Free to Wander

By Dale A. Smith

In 1861, Jimmy Carl Gray and Lew McManus travel west to escape the horrors of the American Civil War and to seek silver, wealth, and peace. Their plans are changed, however, when the Texas Brigade invades the New Mexico Territory. The ambitious miners are forced to join the Confederate Army, unable to avoid the war they left behind.

Although mired in violence, Jimmy and Lew make the acquaintance of several intriguing characters. They meet a Mescalero Apache healer named Rodrigo Red Water, an unforgettable Colorado gold miner named Dirt Bradshaw, and even Wild Bill Hickock before he became a legend.

The Southwest is a wild place, full of diverse people, who face battles and other struggles as their various stories unfold. In this wild and colorful journey through their lives, these characters discover love, fear, greed, and the thirst for revenge as they struggle to live through a war that tore a country apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: May 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458215819

Dale A. Smith

Dale Amelia Smith has written several books about the American Southwest. A love of history and knowledge of the foibles of human nature combine to create literary tall tales. Ms. Smith lives in Tennessee and has worked for State government, as a Probation Officer and Manager. Her second novel, "The Beloved Captive", continues the trilogy of the Dirt Bradshaw Series. She has recently completed a third novel, titled "Our Lady of Sorrows" and is working on a fourth story.

Book preview

Chapter 1

T he two prospectors led their mules up the red foothills of the Magdalena Mountains. The previous night their horses had been stolen by unseen Apaches at their camp on the Rio Grande and the two Tennesseans had to walk now. The two mules were laden with picks, pans and other mining supplies that clanked and clattered as the miners headed up hill.

The differences in appearance and temperament showed more fully with this latest challenge. The massive black-bearded man lumbered along like a bear, grew more irritated with each mile and he felt anxious, wanting to stop and drink his whiskey. His smaller, thin and agile compadre had light brown hair, was clean-shaven and enjoyed the arduous climb in elevation. He went ahead, energized by the mountain air.

Just be glad we aren’t in that God-forsaken desert, Claw, said the thin man in a southern accent. He stopped and took two sips from his canteen.

What did you say that damned stretch of rock and sand was called? asked the big man.

"The Jornada del Muerto, the ‘Journey of Death’, said his partner, grinning. He waited up for his fellow Tennessean. I am glad you saved that liquor for this evening. Otherwise I’d have to leave your pickled arse back there for the vultures to feast upon."

If I was you, Jimmy Carl, I would worry more about Apaches killing us than buzzards eating on us. Dead is dead. Why didn’t they fight us last night?

I heard Apaches don’t fight at night, said Jimmy Carl Gray. But it don’t keep them from stealing. I guess they don’t know how to ease up on a mule and keep them quiet, like they do horses.

Maybe they don’t ride mules, said the black-bearded traveler. Maybe they just eat ’em. Dammit, I need a snort.

Save your whiskey for later, Lew, Jimmy Gray advised his friend, Lewis McManus. The two prospectors had left the town of Mesilla shortly before the Confederates captured it. They had planned to head for the Pinos Altos Mountains, but heard the Apaches were still raiding the mining camps. I don’t expect it was Christian charity that made them Apaches spare our mules. Jimmy smiled with his high-cheeked grin and nodded his head like a woodpecker. He felt glad to be alive. And thank God we’re out of the desert,

God had nothing to do with it, said Lew McManus. But I am glad we finally made it to the Rio Grande.

Jimmy Gray started walking again, but his black-bearded partner stopped, pulled out a pint of red whiskey and took a fast gulp. Maybe they don’t ride mules, he wondered again. Maybe they just eat ’em. I imagine Frank and Duff here would be tough as boot leather, though. The other prospector ignored him and hiked up on the ridgeline.

They soon found a more level site and decided to make camp. The hills and mountains turned reddish in the evening sunlight. From their campsite, they gazed at the top of the San Mateo Mountains and the far-off snowy peaks of the Black Range to the west. McManus pulled out his Sharp’s rifle from the gun boot on the side of his mule.

