Chapter 17

1883: TERRITORY OF NEW MEXICO

Friday, September twenty-eighth, the day following my return from the Bateneros brothers hash-up, I received a wire at Taos assigning another prisoner transport. I was to meet a Colorado Deputy U.S. Marshal in Trinidad, Colorado, just north of the New Mexico line on the north side of Raton Pass (rah-TOHN, “mouse”). The Colorado Deputy would hand over a fugitive Mexican national who was being extradited back to Mexico. I would then transport the prisoner via train to Mesilla, New Mexico Territory, where I would be met by the U.S. Marshal for the Texas Western District, up from El Paso. He would then take the prisoner to the transfer point at the Juarez river crossing.

I knew Hector Guerrero had a horse he wanted to transfer to Mora for Sofia Salazar to use in her role as manager of the Guerrero mills and their other business interests in Mora County. It would be faster for me to ride over the mountains to Mora and catch the train at Watrous, about 30 miles east-southeast of Mora, than to ride to Embudo to catch the D&RG train and connect with the AT&SF to make its southern loop to Glorieta Pass and thence up to Trinidad. Well, not actually faster, but about the same, the advantage being that, if I left early, I could make it to Mora in one day and then spend the night there with Matias and Sofia, leaving early to catch the eleven o’clock train at Watrous the next morning. I could rent a horse for that leg or ride the Guerrero horse and a hostler could accompany me to bring the horse back.

The distinct chill of autumn had already settled on the upper slopes of the Sangre de Cristos, but there was no snow yet, at least nothing that had accumulated. The aspen were just beginning to shed their golden autumn leaves and there were large swaths of the “quakies” on the mountainsides providing a dramatic flare against the background of dark evergreens. Riding through those groves it appeared the air itself glowed with the honey color. I crossed several streams that begged to be fished, but I hadn’t brought the tackle as the trip allowed no time to spare.

The horse was a compact pinto mustang, sturdy, sure-footed, and calm. The ride made me realize how much I’d been depending on trains for transport of late. I needed to exercise my own horses more.

I’d left at six-thirty, just before sunrise on Saturday, and arrived in Mora before six p.m., just as the sun was settling behind the mountains.

The next morning, Sunday, Matias rode with me over to Watrous, which was in Mora County, hence in his jurisdiction as county sheriff. They provided a different horse for me to ride, as Sofia was so pleased with the pinto that she wanted to ride it that day. I’d had a most pleasant visit and learned more about the Guerrero Grant holdings that were being managed on behalf of young Neto Guerrero, who had inherited their administration from his father, Hector’s brother.

We’d left Mora before sunup and reached Watrous with a half hour to spare before train time. The trail had been mostly a gentle down-slope, moving from the foothills out onto the prairie. After I left on the northbound train, Matias was going to make his rounds, then return to Mora the next day, taking the horse I’d used with him.

The train got me into Trinidad, Colorado by three-thirty that afternoon. It was about twenty minutes behind schedule, a delay caused by a small rockfall on the pass that the train crew had had to clear from the tracks. I had helped, as had most of the male passengers.

In Trinidad, I was to meet Deputy U.S. Marshal Mortimer Dwyer for the prisoner exchange, but that’s not what happened.

The Trinidad station-master handed me a message from Dwyer. The handwritten note informed me that the Deputy had already come and gone. He’d left the prisoner at the Las Animas County jail. I went directly there.

The prisoner, Iago Pastor (YAH-go pah-STORE), was a tall, lean man with a hawks-bill nose and a surly countenance. Except for several days’-worth of stubble, he was clean shaven. A self-styled revolutionary in Mexico, when his “army” was destroyed, Pastor had exiled himself to the prairie town of La Junta (lah HUN-tah), Colorado, where he had relatives. He might have lived there in peace had he kept his head down, but he started preaching an overthrow of the state government. So, when the Mexican extradition request was received, U.S. federal authorities were only too happy to comply. Dwyer and four posse deputies had taken the train the sixty miles out to La Junta from Pueblo and had arrested Pastor.

