Chapter 5

1883: the porcupine

Sheriff Javier Prado was a tall, clean-shaven man who, despite his name, had decidedly Anglo looks, including blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in business attire, which looked a bit out of place in the rambling adobe courthouse in the small village of Tierra Amarilla. But then I was in what might pass as business attire myself, with my black wool trousers, white shirt with requisite cuff links, and black frock coat, though I did soften the look a trifle with my string bow tie. I had also worn a gray duster on the train in deference to the sooty conditions of rail travel. I had the duster on again this morning as it was chilly and the duster was the only overcoat I’d brought

Sheriff Prado stood from his chair and came around the desk to welcome me with a hearty handshake and a smile of genuine pleasure. “Encantado de conocerlo, Diputado,” repeating, this time in English, “I’m pleased to meet you, Deputy.”

“Gracias, Sheriff. Estoy feliz de conocerlo también.” (Thank you, Sheriff. I’m happy to meet you, too.)

Gesturing with his hand, he invited me to join him, again speaking English, “Come, let us go to the cantina for some breakfast. It is just across the plaza. We can talk there.”

“That’s fine with me. I wouldn’t mind some more coffee.” The train had gotten in just after midnight and I’d taken a room at a boarding house that the conductor had recommended. I’d already had breakfast there.

As we crossed the plaza, Prado hooked his thumb back over his shoulder and said, “When the legislature made us the seat of Rio Arriba County back in ‘eighty, everyone in town came together and built that courthouse. Once we had enough adobe bricks, it only took us three days to put it up, though the roof tiles took two more days.” I’d taken note of the building earlier, a U-shaped adobe structure about forty feet to each exterior side, with a covered veranda around the inner perimeter. Rather than a traditional flat roof, it had a pitched roof of semi-tubular, amber-hued terra-cotta tiles, no doubt a concession to the snow which was more common in these foothills to the San Juan Mountains. It was a plain but serviceable structure that fit the rustic, rambling nature of the town.

As the achievement of a small village, he was justifiably proud. I said, “Those roof tiles set it off.”

“We had a heavy snow the winter of ‘seventy-eight, so the pitched roof was thought a better option than a flat roof. We fired the roof tiles ourselves, from local clay deposits.”

“How Tierra Amarilla got its name, then ... The courthouse reflects well on the pueblo,” I said. (Tierra Amarilla meant “yellow earth.”)

As we walked in the low door to the cantina, Prado called out, “Desayuno, por favor, Arturo.” (Breakfast, please, Arturo.)

“Por supuesto, Javier. Tres minutos,” (Certainly, Javier. Three minutes.) came a voice from outside an open rear door.

Prado walked over to the end of the counter, where a coffee pot sat on a brazier. “I’m having huevos rancheros,” he told me, nodding toward the back door. “Do you want some?”

“I’ve already eaten, thanks, so just some coffee. But what are ‘rancher’s eggs’?” I asked, translating his order into English.

“The way Arturo makes them is to poach a couple eggs in some green chili salsa, then serve it over a soft-fried corn tortilla, with some chopped onion and shredded queso fresco scattered on top. There’ll be some frijoles with it.” Frijoles were beans, usually cooked and seasoned pinto beans, which were usually mashed.

“I’ve never had that. It does sound good.”

“Some use red chili, some fry the eggs separately, but I like the way Arturo makes it, poached in the green ancho chile sauce.”

He handed me a cup of coffee and led us to a table, saying, “So you’ve come to relieve me of El Puercoespín?”

“The Porcupine? What do you mean?”

“His name, Dahszine, means porcupine in Apache. And the name suits him. He is a spiteful man, accusing us of vile acts.”

“Is that remarkable for an Apache man who is held captive in a jail cell?”

He shrugged. “Usually the Indios who I put into the jail are just sullen. El Puercoespín ... well, you’ll see. At least you brought good shackles.” I’d toted along my usual set of interconnected “traveling” shackles, which I’d left in his office. As the train ran but three times a week, my intention was to board the afternoon’s two-ten southbound train tomorrow, Wednesday, with my shackled prisoner. Tonight I would stay in the same comfortable boarding home, anticipating a restful early evening and late breakfast.

