Chapter 9: 1885: U.S. Territory of New Mexico

When I arrived at the office the next morning, Marshal Garrison pointed to my new desk and said, “There was a telegram for you pushed under the door when I got here.” I looked over and saw the envelope on my desk, so I set down the pastry bag I’d been carrying, propping it next to the coffee cups, then walked to the desk to retrieve the message. Glancing at the envelope, I saw it was addressed to me at the Marshal’s office. I pulled open the desk drawer and pulled out the miniature saber, a gift from Maninie Gonzales when I was appointed a marshal. It was the letter opener he’d kept on his desk and that I’d expressed admiration for. I’d beens touched by the sentiment of his gift.

The wire was from Lieutenant Colonel Lange. The message had been printed on a paper tape and the tape glued to the page. It read:

Judah Becker US Marshal Santa Fe N Mex

You and family invited to luncheon picnic Sunday June 7 X Will arrive with carriage at noon X RSVP XX

Oskar Lange Lt Col Ft Davis Tex

I looked up to see Garrison watching me.

“It’s from Lieutenant Colonel Lange. He’s inviting my family to a picnic on Sunday.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The Governor must have invited him down to talk about the job.”

I nodded. “That would seem so.” I glanced down at the message. “He wants me to let him know if we can make it.” I looked back at Garrison. “Reckon I’ll head home at lunch and check with Feliza.”

He looked at me funny. “You sure give her a lot of say-so.”

“What d’ you mean?”

“I mean, why not just decide and then tell her?”

“She’s my partner, Al. We decide things together.”

“She’s your wife, Judah. You’re in charge.”

I sighed. “Didn’t we have this conversation recently?” I shook my head, frowning. “I don’t want to be in charge of her; being in charge of me is work enough. Besides, Feliza’s a damn smart woman who’s made her own way through some pretty tough times. I want to take every advantage of that wit in whatever ways I can. It’s one of the qualities I admired in her from first I met her. I value her advice before any decisions are made.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t live like that, being subject to a woman.”

I smiled. “There’s a difference between being subject to and being partners with. Besides, doesn’t your wife have the say over some things that she knows better than you?”

“Not over anything important.”

I decided not to further challenge his view of things. “To each his own, I reckon. I’m happy, you’re happy, what else needs to be said?”

He shrugged, looking doubtful. “If you say so. I just can’t see it.”

“Doesn’t seem like you have to.”

“I suppose.”

I pointed to the bag I’d brought in. “Hey, I picked up a couple a’ those custard-filled eclairs you like, and there’s another one where she tried something new, filling it with chocolate custard. Missus Dubois wants to know what you think of it. Is that coffee ready?”

Lieutenant Colonel Lange arrived in an open, two-in-hand carriage precisely at noon. Neto didn’t allow him to come knock on the door as he was excited to see Uncle Oskar, as he had known him from the days of our wedding. Neto had been watching at the front door and Lange’s driver had to pull the horses up short of the door as Neto came running along the front of the house. Like most traditional dwellings in Santa Fe, our house fronted directly on the narrow street, with only two or three feet separating it from the portion reserved for foot, mounted, l or wheeled traffic. Most business and social appointments in town were reached on foot, so it was uncommon to leave space in front of a house for horses, let alone a carriage.

Lange quickly dismounted the vehicle and swept Neto up in his arms, giving my five-year-old adopted son a big hug. I was watching from the door.

Neto asked excitedly, “Did you bring your sword?” At our wedding, Lange had worn a formal dress uniform, complete with a saber.

“Sword? Now why would I need a sword at a picnic?”

Not to be dissuaded, Neto said, “To cut Abuela’s apple pie. It is very fat.” Feliza had insisted that we would supply the dessert at the picnic; I had included that in our acceptance wire. Abuela Guerrero was renowned for the pies she made using the extra-deep pie tins, half again as deep as a normal pie tin, which her late husband had specially made for her.

‘And what will your Abuela say when I tell her you said her apple pie was fat?”

“She will make me eat a piece as punishment.”

“Really. That’s terrible. If only I’d brought my sword I could protect you from such horrid treatment.”

“Did you bring it? Did you bring it?”

“Are you bringing a sword to the picnic, Neto?”

