Caldera

By Dan Baldwin

Caldera relates a man's lifelong, dangerous, and heart-breaking pursuit to define, discover and preserve the meaning of "family" in the deadly and hostile desert environment of Arizona Territory. Three forces shape his life: the indifference of his blood father, a former mountain man who stumbled upon great wealth and power; the love of his surrogate father, a Pima Indian warrior/farmer; and the hatred of his step-mother, a bordello madam. He is at first a happy-go-lucky kid in the Arizona Territory town of Privy. He becomes a Confederate scout, a husband and widower, a madman, and a guilt-ridden killer on a vengeance trail. His path leads back to Privy and a violent confrontation with the three forces and a mortal enemy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Baldwin
• Release date: Mar 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465960245

Dan Baldwin

Dan Baldwin is the author of westerns, mysteries, thrillers, short story collections and books on the paranormal. He is the winner of numerous local, regional, and national awards for writing and directing film and video projects. He earned an Honorable Mention from the Society of Southwestern Authors writing competition for his short story Flat Busted and  a Finalist designation from the National Indie Excellence Awards for Trapp Canyon and Caldera III – A Man of Blood. Baldwin received a Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Sparky and the King. Bock’s Canyon earned the Winner designation in the 2017 Best Book Awards. Baldwin’s paranormal works are The Practical Pendulum – A Swinging Guide, Find Me as told to Dan Baldwin, They Are Not Yet Lost and How Find Me Lost Me – A Betrayal of Trust Told by the Psychic Who Didn’t See It Coming. They Are Not Yet Lost earned the Winner designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition. How Find Me Lost Me won the Winner designation in the Best Book Awards 2017 competition and the Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition.

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Dedication

Caldera is dedicated to my wife, Mary.

"Love to faults is always blind,

Always is to joy inclin’d,

Lawless, wing’d, and unconfined,

And breaks all chains from every mind."

Acknowledgements

The Caldera series would not have been possible without the encouragement and support of numerous people. Chief among them are: Judy Slack who changed the course of my writing life; Kathy Welton for her understanding, trust and hard work; Harvey Stanbrough, my editor, friend and fellow Kracken wrangler; Chris O’Byrne and Red Willow Digital Press for their enthusiasm for a first-time novelist; George Sewell and Micah Hackler for friendship and inspiration; and The Glory Guys for an endless supply of good times and incredible source material.

About the Author

Dan Baldwin is the author, co-author or ghostwriter of more than 40 books on business, sales, real estate, motivation, and management. Caldera and the upcoming Caldera-A Man on Fire are his first novels. He is the winner of numerous local, regional and national awards for writing and directing film and television commercials and projects. Baldwin is a resident of Phoenix-Mesa, Arizona and has traveled extensively throughout Caldera’s West.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Preview of Caldera-A Man on Fire

Prologue

Call me Bitter. I am 117 years old. These were the first words of any significance the old man spoke since I crawled into the adobe cavern that was his home. Bitter in my language is ‘Siw.’ My name accurately describes my current disposition. He paused as if reaching back into a dark storehouse of memories, then added, And all too well the long sunset years of my life.

I had been warned of his eloquence and command of English. He closed his eyes and his breath expelled the just-tolerable weight of too many desert sunsets. I waited, afraid to speak, afraid to be silent, afraid of breathing in the pain and sadness issuing from his tired old lungs. After a journey of 1200 miles and several years of my life I was not about to allow a misspoken word to cancel the race halfway through the last lap. I stared at the small pile of red hot coals in the center of the dirt floor and tried to beam courtesy and respect. The smile on my face hid a heart holding back a few thousand questions. I wanted to drench him in a monsoon rain of who, what, where, when, why and how. I felt a compulsion to beg for more-more-more before the gentle breeze blowing through his dwelling shattered the frail old man like a dry cattail, caught him and carried him off in bits and pieces.

