Tamer: An Amos Kuttner Novel

By William Wallace

Infantry Captain Amos Kuttner, a specialist in unconventional combat who spent twenty years fighting Mexicans and Indians on the American frontier, leaves the U.S. Army to roam Gold Rush California at the end of the Mexican-American War. When Kuttner is hired by the territory's last military governor as a "Tamer," a special law enforcment agent probing the murder of miners in an isolated part of the Gold country, he learns of a sinister plot that endangers the entire United States.

Part Western, part detective yarn, part spy novel, William E. Wallace's "Tamer" takes readers on an action-packed and intrigue-ridden tour of the violent and lawless California territory, an untamed region infested by Barbary Coast cut-throats, renegade U.S. soldiers and assorted gunmen and outlaws. Will the governor's newly-hired "Tamer" save the 1849 Constitutional Convention that will bring California statehood or will he fall victim to the plotters' bullets? Read Wallace's latest book, "Tamer: An Amos Kuttner Novel," to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wallace
• Release date: May 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301904679

William Wallace

William E. Wallace is the author of The Judas Hunter, a private detective novel, and Tamer, an upcoming western set in Gold Rush California. He is an veteran investigative reporter who worked 26 years for the San Francisco Chronicle before taking early retirement in 2006 to teach and write fiction full time. As a reporter he specialized in projects about political corruption, organized crime and police misconduct. His investigative reports won awards from the Society of Professional Journalists and the San Francisco Press Club. Wallace has taught journalism at California State University, East Bay in Hayward and at the University of California, Berkeley. He took his bachelor's degree in political science at Cal Berkeley and served as an intelligence analyst while serving in the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War. He lives with his wife and son in Berkeley, California.

Book preview

Chapter One: Creekside Showdown

Amos Kuttner, late of the U.S. Army, squatted behind a thicket of young alders alongside the river and intently watched the five men moving in the clearing upstream from him.

He had spent most of the last half-hour following the men on foot, his own horse tied up nearly a mile away, waiting for them to make camp for the night just as they had the last three days. The climb had been rough, but the overgrown trail slowed the horsemen sufficiently to let Kuttner keep up.

They were also having trouble with the balky U.S. mule in their caravan. A veteran Army quartermaster would have probably had the powerful but headstrong animal dancing a merry step, but the riders, judging from the Spanish they spoke, were all Mexicans; they appeared to be trying to handle the critter more like the docile burros of the south.

The mule had probably been brought up pulling artillery or hauling combat materiel, Kuttner thought as he watched them struggle. With just those two leather Army satchels on his back, he probably wasn’t even aware he’s supposed to be working. That’s what comes of stealing a type of animal you’ve never used before.

He had been shadowing the five since he managed to catch up to them about 15 miles east of the San Joaquin River. Closing in on them through the tall wild oats, lupine and poppies in the flat empty plains of the valley had been a risky matter: a lone horseman trailing behind could easily be seen in the bright, hot sunshine of a California summer. Fortunately, the five men either didn’t expect to be followed or weren’t particularly worried about it.

They should have been. Around a week earlier they had staged a bold robbery in San Francisco.

Once a sleepy Mission town, San Francisco had been transformed since a workman building a saw mill on the American River for John Sutter's settlement in New Helvetia found gold in the millrace a year ago.

However, the robbers Kuttner was tailing hadn’t been after the gold that miners were taking from the rivers and streams of Alta California; they had stolen $15,000 in U.S. minted coin – a payroll freshly delivered to San Francisco’s Presidio to cover the wages of the U.S. Army garrison there. Ironically, despite all the gold that was being mined, actual U.S. cash was scarce in California, and the Army would have to scramble to replace the missing money.

During the robbery, the thieves also had shot three men and stolen a string of horses. The Alcalde of San Francisco was offering a $200 reward for the thieves, dead or alive. Kuttner had every intention of collecting, and he was inclined to swap it for corpses, not prisoners.

The tall man in the dark felt sombrero was giving the fellow in the leather chaps instructions of some sort, but in a voice so low that Kuttner couldn’t make out what he was saying – only that it had something to do with caballos and agua.

Two of the other men were laying out bedrolls while the third was rounding up stones for a fire ring.

The bandit with the dark sombrero was carrying a double-barreled shotgun with the barrel sawn off. His companions arranging their bedding each had a single-shot pistol tucked in his belt and one had propped a flintlock musket against a tree a few steps away.