“No I don’t have a sword.”

Is your father bringing a sword to the picnic?”

“He doesn’t have a sword, either.”

“Really? He used to have a saber, when he was a sergeant major in the Army. Are you sure he doesn’t have a sword?”

“He only carries his revolver to work. He doesn’t carry a sword, so he doesn’t have one.”

“Are you sure?”

Neto nodded his head vigorously.

“Have you asked him?”

Neto quickly looked over Lange’s shoulder at me. Lange set him on his feet and said, “Best go find out.”

In fact, I still had my old sergeant’s saber. It wasn’t standard issue, you had to buy your own and could only wear it if every other sergeant of your rank at parade was wearing one. I had decided to wait for Neto’s sixth birthday before I showed him the saber, as I knew he’d want to handle it. Other than a set of buckskins -- and the Whitworth -- it was all I had left of my Army days.

“Papa,” Neto said as he embraced my thighs, “do you have a sword?”

I shrugged, “I used to have a sword, when I was in the Army. But I’ve been out of the Army for ten years and have no use for a sword. So why should I have one?” I shruged. “Maybe if I’d known about Abuela’s fat pies back then I might have--”

“Fat pies?” Abuela Guerrero exclaimed from inside. “Quien dice que mis pasteles son gordos?” (Who is saying my pies are fat?)

Neto protested, “No quise decir que tu pastel sea gordo gordo, Abuela, quise decir como una almohada es gorda: gorda llena de cosas buenas.” (I didn’t mean your pie is fat fat, Gramma, I meant like a pillow is fat: fat full of good stuff.)

She smiled. Continuing in Spanish, she said, “I know that is what you meant, dear grandson. I know that you like my pies.”

“I do, I do, Abuela, well, except maybe the rhubarb, which is OK, but...”

To rescue him from further awkwardness, I said, in English, “Neto, please go see if your Mama needs help with Bertie.” Neto ran off through the courtyard door on his way to our bedroom. He liked to helpc are for his baby sister -- at least for brief periods of time.

Abuela Guerrero opened the front door wider and said, in English, “Colonel Lange, won’t you please come in. I just made some coffee, if you would like some.”

Lange’s smile brightened and he said, “If you’re having some, ma’am, I’d be glad to.”

“Of course, Colonel. Please make yourself comfortable here and I will bring the coffee.”

“Coffee at the kitchen table is fine with me, Señora Guerrero. Kitchens seem to feel more like where a home finds its life.”

Walking away, she replied, “And not the bedroom, Colonel?”

My mind felt a jolt as I thought, What the hell did she just say?

I shook hands with Lange then invited him to follow along into the courtyard, toward the kitchen. Just into the courtyard I pointed toward the door and said, “Go ahead, Colonel, I’ll be right with you.”

I stepped through to our bedroom, where Feliza was changing Bertie. I said, “Neto, Abuela and the Colonel are in the kitchen. I bet Abuela will give you a cookie.”

He had been folding diapers at our bed. He said, “Mama, can I go?”

“Yes, Neto, thank you for your help.” We were speaking in English at the moment.

He turned to go, but I said, “Son, when someone thanks you, what do you say?”

He paused and turned to Feliza. “De nada, Mama.”

“Well done, Neto. On your way,” I said. In New Mexico, even those Anglos who didn’t speak Spanish soon came to know what “De nada” meant, along with other common words and phrases, like amigo, bueno, gracias, hasta la vista, and adios.

Once Neto was out of earshot, I said, “You won’t believe what your mother-in-law just said to Colonel Lange.” She turned to look at me, handing me Bertie at the same time. I recounted the conversation and Abuela Guerrero’s saucy response.

She nodded as she turned to packing the folded diapers into a basket. “She likes him. And, from the few days he spent with us before our wedding, I don’t think he was put off by her attention.”

“Really?”

“She has been a widow for five years. She is still a healthy and attractive woman.”

“You’re right, of course. I just always think of her as Neto’s abuela. Now that I think about it, she is a handsome woman.”

Feliza smiled. “Perhaps we should not leave them alone too long.”

“They’re not alone. Neto’s a chaperone who could dampen anyone’s ardor.”