I’m tired of beans and hardtack every night, he told Gray. I want to shoot us a deer or maybe even an elk.

Take my shotgun instead, said Jimmy. Killing something big now is wasteful. And it might bring them savages down on us, like drunkards to a barbeque. Shoot us a sage hen, a jackrabbit or some quail. There’s some good brush down in that arroyo, Claw.

Maybe I’ll head up over to those trees, said the big man.

Gray had grown used to his friend’s contrary nature. Go ahead and git,’ he said. You got about an hour till dark. I’ll find us some water and make camp. Maybe your drunk ass can kick us up some quail down in that gully."

The man he called Claw headed instead up a side ridge, towards a grove of pines and piñons. Jimmy shook his head and laughed to himself. Lewis Claude McManus was a dependable friend but did whatever the hell he pleased. They had struck out West for gold or silver two years earlier, but did not make it to New Mexico until the spring of 1861. As Jimmy Gray gathered brush and firewood, he thought about their long journey and the reasons for their delay.

Gray’s young wife had died of the cholera back in 1858, leaving him childless and of no real connection anymore to Middle Tennessee. He was a poor dirt farmer from Lawrence County, who was distantly related to Davy Crockett. That same year the price of cotton fell, due to too much production by the rich planters who owned slaves. Other poor whites blamed the slaves, but Jimmy blamed the plantation owners. In late March of 1860 he was forced to sell his miserable patch of hardscrabble property.

Both men were in the mid-twenties and ready for a change of fortunes. The wife of Lew McManus had run off with an Englishman – a Limey Wink according to Claw, and he wanted to hunt them down in New Orleans. Gray told Lewis they should go west, where there was news of gold strikes in the Colorado Territory and a silver rush in New Mexico. The money he had earned from selling his acreage would grubstake them both.

Two shots rang out in succession now, as the thin man struck his flint and started the fire. Jimmy blew softly on the tinder and added kindling. Maybe Claw is bringing supper, he thought.

Jimmy nick-named his partner ‘Claw’, because of his middle name and his huge hands—strong meat hooks that grabbed anything he wanted to eat, drink or fight. Maybe he would pull fortune from the earth. If Claw McManus had found the Fort Worth gambler who had swindled him, they would be running as fugitives now.

In Fort Worth they had met up with a gambler and medicine salesman named Miles Wells. The man said he could speak Spanish and he offered to guide the prospectors to the New Mexican Territory. Alcohol was the reason why they lost most of the grubstake money. Lewis had wanted to stop and drink at every other town with a saloon as they crossed Arkansas and East Texas. Jimmy told him they were on The Trail of Beers rather than the Trail of Tears and he joked that McManus had more Scotch whiskey than Scotsman in his blood. After quite a few drinks of liquor in Fort Worth, the Wells character cheated Lewis out of half their money in a game of cards and then disappeared.

Later that same evening, Jimmy Gray found Miles Wells staggering in an alley. He caught the swindler coming out of a ladies’ boardinghouse, grabbed him by the collar and held a Bowie knife to the gambler’s throat.

Give us back our money, dog-dammit! Gray demanded. The bug-eyed salesman was stricken with terror. He forked over a handful of silver dollars and change. Is it all you’ve got left, you lusty Dutch cheese worm? asked Jimmy.

Please don’t kill me! said Mr. Wells. The rest I loaned to some winsome waif at Ma Kelly’s boarding house here. I will pay you back one day, I promise. Miles Wells half-grinned. She is a pretty little Swedish immigrant, who found herself in dire circumstances.

You’re lucky my partner is not here, said Jimmy Gray. Or he would crush your skull like was a damn grape.

I will find a way to make amends, said Wells.

Jimmy eased off and Miles Wells rose to his feet. He dusted off his jacket. I suppose you won’t be needing my services as a guide then. To translate and guide you through the New Mexico Territory?