Speaking Spanish, I explained to Pastor that we would be leaving on the train at twelve-twenty the next afternoon and I showed him the chains he would be wearing. He never said a word, only giving me a sideways glance and a derisive snort. Then he made a show of turning his back to me in dismissal.

I was struck by the man’s display. Pastor didn’t seem angry or repentant. He displayed neither fear nor bravado. He had an air about him that suggested he felt supremely confident. And his confidence caused me some concern. He was not acting like a man who was on his way to be executed, which is almost certainly what he had in store, once the Mexican authorities had dealt with him.

With my uncertainty came caution and so, as I walked down the courthouse steps, I had cause to notice two Mexican men. They were sitting together at the edge of the boardwalk across the wide street and they both looked my way as I came out the courthouse door, then looked quickly away when I returned their gaze.

This would bear some thought.

The next day, I paid a sheriff’s deputy and a town policeman a dollar each to accompany me and my prisoner to the train station. I saw neither of the men with whom I’d exchanged looks the day before.

The AT&SF tracks split at Trinidad, with the main east-west line heading northeast toward La Junta. The other line headed north to Pueblo, Colorado City, Denver, and Cheyenne. Passenger trains from both lines met at Trinidad and passengers transferred between trains. While the timetable had them arriving at the same time, things didn’t always work out that way. If one train or the other was expected to be no more than an hour late, then the other train would wait. Should the delay be longer, the passengers could take hotel rooms for the night and catch their connecting train the next day.

Today, both trains were a half hour late. In fact, that delay worked well for my plan.

Unlike the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, the Santa Fe didn’t require that I ride in the baggage car with a prisoner, as long as that prisoner was shackled to the coach’s superstructure. Passing Pastor’s leg irons around the floor stanchion of the seat in front of him served that purpose, according to the conductor. For good measure, I also fastened his handcuffs to the open corner of the seatback frame that served as a hand-grip for those walking in the aisle.

The prior afternoon, following my visit to Pastor at the county lock-up and the interest taken in me by the Mexican “idlers” outside, I began to formulate a plan by which I might rescue Pastor from my custody, were I a small group of his followers from La Junta. Giving Pastor credit as being a presumed smart and crafty military leader, and with the various circumstances of time and place in mind, I decided that I would halt the train at the midpoint between Trinidad, in Colorado, and Raton, in New Mexico, the only towns in the region that might produce armed resistance to my purposes. That midpoint was the top of Raton Pass some eleven or twelve miles from either town. I would then approach the train at the water stop near the top of the pass or I would arrange a rock fall onto the tracks, thus bringing the train to a halt. By whichever means, I would then demand the release of my prisoner or I would begin shooting up the train, including the locomotive’s boiler, which was vulnerable to gunshots, as were passengers, since the sides of a coach could be penetrated by even close-range pistol fire.

To forestall the worst outcomes of such a chain of events, I developed a counter-plan, which was not without risks itself. I could be totally wrong about everything, or even mistaken regarding significant aspects. However, as was my usual approach, if I had no way of knowing what was actually in store, there was no benefit to assuming my estimate was wrong and to simply dither in place.

In keeping with that notion, my plan consisted of Pastor and I dropping from the train at the south edge of Trinidad, where the train slowed to negotiate the switch from the depot siding back onto the main line. There I had two horses waiting, rented from a livery stable at the north edge of town.

I made a show of leaving the train so the other passengers would be fully aware of our exit. I had alerted both the railroad and the sheriff to my suspicions, with the result that two railroad policeman and a sheriff’s deputy were aboard the train as a safety measure in the event a passenger -- one of the rescuers -- attempted to interfere.

The plan was that, at whatever blockage the rescuers had arranged to stop the train, one of the railroad policeman would approach them under a white flag to explain that we were no longer on the train. Under that same white flag one of their rescuers could board and search the train and question anyone as to where Pastor had got to. I intended my actions to be revealed to divert the raiders from attacking the train.

Meanwhile, Pastor and I had ridden through Trinidad, again without any attempt to hide, and exited town on the trail to La Junta, a bit over a hundred miles to the northeast. A couple miles outside of town, once I had established we weren’t being followed, I led Pastor’s horse on a sweeping arc to the north and west, cross-country, eventually approaching the horses’ home livery stable from the north, on the Pueblo trail. There, Pastor and I would await the northbound Santa Fe, which I had made arrangements to board at the north edge of town.

