Chapter 13

1883: Nogales

I had hoped to arrive in Nogales, on Arizona’s Mexico border, by Thursday noon. However, the misadventures involving Dahszine and the events in Colorado had eaten up the time. Then I had to spend a full day in Santa Fe making reports. I also visited Dahszine in the Santa Fe County jail, where I had delivered him the day before. I warned the deputy who supervised the jail that not only was Dahszine likely innocent, but his seven-year-old daughter had just been killed by white men. I asked that he be treated with forbearance.

Dahszine was in a cell with a two men of other Apache clans, one a Mescalero the other a Mimbreño. Both of his cell mates were serving ten-day sentences for infractions of county ordinances regarding public drunkenness and disturbing the peace. While there was no apparent hostility between the three Apache men, there was no camaraderie, either. Each man appeared to ignore the other two. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say each man suffered alone.

Anton Dahl, the Assistant U.S. Attorney, had interviewed me regarding Dahszine’s case.

I explained, “It was set up to kill Dahszine, Mister Dahl. One BIA constable, Bertram Insley, met the Rio Grande railroad policemen at the station. Here’s a notary-certified copy of their report.” I set it on his desk.

He let it sit there and he said, “Go on.”

“I interviewed both of the Rio Grande railroad coppers. According to what they told me, when they met up with Insley on the depot platform, Dahszine was still wearing their shackles, binding Dahszine’s hands behind his back. Insley, the BIA constable, walks up and right away butt-strokes Dahszine in the face with his shotgun. He just walked up to the shackled man and -- Pow! -- he punches him square in the face with the shotgun butt.” I’d loosely pantomimed the blow using restrained gestures.

“And then Insley tells the Rio Grande officers to remove the shackles. As soon as the cuffs are removed, Insley hauls off to deliver another butt-stroke, making it obvious that it’s what he intends to do. When he swings the butt this time, Dahszine bats it away -- except that Insley had the gun cocked and his finger on the trigger. Dahszine’s action to defend himself causes Insley to stumble and press the trigger, and he shoots himself in the face. The railroad coppers said two other BIA constables, Alfred Short and Ivor Dedriksen, had been waiting inside the depot and were on the scene in a trice and beat Dahszine to the ground with their shotgun butts.

“What the Rio Grande coppers figured later was that Insley’s threat of the second butt-stroke was supposed to cause Dahszine to run, and all three of the BIA constables were there to gun him down. But Dahszine didn’t run.”

Dahl asked, “Then why didn’t the BIA constables shoot him right then and there, in response to Insley being shot?”

“Because Dahszine was still standing right in front of the railroad policemen, too close for them to be clear of the buckshot, unless they shot him point-blank, and they wouldn’t have wanted to do that in front of the railroad officers. Besides, at that point they could charge Dahszine with murder rather than just the railroad’s trespass charge, so Dahszine would be neutralized as a threat.”

“Which begs the question, Deputy, why were the BIA constables so determined to kill Dahszine in the first place? How were they threatened by him?”

I looked off, out the window, without responding.

Dahl said, “What is it, Becker? I know you wouldn’t have spoken up for this man unless there was a very good reason. What else is there?”

I looked back, shaking my head, a tone of warning in my voice. “It’s a can a’ worms, Mister Dahl, some really big, fat, ugly worms. Just knowing about it puts a man in a tough spot.”

He sighed. “Best tell me.”

So I did, handing him a copy of Deputy U.S. Marshal Didron’s report and sticking to that version.

I concluded by telling him what wasn’t in Didron’s report, at least a small part of it: “There’s a plot of turned earth out back of the orphanage, Mister Dahl, most of it looking like a vegetable garden gone to weed. But it isn’t a garden. It’s a burial plot for the little children those men killed. Seven-, eight-, and nine-year-old girls and boys buried, cheek to jowl, in a continuous shallow grave a hundred feet square.”

Dahl looked at me silently for a few moments, then he asked, with clear reluctance, “And how did you come by this information, Judah?”