The fellow building the fire also wore a pistol in his waistband. All three handguns looked like French military percussion cap pistols – fine weapons but each limited to a single shot and probably no better than throwing stones at any real distance.

The man in the chaps had a flintlock musket in a scabbard hanging from the saddle of his horse. His only other weapon appeared to be a dagger tucked in one of his boots.

Both long guns appeared to be Baker smoothbores, the English-made carbines Mexican infantrymen used at Cerro Gordo and Veracruz. From what Kuttner had seen in those battles, the Bakers would probably be more dangerous to the men who pulled their triggers than to anything in front of them.

But the handguns were more problematic. If enough people fired them at the same target, chances were pretty good that at least one would hit his mark. Counting the three pistols and the shotgun, Kuttner counted a total of five ready shots among the five riders.

When the tall man finished talking, the fellow in the chaps collected the horses tethered nearby and led them to the stream.

Kuttner was thirsty himself. A short while earlier the sun had dropped behind the Coast Mountains that were barely visible through the summer haze to the west. The light in the forest was fading fast. It had been a long, dusty day spent scraping through Manzanita brush and coyote bush.

While he trailed them, he had watched the five closely, noting the way they behaved toward each other and how they traveled together. It was clear that the tall man was the jefe, the boss. Whenever he spoke to the others, they immediately sprang into action.

He figured the man in the chaps as the greenhorn – he seemed to get ordered around the most. The fellow building the fire was some sort of deputy or right-hand man to the boss. He appeared to know what to do without being told.

The other two were just warm bodies, basically worthless. They spent most of their time skylarking and joking with each other. When the riders made camp each night, those two usually flopped down and started playing cards.

In the Army, Kuttner would have called them goldbrickers. If you put them on sentry duty, they would fall asleep in a heartbeat.

To Kuttner the odds looked good: the biggest threat was the boss and his deputy. Both looked tough and cool-headed. Killing the others would be like shooting fish in a barrel – as long as they didn’t take cover and get those pistols out of their breeches.

He stood up slowly, working the kinks out of his legs and lower back. He had left his own rifle with his horse, but he was carrying a pair of Walker .44-caliber Colts holstered one above the other on his left hip—more firepower than all five men in the clearing put together. In addition, he had two fully-loaded cylinders for the revolvers he could swap in if he ran out of ammunition. He would be able to fire a total of 24 times, with each slug potentially a man-killer.

Courtesy of his two six guns — and it always pays to be courteous when you are dealing with .44-caliber pistols — he had them outgunned by seven ready shots.

He drew one of the pistols and cocked its hammer, using both hands to reduce the sound. Taking a deep breath and letting it out his nose slowly, he stepped out of the brush, raised the Colt at arm’s length in front of him and walked into the clearing with his shoulders back and his head high.

Jesus Morales? Kuttner called out in a carrying voice.

The tall man in the dark sombrero turned toward Kuttner, a frown of surprise on his face, bringing up the shotgun.

Kuttner put a Walker round through his heart at a distance of about 25 feet. In his death spasm the tall man discharged one barrel of the shotgun harmlessly into the ground.

The man building the fire ring instinctively turned sideways to Kuttner to make himself a smaller target, a sure sign of someone who’d been in gunfights. He drew his pistol from his waistband, using both hands to draw back the hammer.

Kuttner, who had cocked his Colt immediately after shooting the boss, continued to walk forward deliberately, firing quickly as he moved. The first bullet pierced the man’s right side in the middle of his ribcage and probably killed him; the second struck him in the small of the back as he spun and fell without pulling his trigger.

The two who had been sprawled on their bedrolls were both up and running toward the woods, clearly in no mood for a fight. Kuttner aimed and fired, bringing down one with a shot between the shoulders.

The other man hesitated momentarily, apparently with the thought of helping his fallen comrade. When Kuttner squeezed the trigger, he sank to his knees, his hat and most of the top of his skull gone, and then slowly sagged to the ground.

Hell, Kuttner muttered. Aimed too damned high.

The gunplay had barely lasted ten seconds.

The man in the leather chaps was motionless in the creek. The horses he had been watering had spooked and bolted when the gunfire began and he now half-crouched in the water, his hands at shoulder height, unsure whether to stand or stay low.

"No mas, he said, terror tightening his voice to a squeal. No soy armado!"

Kuttner’s opponent was probably no more than sixteen years old and had the unformed features of someone who hadn’t put a razor to his cheeks for the first time. Kuttner had been eighteen when he left his family’s farm in Kansas to sign on as a scout for the Army, and that was the first time in his life he didn’t sleep in his own bed.