We would ride to Walsenburg on the Santa Fe, and transfer there to the Denver and Rio Grande. The westbound D&RG would take us over the Sangre de Cristos at La Veta Pass and into El Valle de San Luis (ehl VY-ay de sahn loo-EES), the San Luis Valley. We would travel west to Alamosa and transfer there to the southbound train which would take us into New Mexico, past my usual stop at Embudo, through Santa Fe and eventually to Lamy, where we would transfer again to the Santa Fe and resume the trip originally planned, though a day later.

And the plan worked as intended. I later learned that the train had been stopped at a deliberate rockfall, but that the encounter did not include gunfire. My roundabout trip added about a hundred twenty miles and eighteen hours, including lay-overs between trains, to my original schedule. But no shots were fired and no one was hurt -- unless one counted the disappointment of Pastor’s followers.

I had telegraphed U.S. Marshal Sebastian Duran in El Paso that I would be arriving at Mesilla a day later than had been originally scheduled. And so I was surprised when a man wearing a marshal’s star approached me at the stop at Rincon, some forty miles north of Mesilla, and at the very early hour of one-thirty in the morning. He was a mid-sized man, with Indio features, and a broad, sweeping mustache.

“Deputy Becker?” he asked. “I’m Sebastian Duran, from El Paso.” He pronounced his given and family names emphasizing the last syllables of each. (seh-bah-stee-AHN doo-RAHN)

I stood up and offered my hand. “Marshal, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for the postponement and the necessity of this early hour.”

He looked me in the eyes. “You had any sleep since yesterday? You look half-asleep now.”

“I caught a cat nap or two last night between trains at the station up in Alamosa. For that matter, I’m not sure whether I was awake all the time on the trip down to Lamy. But why are you in Rincon, Marshal?”

“I need to talk to you and I know that jackanapes Albertson has a warrant posted for your arrest, so you need to stay out of Texas.”

“Yeah. I only found out about that a few weeks ago, when I was in El Paso visiting Andy Etheridge. I got away by the skin of my teeth by sneaking across the rio into Juarez.” I looked at him closely. “So you know it was Albertson who shot Town Marshal Artigas?”

“Everyone knows that. If your case came before a court, there would not be sufficient evidence to convict you.” He shook his head, a look of distaste briefly evident. “It is all party politics. As I am sure you are aware, most Mexicans vote Republican and the Democrats are trying to hang on to the few offices they have, including the town marshal. But the real danger for you is that, if Albertson arrests you and you happen to get killed trying to escape, your guilt will be demonstrated and the whole question is resolved for Albertson’s innocence. You must stay out of Texas, at least for the present moment.” He looked toward the empty seats further up the aisle. My habit was to ride in the last seat in a coach when transporting prisoners.

“Is Señor Pastor secure?” he asked.

“His waist chain is shackled to his seat and his legs are shackled to the seat stanchion in front of him.”

“Then let us move to those seats over there where we can speak privately.” He indicated a seat three rows up and across the aisle. All the nearby seats were vacant.

We moved there and sat down just as the train got underway again. He turned partially toward me, leaned in, and lowered his voice. “In fact, it is about Zachary Albertson I wish to speak, but to keep it in confidence.”

“Go ahead, Marshal.”

He said, “Early this past summer, the Mexican authorities in Estado de Chihuahua complained to the U.S. Consul in la Ciudad de Chihuahua of a horse rustling operation that is run by Americans and is active in the northern part of the state. The complaint made its way to Washington where the Department of State brought the information to the Department of Justice, and hence down to my office as Marshal for the western district of Texas.”

Estado de Chihuahua (the State of Chihuahua) was a Mexican state that shared a border with Texas from the Rio Grande’s Big Bend to El Paso, and beyond that along most of New Mexico’s border west of the Texas line. Ciudad de Chihuahua (the City of Chihuahua) is the state capital, located about two hundred twenty miles due south of El Paso and Juarez.