Didron and I had decided on an explanation for the discovery. “When Deputy Didron and I went to throw dirt on the fire, we scooped it from what we supposed was the loose earth from a garden plot and that’s how we found the bodies. It turned out that one of the bodies was Dahszine’s seven-year-old daughter, who was supposed to be at the Indian school at Fort Lewis. Dahszine had been raising a ruckus about his missing daughter. Reverend Simms needed Dahszine dead before anyone started paying attention to him. Under a charge of murdering a BIA constable, any of Dahszine’s accusations against the BIA could be discredited, especially because, as an Indian, he was considered incompetent to begin with.”

Dahl frowned. “There was nothing about children’s graves in the newspaper accounts of the fire,” he said. “Those men who died in the fire were there as members of the orphanage’s board of directors. The articles said they had devoted portions of their own wealth to building and maintaining that home.”

I made an insincere shrug, illustrated by my feigned expression of innocent ignorance. “And that’s probably true, as far as it goes. But if the children were orphans and had no homes of their own, and if the orphanage was so generously endowed, then why all the barred windows and why were the children locked in the cells in the basement?” Then I looked at him, shaking my head. “Deputy Didron and I decided to say nothing about it, Mister Dahl. It wouldn’t have made any difference to the situation at that point. The children were dead and the men who had killed them were dead. Anything more would just have been sensationalism and a big mess to try to straighten out or else cover up, all for no real purpose.”

He looked down at his hands where they rested on the desk.

I said, “There’s one more thing. As the report states, Alfred Short, one of the BIA witnesses to Insley’s shooting, was shot and killed by me at the fire. The other BIA witness to Insley’s killing, Ivor Dedriksen, has not made an appearance at Agua Dulce since about the time of the orphanage fire in Colorado. My bet is that he was inside that house when it burned down. The only other witnesses, the railroad coppers, see Insley’s death as an accident that Insley brought on himself.”

Dahl just shook his head and looked down at his hands, resting on the desk. Finally, he stood up from the desk and went to the window, which looked out onto the expansive lawn of the federal courthouse. He stood there, staring out, unmoving, his hands in his pockets.

After several minutes, he looked down, shook his head, then turned to me. “That’ll do for now, Deputy. You can go.”

The AT&SF passenger train brought me to Nogales on Friday, a few minutes after noon. I had sent a telegram to U.S. Marshal Ben Archer, in Tucson, reminding him of my purpose for being in Nogales. I was wearing a duster over my older black frock coat, along with black trousers, a white, collared shirt, a black string tie, and my black “dress” Stetson. My star-in-a-circle badge was in my pocket case.

As I stepped down onto the station platform, a mid-sized man with salt-and-pepper hair and full beard walked up to me. He wore a six-point star on the waistcoat under his brown frock coat.

“Are you Deputy Becker?”

I thought I discerned a twinkle in his eye, so I said, “Depends. What’s your business with him?”

“I’ve been directed to take him into custody.”

“On what charge?”

“Being late to the party.”

Now half serious, I said, “Not too late, I hope.”

“No, but your man’s been here for two days already. Went to see Haas on the first day, but Haas put him off.” He took a quick look around. “If he knows you, we shouldn’t stand around here.

He stuck out his hand, which I clasped. “I’m Pete Ducat, with the Pima County Sheriff. Let’s go over to that cantina for a little while.” He pointed off the near end of the platform and kitty-corner across the street. We headed that direction.

He explained as we walked, “My boss and Marshal Archer used to be in the Arizona Rangers and with them both being in Tucson we have to listen to them tell stories about their Ranger days an’ every other damn thing. Every now and then they even talk about something useful. Last week, when I was up in Tucson, Marshal Archer mentioned to the boss about your little game with the cara dañada (CAH-rah dahn-YAH-dah, damaged-face [man]). The Sheriff asked me to see if you needed any assistance.”

We had reached the cantina and he ushered me inside what looked to be a busy restaurant. It was a fair-sized room with maybe a dozen tables, mostly filled with men, and a few women, eating mid-day dinner. As might be expected, the fare was mostly Mexican dishes, if the tortillas and beans were any indication, but I saw a few plates with mashed potatoes and fried chicken, and what looked like meatloaf and gravy, too. More men were standing at a bar eating sandwiches and boiled eggs or big dill pickles, and drinking mugs of beer, while coffee seemed the more common beverage at the tables. A middle-aged Mexican woman held sway behind the bar, while two younger women served the tables.

