

“Lost a few sheep, the bridge over the Rio Pueblo by the old church washed out. It’s already fixed.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Priscila will want you to have supper with us.”

“I’ll be glad to join you if you’ll let me heat up a big pot of water on the forge. I need a serious washing before I make any social calls.” I could see that Miguel was heating something in a crucible, likely silver, so the fire would be hot.

“I’ll put the pot on, you go fill the bucket.”

Priscila, Miguel’s wife, said (in Spanish), “We heard you brought Hector Guerrero to the Santa Fe jail.”

I sighed around a mouthful of chicken-and-rice-filled frybread. After swallowing I said, “I did.”

“For the murder of Señor Stillwell?”

“That’s what he is charged with.”

“Everyone knows Hector was in Mora when Señor Stillwell was stabbed.”

I really shouldn’t say too much, for various reasons, so I thought I’d turn the tables. “So then, who did kill Señor Stillwell?”

She shrugged. “Quien sabe?” (Who knows?)

“Someone must know. Right now there are witnesses who say Hector Guerrero killed William Stillwell. If Hector is to get out of jail, someone else must take his place: the real killer.”

Priscila stood and went to the stove to heat more frybread. Their two young children, a boy and a girl, were already in bed.

Miguel said, “You are correct, Judah. Everyone has been so upset by this false accusation, no one has thought to ask who did murder Señor Stillwell. I must consider this.”

“Meanwhile Hector languishes in that hellhole.” Priscila groused.

“The Santa Fe County jail is not a hellhole,” I said. “Besides, Marshal Garrison talked to the Sheriff and told him Miguel was likely innocent, so to go easy on him. And Hector’s wife and children have gone down to Santa Fe.”

“Oh, so it is a vacation resort?”

“Priscila,” Miguel pleaded.

My next bite of the frybread “taco” crunched into something hard. I examined it and found a whole chicken leg bone buried in the filling.

Miguel saw me pull it out from the folded frybread. “Priscila, what have you done to our guest?”

She looked over her shoulder from where she stood at the stove. I held up the chicken bone and she, all wide-eyed innocence, said, “Now how did that get in there?”

“Priscila,” Miguel said, “you have acted like a child. If Judah had not collected Hector, then some less friendly person may have. You know that Señor Edward had placed a fifty dollar bounty on Hector, dead or alive. Would you prefer to have some Texas scalawag enforce the federal warrant with a bullet to Hector’s back?”

She turned and, with a pout, left the kitchen and went out the back door where there was a horno, a large baked-clay oven, found outside many Mexican and Indian homes

“I am so sorry, Judah,” Miguel said. “She is a close friend with Hector’s wife and, to them, this is a sign of worsening relations between the whites and the Mexicans and Indios. They feel quite desperate. I admit I was feeling much the same way until you mentioned the possibility of finding the real killer.”

“Edward Stillwell offered a bounty?” I asked.

“Yes, but only last week after you left for Mora to arrest Hector. He knew you, as a Deputy Marshal, would not be able to collect the bounty but he wanted another way to proclaim Hector’s guilt, so he had notices printed. Here, I have one.” Miguel got up and went to a roll-top desk in the corner of the room. He was unfolding a quarter broadsheet as he returned. He handed it to me.

It proclaimed:

“REWARD, for the apprehension and return of Hector Guerrero to face justice for the heinous murder of William Stillwell. $50, DEAD or ALIVE. Posted and guaranteed by Edward Stillwell, Taos.”

There was no description, photo, or other likeness, nor other text.

I said, “May I have this?”

“Of course, but what for?”

“To collect this bounty.”

“What?”

“I can collect bounty rewards, except those offered by the federal government.”

“Oh,” Miguel said, with an uncertain chuckle. “Señor Stillwell will not like that. After word reached us that you had Hector in custody, Señor Stillwell let it be known that you, as a federal marshal, could not collect the reward. I believe we all thought that. Señor Stillwell may not pay you.”

“Then everyone will know that he is a welcher.”

“You would tell people that?”

“No, my friend, your wife will. In the meantime, don’t say anything about this to anyone.”

When I was in town, I usually arrived at the Sheriff’s office by seven-thirty. Sheriff Gonzales was likewise an early bird so, after I filled my cup with the fresh coffee he’d made, I pulled my chair over by his desk.

“I take it Hector didn’t resist arrest,” he said, as he pulled out a desk drawer to use as a foot rest.

“Quite the opposite. When he heard I was in town, he came looking for me to turn himself in. Found me in their sheriff’s office.”

“Yes, Matias Salazar, good man. Did you meet his wife? Isn’t she a pistol?”

“And she seems pretty savvy.” Mannie and I were using English. He liked to practice with me.

“I’ll say. If women ever get the vote, watch out for her.”

“So what do you know about William Stillwell’s murder?” I asked.

“You mean other than that Hector Guerrero was in Mora at the time it occurred?”

“Yeah. That’s old news.”

He shrugged. “I have heard that the Stillwells were having some manner of money problems about then. The payment from William’s life insurance was what kept the business afloat.”

That was a bombshell. “Hold on. Are you suggesting that Edward killed his brother for the life insurance?”

He sighed, picked up a paper knife, and began to clean under his fingernails. “I don’t know. Actually, I don’t think so. They seemed to get along well and depend on each other in their business. William was much better at keeping the books, tracking the inventory, watching for buying trends, while Edward was much better dealing with customers and suppliers. I saw no enmity between them. They did everything together when they weren’t working.”