You can translate for us when we’re all in Hell! Jimmy looked at him, shaking his head in disgust. We would sooner take that Scandinavian whore.

Back in the present, the Tennessean added more wood to the fire. It grew cold quickly here in the San Mateo Mountains. As he rolled the last of his tobacco for a smoke, he thought of the young woman, whom he had spotted the day after Lewis lost most of their money.

It was in a general store, where they were pricing supplies. She walked in to buy a pair of boots and damn, she was beautiful. The girl was fair and blonde, with a round face and bright green eyes. Jimmy Gray could tell by her accent she was the Swedish girl.

She was probably spending the money Miles Wells gave her. Jimmy dared not utter a word to his partner, as McManus leered at the young immigrant. Gray realized she was not a prostitute, when the girl actually blushed.

Hey, look what I got! shouted Lew McManus, and Gray was startled out of his reverie. Claw was dangling a jake turkey when he proudly stepped up to the firelight. I caught him on the roost. Hope I didn’t tear the meat up with that double load.

You didn’t unload both barrels at once, said Jimmy. I heard two distinct shots, unless it was an echo.

Shoot no. He didn’t let go of his perch with the first blast. Then I spun him around, like a target in a shooting gallery and he dropped to the ground. Tell you what. You pluck him and I’ll cook him up. Lewis started to roll a cigarette.

Jimmy began to work on the jake as McManus rewarded himself with more whiskey. I hope them shots don’t bring Cochise or some Yankees down on us, Lewis stated. We’ve been dodging Injuns and armies by not coming straight up the Rio Grande.

"Yep. All we’ve seen is a few mexicanos and a whole lot of dry, desperate country. It is kind or pretty though. In a different way than back home. It ain’t green like Tennessee, for sure. But I like it," said Gray. He enjoyed exploring the deserts, vast plains, mesas and rugged mountains of the Southwest. It was a land of challenges, wide-open freedom and opportunity – free from the debts, entanglements and suspicions back East.

They found work with the Overland Mail Stage line, driving the route across the broad expanse of West Texas, swinging up the Pecos River, traversing the Llano Estacada and the desert into La Mesilla. It was hard work, traveling day and night between stations twenty to one hundred miles apart. There were a lot of dangers on the mail route – the threat of the stagecoach over turning, poorly trained or diseased horses and the threat of Indians or bandits.

In Texas there was talk of secession, just like in Tennessee. Confederate sympathizers threatened violence and robbery of the Butterfield line, even before the state legislature voted to leave the Union. In April 1861, Gray and McManus made their last run, refused to join the Confederacy and started their search for silver in southern New Mexico.

Now listen, said Jimmy, while he took the dressed turkey and cut it in quarters. He figured Lewis was too intoxicated to cook the bird correctly. If anyone asks us if we are Secesh – just tell them we seceded from Tennessee before they seceded from the Union. We are real westerners now. He placed the turkey on a makeshift spit above the fire. We don’t give a damn what happens back east.

I can keep my mouth shut, said Lewis. I ain’t no fool. But if they ask too much or make trouble, I’ll just spin ’em around like I did that jake turkey there.

You best let me do the talking. Jimmy Gray moved the wood around to cook the meat more evenly. Dang, it’s cold. He looked up at the cloudy sky. It looks like it might snow tonight.

They smoked and fixed the camp while the bird cooked. This was a routine to which they had grown accustomed—securing and feeding the animals, unpacking the gear and gathering wood.

During the summer of 1861, while armies marched and prepared for battle, Gray and McManus ranged over the Pinos Altos Mountains looking to make a strike. Threats of Apache attacks forced them to prospect elsewhere.