The ladies rode in the forward facing seats; Feliza held Roberta. Oskar -- he insisted I thus address him -- and I rode in the rearward-facing seats, across from the ladies. Neto chose to ride on Oskar’s lap, and the Colonel seemed happy to have him. At that point, Feliza leaned forward and handed me Roberta. But I frowned, gave a brief shake of my head, and handed the baby back.

To Feliza’s puzzled look I touched the breast of my coat under which I carried my short-barreled thirty-eight pistol in a shoulder holster. She immediately understood my need to keep my hands free while we traveled Santa Fe’s byways., or any byways, for that matter.

Oskar had selected a shaded, grassy clearing along the Santa Fe River, just a couple miles up into the foothills. After dropping us off with our picnic paraphernalia, the driver took the buggy back toward town with the assurance he would return in two hours.

Neto immediately wanted to go wading in the river, which was shallow enough, though of frigid temperatures, as the water hand been melting snow only hours before. But that didn’t deter the boy. Feliza wisely stripped him down to his small clothes, and they were soon enough sodden.

Neto began struggling to make a pile of rocks that might dam the stream, at least in a minor way. It was a game we’d played in a smaller creek with some of the young boys on the Castellano rancho. At Feliza’s urging, I removed my shoes and jacket and rolled up my sleeves and trouser legs, then waded into water so cold that my ears tingled. I began moving the bigger rocks so that Neto could fill in between them with those of a size he could manage.

The stream was ten yards wide at this point and with an early summer flow that we had no hope of stemming. Even Oskar’s brave foray into the river only allowed us to build a diversion damn a third of the way to the center. At that point, the effect of our damn made the remaining stream too deep and the flow too swift to allow Neto to venture further.

Fortunately, we were then summoned to eat. Though incomplete, the results of our dam-building efforts were plainly visible in the alteration of the main current, possibly sufficient to supply the head-gate of an irrigation canal, or trinchera, as they were called in the Territory.

It was notable that Oskar also wore a weapon in a shoulder holster. The ladies made no mention, nor did Neto, for whom firearms had become commonplace, due to my employment.

We were back home by four-thirty. Both Bertie and Neto fell sound asleep as we drove home. Abuela Guerrero invited Oskar for a coffee before he left, especially as the hour was still early. While Feliza and I put the children in bed for a late afternoon nap, Oskar followed Abuela Estela to the kitchen.

After tucking Neto in, I joined Feliza in our bedroom where Bertie’s crib had a place at the foot of our bed, a bit closer to the warmth of the fireplace. Feliza looked up at me from beside the crib and I bobbed my head toward the back of the house and asked, “What do you think?”

She shrugged. “What’s to think? Two people are attracted to one another. You just happen to know them under other circumstances so it seems peculiar to you.”

I gave that some thought. “I reckon you’re right. I’ve just always pictured Oskar -- I’m still having trouble addressing him by his first name -- I’ve just always pictured him as a dyed-in-the-wool Army man.”

“Maybe he was, but now he’s being separated from that Army. He’s taking a new view of his life.”

I nodded, eyebrows raised. “You seem to have an understanding that I just haven’t...” I wasn’t sure what I meant.

“You’re too close to the Oskar. I’m not as involved so I have a broader perspective. It’s not a fault you’re dealing with, it’s just these particular circumstances which you’re so close to.”

I walked to her and took her in my arms. She kissed me gently. “Te amor, mi corazon,” I whispered in her ear.

She kissed me again and said, “Let’s go see what they’re up to.”

In the kitchen, we found Oskar with his backside propped against the work counter next to the stove where Estela was stirring something in a pot.

She looked at us as we walked in. “I’m warming up this chicken soup for a light supper. I’ve asked Oskar to join us.

“That sounds fine, Mama,” Feliza said. Estela was actually the mother of Feliza’s deceased first husband, Ernesto, but Feliza addressed her as Mama.

Oskar stood up from where he’d been leaning and said to me, “Estela says you have an ice cellar. Could you show it to me.” The property had come with two storage cellars dug out beneath the back wall. One we used as a root cellar, the other we stocked with blocks of ice shipped down from Alamosa every winter. We’d been able to keep ice all summer.

“You want to go now?”

“If the ladies will excuse us.”