All things in their time. The thought brought no comfort as I stared into eyes that could have seen Kit Carson, Wyatt Earp’s gunplay, Gayle McCracken or Malon’s gangs, Geronimo’s war and surrender, the Rough Riders and a West rushing from a wide-open frontier to the claustrophobia of fenced land and no trespassing signs.

"The wind entering my olas-ki is colder now and it will soon carry me to Morning Land in the East, but not before we speak. The old boy must have been part mind reader. Hear me for my case and be silent that you may hear."

Julius Caesar, right? I’d learned that long ago he studied Shakespeare back in the old days to improve his English.

Marc Antony to the crowd.

Thank you, Siw.

He winced. I must have badly mispronounced his name. Miliga’n, white people, have always called me Prospect. Perhaps that will be easier on your tongue, he said.

Yes, sir. It was all I could muster.

Chu-I, he said while handing me a plate of candy. It was pinole, a sweet made from ground mesquite beans and considered a treat by the Southwestern tribes. I took a piece and bit down with a false smile that turned real as the pleasant flavor said Welcome, to my home, Friend.

Strange, strange, strange, I thought. Outside these adobe walls FDR had just been elected to a third term. Europe was at war with Hitler’s Germany and many on both sides of the Atlantic were saying America soon would be drawn into the conflict. People were humming a new hit tune—You Are My Sunshine—and for many the toughest choice of the day was whether to tune-in the Bob Hope radio show, the Lone Ranger, or Amos and Andy. In the midst of all that I had driven across Texas, southern New Mexico and half of Arizona to crawl through a hole into the Stone Age and hear an Indian quote Shakespeare.

I must apologize, but my mind is as frail as my body, he said. Would you tell me again your name?

Quiller, I said. Robert Quiller. That was, in its fashion, the truth. "Please call me Robert.

And why have you come to see a man whose shadow is longer than the man himself?

I pulled a folded scrap of newsprint from my notebook and handed it over. It says—

I read quite well, Robert.

Damn all assumptions! I grinned like the big fool I had just made of myself.

History’s Mysteries by R. Quiller. He scanned the article, a near-amazing feat in the semi-darkness of a home lit by a single kerosene lamp. He looked up. What mystery brings you to Prospect?

I lied to him with the truth. For more than a decade I had been tracking down historical records of an enigma, a man who was little more than a series of footnotes in obscure books on the great wild days when Arizona was part of New Mexico territory. Official reports, manifests, wanted posters, small stories in forgotten newspapers, letters and even an interview on a local radio station—no matter where I looked, I encountered slight references to an amazing character, a man as historical as the OK Corral and just as fictional. The enigma was never prominent, but it was always there, always a whispered presence in the background. At some point, the precise moment forgotten, my curiosity became personal and, out of ignorance and passion, a quest was born. As far as they went my words to Prospect were God’s own truth.

Prospect, will you tell me of Caldera?

I have heard of a sad smile, but until that moment I had never truly experienced one. As he sank back and looked into the pulsating red light of the coals I pulled two double-corona cigars from my shirt pocket. They were Cubans and a major expense for someone on a writer’s salary. The old man’s grandsons who had helped arrange this meeting told me he was fond of a good smoke. Presents? Bribes? Ice breakers? Hell, I didn’t know, but I lit one on a hot coal and handed it over. I lit another and we enjoyed the smoke for some time before he spoke. Caldera... he was my young friend, my sometimes son and my curse. My son... more than to his own blood father, Caldera was my son. Why do you bring such sadness to me?

I am a storyteller, Prospect. Stories must be told.

Must they?

I have dedicated my life to it.

Ah, such commitment is easy for those who only tell the stories. What of those who must live them?

Tell me of Caldera, please?

Half of the large cigar was gone. Sunlight spiking through the door created haunting images of light in the swirling smoke and dust. We smoked for a long time before he spoke. "Mant ‘abo va n-ju, shahali’I."

What does that mean?