“Like that hunting trip when Ernesto Guerrero was shot and killed?”

“That wasn’t them,” Mannie said. “The Stillwells have both their pistols and rifles chambered for the forty-four-forty. Ernesto was killed with a thirty-eight. At least that’s what Sheriff Burns from over in Colfax County wired me. Ernesto may even have been shot with a pistol.”

“Maybe the Stillwells have a thirty-eight you don’t know about.”

“I don’t think so. I tested them. One evening just after Easter I saw them go into the Palace Casino. I emptied some of the cartridges from a box of thirty-eights and then went over there. The brothers were at the bar and I went and stood near them, then turned to the room and loudly announced I’d finally given up on my old thirty-eight and offered the partial box of thirty-eight cartridges to anyone who would buy me a couple beers. I had several takers, but the Stillwells never reacted.”

Maybe so, I thought, and gave Mannie a speculative look.

He shrugged, “I know it’s not proof, but I just never saw them as acting guilty. They may have been hardhearted businessmen, but no one’s accused them of going beyond the law, and certainty not killing anyone.”

I thought about that for a minute and decided to set it aside for now. I tried a different approach.

“What about Logan McMillan?” McMillan was the owner and President of McMillan Bank and Trust, the larger of the two banks in Taos. He was also the Speaker of the House of the territorial legislature and the second witness to identify Hector.

“He’s a politician. That means he’s a liar and a hypocrite.”

“Aren’t you a politician?”

“No. I’m a lawman. My wife’s the politician.”

“Like Sofia Salazar in Mora?”

“Sofia and my Fatima are sisters.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“If you sit down and talk with my Fatima you will know. Sofia is the older. Fatima was born here after the Tejanos burnt Mora and killed her father.”

“Wow. That’s a bit scary.”

“My wife?”

“No, no. I was thinking about their flight over the mountains; Sofia Salazar remembers it. But you are fortunate that it brought here the child that would become your wife.”

“Indeed I am. But there are four de Lorenzo sisters: my Fatima, Matias’s Sofia, Hector Guerrero’s wife, Paulina, and Ernesto Guerrero’s widow, Feliza.”

Mannie told me that the Stillwells did all their banking with McMillan, so if the brothers had had money problems, McMillan would have had an interest in it. But I didn’t think going to Logan McMillan with all my questions would be fruitful. It might even end up hindering my investigation if McMillan decided to take a high-handed attitude. I wasn’t in a position to face down one of the leaders of the territorial government.

Instead, Mannie suggested I talk to Israel Suarez, a clerk at the bank.

Mannie told me that everyone believed Suarez was hired to the position so that McMillan would have some appeal to the Mexican voters. Mannie wasn’t suggesting that Suarez couldn’t do the job; he had worked as a bookkeeper for the Territory’s treasurer. But he told me that Suarez still was paid less than the other teller, an Anglo with less experience who was hired six months after Suarez had been hired.

Mannie took me to the Suarez house that evening.

“Israel, you know who Deputy Marshal Becker is?”

Suarez, a pleasant-looking, clean-shaven man of about thirty-five, said, “Of course. It is good to meet you in person, Señor Becker.”

“Good, then.” Mannie continued. “Deputy Becker is looking into the charges against Hector Guerrero-- “ Suarez snorted derisively “--and would like to ask you some questions about the Stillwells and your boss, Señor McMillan.” We were speaking Spanish.

Suarez said, “Please, come in, sit down.” Then to his wife, “Maria, bring the mezcal, please, and some cups.” He looked at us, “You will join me, Señores?”

Mannie said, “I could force some down.”

I said, “Yes, thank you.”

Mannie told me, “Israel gets the good stuff, from Jalisco, in Old Mexico.”

Señora Suarez returned with a black glazed earthenware flagon and three brightly-decorated glazed cups, which she set on a table next to her husband. Then she smiled at us, made a slight bow, and withdrew. Suarez uncorked the jug and poured a healthy portion of the amber liquid into each cup, then handed one to me and one to Mannie.

He said to me, “I would encourage you to sip this rather than toss it down.” He raised his cup to us and said, “Salud!” (Health! or “To your health!”)

At his informal toast, I returned the gesture with my cup and an acknowledging bow of my head, then took a sip. The strong alcohol content was immediately apparent, but even as the pungent vapors tingled my sinuses, the smoky-tasting fluid trickled down my throat with a smooth, cool burn with barely a hint of the harsh astringency of most common liquors. I knew mezcal as a peasant liquor, but this definitely rose to a level above.

I nodded and said, “Definitely worth sipping. Thanks.” He offered the jug and I said, “Let me finish this. I want to savor it.”

He nodded, then said, “What is it you want to ask, Deputy?”

Hi caught me by surprise. Normally, I would have expected an initial period of friendly conversation on commonplace topics prior to serious discussion. But I had my questions ready. “I heard the Stillwells were having some sort of money trouble earlier this year, trouble that might have affected the bank.”

He nodded and said, “In early March it was discovered that the Stillwell’s February accounts were showing some shortages. The receipts recorded at the warehouse did not match the deposits in the bank records, which showed lesser amounts. The shortages were threatening the repayment of a loan the bank had made to the Stillwells.”

“Did they find the error?”

He shook his head. “I heard Señor McMillan tell Señor Edward that the only person who could explain it was Señor William. But the manner in which Señor McMillan said it made it sound as if he suspected Señor William of wrongdoing.”