As Kuttner watched, the boy voided his bladder involuntarily, leaving a dark stain from his trouser fly to the top of his left knee. He was shaking so hard he seemed on the verge of collapse.

Where you from, son? Kuttner asked, keeping his pistol trained on the thick part of the youth’s trunk.

The boy’s brow furrowed with confusion. "No te entiendo, señor, he squeaked. Yo no hablo inglés!"

Kuttner held up his hand in an effort to calm his captive. "¿De dónde eres?" he said.

The boy looked even more confused. He was close to tears. "T-Tijuana," he answered, his voice cracking.

Kuttner looked around and spotted one of the horses the boy had been watering, a small pinto that was still saddled. It had no brand on its flank, so it wasn’t one of the Army mounts that had been taken in the robbery.

He collected the animal and handed the boy by the reins, holstering his Walker. I’m here to kill outlaws, not gun down unarmed shave-tail boys, he said sternly. "Fuera de aqui!"

The youth was on the horse and heading through down the creek at a gallop while his words were still echoing in the clearing. Kuttner watched until he was out of sight before allowing himself the hint of a smile.

Chapter Two: Bennett Riley

The summer fog in Monterey usually burned off in bright sunshine by noon, but on June 20, 1849, it hung on for some reason, making sentry duty a tense and nasty business. Corporal John Tanner, the NCO on watch, might have been startled by the ghostly caravan that suddenly emerged from the swirling mist in front of his post if he hadn’t already heard the muffled sound of hooves on the hard pan street five minutes earlier as it approached.

At first, the procession was nothing more than a collection of shadows, but its outlines became clearer as it approached. There were seven animals in the group: six horses and a mule; only one of the horses had a rider sitting in its saddle.

Halt! Tanner said, hoisting his rifle to port arms. State your name and business.

The rider, a dark form obscured by the sultry fog curling around him, stood up in the stirrups and stretched, yawning. Tanner now could see that his horse was a dark chestnut, probably fifteen hands high, and the bearded man in its saddle was wearing Army issue powder blue wool trousers with a white stripe on the leg, an officer’s wool roundabout jacket and a wool cavalry cap. The shoulder straps on the jacket had dark spots where the embroidery had been removed, and the rider had replaced his saber with a heavy leather gun belt that had two Colt revolvers mounted on its left side, parallel, so either pistol could be drawn with his right hand. Otherwise, it was the uniform of an officer who had served in the recent Mexican campaign.

Captain Amos Kuttner, the rider said, stifling another yawn. Second Infantry, Second Brigade, retired. I’ve brought in an outlaw named Jesus Francisco Morales, corporal. At least, I’ve brought in what’s left of the sorry son-of-a-bitch after five days slung over a saddle with a hole in his chest.

Tanner moved forward. Behind the man on the chestnut he could see a figure doubled over on the undersized sorrel the man was leading. The horse was hardly more than a pony and the body, wrapped in an Army blanket, looked almost too large for the animal to bear. Tanner didn’t have to get close to catch the sour odor of dead meat. Three other horses had similar burdens. The mule had a pair of Army-issue saddlebags strapped over his back and cinched at the belly.

You have some papers, Captain? Tanner asked, backing away from the corpse-laden mounts with a shudder.

Kuttner fumbled in a leather satchel slung over the pommel of his saddle and pulled out a sheaf of documents. The top one there is a newspaper article about the robbery, he said, handing them over with another yawn. "It has a description of the bandits and the horses they stole in Yerba Buena two weeks ago. You can tell by the U.S. brand on this sorrel that it’s one that they took.

The article says the Alcalde of San Francisco is offering $200 in gold to the man that brings Morales in, dead or alive, the rider added. Well, here he is, dead, and that’s surely no loss to mankind.

Tanner was studying the documents. Reading wasn’t his strength, but they seemed to be exactly what the lieutenant said they were. There was no question the horse bearing the corpse was one of a string of ten mounts taken in the San Francisco robbery. There was a clear description of the animal in the article that mentioned the brand above its left front leg.

What happened to the other horses? Tanner asked.

Kuttner shrugged. No idea, Corporal, he said. These four men are the ones I tracked and took in the mountains east of the San Joaquin.

He gestured at the other documents he’d given Tanner. That’s my mustering-out papers from the commanding officer of the garrison in Los Angeles, the man on the chestnut said. Also a safe passage and a letter from the C.O. introducing me to General Riley. That’s why I am here in Monterey—to see the general. And to turn over this collection of bad meat to somebody official so l can collect that money.