“I should like to meet the man, your Porcupine, this morning. Does he speak English?”

“Not that I know of. What little he’s said since he was brought in has been in what I presume is Apache, which I don’t speak, but some of his accusations are in Spanish.”

“When you say ‘brought in,’ do you mean to say it wasn’t you or your deputies who arrested him?”

Prado’s food arrived at that point and the conversation was suspended for a couple minutes. His huevos rancheros looked good and I thought I might try them tomorrow.

Setting down his fork, he took a swallow of his coffee and said, “El Puercoespín was brought in by Indian Bureau constables. The man he killed was another BIA constable.”

“Another Apache?” I asked.

“No. All the BIA policemen on that reservation are white.” He shook his head and made a sour face. “They are a rough bunch. Not a one of them would I want as a deputy.”

“Who’s responsible for hiring them?”

“The Jicarilla Apache (hic-ah-REE-ah ah-PATCH-ee) Reservation Indian Agent, a man named Harley Simms. He titles himself a Reverend.”

“D’you know him?”

Prado shrugged. “I have met with him a few times. He seems self-important. He claims he was a preacher back East before coming here.”

“Back East where?”

Prado looked off at the floor for a moment, then looked back at me. “Near Chicago, I think he said.”

Changing the subject, I said, “Those eggs look pretty good. I might come here for breakfast tomorrow.”

“That boarding home food no good?”

“Oh no, the owner seems a good cook. I had some good pancakes this morning with some tasty homemade venison sausage. But she said tomorrow will be biscuits and gravy, and I can get those anywhere.” I smiled, then added, “Or I could just have breakfast twice.”

He said, “A much more practical approach, plus it avoids offending any cooks.”

A little while later, while we were walking toward the jail, Sheriff Prado said, “We have the jail in a small stone building that the railroad had built to keep blasting powder when they were constructing the line. Afterwards, they donated the structure to the county to use as a jail. We didn’t really have a jail before, we would just chain a prisoner to a big rock, but the railroad blasted that rock, so...”

“How many cells?”

“It is a small building, so there are only two cells, but we can put four hombres (AHM-brays, meaning men) in each cell if we have to, but that would be rare. The only real disadvantage is that it is somewhat isolated, out at the end of the railroad’s wye. I have two men that attend the jail. They lock themselves into the building. They have a cot in an alcove by the door.”

We passed through a copse of cedar and piñon trees and came in sight of the wye.

A wye is a Y-shaped railroad siding that allows a train to back in on one arm then drive out forward on the other, thus turning the train, or just the locomotive and tender, in the opposite direction.

At the end of Tierra Amarilla siding, set in front of a grove of golden-leafed aspen, was a small mortared stone building with a pitched slate roof. As we drew closer, I could see that the door was ajar. I asked Prado, “Should the door be open like that?”

“They sometimes leave the door open to provide more fresh air. There is a second door of steel bars just inside.”

He said that, but the door was barely open, and with the chill of the morning at this altitude, l just felt something seemed out of place. I reached under my coat and slid the restraining loop off the thirty-eight’s hammer, then pulled the revolver to carry in my hand. Prado saw me and decided to pull his own shoulder-holstered weapon.

It was an iron-reinforced door and I stepped behind it ready to pull it open. Prado stood next to the door opening, against the stonework.

Prado called, “Paco, todo bien?” (Paco, is everything alright?)

There was no answer, but we both heard a muffled vocal sound and some thumping.

I got down on my knees, then my stomach, and I pulled the door open a few more inches. I took a quick glance and pulled my head back. I had seen that the barred door was open and pushed to the side. There was a central walkway visible and I had seen some metal bars on the right side. The other side wasn’t visible, the view blocked by another wall. Getting back to my feet, I said, “I didn’t see anyone, and if there’s another door, it looks like it’s wide open.”

Prado called, “Paco, voy a entrar.” (Paco, I’m coming in.) Then to me, he whispered “Just jerk it open and stand back.”

I pulled the door fully open then stood against it, out of the doorway opening, my pistol at the ready. All we heard were more of the same mewling and thumping noises. Prado shrugged and, crouching, with his pistol held in front of him, he moved into the doorway. I leaned out and aimed my gun, in my left hand, above his head. Still nothing but the odd noises.