Feliza spoke to us as if we were rambunctious boys: “Just stay out of the mud, and don’t stand there with the cellar door open; it let’s in the heat.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said, walking out the kitchen door into the courtyard.

Oskar followed me, but, as he closed the kitchen door, he said, “I just wanted a few minutes to talk to you.”

I stopped and turned to him. Let’s sit on the bench there in the sun.” At Santa Fe’s elevation, late June afternoons could be cool. I led him to a wide, deep bench where we could rest our backs against the wall, which itself was warm.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked, after we’d sat down.

He shrugged. “This adjutant general job, I reckon.”

I shook my head. “What about the Army?”

“They’ll boot me out within a year. If I go on my own, I get the promotion.”

“I thought the army liked you.”

“They did, as long as there were plenty of Indians to fight, but those battled have moved west and north. Besides, Indian fighting has become an even more intense game of pushing them off lands that we want. That’s what happened when they found gold in the Black Hills, and now it’s what’s happening in Arizona Territory. Fighting raiders is one thing, pushing people from their homes is another thing altogether.”

I said, “On the negative side, it’s a political appointment. Governor Ross may be replaced if someone else is elected president in four years.”

“Aren’t you in the same boat?”

I shook my head. “For one thing, I report to a federal judge who has an appointment for life. For another, Feliza and I have other business interests. I actually earn most of my money catching outlaws and fugitives for whom cash rewards have been posted. My marshal’s pay is barely enough for a man to survive on.”

“I didn’t know marshal’s could collect rewards.”

I nodded, “Any rewards except those offered by the federal government.”

“Huh.” He shrugged. “Still, four years is a decent amount of time to pull things together. And I’ll still have a colonel’s pension, and I’ve a few dollars saved up.”

“It’s a growing territory; there are investment opportunities.”

“I thought as much.” Then he leaned in, “You work for the Governor directly, don’t you? What’s he like?”

“Well, I’m not exactly working for him directly, but yes, I’m working on his agenda. As my boss, I’ve got no complaints. He’s a reasonable man, but he does want things done his way. So far, that’s not been a problem.”

“Are you expecting problems?”

I shrugged, “Not really. He seems to delegate duties to others who are capable. But it’s politics, so you never know where the ambush is laid.”

“What do you think being a lieutenant colonel is all about? Once you move to that level, Indian fighting is a relief. I’m convinced that’s why General Mackenzie led all those campaigns himself when he was a colonel -- to get away from the politics.” Ranald Mackenzie had been appointed a brigadier general in eighteen eighty-two, a year after becoming commander of the District of New Mexico. In ‘eighty-three, he was appointed commandant of the District of Texas.

“I reckon,” I agreed. “It’s hard to move up very far without bumping into politics.”

“Why is Ross looking for and adjutant general now? The territory’s been years without one.”

I shook my head. “I’d wanted the Governor to set out his own cards. But he’ll figure I filled you in, anyway.” I explained the governor’s interest in stabilizing race relations and the problems we were having with some of the militias.

Oskar frowned. “And he thinks he can bring it under control with reports and paper work?”

“No, not at all. It’s to make it harder to hide their activities and, if they falsify their records, it would be easier to pull their papers.”

“And you think that would solve the problem? They’d still have a fort and field pieces.”

“True, but they’d become an outlaw gang, possibly an insurrectionist force that the Army would take an interest in.”

“So, is that all set up, or is there still some opportunity to shape things?”

“Nothing has been set up. That’s why an adjutant general. We need someone to set it up. The marshals can’t do it. We’re Department of Justice, not the War Department.”

“Will this be under the War Department?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But you’ll meet a young man named Amador Cabal. He seems to have as good a handle on how things work as anyone.”

He said, “I know that state adjutant generals are responsible to their governors, not to the War Department. But with a federal territory, I’m not so sure.”

“Governor Ross isn’t the type to walk into something blindly.”

Feliza called from the door, “You boys want some chicken soup?

The next morning at breakfast, I said to Estela, “I apologize for the Colonel, Abuela. I know it was past seven before he took his leave.” We’d sat talking at the dining table until nearly seven thirty. “I tried to hint for him to be on his way several times. I even kicked him under the table.”

Her face turned a rosy color.