Tanner handed back the papers. I can see the horse was one of those stolen, he said. But how are you going to prove that any of the bodies wrapped up in those blankets is Morales? You’re going to have to show it’s him to collect the reward.

Kuttner laughed.

I don’t need to prove who these dead men are, he said, leaning back in the saddle and gesturing to the mule. I have most of the gold he and his men stole during that robbery back there. Believe me, nobody is going to question that it’s Morales — not with nearly $15,000 in gold in Army saddlebags on an Army mule to back me up.

The corporal smiled. I’d wager you’re right, Captain, he said, then gave a whistle up the picket line. I’ll have a couple of the Indians working for the Larkins take charge of those bodies and horses for you. The general’s up there in the place the other side of the big house. The big house is the Larkin place. The officers barracks is in those buildings along behind it.

Major General Bennett Riley, the military governor of California, looked to be in good health, but he seemed older somehow than when Kuttner last saw him in Veracruz. He was sitting behind a desk in the first building behind the big adobe, going over a map with an officer in his twenties that Kuttner could see had nothing embroidered on the shoulder straps of his dress blue jacket.

Captain, the General said enthusiastically, gripping Kuttner’s hand with both of his own. Good to see you again. This is Second Lieutenant John Sizemore, my aide

Kuttner shook hands with the younger man. A pleasure, he said. The younger man gave him a grin. He looked like he was happy for a change in company.

What brings you to this godforsaken hole? Riley asked.

Bounty, Kuttner replied. I tracked down the fellow who robbed the disbursement office in Yerba Buena a week and a half ago. I recovered most of the loot, too.

Riley looked surprised.

Morales? he said in a tone of disbelief. I thought he had a gang of at least ten men.

Kuttner shrugged. He did, but they split up, he said. I was up New Helvetia – what they are calling Sacramento now that Sutter’s gone and his son’s running the show—when a rider from San Francisco brought word of the robbery to the commander there. Brannan had a big story about it in his San Francisco newspaper and the rider had some copies with him. Word was they’d headed south toward San José, but I figured they weren’t going to hang around there too long — too much civilization and too many people with guns. I reckoned they’d head east toward the gold fields. I did a little hard riding and picked up their trail on the San Joaquin River a ways north of Stockton.

Riley looked thoughtful. We got a dispatch a few days ago about the robbery, he said. I do recall now that it said the thieves had taken some horses from a hostler down the hill from the payroll office, and some were Army mounts. I reckon horses are as good as money in California these days.

Kuttner nodded.

I trailed them down the river to a way station one of those Mormon fellows is running. He talked a bit with the Jefe while they were laying in beans and flour. He told me they said five men had gone south with most of the horses but the Jefe and four of his campañeros were going up to gold country. He said they had an Army mule with them. I figured the mule would be carrying the gold.

I got a fresh mount and rode on after them; caught up about a half day’s ride later. I just followed them until I found a good spot to take them.

Riley seemed impressed. Where did that happen? he asked.

A little east of` a mining camp called Sonora, Kuttner said. When I was mustering out in Los Angeles, I heard a story about Morales and his crew. Word was they had some sort of` a hide-out up in that area. That’s why I figured they were heading that direction. It appears the story was right.

'There were Morales and three others?

Yes, sir, Kuttner said. He figured nobody needed to know about the kid that was traveling with the bandits. I actually made ground on them the last full day I trailed them. They were within a rifle shot of me most of that time, but I didn’t want to start shooting until we were all right close together. I didn’t want anybody to get clear—particularly not with that payroll loot.

'They started to make camp just after nightfall and I waited until they were separated. They didn’t seem to be in much of`a hurry, Kuttner said. I suppose they figured nobody would pay them any mind because anybody who got up into that area was going to be looking for the kind of gold you get out of the ground, not the kind that comes in a U.S. Army satchel.

Riley laughed. I’ll bet it would take a month’s worth of mining to pull together $15,000 worth of gold, he said. Of` course, you wouldn’t necessarily get shot mining it. I imagine Señor Morales would have plugged anybody trying to take away the stuff` he stole.

Kuttner grinned. He would have done for me, too, but I had the drop on him, he said. He went for his shotgun, anyway, so I put a bullet in him. His boys, too.

Riley whistled. Four against one is pretty long odds, son, he said. You definitely got some brass going up against that many people single-handed.

