Chapter 8. 1875: The Eye, El Paso, Texas

The Mesilla Valley Coach Lines stagecoach supposedly had seating for fifteen passengers: three on the upper deck behind the driver’s box, and three rows of uncomfortably narrow benches in the cabin, each hosting as many as four passengers. Leg space was equally wanting, with your knees either jabbing the back or entangled with the knees of the person across from you.

Add to that the continuous but irregular swaying and the recurring jolts and lurches, and given that the center passengers on each bench had nothing to hold onto, it was as good as being shaken about in an empty can — especially when those who did have a door or window post to grasp finally lost their grip through sheer fatigue. Coat all of it in a dense overlay of dust raised by the twenty-four hooves of the six-mule team and it made me wonder why I hadn’t chosen simply to walk to Ziegler’s.

I could have easily hiked the thirty miles in six or eight hours, as opposed to the four hours of torture the coach represented. I would have left the coach at Fort Bliss to continue on foot, save for the fact that I had that day chosen to don, instead of my brogans, a pair of Mexican-style riding boots, with the narrower toe-box and the higher heel. They might have been tolerable for a mile or two, but ten miles would have been crippling, at least for my unaccustomed feet.

Unlike the West Texas Mail coaches, which covered overland, or long-distance routes, the Mesilla Valley Coach Lines served the local custom, transporting people shorter distances between towns and settlements along the Rio Grande. It carried local families and tradesman in the roughly hundred miles of the Mesilla Valley north of El Paso and into southern New Mexico Territory. Without a lucrative mail contract, the Mesilla Valley Coach Lines worked to earn a profit by jamming as many people as possible into or onto its conveyances.

Oddly, the ride seemed more comfortable when the coach was full, with four people crammed onto each interior bench and jammed against the structural posts, as this packing provided mutual support to resist the swaying and jolts, though many ladies and some men did not appreciate that advantage. Notably, the coach line had learned that trying to jam four people onto the outside deck seat invariably resulted with a man falling overboard, so that bench sat no more than three men, and metal handles were provided to grip. Ladies very rarely found it necessary to clamber to that perch, an awkward affair that tended to draw prurient onlookers.

This morning however, there was no such indecent spectacle. Instead, there was an unexpected stop, right at the Texas-New Mexico border, a largely unpopulated place, and only a few hundred yards from the border with Mexico, itself.

A buckboard had been dragged across the trail and four of what I assumed were Mexican bandits, sat astride horses just beyond the buckboard. The mounted men held firearms, in the form of shotguns, at the ready.

One man, the apparent leader, called, in Spanish, “Everyone will get down from the coach and stand without speaking. Then all of you — señors, señores, y señoritas — will raise your hands above your heads.”

There were ten of us in the coach, and another passenger, plus the driver, outside. It took most of a minute to get everyone out and down. I held back, until last, then positioned myself toward the front and the outside of the group, nearer the bandits and somewhat away from the other passengers.

The bandits held their shotguns on us throughout. The leader possessed a double-barrel ten gauge, as did the man closest to me. Those two also wore pistols in belted holsters. The other two men appeared to be armed only with single-barrel shotguns which they were slowly waving toward us in side-to-side motions.

The leader announced, “We will now pass among you to collect all handbags, purses, pocketbooks, wallets, jewelry, watches, and firearms. Please wait with your hands in the air until my compañero comes to you. Anything which you do not readily give up will be taken from with violence and pain.”

He turned to the man next to him, the one that also had a pistol, and said, “Amigo, por favor.” That man handed the leader his shotgun, then dismounted. He took a couple large, empty gunnysacks from behind his saddle, shook one open, and took hold of both with his left hand. Then he drew his revolver with his right hand and started for me.

I was armed with my Colt Army forty-four in a cross-draw flap holster on a belt, and I also had a thirty-eight in a shoulder holster. I was carrying two hundred fifty dollars — and I had Janie’s folding knife at the fob end of my watch chain. I intended to give up none of it.

The bandit walked to me, motioning with the barrel of his revolver, saying, “First your pistola, señor. Use your left hand.” He was smirking as he held out the sack.