I hadn’t realized I was hungry ‘til I walked into the cantina.

Ducat steered us toward the near end of the bar. An open archway opened to the kitchen where a small alcove held a round table with six chairs. It looked out on the busy food prep and cooking area where a man and a teen-aged boy and girl, each in a white apron, were busy with various cooking and service tasks.

Already seated at the table was a Mexican man in business attire, perhaps in his middle forties, with a heavy mustache and a full head of near-black hair. He looked up, displaying a pleasant smile.

Ducat introduced him. “Deputy, this is Arturo Battista. He’s sort of a policeman for the State of Sonora, in Mexico. Arturo, this is Deputy United States Marshal Judah Becker.”

Battista stood and he offered his hand to my gasp, saying “Mucho gusto, mariscal adjunto.” (It’s a pleasure to meet you, deputy marshal.)

“Mucho gusto tambien, señor.” (A pleasure to meet you too, sir.)

He smiled. “Un tejano?” (A Texan?)

I shook my head, returning the smile. “No, soy de Ohio. Aprendí español en Tejas cuando estaba en el ejército.” (No, I am from Ohio. I learned Spanish in Texas when I was in the Army.)

Indicating the other place settings, Battista switched to a mildly-accented English, “Please. Join me.”

After we were seated, I asked, “Are you with the Rurales?”

“No. I work for the Governor of Sonora. Perhaps you might call me a state marshal.”

“I wasn’t aware there were such officers.”

He shrugged. “There really are not. We are more, ah...”

Ducat said, “You might call him a trouble-shooter for the governor, though not so much political troubles as with our kind of trouble. Maybe ‘special investigator’ might be a better title.”

“But let us eat something,” Battista said. “The man who owns this cantina,” he gestured toward the man at the stove, “is a cousin and those of his branch of the family are known for their cooking. Have you ever had guacamole?” (pronounced, in the Mexican style, hwahk-ah-MOE-leh)

Ducat was explaining, “After the Sheriff told me to keep an eye out, I was watching for the cara dañada to make an appearance. I confess to being curious about how damaged his face might be,”

We were drinking coffee after the meal and enjoying some churros sticky with honey.

“Then, on Wednesday, I spotted what had to be your man coming out of Haas’s office. And then I noticed Arturo, here, keeping an eye on him. I knew Arturo worked for the Sonora state government, so I caught up with him and asked him what was going on.”

Battista took up the account. “It was by chance that I came across the hombre you seek. Mi esposa (me eh-SPOH-sah, my wife) and I were on holiday at a beach hotel in San Carlos Nuevo Guaymas and I overheard talk about an ugly norteamericano who was about to become rich. The man who was saying this, an afeminado (effeminate [man]), was speaking to a table companion, a rather large hombre, who seemed to have trouble grasping what was being told him.” Battista shrugged. “It is my nature to be curious, and so I followed them when they left. They went to a beach cottage. It became apparent that both were associates of the norteamericano of whom they had been speaking. The large man, who was obviously somewhat dull of wit, is a servant, after a fashion. The afeminado appears to be a, uh, a personal companion to your Señor McMillan. And then I followed them here.”

“You interrupted your holiday? Is your wife with you?” I asked.

He chuckled and waved a dismissive gesture. “She probably does not even notice I am not there. She spends the days playing dominoes and gossiping with her Guaymas friends about the doings of the state capital so she can then return to the capital and play dominoes with her Hermosillo friends and bring the gossip of Guaymas to the capital. Frankly, I was bored.”

Ducat, grinning, observed, “Your wife might be more valuable to the governor than you are.”

Chuckling and nodding, Battista admitted, “Oh, I am certain that she is. Her family supports the governor’s election campaigns. Her wealth is also how I can afford to holiday at the beach.”

I asked, “Do you have an interest in Jeffrey McMillan or the other men?”