Kuttner patted the butt of one of his Walker pistols. Actually, it wasn’t much of a fight with these equalizers, he said. I just walked in with my gun out and started shooting. I had been watching those fellows the whole time and l had a pretty good idea how tough they would be.

No prisoners‘? Riley asked.

Hell, no, General, Kuttner said, smiling. I just shot them down like the sorry Army-robbing sons-of-bitches they were.

Riley slapped Kuttner on both shoulders. Good work, son. I’m pleased to see you came through it in one piece.

Turning to Sizemore, Riley said, For a white man, Kuttner here is the best tracker and scout I ever met — aside from Kit Carson. Whenever a difficult situation presented itself that required a cool head and a sure eye, he always met the challenge.

Kuttner actually blushed. Hell, I just wanted to nail them before they did any more mischief, he said. I done my share of soldiering and I would rather see that gold go to the men who earned it than to some damned outlaw.

Grinning, he added, And I can use the money that the Alcalde is offering for Morales’ head, too.

Riley smiled. I imagine the fact they were wanted dead or alive entered into your calculations, he said.

Yes, sir, Kuttner replied. I always had pretty good luck in combat. Hell, I managed to get through some pretty hairy business in Veracruz without getting wounded, at least not badly.

Riley laughed. Los Lobos de la Noche, he said. You did create a sensation, son.

Kuttner blushed again.

Not the kind of operation that gets you a statue in the city park, he said.

Riley became somber.

‘°No, but it was the kind that is essential to winning a military victory of any considerable size nonetheless," he said.

'That’s as may be, General, Kuttner said, But I would rather shoot a man than use a knife on him any day.

Riley smiled. Not enough Indian blood in you, son, he said. I understand the feeling, though. Better to kill a man at a distance than when he is breathing in your face. But they end up just as dead, either way.

So what’s next? the General asked.

Kuttner shrugged. He hadn’t really given it much thought.

I took my last Army pay down south and I been kicking around California since then, looking for something to do, he said. I came north because I was thinking about trying my hand as a gold miner. Everybody else seems to be doing it these days. But it sounds like a pretty hard life to me.

While I was up in Sacramento, I thought about paying San Francisco a visit, myself. But then I heard about the robbery and decided to spend some time seeing if I could find those bandits. I didn’t have anything else pressing on me and it seemed like a good way to maybe make some money. I figured if I didn’t find them, I might try my hand at gold mining after all.

He spread his hands. When I got ‘em, I figured I was closer to Monterey than San Francisco, so I thought I would bring ‘em here and pay you a visit.

Riley gestured to Sizemore. Lieutenant, I want you to take Kuttner in hand, he said. Get him a billet and show him where he can get some of that road grime off him.

Turning back to Kuttner he added, Why’d you muster out of the Army, son?

Kuttner shrugged again. Once the war was over, I didn’t figure there was going to be much call for soldiers, at least not for a while yet, he said. I’ve been killing Indians since I was 18 years old. For most of the last three years I was killing Mexicans, too. I figure I killed enough of the sorry sons-of-bitches to last me the rest of my life. If I’m going to have to kill any more of either, I’m going to want a hell of a lot more money for it than I can get as a blue coat.

Riley sighed. Well, we are going to miss you, son, he said. "Come back here for supper. I will have your reward money for you — and I also have a job proposition that may interest you—and I don’t think it involves killing Indians or Mexicans.

§

What was that stuff about ‘Los Lobos de la Noche?’ Sizemore asked after they left the General.

Kuttner grinned. That’s what the Mexicans called my platoon in Veracruz: The ‘wolves of the night.’ They didn’t like us much.

So you were with the old man in Mexico, Sizemore said. His tone made it a question.

Kuttner nodded. l missed most of the action between Veracruz and Cerro Gordo, though. He sent me and my unit to report directly to Scott on temporary duty during Veracruz. I got myself shot and was out of action for three weeks after that.

Sizemore frowned. Why Scott? he asked. Didn’t he have enough troops for the siege?

Kuttner smiled. No. Scott had plenty of troops, he said. He just lacked some with specialized skills, that’s all.

The second wood-framed building behind Riley’s headquarters was the officer’s billet. There was a spare room in it and Sizemore told Kuttner to make himself at home there. He left for a moment as Kuttner stowed his gear and came back with two water glasses half-full of clear liquid.

I figured after all that time on the trail you’re probably a little bit parched, he said, handing one to Kuttner. It’s aguardiente, Mexican brandy. We don’t have any proper liquor in Monterey. Half the merchants are Mormons and don’t drink; the other half are Mexicans and this is their pleasure. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I figure.