That summer the Territory of New Mexico split in two. The southern area below the thirty-fourth parallel was declared the Confederate Territory of Arizona. In July, the Union forces abandoned Fort Bliss near El Paso and surrendered Fort Fillmore near Mesilla. That autumn the prospectors traveled up to the Sangre de Christo Mountains, named for the Blood of Christ, but they found no gold or silver. Jimmy and Lewis later followed the Pecos River south as the weather cooled. They wintered down at El Paso del Norte in old Mexico, before this recent return to American territory.

Soon the turkey was done. The two miners feasted on the meat, along with some beans and tortillas. They smoked the last of their tobacco and settled in. Jimmy Gray stoked the fire as it began to snow. It was still February and he feared they had started north too soon. He moved the spit away from the fire, but close enough to keep any wild animals away. It was late and sleep came quickly.

The stars were out when he awoke. A light snow covered his woolen blankets. Jimmy looked around. The white inch of snow reflected the starlight and illuminated the camp in a silver glow. It was beautiful, but something was not right. Lewis was snoring away on his back, empty whiskey bottle by his side. Something or somebody was here. Across the smoking embers Gray thought he saw a bush or small tree he had not noticed before. It was an Indian, or at least half of one. The figure stood wrapped in an old ragged blanket and looked as if he was trying to get warm. He wore huaraches like a Mexican instead of moccasins. Jimmy saw no weapon in his hands.

The refugiodo seemed to be starving. He stared eagerly at the remains of the wild turkey. Jimmy Gray sat up and the Indian grinned.

"Hombre, con permiso! Turquia Por Favor?’

"Sí, Adelantar." Jimmy wasn’t sure if he answered correctly. He had picked up on how to agree in Spanish, with people they had met in El Paso del Norte and the mexicano villages around the Territory. Go ahead. Most of the local population were peaceful and friendly people. This stranger appeared to be part Mestizo, but seemed mostly Indian. He squatted by the fire and picked small pieces off the blackened carcass, as if eating too fast or too much was impolite.

Jimmy asked the man if he spoke English.

"Sí Yep. Your food is good. My name Rodrigo. Some call me Red Water."

Jimmy searched for the right words and finally just said, "llamo Jimmy Gray."

What the hell? Lewis sat up, his shotgun already in hand. His friend motioned for him to ease off. Who’s our visitor? asked McManus.

"Says his name is Red Water. I told him it’s okay for him to have some turkey. Esto es Lewis," said Gray, pointing to his partner. The Indian took the neck off the bird, as Jimmy Gray stirred the glowing embers and added wood to make coffee. Rodrigo tore into his breakfast now, licking the turkey grease off his fingers as he ate.

Ask him if he has any tobacco on him, said McManus, shaking himself awake and kicking the empty whiskey bottle into the bushes. He kept the shotgun dangling at his side. I could use a smoke.

You ask him. My Spanish is pretty poor. Jimmy walked off to relieve himself.

Tienne lagoon…ah, tabaco? Cigarillo?"

"Sí. Tengo algo de tabaco, said the hungry native. You want?"

"Yes. Sí, un poco. Man, I got a headache. You don’t happen to have any of that Taos Lightning they drink around here, do you?"

Jimmy laughed as he came back, grabbed the coffee pot and went to get water. He didn’t bring you breakfast in bed today, it looks like.

Go easy on that turkey, Mister, said Lewis, confused as to how to continue the conversation. The Indian said in half Spanish that he had some willow bark for his hangover and some yarrow. He seemed to be some sort of itinerant medicine man.

At first sight, the Mestizo-Indian had appeared old and worn out, but as he ate, Lewis noticed that he was indeed younger than he first appeared. The red man had all his teeth and he straightened his posture. He seemed to gain strength just by eating. Lewis studied his features while he ate.

Are you Mescalero? Apache? he asked.

"Nit’ahende, said the Native American. The people who live against the mountain. Some call us the Deer People. He reached under his blanket, brought out a cloth pouch and flipped it to Lewis. We trade. Paro Ahumado para el humo!" He grinned at his joke. Apparently they had run into an intelligent vagabundo. Red Water began to eat the marrow from a discarded leg bone.