Okay.

I opened my notebook and slipped out one of the pencils.

To know Caldera is to embrace power... a special, pure kind of power, Robert.

What kind of power, Prospect?

He took a long, soul-satisfying drag of the cigar and looked me right in the eye. Madness, Robert. Madness.

Chapter One

You cannot know Caldera without knowing his father, Prospect said.

I suppressed a jolt of excitement. I knew some of Bull McKenzie, a well-known if poorly documented early pioneer and one of the first tycoons in what became the State of Arizona. I wanted to know more and with the hunger of a starving artist I wanted that knowledge now.

Before he continued, Prospect’s grandson called out respectfully and crawled through the two-by-four doorway of the olas-ki. He carried a shovel full of hot coals, which he added to the dimming pile at the center of the round house. He stayed a second longer than necessary, just long enough for the elder to nod all is okay, before he left. The coals brought welcome warmth, but damn little light and I prayed that at day’s end I’d be able to decode my notes.

Robert, if you would, please hand me my stick. He pointed to the wall. The first thing I saw was an old and faded war shield, a circle of stretched leather decorated with a once-colorful cross. The faded paint was scratched and dented, hammered, I imagined, by arrow, club and bullet in ancient battles in times and places I couldn’t begin to imagine. Beside it hung a war club, a carved piece of hard wood that looked more like an old potato masher than a weapon, but the thick, heavy end was stained a dark and bloody brown. Above them in a position of respect was what appeared to be a walking stick, dark wood carved with a hundred or more nicks, notches and small designs.

Are we going for a walk, Prospect?

You ain’t from around here, are you, boy?’ His smile and the near-perfect redneck dialect, damn close to my own, was a gentle way of telling me to shut the hell up and listen.

You have my life in your hands, he said. This is my calendar stick. A playful side of the old man was emerging, the smile working its way out of sadness. I handed over the worn staff and he ran his fingers across the marks like a blind man reading a beloved text in Braille. His hand stopped at the oldest, most worn marks. Long years after the Pima drove the Mexicans back to the south, back before your great Civil War, many Milinga-n stole their way into the lands of the Gila River. The white hunters came alone or in small groups and they all carried with them the same complaint. The beaver were no longer shining. This was strange to me because I had known the beaver all my short life and never had I seen even one shine. Not even in the full moonlight. At the time I thought perhaps the white hunters had some special magic that gave them power to see such a thing. Bull McKenzie was one of these men. Prospect’s mind raced into the past to the man who was Caldera’s father. His melodic voice, like the wind, picked me up and carried me back with him.

Prospect closed his eyes. I first met him the day after he invaded Mexico.

* * *

The expedition was a disaster, a foolhardy adventure led by a scoundrel and followed by idiots. Bull cursed in a whisper and swore an oath to never again dog another man’s trail. Come hell or high water, feast, famine, Apache, bandit or golden opportunity presented on a silver platter, he would carve his own path. If it led to another inglorious, deadly, foolish defeat, then at least he’d be the stupid bastard leading the charge. Damn McCracken! And damn the whiskey that made men with better sense listen to him.

The greed that drove McCracken swept up good men and bad, a drunken Bull McKenzie among them. They were out to conquer half of north-central Mexico with just a handful of men. It all made a mad sort of sense at the time, especially since he hadn’t a grubstake. Bull had found his way to the Gila River country, hoping to trap beaver. The market for pelts had just about played out and there hadn’t been a rendezvous in years, but he had hope born from an empty purse, desperation and nothing better to do.

The beaver were a disappointment. They were a lighter shade and of poorer quality than those found in the northern mountains. He’d traded all his plews for a couple of bottles of the damnable Taos whiskey at a miserable town south of Tucson that was nothing more than a swindler’s trading post and a couple of shanties. It didn’t even have a name. Late in the day he was roused by the ranting of a calculating bastard and the shouts of support from his audience. Half the men, the smarter ones, knew McCracken’s tall tales of empire were bunk. They were going on a raid of plunder. It would be shoot, grab ‘n git, and any man foolish enough to stick around empire building deserved the execution he would surely earn.