I unfastened the belt and flipped it to wrap it around my hand, surreptitiously hooking my finger in the forty-four’s trigger guard as I reached into the bag. I planned to drop the leather parts into the bag while holding onto the forty-four itself with my left hand

I shook off the belt and holster and, as he watched the bundle fall into the shadowed interior of the sack, I called over his shoulder to the leader, “Señor, tambien quiere cinturones para dinero? (Sir, do you want money belts, too?)” as I waved my right hand to gain the leader’s attention.

As the weight of my belt and holster reassuringly hit the bottom of the bag, the bandit in front of me, in the very natural reaction to my polite inquiry – the reaction I was counting on — turned toward the leader to hear his response, I made my move.

I regained the grip on the forty-four with my left hand, withdrew my waving right hand but leaned my head out so the leader could see my anxious face, rather than notice me drawing the thirty eight with my right hand, that movement further obscured by the bandit standing in front of me.

I pressed the forty-four into the side of the near bandit at the same time raising the thirty-eight to aim toward the leader — then pulled both triggers at the same time. I immediately brought the revolvers to bear on the other two bandits and fired again. All four men went down, the first two dead, the second two with wounds to the left hip and abdomen, respectively. It was several seconds before the others began to lower their hands.

I’d have been pickled for canning had I accepted all the drinks offered by the other passengers at the meal stop in Mesilla. The drinks they bought for themselves and each other contributed to a jubilant mood.

The station agent came up to me and handed me a receipt for the four bandits, which, he informed me, was good for twenty-five dollars each at the stage line office in El Paso. Alternatively, I could accept the bandits guns and horses as my reward and forego the hundred dollars. I figured the horses were stolen and ownership would eventually become an issue. Moreover, the firearms were old and in poor repair. I told him I’d visit their office first thing Monday morning to collect the reward.

I leaned out the coach window and called for a stop when I saw the “Ziegler and Son” sign about midway along the five mile stretch between Mesilla and Las Cruces. Ziegler’s sign continued with the caption “Horses and Shoeing.”

To my eye, this looked like an even better spot than Ziegler’d had on the east side of El Paso, based just on traffic, as there were frequent travelers between the two towns, each vying for dominance in local commerce.

Ronnie saw me first. He was in a corral holding the reins of a horse that an apparent female customer was considering. Her hair was gathered in a tight bun and the woman was dressed in dungaree trousers and a short jacket that may once have been a Confederate mess jacket.

Ronnie saw me walking toward their forge, where Helmut, his back to me, was hammering at a piece on the anvil. But Ronnie’s face brightened and he waved, calling, “Mister Becker, what a nice surprise.”

I changed my direction and walked over to the corral fence. “Ronnie, good to see you.” Then I tipped my hat to the woman, who had turned to see me. She looked maybe ten years older than me and now I saw a blue flannel shirt under the jacket, a bright yellow scarf at her neck.

Ronnie said, ‘Mister Becker, this is Missus Kathleen Walsh. She owns the Slash-six. Missus Walsh, this is Mister Judah Becker, an agent with the Pinkerton’s.”

I tipped my hat again. “Your servant, ma’am.”

She said, “You’re the one found my Corky.”

‘That’s your calico paint, Missus Walsh?”

“It is, sir.” Then she turned back to Ronnie. “And he helped get our payroll back from that bastard, Burt Wrigley.” Then she turned back to me. “We’re all very grateful to you and Mister Dugan.”

I nodded. “De nada, Missus Walsh. We were lucky to have figured it out so quickly, ma’am.”

“You must come have supper with us. Are you here overnight?”

“I hadn’t planned to be. I just came up to buy a horse and maybe a pack animal. I saw some horses that the Zieglers had in stock in El Paso.”

Walsh remarked, “Then you must come to supper. In fact, I’ll invite Ronnie and Helmut, too.”

I said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off, ma’am. My agreement with Mister Dugan was that I’d only be out of town for the day.”

“Really?” she said. “Do you work Sundays?”

“Well, no ma’am, not on purpose. But Mister Dugan wants us ready if someone needs help right away.”

“I reckon the Pinkertons seem like the type that would be that vigilant.”

I ginned and said, “We never sleep, Missus Walsh.”

She laughed. “But do you never eat?”

“There’s no provision at all for eating in the Agency’s operating directives. Maybe I’d best ask Mister Dugan. I have been feeling a bit hungry.”

Ronnie was looking at me open-mouthed but Walsh poked him in the shoulder. “He’s pulling our legs, Ronnie. Mister Dugan doesn’t look like he’s missed many meals, does he?”