Kuttner lifted his glass in a salute: To your health, Lieutenant.

Both took sips. Sizemore made a face and coughed slightly. You said something about having specialized skills, ones that got you assigned to Scott at Veracruz, he said. What kind of specialized skills?

Kuttner shrugged. The kind that’d probably get you a job breaking rocks in a striped suit if anybody back in Washington found out about it, he said. I worked with a special crew. Three Chiricahua Apache scouts and two squads of riflemen I mostly trained myself, Kuttner said, sipping more liquor.

"Our job wasn’t exactly killing Mexicans. It was killing a few Mexicans in a way that would scare all the rest of them. We’d creep in behind enemy lines and take a few scalps, just to show we could do it whenever we wanted to.

We had to come in at night and we used some storm drains on the north side of the city up by the jetty, he said. Scott cut the water to the city during the beginning of the siege and our batteries were to the south.

Veracruz was an old fashioned Spanish fort, and its high walls were mounted with artillery, Kuttner explained. We had them cut off on the land side, but they still had access to the sea, he said. There was a port on an island out apiece from shore where they could take supplies, but we used our artillery to keep anything from landing there.

"My platoon worked its way around the Mexicans during the bombardment and we came up along the waterfront. They weren’t looking for us there, but it was a son-of-a-bitch doing it, chest-high in the water. Because we were just about swimming half the time, even when the tide was low, we couldn’t bring any firearms. Our cartridges would get all wet and misfire anyway. All we had was knives.

At Veracruz the challenge for us was getting inside the city through the culverts. They were barred but the iron was all rusty and the stone that held them had pretty well rotted out. We just had to be quiet about taking out the grating.

It was a hell of a job. Part of what made it hell was getting the Apaches to go underground through those damn culverts. The other part was getting the white men in the platoon to take scalps.

Sizemore looked scandalized.

I would imagine that would be something no Christian man would ever do, he said.

Kuttner snorted. Who do you think taught Indians to take scalps in the first place? he asked. Christian men, that’s who

He laughed bitterly.

It was harder to get the Indians into the storm drains under Veracruz than it was to get the white men to take hair, he said. Getting my braves into the drains was a real challenge.

What made that so difficult? Sizemore asked.

I think they were afraid of snake spirits in the underground or something, Kuttner said. Maybe something in there didn’t smell right to them. I’m not sure what in hell that was about; I never was clear on it. I’m no expert on Chiricahua, though. They didn’t mind going in caves, but they were chary as hell about going in them pipes.

He took another sip before continuing.

We did three raids during the siege, he said. "We killed about 20 men inside the Veracruz garrison during the first two and two more during the last sortie. Then they got smart and figured out how we were getting inside the walls of the city. That’s when I got wounded ‘

Sizemore blanched.

Kuttner laughed. It wasn’t bad, but I took a rifle ball in the ass, he said. Couldn’t sit a horse for about a week afterward. Scott had me moved back to the rear and I didn’t get to go inside the city through the front gate after we took it.

Kuttner sipped more liquor. He was developing a taste for it. It wasn’t exactly rye, but it had enough alcohol in it to sterilize a wound.

You see any fighting in Mexico? he asked Sizemore.

The young officer looked embarrassed. No, I’m sorry to say, he replied. I only graduated from West Point six months ago. They sent me out here to serve as an aide to General Smith, but by the time I arrived, he had been reassigned to work with the Pacific Division and General Riley was the new governor

He seemed to feel his lack of experience put him at a disadvantage, so he tried to change the subject.

I guess the Mexican army wasn’t much of a match for our troops, he said. From what I have seen around here, I wouldn’t imagine Mexican soldiers were much good for anything but taking siestas and making babies.

Kuttner thought about that for a moment.No, he answered, finally. There wasn’t anything wrong with the Mexican soldiers except they were outgunned. The quality of soldier on both sides was pretty much even. The Mexican army was full of fine young men willing to give their lives for their land. Unfortunately for them, we had just as many fine young men who were willing to take their lives—and ours had a lot better weapons.

If there was any difference in the quality of our Army and theirs besides arms, it was the quality of the officers. Theirs wanted to spare their soldier’s lives. Ours were willing to cash ours in. That's really the difference—the leaders, not the soldiers. That’s why a man like Riley was such a pleasure to serve under. He cared about his men and never risked even one without a damn good reason.

Sizemore, a little lightheaded from the liquor, smiled.