Gayle McCracken jumped up on an old wagon. Gold, men, and silver no more than a few miles from here. The wagon creaked and cracked and nearly collapsed under his weight. He was big, fairly close to Bull in girth, though shorter by half a foot or more. He was dark, baked hard by the desert sun and old enough to know better than to invade Mexico.

Some other tale’s being played out, Bull thought. Maybe he and a few companions had nosed around and come on a rich hacienda, a bank or mining office. McCracken was going after something specific and a big raid would provide a nice cover for his escape.

Hell, boys, all Sonora’s up for grabs. It’s ours for the taking.

What the hell. Bull had been knocking around southwestern New Mexico Territory for a couple months without cutting the trail of opportunity. He might even like it down in Mexico and decide to stay a while. The fact that he did not realize the Mexicans would resent a lone invader taking up residence among the invaded showed the quality of the whiskey he had consumed. And the amount.

McCracken continued. Rich haciendas guarded by fat Mexicans taking a siesta. We’ll just walk in, take over and live like kings. You want a cold beer? He raised his arm and snapped his fingers. His hands were gloved so the sound was paltry and muted phht-phht. Fine brown dust popped from his fingertips like a small explosion. Gomez, fetch!

The men laughed.

Wine? Whiskey? Phht-phht.

What about scalps, Cap’n? The question came from an old man everybody called Weezer. He had been a mountain man in the golden days when beaver was still shining, but one night during all those long winters in the high country, a cold wind had slipped into his lungs and taken up residence. He was down in the flatlands looking for a grubstake so he could climb back up and give the winds a chance to finish him off.

Sure, men, take as many as you can. Then cross back over the border next week and sell em’ to the Mex as Apache. He laughed.

What about them señoreeters? That was Phil Lyman, a pockmarked kid from Kentucky who always attached himself to the biggest man around so he could walk in his swagger. Bull couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Yeah, Phillip, my boy. Dark eyes. Black hair. Skin like—

Can we plague ‘em?’

McCracken didn’t understand the question, but its meaning was evident in the man’s sick grin.

You know, Sir, like in the Bible. Can we descend down upon ‘em?’

That brought another round of laughs, encouraged by a leader who appeared as frenzied as the men below him. Son, by the looks of you, I can tell you’ll be a one-man pestilence.

Bull knew what McCracken was stirring up. The more men raped, scalped, and murdered innocent Mexicans the fewer men would be left to fight over the real spoils. Idjits! He finished the bottle and passed out in a stranger’s wagon.

The next morning he woke up to screaming as the wagon rolled past Lyman who was plaguing a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than 12 years old. A couple of other men were waiting for a turn. The column, substantially reduced in number, was in Mexico outside an adobe hovel at the edge of a small village Bull was shocked into sobriety upon realizing where he was and what he was in the middle of. If there’s treasure to be found, McCracken’ll play hell finding it here.

Events moved rapidly and the Americans immediately embraced disaster. Considering all the bragging and boasting that had accompanied the column’s formation and the dust and noise from its movement, no one should have been surprised that the Mexicans were well-armed and waiting. The little brown pissants the men scorned proved that racism has no place in military strategy. McCraken’s army started shooting at the first sight of a Mexican. The man died, but the villager’s return volley ripped into the column and tore it in half. Bull saw uniformed troops among the peasants. They were probably guarding a gold or silver shipment. That explains McCracken’s interest in empire. The soldiers weren’t very good, but they were well armed, they had the support of the villagers, and they had the element of one hell of a surprise. Chaos took command as the men turned to flee. The wounded were passed over by the charging soldiers, only to be hacked apart by the peasant army materializing from adobe huts, family gardens, and nearby washes. At times they seemed to burst right out of the ground, an army of brown ants crawling over fat, Yankee waterbugs, killing with a thousand relentless stings. Weezer went down, his leg shot off at the knee. The ants were on him before he could club or knife his way out. The last image Bull had of the man was a kid hacking his head in two with a field hoe. Back in the center of the column Bull could do nothing for the man and none of those closer even made an attempt. A damn good example of why a man ought never partner up.