It took Lewis a minute. Smoked turkey for smokes? Hah! We got us a wandering comedian here.

"I followed you from the mountains of San Andres, through el Journado, said Red Water. It is good you not follow the river. The Indian told them the Confederate Army was marching up the Rio Grande. Hacia el norte, Los Yanquis retreat to Fort Craig. They sent their women el norte, too."

You hear that Jimmy? asked McManus. We got armies running up and down these damn hills! You was right to zig and zag like we did.

His thin friend returned with a filled coffee pot and placed it on the coals. You know this country better than we do, said Gray "Can you guide us a ways? Se puede ser nuestra guin?’" The Tennessean had an idea.

"Donde vas? asked the Indian. Rodrigo looked at both of these prospectors. You are looking for la plata, or the oro? The yellow iron?’

Every fool white man is searching for gold, said Jimmy Carl Gray. We want silver. We cannot tell you exactly where we are going yet. Until we know if you are coming with us. He saw that this Indian of mixed blood did not fully understand. "Entiendas? Gray really did not know if this wandering medicine man was a scout or a spy. He did not want to admit they had not had much luck prospecting the previous year. Jimmy hoped to explore the Black Range and the tributaries of the Gila River, but it was best to be vague around this stranger. We want to go west. Onto the plains of San Augustin and over the big mountains. He decided to test this half-Apache. Do you know who took our horses?"

"Sí Ch’laandee. The Antelope Band People. They might have eaten them. They are sneaky – but also starving. It has been a hard winter for everyone. Not everyone can have turkey."

Well, will you go with us? asked the big black-bearded Anglo, tapping the shotgun against his leg. It was almost as much a threat as an invitation. You seem to know how to avoid all the white man’s troops parading around this land.

"Sí. I go with you. I go with those who can find game and shoot well. Hazme gordo y feliz. Keep me fat and happy!"

They all laughed. Big Lewis sat down to roll up a cigarro grande.

Chapter 2

M iles Wells knew Lieutenant Colonel Hank Sibley and met him at Fort Worth after the Colonel returned from Richmond. Henry Hopkins Sibley had resigned his commission as a Major in the United States Army in May 1861, accepted a Colonel’s commission in the Confederate Army and now had come back to Texas with an amazing plan. He had talked President Jefferson Davis into an invasion of the Southwest territories from T exas.

Sibley was now a Brigadier General and met with Wells on his way to San Antonio in the summer of 1861. Everyone in Fort Worth was choosing sides. Wells knew officers who resigned to join the CSA and some of those who left Texas to remain with the Union Army. It was exhilarating to see things happen so fast, and Miles Wells felt he was on the verge of great accomplishment and good fortune.

General Sibley’s appreciation for fine liquor was well known. It had probably been the reason why he had not been promoted in the U.S. Army. Miles had brought along a bottle of Kentucky bourbon to the gambling parlor and had let the General win at cards. They moved to a more private table.

So this new Confederate Territory of Arizona includes New Mexico? Wells asked Sibley.

Everything below the Thirty-Fourth Parallel has been declared as such. The general was in an expansive mood. He was a thin, distinguished older man with a graying beard, who wore the gray Confederate Cavalry Officer’s coat with a standing collar, double row of brass buttons and trimmed with yellow piping. If the south can expand our Confederacy all the way to the Pacific, the world will have to recognize our legitimacy as a nation. Sibley looked regal and confident. Why just playing hell with the Yankees out there in the west will thin the Union forces. They will have to sue for peace.

Miles Wells had volunteered to be Sibley’s eyes and ears in Santa Fe. They had agreed that he would go on ahead to that U.S. territorial capital and report back through courier the Union troop strength, resources and movements along the Santa Fe Trail. Henry Sibley had previously been the commander of U.S. forces at Fort Union and knew his new opponent – U.S. Colonel Edward Canby.