Feliza said, “Stop teasing her, Judah. You know very well that the Colonel stayed so late so he could spend more time with Neto.”

I burst out laughing and Estela muttered something under her breath that I didn’t catch. That caused Feliza to start laughing. Neto asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Your parents think they are clowns, grandson. They only need paint their faces.”

“Maybe red, like your face, Mama?” Feliza teased.

Estela finally smiled. “I hope you won’t be like this if Oskar visits me in the future.”

“Feliza replied, “You know we won’t, Mama. It was just too new for all of us.”

Estela sighed. “It is for me, as well.”

Elfego Baca was waiting outside the office building when I arrived at seven-thirty.

After greeting me, he said, “The office door is locked, so I thought it better to wait our here.” He was wearing a suit consisting of a brown frock coat with black leather trim, black trousers, collared white shirt, a black tie and polished, army-style black brogans. On his head was a brown bowler. Everything looked new.

I said, “That’s a nice suit. You look good.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. It’s the only one I have, so I’ll be wearing it every day.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry about that. There are several men who work here who observe the same uniformity.”

“I’ve not had a suit like this before. My father knows the haberdasher in Belen. He’s taking payments.”

I nodded. “Shall we go in. It was Marshal Garrison’s turn to pick up the pastries, and we sometimes come in the side door coming back from the bakery.”

“Pastries?”

“Since he and I take turns, we haven’t been concerned with who pays for what. Maybe you could join the rotation.”

He grimaced. “Likely not. I’ve committed my food allowance to the landlady at the boarding house, I get full breakfast and supper, and a sandwich for lunch.”

I grinned. “Reminds me of my first year in the Army. Everyone seemed to be doing things I couldn’t afford, but I survived. Likely you will, too.”

Marshal Garrison was in the office and actually had a platter on which were arrayed six different pastries.

“Welcome aboard, Mister Baca. You are now an employee of the Department of Justice of the United States of America. As soon as this coffee is hot, we can celebrate. And please, select a couple pastries. I recommend this Napoleon.”

I spent part of the morning showing Elfego the various records files that he would be shepherding. Looking at the crate of files, his first question was, “Are these ordered by the alphabet or by date, or by some sort of identifying number?”.

I exchanged a look with Garrison, then said to Baca, “Well, I reckon by date, since we simply put the latest record at the front of the file, but there are case numbers, we just don’t keep track of them.”

He looked a bit startled, but, after a thoughtful moment said, “Would you rather have it by alphabet or by case number. I could keep a separate index that could list cases by name or by date.”

Again, Garrison and I looked at one another in speculation. Finally, he said, “Truth be told, we don’t really file them by date. The reason we put the latest records in the front is because those are the ones most likely to be active, so we know where to find them.”

“Here’s what I could do. I could arrange the files by case number, then I could make up an index of those numbers on an alphabetical list of case names.”

Garrison said, “Let me think about it.”

I told Baca, “Do it that way. The Marshal is just stalling for time so he can go home at lunch and ask his wife which would be best.”

Garrison said, “Men are killed every day from accidental shootings, Seneca, like when I’m cleaning my revolver.”

I said to Baca, “Don’t worry, his wife cleans his pistol for him at home.”

Garrison growled, “Maybe it’s time I invited you to supper at my home again, Marshal Becker. How about this evening, while I clean my pistol?”

Baca was suppressing his laughter. He sputtered, “I was worried this job would be like spending all day in church or in a schoolroom.”

“More like a lunatic asylum,” Garrison muttered, then barked out a laugh himself. Then he growled, “Now everybody get back to work. Mister Baca, do the files like you said.”

In between answering Baca’s questions, I was putting some thought into the problem with the militias. I would jot down notions as they came to me, but that was not all that frequent, and none of them seemed particularly helpful.

Then I decided to come at it from the other direction and to get a better idea of what the problem was, so I started a list:

Armed racist gangs in two counties

Suspicion of armed racist gangs: no proof!

At least twenty armed, trained men in both groups

Using militia system in both ends and means

Acting under sanction of Territorial government

Access to money other than grants

What is source of money?

By the time lunch rolled around, I was feeling overwhelmed. I knew that Colonel Lange would be having lunch with Governor Ross and Judge Bergman, by way of an interview. I figured the job was Oskar’s -- if he wanted it. I know if it was offered to me, I’d run and hide.