“Not really, not any more. I was concerned that this McMillan might have been gaining some influence in Guaymas, which is an important seaport for Sonora. But now I learn your plan is that he shall not return to Mexico.”

I shrugged. “That’s the plan, unless his early arrival has mucked that up. I need to speak to Conrad Haas, to see if the plan has changed.”

“I talked to him,” Ducat said. “He told me McMillan had pressed him to finish the document transfers immediately, but Haas told him the court order had yet to arrive from Santa Fe, so he wouldn’t be able to meet with him until one in the afternoon on Saturday.”

“Where’s McMillan right now? Do you know?”

Battista said, “He’s staying at a boarding house on the south side of the border, the same one where I have a room.”

“Delfina Tenorio’s place?”

“You know it?”

“I stayed there last time I was here. I suppose it would have been too much to expect that I could stay there again. She’s a good cook, and keeps a clean, quiet home.”

Sounding indignant, Battista asked, “And what is wrong with my cousin’s cooking?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean--” But then I saw the grin on his face. “What I meant was, I wondered would your cousin mind if I slept here?”

“Perhaps,” Battista replied, “in exchange for a few small cleaning chores,” and he tipped his head to indicate two washtubs over-filled with dirty dishes and cooking pots.

“There’s usually an empty cell at my office,” Ducat offered. “You wouldn’t even need to bring your own bedbugs.”

With an undertone of false sincerity, I said, “I really am glad I met up with you fellas. I can see already how much help you’re going to be.” Then, turning serious, I said, “But I need to let Haas know I’m here and that McMillan is staying on the Mexican side of the border, so I’ll likely have to take him at Haas’s office.”

Battista said, “They can see Haas’s office from the boarding home so you’d best avoid being seen there, and you need to get there early tomorrow. You had better send a note.”

“I suppose that’ll work.”

Ducat asked, “Do you have writing paper?”

Patting my coat pocket, I added, “Yes, and a pencil.”

Then, recalling the lawyers office from my earlier visit, I said, “Haas has a couch in his office. Maybe I could stay the night there, go up there late this evening.”

“Ask him in your note,” Ducat advised.

“We’ll get one of my cousin’s boys to run the note up there and have him wait for a reply.”

A half hour later it had all been arranged. I’d stay out of sight at the cantina until the evening. Haas would come by and give me the office key after he closed for the day. My new friends volunteered to stay with me. Battista began sipping mescal. Ducat had one beer, then switched back to coffee. I had more of the guacamole spread on fried corn tortillas, along with limeade. And I paid for it all.

Conrad Haas came in the next morning at eight o’clock, bringing a basket of bread, pastries, and butter. He had shown me where the coffee-makings were, so I had a pot of coffee already on his stove.

But Haas was nervous. Speaking of Jeffrey McMillan, he said, “He was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster when he came in the other day, and the big guy was carrying a shotgun. I don’t want any gun play. I mean, I don’t want ... you know.”

“You don’t want to be shot?” I ventured.

“Well, of course not. Who would?” He was defensive in tone.

“No, no, I don’t blame you. Let’s see what we can figure out.”

I looked around. His office consisted of two rooms, an outer reception office with a table and an inner office where he worked at a large desk. He did not employ a receptionist, so that office was largely unused, except for meetings that involved several people The reception office contained three straight-back chairs facing the table on one side with the couch against the wall behind them. There was one wooden chair with arms was behind the table. Haas’s inner office had two wood guest armchairs and, behind the desk, an armchair with on wheeled casters. His work desk was more ornate than the table out front, which was little more than a wood trestle table with a shallow drawer on one side.

I said, “How about this: You greet them here in the reception office and have them sit down at the table.” I indicated the three chairs with a gesture of my hand. “We’ll put some papers on the desk so it looks like you’ve been working there. I’ll be concealed behind the couch. Once you have them seated, offer them coffee. Then excuse yourself to get the coffee and when you go back in your office, get low and take cover behind you desk. At that point I’ll stand up and arrest them.”

“What if they don’t want coffee?”

“Then tell them you have to get one of the documents. In fact, let’s give him something to do, something to read and then sign while you go to get the other papers.”