You must keep me informed of Colonel Canby’s whereabouts at all times, said the general. Wells lit the cigar he had given the Confederate commander. My boy, consider yourself recruited in the Confederate States of America Secret Service. You are as brave as any soldier. Braver! Because they will hang you in a second if you are captured.

For a moment, Miles Wells regretted his offer of assistance to the cause. He had only considered the resources the gold and silver of the region that might be his for the taking if the Rebels were victorious.

I have the perfect cover, with the stagecoach you have provided, the medicine salesman whispered. There is a young Swedish woman who has family out west and a banker that I will transport. We will go north through Indian Territory, hit the trail in west Kansas and take the Cimarron Cut-off to New Mexico. I will let you know what supplies they are receiving from back east and the troop strength at Fort Larned and Fort Union.

You will report directly to me, said General Sibley, keeping his voice low. It is best you not know of our other operatives in the region. In order to maintain absolute secrecy, in case you are taken prisoner.

Wells reassured himself, by thinking about the rewards instead of the risks. At least he would not be traipsing around in the hot deserts of New Mexico with the Texas Brigade, sleeping on the ground, eating hardtack and getting shot. He would be playing the hero with that fine female immigrant.

Wells had procured one of the stage coach wagons formerly used by the Butterfield Overland Mail Company, which had gone out of business once the war began. He had bought it cheap and planned to sell it once they got to Santa Fe. This stage was called a celerity wagon, set on large leather straps rather than springs in order to ride more smoothly on the rocks and ruts of the Texas plains. It had three passenger seats that folded down to make beds. Miles had promised Miss Erica Larsen that she would ride in fine style to New Mexico.

Miles Wells hated himself for being a great liar, but his line of work required it. He could even lie at knifepoint. Some of the Tennessee prospectors’ money was still in his possession. He would use it for the journey to Santa Fe. Looking at himself in the shaving mirror on the morning of his departure, Miles thought about his sins.

It isn’t a real lie if you make it happen, he reasoned.

If some sort of truth develops in the long run. I may have spared the big goon and his partner more misery down the trail. If taking their money makes them give up their foolish quest.

The salesman and itinerant gambler thought about his own hopes, which included Miss Larsen. He could introduce her to higher society once they were in Santa Fe—if there is such a thing in that western town. And he wanted to see to it that she met up with her brother in Colorado. Eventually maybe— as Mrs. Miles Wells. Miles had indeed fallen in love with the young woman.

Why wouldn’t she accept? he asked himself, drying his face with a towel. He was a presentable looking man in his late twenties, with good prospects. Miles had a real talent for being able to engage anyone in conversation. He had grown up in a military family, having lived in Florida, Memphis, Montgomery, and now Texas. The salesman thought of himself as much more educated than the average southerner and wished he had become a doctor. He had reddish brown hair and a large head. Looking again in the mirror, he thought, I look somewhat like a southern version of Daniel Webster, but much taller.

Erica Larsen was so happy to be leaving Texas. In 1860, the eighteen- year- old Scandinavian woman had come to Forth Worth with her older brother, to live with their aunt and uncle. After a few months, her brother Charles heard about the spectacular gold finds in Colorado and he headed west, leaving Erica with her relatives. She had felt stranded in this hot, humid country—where most of the people were illiterate, backward and cruel. During the secession crisis, Erica’s aunt and uncle decided to move up north to Illinois and offered to take Erica along, however she wanted to go find her brother and make her own way.

When she met this businessman, Miles Wells, Miss Larsen thought he offered her a way out. She had inherited some money, yet as her finances dwindled down this gentleman stalled on keeping his promises. Erica had to wait for weeks, while he made arrangements to insure a safe passage. We have to take a more circuitous route, Mr. Wells explained. To avoid Comanche and Kiowa infested territory.