The Mexicans cut off the column’s retreat and cornered them in a corral. About thirty men, many of them wounded, stood back to back and waited for the final rush and the inevitable slaughter. A few notes from a bugle and a lot of shouting in Spanish stopped the swarm before it could engulf the defeated Anglos. Most of the men waited in fear. A few cowered and cringed, but a small core, Bull among them, waited at the ready. Let’s get this bloody business over with! he said. A moment—a lifetime—later the small multitude parted for a regular Mexican army officer. He was no more than 30 or 35 years old, but he carried himself with authority. His stride was purposeful, like a sovereign among the unwashed masses. His uniform was bright, his brass buttons fairly sparkled in the summer sun, and the plumage on his tall hat danced in the dead air.

Ain’t he the cock o’ the walk, said McCracken.

You better go see what he wants, said Bull.

He wants our ass.

He’s got it.

The officer walked to the edge of the corral, pausing to slap the dust from his uniform with a clean handkerchief pulled from beneath his vest. It was a brilliant bit of psychological warfare. Here was a man in total control of the situation, the men and their fortunes. I am Captain Juan Peñasco. You have one half of one minute to surrender. His command of English was the best Bull had ever heard.

Kinda’ gets to the point, don’t he? said Bull.

Some kid behind them was whispering. Twenty-eight… twenty-seven… twenty-six.... His voice cracked, as much with thirst as with fear. This was the kid’s first encounter with inevitability.

Bull looked at McCracken. Whaddya gonna do, McCracken?

Twenty-two… twenty-one… twenty....

Give me time, you bastard!

I ain’t the one holding the watch.

Seventeen… sixteen… fifteen....

Bull wondered at his leader’s hesitation. It was not as if the situation required thought or even a decision. Captain Peñasco and the fifty or so men behind him had rendered decision-making an unnecessary exercise. Mentally, Bull raced through as many negotiating possibilities as he could find. They were damn few and not a one worth a damn.

Ten… nine… eight.

Suddenly McCracken cocked the hammer on his pistol and raised his arm.

No! Bull struck the man’s arm and the weapon discharged into a pile of cow

manure. Without a command the Mexicans opened fire. So close were the guns that all the men at the rim of the small circle fell. Their sacrifice gave the others time to fall to the ground, protected only by the bodies of their slaughtered comrades. The explosions were followed by a staggering silence broken only by terrified grunts of men who were suddenly faced with the thought that, maybe, just maybe, this time God wasn’t on their side.

Three… two—damn! The kid’s spirit faded and his life force joined the gun smoke covering the field of fire.

Captain Peñasco lay face down in the dirt, blood flowing from half a dozen or more wounds in his back. McCracken lived, and were it not for a shout from the Mexican ranks Bull would have slit the man’s throat. Bull didn’t speak a word of Spanish, but kill the sons of bitches is universal. Another round of gunfire ripped through the corral, kicking up more dust, blood, manure, shouts and pleas for mercy.

Bull looked up. The peasants were hungry for blood. Instead of slitting McCracken’s throat, he slashed a rectangular piece of cloth from a dead man’s shirt, tied it onto the barrel of his rifle and raised a call for surrender.

