Seneca Book 4: De Dos Del Nortes
Copyright© 2026 by Zanski
Chapter 11. 1886: Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory
I was back at work the day after returning from Alamosa. As I had expected, Mrs. Garrison had kept things in good order. Any of the deputies who had questions sent wires to Orrin Spencer in Silver City.
With his arm still n a sling, Maurice started helping at the office on the second day we were back. He said he wanted to stay busy. I readily understood. However, I did insist we take some time each day for fly fishing, usually in the early morning or late afternoon. We’d make the short hike over to the Rio Santa Fe. If it was afternoon, Maurice would fish while I helped Neto throw in a line.
That night after supper, Maurice and I were drinking coffee at the table while Feliza and Neto cleaned the dishes. I only had kitchen duty on Sundays, when I didn’t go into work. Otherwise, Neto was kitchen assistant as Feliza retained kitchen oversight. Valeria Huertas, besides tending to Bertie, had taken over the laundry and housekeeping chores. After supper, Valeria usually played with Bertie or read her stories until the toddler’s bedtime.
Valeria’s brother, Xavier, was already working at the Santa Fe County jail. He was staying at a bunk room a few of the jailers used. It was a shed-roof addition on the side of the jail, a substantial structure, but more bunkhouse than homey.
That evening, Maurice had asked about my Model ‘76 Winchester musket, which was still my primary long-range firearm, though I did still have the Whitworth. When I visited Maurice in Colorado I’d always taken the ‘76 carbine; he’d not seen the long rifle before.
“I bought that when I was working for the Pinkertons, down in El Paso. I bought it as a gift for myself to celebrate my second anniversary with the Eye.”
He chucked, “Yeah, ‘the Eye.’ Some of those guys are real prima donnas.”
I agreed. “I met one or two of those high-flyers, back then. Fortunately, I had a good boss and he recruited some good men.”
“I heard the musket wasn’t all that dependable.”
I nodded. “To keep the price down, Winchester used some low grade steel and stamped parts in the chamber and action. Even more, they had a good barrel, but it wasn’t well-supported. I took mine to a smith in El Paso del Norte. He fixed it up.”
“Did you ever have use for it when you worked for the Eye?”
“I did, not long after I got it back from the Mexican gunsmith. We were hired — well I guess I should say, I was hired — by a Mexican army colonel for a really unusual job.” I gave him a quizzical look. “You sure I haven’t told you this story before?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t recall you mentioning Mexican army colonels.”
Then I shrugged and said, “As it happened, I’d run across this man a time or two before and when he came to the Pinkertons, he asked for me specifically.”
“You knew him from before?”
I gave him a quick nod. “From when I was still in the army, but that’s a whole ‘nother story for another time. Anyway, the colonel was hunting gun-runners who were smuggling US surplus weapons to Mexican rebels.”
“In Texas?”
“Yeah, but the Mexicans had left their uniforms in Mexico; they were dressed as civilians. And that wasn’t the only odd thing.” I told him of the secret mission that the Mexican lancers were on and the peculiar encounters that had occurred ... Then I told him of the officer’s death.
At that point, Feliza turned toward us and, looking startled, asked, “Did you say ‘Carranza’?”
It took me a second to change my focus to what she asked. “Ah, yeah, Carranza. He was a lieutenant colonel, the adjutant to the Chihuahua State military district.”
“Luis Carranza?” she asked, sounding more urgent.
Now I was a bit startled, as I hadn’t mentioned his given name.
“Yes, Teniente Coronel Luis Carranza. Did you know him?”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
I nodded. “He was killed in a battle with the smugglers. He shouldn’t even have been in a battle, but he was trying yo save his men.” I looked at her closely. “How did you know him?”
She sighed and walked over to the table. Both Maurice and I stood up. I pulled out a chair for her. She sat down, as did we. She was regarding the dish towel in her hands.
She began twisting the towel but looked at me and said, “He was a cousin. Our mother’s sister married a rancher in Sonora, Arturo Carranza. We visited there a few times when we were growing up. Luis was a few years older, four years older than Sofia and ten years older than me, but he was always very kind to us. He would take my sisters and me riding or fishing or target shooting.” She sighed again. “Then he joined the lancers. Some of Tio Arturo’s vaqueros went with him. They fought as Chinacos against the French. We were very proud of him. We never had the chance to see him after he became a lancer, though our aunt kept us fully informed in her letters. By all reports, he did very well, which seemed in keeping with his character.”
Neto came over and squirmed into Maurice’s lap.
Now Feliza looked at me. “But then he disappeared without a trace. His men had been caught in a rebel ambush and all of them killed. Later it came out that they had been betrayed by another soldier. But Luis wasn’t with his men when they were killed and no one knew what happened to him. And you say he was killed by smugglers?”
“Yes. They were selling American surplus ordinance to Mexican rebels. To make a long story short, Carranza and four of his men came into Texas dressed as civilians to find the smugglers and determine where they would cross into Mexico. Then they sent a message by heliograph to a platoon—”
I heard Neto whisper to Maurice, “What’s a heely graph?” I decided to wait.
Maurice said, “You can use mirrors to flash sunlight toward people miles away and the flashes can send messages by how many flashes you send. The mirror device is called a heliograph. Helio means sun in the Greek language, and graph means writing, I think, though it’s not really writing, just flashes of light.”