Prado stepped through the doorway and I stepped in behind him. With the Sheriff leading, we both moved cautiously into the building, passing a small alcove on each side, a cot on the right, and, on the other side what was likely a small desk and a storage cabinet. There was a heavy wood door opened to the left, giving access through the inner wall. That door was also open and pushed against the cot.

We advanced through the second doorway into a wide passage with a long cell, fronted by floor-to-ceiling iron bars, on each side.

In the cell on the left there was a man seated on the floor with his back against the bars. His hands and wrists were were tied to the bars behind his back. His ankles were also tied together and he was gagged. He was making noises through the gag and beating his heels against the stone floor. At that moment, he looked over his shoulder and saw us, and he immediately slumped against the bars, refraining from further noise-making. The cells were otherwise empty.

Prado holstered his weapon and began to work on the man’s bound hands, untying them in a few seconds. Prado said, in Spanish, “What happened, Paco?”

Paco shook his hands for a few seconds, then pulled the gag from his face and some wadded cloth from inside his mouth.

In Spanish, Paco said, “That bitch fooled me. I thought it was the breakfast being delivered, but what I took for a covered basket turned out to be an old Colt Dragoon. She was a squaw, but they sometimes hire Apache women over at the hotel, so ... I’m sorry, Javier, I really messed up.” (“ ... lo arruine.”)

“Are you hurt?” Prado asked.

“No, Jefe.” (HEF-ay meaning chief or boss) Paco was bent low, untying his ankles and seemed unwilling to make eye contact.

“When was this?”

“Just after sunup, maybe six o’clock or shortly after.”

Prado looked at his watch. “Better than two hours,” he said. “Did they have horses?”

“I didn’t see or hear any.” Paco shook his head. “Uh, they took my shotgun.”

“Did you recognize the squaw?”

He shrugged. “Might have been the same one who visited him when he was first locked up, but I can’t be sure.”

“And the next time someone knocks on the door?” the Sheriff prodded him.

Paco sighed, “I keep the shotgun aimed at them until I’m sure what’s going on.”

Prado nodded. “Good enough. Oh, meet Deputy US Marshal Judah Becker. Marshal, this is Paco Marques, one of out jail wardens.” We shook hands and exchanged “mucho gustos.:

Prado told him, “Clean out that slop bucket and then you can go home. I’m glad you’re not hurt, amigo. (ah-ME-go meaning friend)

I stepped out the door and began looking for tracks. I found two pair, moccasins, one set large, the other smaller, about ten feet from the door, headed northwest toward the railroad main line and open country. I pointed them out to Prado. I said, now in English, “They started out on foot, anyway. Want to go for a ride?”

He looked at me, “You want to go with me?”

I said, “He’s a federal fugitive. You’d be doing me a favor by riding along.”

He nodded. “Let’s go by the stable and while he’s getting the horses saddled, I want to change out of these city clothes.”

“Good idea. Which stable? I’ll meet you there.”

A half hour later we were following their tracks cross-country. My mount was a fair-to-middlin’ mustang mare named Lulu. She was a bit short but seemed healthy enough. Prado assured me she was the best the stable had to offer.

“They’re still running,” I said as I leaned slightly in the saddle to follow the tracks of Dahszine and the squaw. “I don’t think they’ve slowed down at all.”.

“Why didn’t they just steal some horses?” Prado wondered aloud.

I said, “They used up precious time by the way they trussed and gagged your jailer and now they would rather run on foot than steal a couple horses.”

“So they’re not very smart. Most criminals aren’t,” Prado observed from the saddle, his horse trailing mine to avoid disturbing the fugitives’ tracks.

“It just seems odd,” I said, my eyes following the tracks as our horses moved steadily across the open ground. “The man is in jail charged with killing a policeman, but he breaks jail and takes the extra time to leave your jail guard unharmed. If he’s a killer of lawmen, why didn’t he just kill Paco? Then we might not have known about the woman.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just that things don’t seem to add up. The escape makes him seem desperate, but the method of the escape suggests ... I don’t know. But I add to that the fact they didn’t steal any horses when there were plenty around, and ... the same thing: I’m just not sure. But their escape plan seemed pretty smart, so I don’t think they’re just stumbling through this.”