Erica was used to American men fawning over her. They always had the same ulterior motive when offering assistance. She was young and fair and beautiful, stuck in a rough and radical southern frontier town. Miles Wells impressed her initially as an educated, sincere man who held a certain charm. He had an ironic sense of humor about himself and the events of that spring. Although Miss Larsen did not want to be in debt to any man, she accepted this gentleman’s offers to dine out and attend social gatherings. When Mr. Wells told her he was able to arrange passage to Santa Fe, New Mexico and possibly Denver, the young woman jumped at his offer.

A middle aged couple joined Miss Larsen on the first part of the journey. They were going as far as Fort Smith, Arkansas on what was called the Cherokee Trail. It was late August and the stagecoach followed the former mail route north to the Red River. The fat, red-headed man who drove the coach scared Erica at first because of his long stares, rough looks and cursing. As the trip went on she saw he was really more of a simple, fun loving fellow. His name was Wayne North and he tempered his speech, after Mr. Wells had a talk with him.

After crossing the river, they traveled through the Indian Territory, set apart for the Chickasaw, the Cherokee and what was called the Civilized Tribes. These Native American people had been forced to re-settle in the poor lands of the southern Great Plains, far removed from their homelands. Erica saw a great deal of poverty, drunkenness and despair in the displaced natives.

The trip was dry and dusty and Miss Larsen missed the cool sommer time of her former home in northern Europe. She missed green fields, pine forests and cool lakes and she wondered what in God’s name was she doing here? Even the rivers seemed shrunken and deprived in this country. Everyone and everything was out of place in America. Indians from a green land moved to a dry, red and brown land. Black men and women from the jungles and savannahs of Africa forced to labor under the bondage of white men. Tennesseans in Texas, and Wisconsoners going to Colorado.

Almost everyone Erica saw in the next several weeks was traveling somewhere, Many of them heading to war, or running away from war and still others seeking riches or moving away from failure. America was a restless nation.

The mood of the trip brightened, when they picked up some new passengers near the border of Kansas. Mr. and Mrs. James Henderson were heading west to Denver, where Mr. Henderson represented a banking interest. Erica had grown so bored she started keeping a journal. The Hendersons had a fourteen-year-old daughter with them, who kept asking what Erica was writing.

Oh, a few things about the trip. The things we see. And the people we meet, said the young Swede.

You talk funny, said the girl named Sophie, looking at the leather bound diary. Am I in it?

You are now, my dear! said Miss Larsen.

Where are you from, Honey? asked the banker’s wife, Dorothy Henderson.

My family is from Sweden. And we lived for while in Wisconsin, when we first came to America. My father started to farm there, but he died two years ago. Erica looked out the window sadly. "Och! I miss him. So much! My mother and sister, they live now in St. Louis. Mama married again. So soon, to a German man, a shopkeeper. I do not like him much."

How did you wind up in Texas, of all places? asked Mr. Henderson.

My brother and I did not like my mother marrying again so quickly. Our aunt and uncle lived in Fort Worth. Until they moved back North, when the war started. My brother has gone out west ahead of me. He is in the Colorado land.

Well, my goodness, said Mr. Henderson. Do you know where? Maybe you could go on with us. When we reach the Cimarron Crossing we are going to meet a party of folk from Colorado. Then we will be taking the northern route to Bent’s New Fort.

The banker’s wife reached across and touched Erica’s hand. Please do not take this the wrong way, Miss Larsen, she said. But it might not be wise to travel through this wilderness with two men by yourself. Especially with that rough, fat one. It is rather…unseemly.

My brother, he sent word to me and told me to go to Santa Fe. Or maybe Taos, said Erica. And he would come get me. He says Colorado has more danger, with Indians and what he calls rough customers. He says Santa Fe is a safer place. And when he gets enough money, he wants to buy a ranch or a farm where it is warmer in winter. The young woman smiled. Mr. Wells has been very kind to me. He says he can find work for me. And he will take on more passengers when we take the other way.