“Like when Papa uses the back of his watch to flash the sun in my eyes?”
“Yes, Neto, exactly like that. And I’ll bet the message your Papa is sending means, ‘I love you, son.’”
“No, he says it means my eyes are loose and about to fall out of my face. He makes me blink to push my eyes back in.”
“And do you believe him?”
“No. He just likes to see me clap my hands over my eyes to hold them in. But I know my eyes aren’t falling out. I just like the game.”
“Well, that’s what a heliograph does. You tell the other person that if you flash the mirror at them, it will be a message.”
“Like what? That their eyes are falling out?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the message is, ‘I’m in trouble. Come help me.’”
“Really? You can say that?”
“Really. You can say about anything. I think your Papa was just about to tell us how Colonel Carranza used the heliograph.”
“Did they send messages, Papa?”
“They did, Neto. Colonel Carranza sent a message to his platoon telling them where they could catch the smugglers when they crossed into Mexico. But then we found out the smugglers had a Gatling gun, a powerful rifle that can fire many shots one right after the other. He tried to send a message to his men, but it was too late. The platoon had already left their camp to set their ambush for the smugglers, so they didn’t see the warning. Colonel Carranza was afraid that the Gatling gun would injure many of them, so he decided to take his four men and set his own ambush for the smugglers, even though they were outnumbered four to one.”
Feliza said, “And you went with them.”
I shrugged. “They had to get ahead of the gun-runners and I knew the shortest trail there.”
She said, “I’m sure,” and put her hand on my forearm where it rested on the table.
Moving my head occasionally to face each of my listeners, I went on. “So we set up the ambush and we beat the smugglers. But Colonel Carranza was killed, though none of his men were.”
At that point, I had been looking down at the table, but now I turned to Feliza. “We buried him in Tornillo Creek Canyon, near the Rio’s Big Bend. If anyone in the family would like to see where he is buried, I could take them there. If arrangements could be made with the Southern Pacific to bring some horses, it’s only a couple days ride from their tracks.”
“Is there a marked grave?”
“Not as such. But there is a cross scratched on the cliff face above his grave. And he’s buried next to forty three American cavalry officers and troopers who died in an earlier battle.”
“But the graves aren’t marked?”
I shook my head. “Deliberately so. We didn’t want the graves to be disturbed, so we left no obvious grave mounds or other indications. It’s in a remote canyon, but the canyon does lead to a river ford. There are also a couple Mexican shepherds buried there. We found their bodies. They’d been killed by the Comanche the cavalry troop was chasing.”
Feliza said, “I’ll need to write to Tia Marta. I’m sure it will relieve her to finally find out what became of her son. And I’ll have to write to my sisters. It was terrible when we heard our favorite cousin had disappeared. When did that happen?”
“Late September of ‘seventy-eight.” I grimaced. “I couldn’t tell you the exact date, but it would have been around the twentieth.”
“How did he die?”
I looked down at the table and shook my head. I took a deep breath and released it. “A man I thought I’d killed had only been wounded. When the battle was over and we had come out from behind cover, that wounded man stood up and began to fire the Gatling gun. Colonel Carranza was hit before I was able to shoot the man.
“Did Luis say anything before he died?”
I shook my head. “We reached him within seconds, but he showed no sign of life. He was hit three times in his torso by large caliber bullets. There was little blood from the wounds, so likely he was hit in the heart and died immediately.” I looked over at Neto, but he was asleep in Maurice’s arms.
“Would you say he died a hero?” Feliza asked.
“He died leading a voluntary mission against heavy odds, a mission he chose himself, to save his platoon from becoming victims of that Gatling gun.”
Then she said, “And you went with him.”
The next day, Friday, I took Maurice up to General Lange’s office to introduce him to Alek Swiatek. We’d only been there a few minutes when a telegraph messenger appeared at the door. Swiatek asked him, “Is it for General Lange?”
“It’s for Marshal Becker. The lady downstairs said I should bring it to him here.”
I walked over to the young man. He didn’t look familiar. “I’m Marshal Becker. Are you new, son.”
“My second day, sir.”
I stuck my fingers in my waistcoat pocket and began the rattle of coins. The messenger said, “No need, sir. The lady gave me three cents.”
I drew out a nickle and held it out to him. “Then this is a reward for honesty.”
He handed me the wire, accepted the nickle and said, “Thank you very much, Marshal.”
“Keep it up,” I encouraged him as he turned to go. Then I walked back to Swiatek’s desk where I knew he had a paper knife. I slit the envelope and pulled out the message form. My first glance told me it was from a name I didn’t immediately recognize, Michael Christian. Right under the name was the line, “Colorado Rangers,” and it clicked. It was the man we knew as “Mick,” one of the two Colorado Rangers we’d joined forces with on the way to Del Norte.
My stance or demeanor must have changed because Maurice asked, with some concern in his voice, “What is it, Judah?”
I read the text and gave him a rather lengthier version than the clipped language of a pay-by-the-word telegraph message. It’s from Mick Christian, that Colorado Ranger who was with us in Del Norte. He says they tracked Watkins and Smalley over Elwood Pass and down to the Rio San Juan, then to Ignacio.”
Maurice said, “That’s on the Southern Ute Reservation.”
“Mick says they believe Watkins and Smalley boarded the eastbound train last night. They plan to follow.”
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