Seneca Book 2: Bootleg Justice - Cover

Seneca Book 2: Bootleg Justice

Copyright© 2025 by Zanski

Chapter 19

1883: TERRITORY OF NEW MEXICO

The late October weather was crisp and clear on the lower slope of the Sangre de Cristos above the town of Española. With only a light breeze and a cloudless sky, the sun provided sufficient warmth that overcoats were not necessary and even the ladies were comfortable with their lacy shawls. As a result, the wedding party’s finery would be on full display. As the appointed noon hour approached; I stood tall and proud in my charro suit.

But my first sight of Feliza took my breath away.

Up to this point, I had only seen her in widow’s garb, black and formless, its overstated modesty purposely concealing her physical attributes, even to a partial veiling of her face while at meals. Even so, I had sensed her warmth and mutual appeal through all of that.

What’s more, I had felt uncomfortable around her because, though I was attracted, yet I was fully aware that her husband had died only months before. The conflicting emotions were relieved to a degree when Hector Guerrero, Feliza’s husband’s brother, was not offended by even my reserved interest, and had treated me as a cherished friend, knowing of my growing interest in his widowed sister-in-law.

But now, now, as I watched her in the dappled sunlight of that New Mexico walnut grove, as she advanced toward the trellised bower at which stood the padre and where I waited in the company of Ferran Castellano, both of us in attendance to the groom, my friend Zeke Saltell, everything else -- the congregation of family, friends, ranchero staff, local citizens, officials, and dignitaries from throughout el valle del Rio Grande, the walnut grove itself -- faded from my vision allowing only the figure of a sunlit Feliza to remain.

No longer in shapeless widow’s weeds, her aspen-gold dress was gathered in a high waist beneath her bodice, while the accessories -- comb-supported mantilla, shawl, and matching fan -- were in an open pattern black lace, in reverence to her state of mourning, now drawing to an end. And the glowing gold of her dress explained the golden color of the sash I wore at my waist.

Fortunately for Zeke, first man duties were seen to by his new brother-in-law, Ferran, as my attention was focused on Feliza throughout the ceremony. It was only when Ferran bumped my shoulder did I realize that it was time to escort Feliza, now grinning at my distraction, down the open pathway through the congregated celebrants. She placed her hand in the crook of my elbow and gently squeezed as I led her over the mown greensward path. In fact, she led me, as her step hurried me along.

“Let’s get out of their way,” she said quietly, which served to return my thoughts to the actual purpose of the day’s gathering. So I moved with her to the far end of the clearing, allowing Ferran and his sister, Jasmina, to clear the area so that the crowd could converge in celebration and congratulations on Marita and Zeke, the bride and groom.

Feliza stopped us at the next row of walnut trees and we turned to watch the multitude of guests offering best wished and happiness to the newlyweds. Then I felt her pull lightly on my arm and she said to me, “Judah, that man there, in the trees, seems to be watching us.”

I followed her line of sight across the clearing and into the trees on the other side -- and there stood El Cazador, the Jicarilla tracker, looking directly at me.

“I know him,” I told Feliza. “He’s a tracker from the Jicarilla reservation, over by Agua Dulce. They call him El Cazador.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” she said.

“I think he wants to talk to me,” I said. “Reckon I’d best go see.” I patted her hand where it rested in the crook of my arm and she released her grip.

Ferran and his sister were walking toward us and seeing me step away, and likely seeing the concern on my face, Ferran asked, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

I said, “There’s an Apache over there called El Cazador. I’m going to see what he wants. Would you watch over Feliza?”

Looking toward El Cazador, Ferran said, “I’d best go with you.”

Marita said, “Feliza and I will go rescue Marita and Zeke from that crowd and start to herd people toward the barbacoa (barbecue).”

“We’ll see you there,” he said. Then he and I strode off toward El Cazador, who then moved off through the next row of trees to await us.

Stopping near him, I said, in Spanish, “El Cazador?” Then, remembering I was with Ferran, I said, “Oh, this is Ferran--”

Cutting me off, El Cazador said, also in Spanish, “Becker, I know who he is.” Then he said, “There are men coming here to attack this gathering.”

“What?” Ferran exclaimed. “Who’s coming?” Our conversation continued in Spanish.