Duran continued, “There was considerable information that had been gathered by the Asociacion de Ganaderos de Chihuahua (Chihuahua Stockmen’s Association). Their report said that the stolen animals are driven across the border into New Mexico, then driven east to cross the Rio Grande between Mesilla and El Paso. The horses are then driven east through New Mexico to the Texas panhandle. There they cross into Texas, supposedly as stock raised in New Mexico. Then they are sold at auctions in Midland or Odessa or Big Spring.”

I said, “That seems like a long way to drive horses.”

“It is,” Duran replied, “but it works well for them. There are few crossing points on the Rio Grande along the Texas border until east of the canyon country. Those crossings have federal customs agents attending, mostly appointed by Republican administrations in Washington. However, west of El Paso, the Mexican border with New Mexico is wide open, flat country with no rivers, no canyons. You can cross anywhere. So they cross into New Mexico and drive east to Texas. Once in Texas, they’re certified by a state brand inspector who I believe is in league with the rustlers and is certifying the herds without the required sales documents or brand registrations.”

“In addition, they are stealing from breeders who produce especially fine stock.”

I said, “Okay, so you figure they’re driving the horses from Mexico into New Mexico because it’s safer than trying to cross into west Texas, and it helps them obscure the origin of the horses by taking them them across New Mexico Territory. Then they have them approved by a crooked Texas brand inspector. That about it?”

Duran nodded and briefly stroked his mustache.

I took the opportunity to ask, “So why tell me? This isn’t my sector. Marshal Garrison has a Deputy stationed in Las Cruces, Ruben Avila. He’s a good man.”

“He is; I know Ruben. But I think this will take several deputies working together and I plan to come over and help, too. Even more, I knew this would have a special interest for you.”

I looked at him, expectantly. “What do you mean?”

“When I first received this assignment,” he began, “it was accompanied by all the information the Chihuahua Stockmen’s Association had assembled. Essentially, they reported that once every six weeks to two months, a group of Norte Americanos (North Americans, i.e., U.S. citizens) would cross from El Paso to Juarez, descend upon a herd of horses, usually in a remote region of western Chihuahua, then drive the entire herd north into New Mexico. Besides the loss of high-value stock, several times this has resulted in the killing of one or more vaqueros who had been assigned to tend those herds.”

“How do they know the rustlers are Americans or that they crossed at Juarez?”

“Because twice there had been rustlers who were killed, their bodies abandoned by their fellows. Both were Anglos. Their belongings included items that suggested they had been in Juarez. One man wore a garter on his sleeve, the garter of a design known to be an advertising device for a popular brothel in Juarez. The other man had in his pocket a poker chip from a gambling saloon in Juarez. Besides that, they backtracked three of the rustler bands as far as they were able; their back-trails pointed generally toward Juarez.”

“Then how did they know the herds were being driven back into Texas?”

“The same way, by tracking them as far as they could. The delay in discovering the thefts meant the trails had gone cold, but they all pointed toward the Texas panhandle, to a greater or lesser degree.”

“You still haven’t said why this would interest me.”

He nodded. “Once I received this assignment, I went to the Juarez office of the Chihuahua Stockmen’s Association to introduce myself and to gain what further information I might. The man at the Juarez office sent a wire to the Association’s home office in Ciudad de Chihuahua to let them know I was working the case. A week later I received a complete copy of their files in the mail. Most of it I had already seen, with the information from Washington.”

“They had done a thorough job with what they had to work with but, frankly, it wasn’t much to go on.

“However, a week ago, I received a new report from the Association’s home office. There had been another raid and another rustler had been killed. In this man’s pocket was a shield-shaped badge that was stamped ‘El Paso Deputy Marshal’. And their report said the man had red hair.”

Ricky O’Flaherty, killed in Mexico? Seemed likely. I nodded to Duran. “All right, now I am interested.”

He smiled. “I knew you would be.” Then he explained further, “I asked around town and the word on the street was that Ricky O’Flaherty had abruptly quit his town deputy job and had gone to California. I also learned that O’Flaherty had been on a recent hunting trip in Mexico with Zach Albertson and a few of the other town deputies.”