Well, we should meet up with a caravan when we reach the main Trail, said the banker. I have been this way before. Some years ago, I came out west with the famous wagon master Francois Aubrey. When we reached New Mexico he said: ‘This is the land where only the brave or the criminal come. Always stay alert. It is a wild country. But there is something in the air in New Mexico, that makes the blood more red, the heart to beat high, and the eyes to look upward.’"

Tell me that again, said Erica, I will put it in my journal.

Five months later, Miss Larsen thought about the long journey that brought her to Santa Fe. She lived now at the hotel called La Fonda, in rooms not far from the mercantile store where she found work. Her brother had not yet come to get her, for the long winter in Colorado had kept him in that territory. Yet Erica Larsen was happy, to be off the hot dusty prairie and she gave thanks to God for being in Santa Fe.

The beautiful young woman was soaking in her hot bath, in her room at the hotel near the Santa Fe plaza. She lifted her leg up out of the water to sponge soap along its graceful curve, the blond hair barely visible. Her long blonde hair was pinned up above her neck. She thought about Mr. Miles Wells. The man seemed successful and was the type of man who got things done. He did bring Erica to Santa Fe and he knew the merchant who gave her a job, but there was something strange about him. Something that could not be fully trusted and she wondered what it was.

She did not know that Wells was watching her at that very moment, through a crack in her apartment door. He held his breath as the lovely maiden sat up to pull the pins out of her long blonde hair. Her fair skin flushed pink from the warm water. Her breasts glowed radiantly, as pearls in the setting sunlight from the back window.

Erica plunged her golden tresses under the water. She had spent too much time thinking about her westward journey and must now hurry. When she finished soaking and rinsing her hair, she stood up. Outside in the hallway, the spying Miles Wells stifled a cry of ecstasy. She is Aphrodite, rising from the sea, he thought.

The young beauty felt fresh mountain air on her wet body. They were right, she thought. I must give thanks to God for being here. My blood runs red-hot. My heart beats strong. Miles Wells will be here soon. Och, I am going to a party!

Chapter 3

T he Bradshaw brothers had come to the Denver saloon to kick ass, get drunk and maybe even grind one or two of the Hurdy Gurdy girls. Lieutenant David Bradshaw was on leave and out of uniform, so he could wreak havoc just like his brother Dirt, fresh from the gold fi elds.

I was put here on earth to raise Holy Hell! shouted Dirt, grinning his killer grin from ear to ear. His long wild hair stuck out from his rumpled hat and his beard of six weeks glistened with beer.

To the Union! said Dave, raising his mug high and looking around for any Confederate sympathizers. David’s Navy Colt was hitched up under his wool coat and Dirt Bradshaw had his Bowie knife ready for any dumb sonovabitch to say something about States’ rights. Then Dirt raised his mug and clinked it against his brother’s.

To the Union of man and woman by God! he toasted.

The laughter eased the tension and soon the orchestra of banjo, fiddle player and the off-key piano filled the hall.

They sound like a cat killing a rabbit. And the cat is being mauled by a hound dog, said Dirt, the older of the two. Wearing a blue flannel shirt instead of his deer hide jacket, Richard Bradshaw was brown-haired and slightly taller than his blond-headed, straight-postured brother. David had neatly trimmed his beard to keep with his military bearing and he now leaned back against the bar, looking towards the stage—while his prospector brother sat hunched over his drink, looking at the reclining nude painting of a woman above the bottles of whiskey and rum. Any minute now the girls should come out.

The Hurdy Gurdy girls sold five-minute dances for fifty cents up to a dollar of gold dust, to any rube lucky enough to have the money. For a few dollars more they would shows their legs above the knees. Some of these painted women even shaved their legs and for someone like Dirt Bradshaw, who was handsome enough and especially gold-dusted enough to buy more time after the show, they would give extra consideration. His brother Dave, being more fastidious about his dress and being a smoother talker, sometimes didn’t even need the money.

Life in Denver was wild and rough-hewn, but it grew more civilized every day. It broke the miners’ hearts when