He’s a funny old coot, he said. I understand he came up through the ranks and started as an enlisted man. I have to work to keep from smiling at his lisp. I was really disappointed that Smith was gone when I got here.

Kuttner finished his aguardiente and put his glass down. Actually, you are wrong, he said, slightly irritated to hear his long-time commander being spoken of so dismissively by somebody who hadn’t yet been in combat. "Riley started out with the Maryland Rifles as an ensign in the War of 1812. He was a major when I first met him. He may not have gone to West Point, but he earned his stars.

I served with Riley for the last twenty years, man and boy, he continued. I was with him on the Santa Fe Trail. I’d cover the man like a saddle blanket if we were under fire. He saved my life out there.

Sizemore seemed flustered. No offense meant, Captain, he said. He just seems to be out of his depth as governor. He’s at sword’s point with the Pacific Division over money all the time and the people in San Francisco seem to ignore him for the most part.

None taken, Lieutenant, Kuttner said. I know the General mostly as a man who led me in battle. I imagine it’s a lot harder to beat your enemies if you can’t shoot or shell `em. But even so, I would put my money on Bennett Riley. I can guarantee you he’s a man you want on your side in a real fight.

Chapter Three: The Alcalde of Monterey

Kuttner took advantage of the time before dinner to remove as much of the grime of more than a week in the saddle as was possible in a few hours. He changed into a second pair of trousers and clean linen that he carried wrapped up in his bedroll and left the rest of his clothing to be washed by a Mexican woman Riley and the other officers had hired. A wet rag run over his boots had to serve in lieu of a proper garrison shine.

A quarter mile or so from the officers’ billet was Alvarado Street, the main commercial area of the village of Monterey. There Kuttner found a Portuguese gentleman operating a barber shop and dentistry salon where he was able to get a shave, haircut and hot bath for a quarter. He was fortunate enough to be the first customer of the day to use the bath, so the water was fairly clean. It appeared he was also likely to be the last, judging from the relative emptiness of the city’s streets.

His beard had been itching for most of the last week, so Kuttner had all of it but his mustache removed with a straight razor. The results were startling: his hands, forehead and neck were deeply tanned, but the rest of his face was as pale as a trout’s belly.

While he soaked in the bath, the barber had an Indian boy hang his blue wool jacket on a tight length of rope behind the shop and beat it like a rug. The treatment didn’t leave the garment clean but it removed much of the dust it had absorbed.

Boasting a reasonably civilized appearance, Kuttner took a stroll down Alvarado and walked along the edge of Monterey’s waterfront. He stopped in a cantina near the main wharf area and enjoyed a glass of aguardiente.

He was puzzled about Riley’s job offer and more than a little intrigued. Truth be told, he was starting to feel at loose ends during his stay in New Helvetia. He’d spent two decades under arms and had grown accustomed to being told where to go and what to do. His sudden liberty was a little intimidating, though he admitted he still liked not having a bugle call start his day.

The clock on the back bar told him it was close to suppertime. Swallowing the last of the firewater with a sigh of satisfaction, he pulled on his cavalry cap and set off to meet Sizemore on the veranda of Larkin House.

The dinner to which he’d been invited turned out to be a feast. When an Indian servant opened the front door of the Larkin residence, the smell of freshly cooked food rolled out, setting Kuttner’s stomach gurgling so loudly that he was afraid someone would hear it. Sizemore entered first, handing his hat to the Indian and Kuttner followed, tucking his cap into his gun belt.

Captain Kuttner, Sizemore said, This is the Alcalde of Monterey, the Rev. Walter Colton, U.S. Navy.

Kuttner shook hands with a mild-looking man with dark hair swept back from a generous forehead. He was dressed in a civilian suit and looked like a moderately prosperous merchant.

Pleased to meet you, Captain, Colton said with a pleasant smile. May I introduce Mrs. Anne Shortis and Mrs. Clara Sibley? These two ladies have been preparing the food for our meal tonight and will be joining us at dinner.

Kuttner hadn’t much experience with the female of the species and he felt a bit awkward as he took each woman’s hand in turn and bowed his head over it, murmuring words of pleasure at making their acquaintance.

Rev. Colton tells me that you left the Army, Mr. Kuttner, said Anne Shortis, a small, dark-haired woman with a smile in her eyes who appeared to be about Kuttner’s age. If that’s so, why does everyone still call you Captain?

Kuttner scratched his head. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Shortis, I don’t really know, he said. Maybe it’s because I’m still wearing most of my uniform. But the only reason I am is because I haven’t had the time to buy me some proper civilian togs.