“If they were in Mexico, who was watching the town? How many deputies does Albertson have?”

“A dozen are listed, though only four work full time.”

I said, “Huh, that still sounds thin. Marshal Artigas had five full-time deputies, including me and Albertson, plus two auxiliary men.”

Duran nodded. “According to the newspaper, there are fewer crimes being committed in El Paso, though I now suspect it may be more likely there are more crimes but fewer reports.” He shook his head, an expression of distaste briefly visible.

Then he said, “In any event, with the suspicion now thrown on Albertson, I decide to see if I could discover the brand inspectors who were working with them. So I went to the El Paso office of the Texas Department of Agriculture and looked at their staff directory. Lo and behold, I found a brand inspector working out of Midland by the name of Zebedee Albertson. I remarked on this to the clerk at the Agriculture office and he told me that Zebedee and Zachary were brothers.”

I shook my head and said, “It’s unexpected, but not really surprising. After all, why would I expect that Zach Albertson would limit himself to just one criminal enterprise?”

Duran said, “In fact, the rustling seems to be only a recent activity, probably inspired by his brother’s appointment to the brand inspector job last year, after the Texas and Pacific Railway opened up those towns as livestock markets.” The railroad created several new towns and brought new life to older settlements when it built west from Fort Worth in eighteen eighty and ‘eighty-one.

I observed, “But you still don’t have enough for the federal prosecutor, do you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Can’t the Mexican Rurales capture these bastards? Who was it that shot the rustlers that have been killed?”

“They were shot in gun battles with vaqueros in which the vaqueros were also wounded or killed. As for the Rurales, there are not that many of them and they have large areas to patrol -- and they deal with hostile Indios as well as bandits and even revolutionaries.”

“Still,” I observed, “this all looks like a Mexican problem. That’s where the harm is being done.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But the federal administration in Washington wants us to deal with this. My guess is that they are trying to improve our image with Mexico City now that we have taken all the territory we want from them.”

I gave him a sideways glance and he shrugged again.

“Do you have a plan?”

Another shrug. “Not much of one.” He shook his head, showing a mild grimace. “The problem is the unpredictability of the raids, both in time and place. There is a great many horses in northern Chihuahua. And the rustlers have no set time table.”

“Well, except that Zach Albertson either is or isn’t in El Paso at any given time.”

Yet another shrug. “One might think so, but Albertson does not display regular work habits when he is in town. He takes time off whenever it suits him for purposes and to places he does not always reveal. His favored deputies appear to enjoy the same privileges. For that matter, that group has actually gone off together for fishing or hunting. This week, for instance, Albertson and two of his deputies are here in New Mexico, up near Elephant Butte, hunting ducks along the Rio.” Elephant Butte was a formation, rising some three hundred fifty feet above the river, on the west side of the Rio Grande in Socorro County, about sixty-five miles north of Mesilla. Its western aspect was vaguely reminiscent of an elephant’s head.

“Can’t you pay some kid to watch the town marshal’s office to see who’s there every day.”

“The dependable kids are in school right now. Besides, just because he’s not there doesn’t mean he’s in Mexico. The federal prosecutor said I should just tell Albertson we are onto him. That would probably scare him off. But...”

“But you want to take him down, not just scare him off.”

“Exactamente.”

“I’m with you on that. So what can we do?”

He shook his head. “The best I can come up with is with two new efforts. First, the Chihuahua stockmen keep several two-man patrols scouting the remote herds, not to interdict, but to make a prompt report to the nearest telegraph office. They notify me and I notify you and the rest of the posse.

“The advantage we have includes two factors. First, under normal conditions, horses can move herds move between thirty and forty miles a day for four or five days at a time without destroying the animals’ health and value. My guess is the rustlers will move them between twenty and thirty miles a day so they won’t have to rest them for several days en route. Their primary interest is in selling high-value mounts at the auctions.”

“And our second advantage?”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled and nodded. “While the crossing of the border into New Mexico is wide open, and the crossing of the Rio Grande is nearly likewise, in order to leave the Rio Grande valley and travel further east in New Mexico, any herd must negotiate the pass between the Organ Mountains and the Franklin Mountains.”