Ronnie looked at her, then me, saying, with a sheepish caste, “Aw, Mister Becker.”

Then Walsh said to me, “Could I talk business with you for a minute?”

Ronnie said, in humor, “Missus Walsh, are you going to try to sell him one of your horses?”

She grinned back, but said, “No, Ronnie. I want to talk detective business with him.”

I said, “Ronnie, if Missus Walsh doesn’t mind the interruption, and if you remember the horses I was looking at in El Paso, and you still have any of them, maybe you could bring them in from the pasture.”

“Is that okay with you, Missus Walsh?”

“Go ahead, Ronnie. I’m in no hurry.”

Ronnie threw a leg over the horse he’d been showing her and rode to the corral gate into the pasture. Meanwhile, Walsh stepped along the corral’s high board fence, she on one side, me the other. She was a tallish woman, so both of us were able to see one another over the top rail.

“Do you know of any other Agency detectives working in the area?”

“You mean around the Mesilla Valley?”

She looked at me as we continued a slow stroll. “Or El Paso.”

I shrugged and shook my head. “Save for the Pinkertons, I’ve not heard of anyone, but I’m not around town all that much. Mister Dugan would likely know of others.”

“Which I might assume he’d have mentioned to you.”

“Yes, I’d expect him too, just as idle gossip if not for business considerations.”

“Have you ever heard of the Greater Western Anti-Horse Theft Association?”

I stopped to look at her and she stopped, too.

“So you have heard of them?”

I nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“Have you met their detective?”

“Not as such. I did have a look at him at a court hearing in El Paso a few weeks back, but I didn’t know he was still around.”

“Well, he is, and he claims that Corky was stolen from an Arkansas ranch that uses the Eight-Diamond brand.”

“I’d be happy to testify that I saw that brand as being recently altered from a Slash-six.”

Her face showed a measure of sorrow. “He says a man answering my--” there was a catch in her throat, “ ... dead husband’s description stole the horse last year.” Her eyes brimmed with tears and she looked away. I allowed the silence to ensue. After a minute, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. She turned to face me, shaking her head.

“I know that Corky was an anniversary gift to you from your husband, Missus Walsh. That fact was in our property recovery file. Where did your husband purchase Corky?”

“Last year, Irwin took three of the men and went to the Indian Territory to purchase some horses and mules. They took a couple of our brands with them to use before they trailed the stock back.”

“As proud as you are of that horse, there must be plenty of people who saw her wearing your Six-Slash brand before it was altered.”

She nodded in agreement, but said, “Graham says he’ll get a court order to impound Corky at Fort Smith until the case is heard.”

“Who’s Graham?”

“Frank Graham, the detective from that anti-horse theft outfit”

Just then, Helmut Ziegler called to us. “Ho, Missus Walsh, Mister Becker. Ronnie just told me you were here.” He was walking toward us along the outside of the corral fence.

“Howdy, Mister Ziegler. This looks like a good set-up you have here.”

Walsh climbed up and over the board fence, dropping to her feet next to me. “Mister Ziegler, welcome to New Mexico.”

Walsh and I both shook his hand. He asked, “Ronnie takes good care of you, ja?”

“He is, sir, though Missus Walsh and I were discussing another matter.” I looked at her and said, “I believe Mister Ziegler might have some knowledge of these concerns. May I seek his counsel?”

She nodded and I turned back to Ziegler. “Missus Walsh appears to have run afoul of a detective named Frank Graham.”

Ziegler’s face turned red. “Verdamnt! Deiser mann ist eine plage. (Damnation! That man is a plague),” he snarled. In English, he said to Walsh, “That is the same ... the same... charlatan, “ he almost spat, “who duped Ronnie into a charge of horse theft.”

Realization and understanding showed on Walsh’s face. “So that’s what those stories were about.”

Working hard to control himself, Ziegler said, “He and that pirate Enoch Yocum cost me my business in El Paso. That is why we moved up here.”

“Enoch Yocum?” Walsh said, in surprised perplexity. “He was part of that?”

Ziegler nodded vehemently. “Ja, ja, the two of them together had Ronnie facing five years in prison. Yocum had wanted to buy me out for the feed for chickens, but I would not sell. Then his price was nothing in return for they drop the charges against Ronnie.”