Someone back among the ants shouted a command and the guns, machetes and farm implements lowered slowly and reluctantly. Another soldier, a thin man of lesser rank than the captain but clearly of greater vanity, approached. Sword in hand, he strutted toward his prisoners. He stopped at Peñasco’s body and wiped the manure from his boot on his captain’s shoulder. Bull McKenzie hated small-minded men and that one disrespectful gesture made him hate this one above them all. The young officer was clearly proud of those boots. They were almost mesmerizing. They had been marched through rock and dust and run through a battle. They had been walked through a barnyard, and still they were as black and shiny as obsidian. The thin, home-made moccasins on Bull’s feet made for a humiliating comparison. Their lives were in the hands of a petty little dictator who wanted Yankee blood on his hands.

"Habla Espanol?"

"Si!" McCracken scrambled up, dusted himself off and approached the little Napoleon. They spoke for several minutes while what was left of the company, dead, dying and desperate, remained on the ground. Only twenty or so men were still alive.

When McCracken returned he spoke in a quiet voice to Bull. His name is Malón, a damn lieutenant. Look, we’re in a tough patch, but I think I can get us out.

How?

"I told him we followed a crazy man down here, ‘loco in la cabeza.’"

Enough truth in that.

You want to get out of here with your hide in one piece, McKenzie?

What’d you say?

"I told the son of a bitch this was all a big mistake, mas grande. It ain’t our fault."

He believe it?

Some... enough... maybe.

What are we supposed do?

Collect the weapons, all of ‘em, and make a stack outside the corral. Then split the men into three groups: wounded, the young men and the rest of us.

Why?

He knows he can take us, but we’ll take a lot of his men with us, him first. He don’t want that on his record. I convinced the bastard that a few healthy prisoners got more value than a corral full of dead men.

If any of McCracken’s companions were still alive, he made no effort to single them out. He just returned to continue his discussions with Malón. He bowed, scraped and fawned like a drummer selling stolen merchandise at a frontier dry goods store. Both men disgusted Bull, but he would follow the plan that would give him at least some chance of getting out of Mexico. The soldiers took their weapons distributed them among the peasants. A tough old sergeant had trouble keeping the villagers from finishing off the invaders. The moment the younger men were segregated, the old sergeant marched them off at gunpoint. He allowed the peasants to jab and bash them with their rakes, hoes and new rifles.

Where’s he taking them? McKenzie asked.

South, said McCracken. It seems that Lieutenant Malón just inherited that there Captain Peñasco’s share of a silver mine. He says he’s about run out of Indians down there.

You gave up your own men as slaves! Were it not for the guns in shaky hands trained on them Bull would have strangled McCracken on the spot. He actually considered the act in spite of the guns.

McCracken tried to stare him down and failed. "Traded, McKenzie. I traded those men for the lives of a few others."

A few?

This ain’t over yet.

Bull growled, McCracken. The name was all he could manage. Still, it was probably the worst insult the man had ever received.

I get four men—four damn tough men—and right now you’re one of ‘em, so don’t push me.

With that, the rest of McCracken’s deal with Malón became tragically obvious. McCracken cut out three men from the company, like cattle from a herd. They were all big, strong knuckleheads. Instinctively they all knew what was coming. Six soldiers marched into the corral, bayonets fixed and hammers cocked. A group of peasants flowed through that flesh and steel corridor. They grabbed the wounded and dragged them across the compound to an adobe wall. The six soldiers stayed in the corral as another small column marched in front of the wall.

Thus began an afternoon of executions. The wounded were eliminated one at a time. Most of them took it like men. A lucky few were too far gone to know what was happening. Only one man had to be dragged like an animal to his fate. Lyman, the kid from Kentucky, had missed the aborted battle while attempting to plague another woman. His nose was badly broken, his ears were cut or torn off and the light colored clothes of the men dragging him were red with his blood. When he realized what was about to happen, Lyman collapsed at the base of the wall, cowering and begging for mercy. Malón pulled his pistol and shot him in the leg. He then cocked it and handed it to the first man in the firing squad. Each man took a turn, laughing and making jokes and shooting, the bullets working their way inward from the kid’s extremities. They reloaded and enjoyed the sport one more time before a shot to the head put an end to the pestilence.

That