Looking from one to the other of us, El Cazador said, “I was in Abiquiu, where many people of different clans are gathering for the winter. A man named Carmody was there, hiring men to come here. I am ahead of them, but not by much.”

Ferran said, “Abiquiu is only twenty-five miles. When did they leave?”

“At sunup.”

“I asked, “Do you know what they plan?”

“Only that they plan a fast raid, kill who they can, and get out.”

Looking to Ferran, I said, “They won’t likely come through town.”

He looked off momentarily, then looked back at me. “If it were me, I’d cut across the trail north of town and come at us from the northwest or the north.”

El Cazador nodded. “It would be the way I would choose.”

Ferran looked the other direction. “Most of the vaqueros have already gone down to the barbacoa tables.” Then he looked at me, a bit wild of eye, and with a desperate note said, “We’ll need horses.”

I said, “We’ll need guns more than horses.” I looked at El Cazador. “Are you armed?”

“My bow and a tomahawk.” He was carrying the un-strung bow like a walking staff.

I said to Ferran, “My guns are at the hacienda. I’ll get them and head out on foot toward the northwest, but best send a few men to scout the other approaches.”

Ferran gave me an abbreviated salute, said, “See you shortly,” then ran off down the hill.

The barbecue was set up to overlook the Lagrimas de Su Madre, the waterfall called Tears of His Mother. It was about a quarter mile away, while the hacienda, where I’d been assigned a room, was just below the walnut grove.

I looked at Feliza and Jasmina, both of whom had returned. I said, “Maybe you ladies could go down and help calm the wedding guests. Try to keep them all together so things don’t get any more confused. Urge them toward the hacienda. Tell Zeke I think he should stay to help guard the governor and the others.”

Feliza patted my hand, then they both turned to walk off in the direction Ferran had taken. I began running the couple hundred yards to the hacienda.

Once in my room, I caught sight of myself in a mirror and decided I’d best change clothes, to rid myself of all the shiny bangles. The charro suit was comfortable enough, but all the flash and noisy jingling wouldn’t be helpful. While I was at it, I also donned my moccasins and traded the fancy sombrero for my broad-brimmed Miller Brothers tan felt. I strapped on my Colt Army, slung the Winchester ‘76 over my shoulder, then dropped the couple dozen cartridges I’d brought into my pocket. I grabbed up my double-barrel ten gauge, a pouch that held eight shells, and headed back out.

El Cazador was waiting. He began running and I followed, toward the northwest, angling down cross the slope toward the distant rio. There was an expanse of open pasturage adjoining the hacienda compound. That compound was surrounded by a whitewashed, stuccoed adobe block wall four feet in height, with gates on each wall.

Across the north-side pasture, about a half mile away, there was a fence line and then an extensive wooded area, mostly aspen with oaks and maples lower down and giving way to spruce, fir, and cedar at higher elevation. El Cazador had us following an overgrown footpath that led, eventually, to a narrow zigzag stile that crossed through the bobwire fence.

El Cazador led me another half mile, where he paused at a grove of old, sturdy aspen and glanced at me over his shoulder. Then he turned back and began to climb one of the trees to which some ladder-like rungs had been nailed. Looking up, I saw a small log-slab shed built on a lumber platform suspended between four of the trees, maybe twenty feet off the ground. It’s small size and the overgrown trail by which we came suggested that this was once the play-house of Ferran and his sisters when they were youngsters.

We entered the shed through a trap door in its floor. Except for some candle wax-filled reflective tin holders nailed to the walls, there was nothing in the eight foot square structure other then old leaves and forest detritus. Each wall enclosed two small shuttered windows; El Cazador was opening those that looked north and west. We each knelt down at one of them.

In a quiet voice, he said, “There is a cattle drive-way that passes just west of here, on the near side of that creek. I think they will come here,” and he pointed toward a shallow stream bed about fifty yards off. Indeed, I could see the opening in the trees and even here the splash of water. It was a likely approach for the marauders if all our suppositions were accurate. The uncertainty of that gripped my stomach.

Even so, I looked at him, nodding. “Makes better sense than us wandering around on the mountain looking for them,” I said, in muffled tones.

He said, “I can place my arrows accurately at this distance. I suggest I use my bow until we are spotted, then you join in with the rifle.”

“how many arrows do you have?”

“Eleven.”

I held up my Colt. “How are you with a revolver?”