Prado was silent.

Then I pulled up on Lulu’s reigns and said, “Hold on a second. They’re up to something. She’s started following in his tracks, so there’s only one set.”

“Isn’t that a standard Apache trick, to keep you from knowing how many there are?” Prado observed.

“True enough. Many tribes do that. Hell, I used it a time or two during The War and after, with the Army in Texas. But these two started doing it all of a sudden when they weren’t doing it before and we know there’s only two of ‘em anyway. Why the switch?” I sat up in the saddle and scanned the countryside before us.

The ground was a gently rising incline from the Chama River valley into the foothills of the San Juan Mountains. There were few large trees in the area, a few fir trees and some aspen. Mostly there were short, sometimes shrubby, piñon (PIN-yahn) and a type of cedar tree of a similar small size, as well as the occasional rabbitbrush and the ever-present cactus, mostly the low-growing prickly pear and the taller, bush-like, nasty cholla (CHOY-ah). There were a growing number of rock outcroppings and the occasional arroyo (ah-ROY-oh) but the country was fairly open overall. I saw a jackrabbit watching us from a couple hundred feet off, and a few big black magpies with their white breasts and long, shimmery, dark, blue-green tail feather.

“They’re up to something,” I repeated as I put Lulu in motion again.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he said, “while you watch the trail.”

I moved slower now, keeping Lulu at a walk. A quarter mile later, I pulled her up once more. “Now they’ve traded places; he’s following her.” As I looked closer, I was pretty sure I could see parts of the outline of her moccasins in a few of his prints, but I added, “I think that’s what they’re doing, anyway.” I tapped Lulu with my heels and told her, “Giddup.”

Another quarter mile and I lost any sign of her tracks within his. His gait had stretched a bit; it looked like he was running alone. I reined Lulu in and got down to look at the track.

Kneeling next to their trail, I said, “The woman broke off within the last hundred yards, likely on that rock back there.”

“Another common trick,” Prado said. “He’s protecting her by drawing us away. That’s fine. He’s the one we’re after.”

But I had a feeling I was soon to lose Dahszine’s trail, too.

Ten minutes later, it happened.

We had followed his trail onto a large rock shelf, but when we came to the far side, on the same line he’d been running, I couldn’t find his tracks. I looked around and saw that we were on a slope that contained numerous flat rock outcrops leading off for hundreds of yards to the west and north.

I said to Prado, “I’ve lost him. He picked his spot, probably knew that it was here.” Up to that point we’d been on a generally northwest heading. I pointed that direction with my outstretched arm and I asked Prado, “What’s ahead of us to the northwest?”

“Another ten or twelve miles is Agua Dulce (AH-gwah DOOL-say: “Sweet Water”). After that, eight or ten miles, and you’re in Colorado.”

“What’s in Agua Dulce?”

“Not much, other than the Bureau of Indian Affairs office for the Jicarilla reservation. That’s where they picked Dahszine up, where he killed the BIA policeman.”

We’d come about ten miles from Tierra Amarilla and the horses had been on an uphill trek for over an hour, so I proposed we give them a breather in the shade of a some piñon trees where there was a little grass. I dismounted and led Lulu there, and tied the reins to a low, flexible branch to allow her to graze. Prado followed suit.

I asked him, “What do you know about this killing?”

He sighed and shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “The BIA constables who brought him in just swore out a complaint for murder. They said he’d got in a set-to with one of their policeman and had killed him. I was just providing room and board until a federal marshal could collect him, so I didn’t give it much attention.”

“Have you ever had dealings with Dahszine before? Ever even heard of him?”

“Nope. I just figured he was a rough character based on his name.”

It was warming up and I took off my duster and rolled it up to tie behind the saddle with the rest of my kit, save for the business clothes, which were still hanging in my room back at the boarding house.

I shook my head as I kicked at a stone in the gravelly sand. “He’s headed back to Agua Dulce,” I said.

“Then why try to lose us?”

“Because we’re moving faster than he is and we’d catch him before he got there,” I said. Then I asked, “Have you heard anything about the BIA operations up there?”

“Except for the rough characters they have as BIA constables, not much. The reservation’s only been there a couple years.”