At lunch, Feliza sensed my disquiet and asked me what it was about, so I told her.

She said, “It is the same thing we talked about last night, corazon. You are too close to the problem. You have to step back from it, see it from other directions.”

“Such as?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps like an Army scout.”

As soon as she said that, my mood shifted. I now saw it as a problem to be solved rather than as a threat. I stood, walked around the table, and kissed the top of her head. I whispered, “You’re so smart.”

About three-fifteen, Colonel Lange came into the Marshals Service office, in full dress uniform.

Baca stood politely and asked, “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

“I’m here to see that gentleman over there.” He pointed to me. “I think he goes by the name Judah Becker in the territories.”

I’d already stood up and was walking toward him, a big grin in place. “Elfego, this is my former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Oskar Lange. Colonel, this young man is Elfego Baca, famed gunfighter and lawman. And I believe you will remember Marshal Albert Garrison from our wedding.”

Lange first acknowledged the Marshal, saying to him, “Marshal, a pleasure to see you again.” By this point Garrison had stood and was walking toward us.

Lange turned to Baca and offered his hand. “Señor Baca, mucho gusto. Seneca has told me of your harrowing experience.”

“Mucho gusto, Colonel. I am very happy to meet a man who has the respect of Marshal Becker.”

Garrison then offered his hand, asking, “Well? What happened?”

Lange smiled. “Next Monday I am being promoted to the rank of Adjutant General of the Territory of New Mexico. A few weeks after that, I expect to be promoted to full Colonel by the United States War Department.”

Garrison renewed his handshake. “Congratulations, General. Welcome to the lunatic asylum.”

Baca looked on wide eyed.

I took my turn shaking his hand. “I’m so very, very pleased, Colonel. Congratulations.”

Baca said, “May I also offer my felicitaciones? And welcome to Nuevo Mexico.”

“Muchas gracias, Señor Baca. I look forward to seeing more of you, since my office will be in this same building, on the second floor.”

“Which office?” Garrison asked.

“The northwest corner, I believe.”

I asked, “Next Monday? Won’t you have to go back to Fort Davis and put in your papers?”

He smiled at me. “I turned in my resignation the day I left to come here.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Can you join me for a drink, Judah. I’d like to talk some things over with you.”

I turned to the other two men. “Gents, if anyone needs me, I’ll be out carousing with the Adjutant General of the Territory of New Mexico.”

Garrison said, “I’d pay to see the day you got drunk, Seneca.”

“Where would you like to go?” I asked as we reached the street.

“Governor Ross suggested a saloon on the plaza, across from the Palace.”

“The Capital Inn? That’s a pretty high-tone place. But you’ll stand out in your dress uniform.”

“I think that’s the idea. The Governor wants me seen around town. Apparently he’s told key legislators that he was hiring an adjutant general and asked them to spread the word. He’s glad I dressed up, as it will cause more comment. I expect a newspaper reporter or two may find me. I’m to remain vague, and simply say that I’m in the capital for meetings.

“On Friday, he’ll have a press dispatch which should be in the papers over the week-end. Then, on Monday, I’ll be sworn in at noon.”

“Wow. That’s fast.”

“He says that people are dying and it needs to stop, let alone what other fraud and thievery may be occurring.”

“Yeah, it’s gone on too long. I was just expecting they’d take their time deciding and that you’d have to go back to Davis and wrap things up there.”

He shrugged as we continued walking. “The Governor said their minds were pretty much made up before I arrived and that, unless I said or did something outrageous with them, that I was a shoo-in.

“He said that, besides your endorsement, he’d also wired General Mackenzie, saying that I was under consideration for the adjutant’s job. He showed me Mackenzie’s reply. It said, ‘Top notch. It would be a mistake not to hire him.’”

Suppressing a grin, I said, “So it sounds like the Army wants to get rid of you pretty bad.”

“Wiseacre,” he muttered. Then he added, “I don’t know if you realize how much respect people have for your opinion. The Governor spoke of his confidence in you. Even your adopted mother-in-law thinks highly of you, despite the unusual circumstances of you being married to her dead son’s widow.”