The Organ Mountains were a relatively narrow though ruggedly steep mountain range in south-central New Mexico while the Franklin Mountains were a low, isolated range that straddled the Texas-New Mexico border north of Fort Bliss. Both ranges’ length extended on a north-south axis that marked the eastern edge of the Rio Grande drainage in that region.

“Chaparral Pass is wide, nearly a ten miles, but it can be a choke point. If observed from an elevated position, any herd approaching the pass will betray its presence through a cloud of dust, easily visible for twenty or more miles. Intercepting them should not be an insurmountable problem.

“The immediate problem will be in arresting the rustlers. They will be spread out around the herd and I expect they will scatter as soon as we appear on the scene. And we can not be certain of their numbers. I estimate between eight and fifteen, but nothing is definite.”

I commented, “I would estimate smaller rather than larger, as these men will want to limit the number of shares in the proceeds, plus their interest isn’t necessarily in seeing that all the animals make it to market. I doubt they spend much time chasing a few strays.”

“Yes, that makes good sense. What do you think? Eight? Ten?”

“I’d say eight. Another limit they might want to apply is the number of blabby mouths that know about their crimes.”

He sighed. “Even so, eight men will still be a formidable number to chase down when spread over a quarter mile.”

I said, “We’ll want Albertson, for sure. You can bet he won’t be riding drag.” Drag was the herding position directly behind the herd. The job was to prod stragglers. It was the dustiest position to ride, usually the place for the new men on the crew to start out. “More likely, Albertson will be out front, and his favored deputies closer to the front, too. I’d say we concentrate there, at the front of the herd.”

He nodded. “Yes, I agree.”

I said, “Another thing: I think these men should be prosecuted in Santa Fe. West Texas is Albertson’s home ground, where all his friends are. He has no one beholden to him in New Mexico, and it’s into New Mexico he’s bringing the stolen herds.”

“But doesn’t you prosecutor favor white men over Mexicans?”

I nodded, with a derisive chuckle. “And every other non-white. But Pete Ferguson wants to be governor. The governor is appointed by the president. The president wants this resolved in favor of our relations with Mexico.” It was my turn to shrug.

Duran looked crestfallen at the thought of turning his case over to us. He sighed. “I suppose you are right. In Texas there would be too much pressure, even on the federal system. But I was so looking forward to sitting up front at that trial.”

“No reason you still can’t. I’d wager that Marshal Garrison will be glad to share the front seats with you.”

“You may be right. He seems like a reasonable man.”

“I’ve found him to be so. However, first we need to catch Albertson. Who do you see will be on your posse?”

“I’ll bring me, of course, and a man from the Chihuahua Stockmen’s Association I can’t bring any of my deputies, as they have divided loyalties for which I cannot blame them. But I would hope you would join, and Ruben Avila, and perhaps some deputies from the Socorro County sheriff. Then I’d ask that you, me, and Avila each bring a good man willing to work as a temporary deputy.”

“I know Marshal Garrison will want a hand in this,” I said, “and so might Charlie Hackett, our chief federal deputy. He works out of Albuquerque. He may want to make sure he gets his name in any newspaper articles, but he didn’t get chosen as chief deputy by either grandstanding or shirking his duty.”

“If they each bring a man, that would be ten federal marshals, even before we add in three or four deputy sheriffs. But I think we need a few more. Can you bring two men?”

“Yeah, probably. It will depend on the timing. I’m obligated to a wedding at the end of the month.”

“That wouldn’t be the Castellano wedding, would it?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. Have you been invited?”

“I have. And so has Zach Albertson, so I’m not too worried about a conflict in anyone’s plans.”

“Albertson? Really? I’m surprised he plans to attend a Mexican shindig.”

“Albertson craves the prestige.”

I grimaced. “Can I ask you something? About this wedding, I mean.” He bobbed his chin, indicating for me to go ahead. “I’m not sure I understand why this wedding is so significant. I don’t mean to say that the principles are unworthy, but they don’t represent what is normally celebrated, the, uh, the flowering of youth, so to speak, the, um, emergence into adult status -- neither of them are spring chickens, after all.