“Good at this distance.”

“Then you use this after you run out of arrows.” I opened the cylinder and filled the empty chamber. “There’s six,” I said. I found a kerchief in my pocket and opened it to lay on the floor. I scooped the shells from my pocket and put them on the kerchief. “There’s a couple dozen more, but I use them for this carbine, too.”

I levered a shell into the chamber, then picked up a cartridge from the kerchief and slid it into the magazine. “I’ve got nine, now,” I told him. “And I’ve six more loads for the shotgun in this pouch.” I set them on the floor next to the coach gun which I’d leaned in the corner. “It has two in the breach as it sits.”

El Cazador glanced at the available ammunition, then gave me a quizzical look. “There are maybe only forty or fifty of them.”

I grinned at him. “Nudge me twice when you have to reload. I’ll slow my shots to cover. I’ll do the same to warn you.” I took some cotton wool from the pouch with the shotgun shells. “Want to plug your ears?” I held the wad of cotton fiber up to him.

He shook his head and brought a twist of tobacco from his pocket and bit some off. While I balled up some cotton for each ear and put them into my shirt pocket, he chewed the tobacco briefly, then drew it from his mouth, broke it in two, and stuck the wads to the wall next to his window.

Leaning close, I asked, “Who are these men that are coming?”

He frowned. “Different tribes: Mescalero, Jicarilla, Ute, Navajo, Zuni, Comanche, some whites and Mexicans, a couple black men. This Carmody and two other white men I don’t know got them liquored up yesterday, gave each a five dollar half-eagle, said there’d be a ten dollar eagle after the raid and a bottle of whiskey for each man, and they could keep whatever they found on the raid. They’re renegades. Some are warriors, some are common thieves, some are drunks. They come to Abiquiu for the winter, along with many honorable people.”

“Did you hear that white man’s name, the one who gave out the money.”

“I heard Carmody call him Major Pritchard,” El Cazador said, his attention divided between me and the mountain slope outside.

I mused, “Pritchard, huh? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name in Santa Fe. Can’t say why, but I don’t think he was mentioned favorably.”

He turned quickly to the window. “They’re here.” he said. Both of us inserted our ear plugs.

As it soon became obvious, the overgrown footpath we’d followed to the tree-house continued on to the stream, likely to a swimming hole or wading pond used by the Castellano children in past years. However, it also served as the path by which the bushwhackers now left the cattle drive-way and turned toward the hacienda.

El Cazador immediately loosed an arrow at the first man in line, connecting with his chest. By the time that man was falling, El Cazador had sent another arrow flying, with like results.

By this time, some fifty or more riders were visible along the creek bank, all pushing toward the narrow tree-house path. El Cazador dropped two more riders at which point those immediately behind the fallen marauders began firing pistols and long guns blindly into the undergrowth.

While vastly outnumbered, El Cazador and I held certain advantages.

First, the path through the aspen grove was barely wide enough for a single horse and rider, and we had a clear view of its length. Second, we were in an elevated position, which was not the expected location of an attacker, so the return fire had, so far, been aimed well below us. Third, though most of the aspens’ golden autumn foliage had already fallen to the forest floor, the grove was nonetheless dense and somewhat shadowed, primarily lit by dappled early-afternoon sunlight which disguised clear outlines through the upper branches.

Even so, as El Cazador’s supply of arrows was being quickly exhausted, it was just a matter of a few seconds before our own gunfire, with the resulting sound, flashes, and smoke clouds would clearly mark our location.

While the log edge slabs that made up the walls of the tree-house might stop pistol shots, rifle fire could be another matter, depending on caliber, powder load, and the compressive strength of the barrel and breach of the particular weapon, with older and poorer quality firearms being less robust. As my companion loosed his last arrow, each one finding its mark, those moments of truth were upon us.

Then El Cazador dropped his bow and retrieved my pistol, I shot at riders still on the creek bank, hoping to sow some confusion in the rear ranks. While a few riders turned to flee, most began to dismount and take cover. And, as El Cazador took the first shot from the pistol, a bullet threw wood splinters into my forehead.

I slowed my rate of fire, wanting to be able to cover while El Cazador reloaded, which point came soon enough, as he proved to be as adept with the pistol as he had with the bow. He gave me two quick nudges of the revolver’s grip.

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