Clara Sibley, who looked to be about ten years older and 20 pounds heavier than Anne, made a sound of mild disapproval in the back of her throat.

Well, I think that uniform serves you very well, Mr. Kuttner, she said. Or Captain Kuttner, if that’s what you’d rather be called. Your outfit hangs well on you and it appears to be serviceable fabric with a great good deal of wear left in it. I can see no reason to throw away good money on a change of clothing simply for appearance’s sake.

Thank you, ma’am, Kuttner said with a grin. "These clothes suit me just fine—and as for what you should call me, I normally go by Amos.

Well, Amos, you may call me Clara, Mrs. Sibley said with a smile.

And I am Anne, if you please, said Mrs. Shortis.

Kuttner grinned. The women made him feel enough at ease to forget he had met only a dozen or so of them in the last twenty years, and had rarely spent more than fifteen minutes talking to one. Anne, Clara, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you, he said, giving them a bow that made Mrs. Sibley giggle self-consciously. Will your husbands be joining us at table tonight?

Clara blushed slightly. I’m afraid Anne’s husband is no longer with us, she said softly. She was widowed last year.

Kuttner bowed his head toward Anne. I’m truly sorry to hear that, ma’am, he said.

Thank you, Mr. Kuttner, she murmured with her eyes downcast. I appreciate your sympathy.

What about you, ma’am? Kuttner asked Clara.

Mine, unfortunately, is in San Francisco this week, she said in a reproving tone of voice. He is seeing to a shipment of goods for our store that was supposed to be unloaded here two weeks ago. Unfortunately, the crew members of the ship it was on had other ideas: they decided to skip Monterey and sailed on to Yerba Buena where they promptly ran off to the gold fields. She looked scandalized by this turn of affairs.

Colton shook his head. He’ll be lucky to gather up a crew there, Clara, he said. It seems everybody in California has gold fever—except Mr. Kuttner here.

These ladies are part of my protestant congregation here in Monterey, Colton explained, turning to Kuttner. My own wife is on what seems to be the other side of the world, in Philadelphia. They offered their services in preparing tonight’s meal out of fear that I might disgrace myself by offering you something most of the bachelors in this community eat regularly – rice, beans and flour tortillas.

Kuttner laughed. To tell you the truth, Reverend, I would eat boiled donkey tonight if you set it in front of me, he said. I haven’t sat down to a hot meal for about a week and a half.

Anne looked scandalized. My word, Mr. Kuttner! What have you been living on?

He shrugged. Mostly jerky, ma’am, he said. That and pilot bread. There’s a plant that grows in the forests of the Sierra on shady damp hillsides. I believe that they call it miner’s lettuce. I ate quite a bit of that, too, when I was able to find it.

"What’s pilot bread? Clara asked with a frown of puzzlement.

Colton smiled. I can answer that, having consumed enough of it as sea rations, he said. Pilot bread is a type of hard, unleavened bread. Sort of like a thick cracker.

Ugh, Anne said. It doesn’t sound very appetizing.

Kuttner laughed at her reaction.

Colton, still smiling, said: Its chief attribute is that it lasts a long time. It doesn’t weigh very much so it is easy to carry. It keeps so long as you don’t let it get wet.

It’s not particularly good to eat, ma’am, but it will keep you alive on the trail, Kuttner said.

Sizemore looked confused. Why didn’t you just shoot a hare or a bird and eat that? he asked Kuttner. I should think there would have been plenty of game you could have taken.

Kuttner smiled. I was tracking outlaws, Lieutenant, he said. No shooting. No fires. That would have let the banditos know I was on their trail.

Of course, Sizemore said, reddening. I forgot you were chasing fugitives.

Fugitives? Anne said. My, that sounds exciting. Did you catch them?

Kuttner nodded. Yes, ma’am, he said. They didn’t exactly make it difficult.

Who were they? Clara asked.

A fellow named Jesus Morales and part of his gang, Kuttner said.

My God! Anne said, the color draining from her cheeks. Oh, my dear God!

Bursting into tears, she fled from the room leaving Kuttner staring after her with his mouth hanging open.

Excuse me, Mr. Kuttner, said Clara quietly, turning on her heel to follow the younger woman.

The three men stood in silence for a moment.

Hell, Kuttner said, adding quickly, pardon my French, Reverend. What was that all about?

Colton sighed. Mrs. Shortis’ husband, Clement, was murdered by Morales a little more than a year ago, he said. "He was riding out to the Salinas plain in his buggy to