In the glow of the setting sun the peaks of the mountains were taking on the deep crimson hue that had earned them their Spanish name of Sangre de Christo—Blood of Christ. In the shadowed gorge below lay puddles of a deeper crimson that came, not from fanciful illusion but from the blood of brothers.
It was full dark by the time Sentenza had worked his way down to his horse and nearing midnight by the time he had slipped past the last Union picket post at the mouth of the pass. The sporadic rumble of wagons and strings of flickering lanterns, like regimented fireflies, marked the road to El Paso.
Sentenza mounted and turned his home’s head southward, towards the main Confederate camp at Galisteo. Circumstances would dictate his next move.
Some two hours later he saw the dark bulk of walls against the glow of a rising moon. As he drew closer he saw that the fort was in ruins, shattered by a recent bombardment. He reined in and studied it. Through the broken gates he could see the red glow of flames dancing on an inner wall. The night wind brought the smell of wood smoke and the stench of blood and death. It also brought something else—a soft, eerie keening that rose and fell endlessly, awakening the short hairs on the back of his neck.
Fear was not what he felt—but alertness to danger. The dead, he thought with a thin smile, never panic.
He swung down and started toward the gate, then turned back to get a full bottle of whisky from a saddle bag. Cradling it in his left arm, his right hand dose to his gun, he stepped to the gate and peered in. A small fire burned in the middle of an unroofed room. An iron kettle bubbled above the flames. Around the walls lay scores of fearfully wounded Confederates. The keening sound he had heard was the blended chorus of their agonized complaints.
A sergeant limped in from another room and stopped short at the sight of Sentenza. A bloody bandage circled his head and his left arm dangled limp and useless, the sleeve ripped and stiff with caked blood.
A sardonic glow came into his eyes. He bowed mockingly.
“Welcome, friend. If its a quiet place to spend a holiday you’re looking for you’ve come to the right place. This luxury hotel boasts all the comforts of home, with no hurrying crowds to shove you around and trample on your elegant boots.”
Sentenza uncorked the whisky bottle wordlessly and proffered it. The sergeant snatched it, tilted it to his lips. His throat worked convulsively. He lowered the bottle and blew out a gusty breath of appreciation.
“I haven’t told you all the attractions of this fine retreat, my friend. This hotel is proud of its cooking. It serves only the most healthy and nourishing of foods—corncobs à la Confederacy, supplied unsparingly by our most generous Government. Want to sample the superb treat?”
He gestured mockingly and Sentenza saw that the pale objects simmering in the kettle were indeed plain corn-cobs without a single kernel of corn on them.
“You can see for yourself how well the guests are treated here.”
“I’m hunting for a man named Bill Carson,” Sentenza said. “Ever hear of him?”
“And we’re being hunted by a man named Canby. Ever hear of him?” The sergeant’s laugh was a snarl. “He’s the Yankee colonel whose Colorado Volunteers cut us to pieces today at Glorietta, friend. Now they’re fixing to hunt down the pieces and stomp them to pulp. We’re interested in only one thing here, mister, and that’s saving our worthless hides. And you come asking for one of us. Why, mister, and in whose name? Damned if I can figure what you civilians got in your heads—it sure as hell ain’t good sense.”
Sentenza forced himself to patience.
“This Carson has a black patch in place of an eye and he’s with the Third Cavalry.”
“Ain’t nobody here from the Third.” The sergeant tipped up the bottle, lowered it abruptly. “The Third, you say? Then your man’s riding to his own funeral right now. Our scouts report Canby’s whole Yankee force is on the way from Fort Union to hold Glorietta Pass. General Sibley’s throwing in every man we got to take it. The Third left Galisteo at midnight to lead the fast assault. They’ll be plumb in the middle of a battle that’ll make today’s scrap look like a picket skirmish.”
Sentenza slammed his fist to his palm in frustration.
“But suppose Carson survives. Where would he be afterwards?”
“Either retreating down that hundred and fifty miles of desert hell they call the Jornada del Muerte—the Dead Men’s March—or in Battleville, the Union prison camp. If he’s a friend of yours, you better hope he’s dead or in the desert. Either way he’d be better off than in that hell camp.”
“I’m obliged, Sergeant,” Sentenza said bleakly. “And keep the rest of the whisky. It’s all yours.”
Outside he stood for a long time in bitter thought. At last he swung into the saddle and headed back towards Glorietta Pass.
CHAPTER 8
THE Confederate Invasion of New Mexico was at an end. The private dreams of General Sibley and the high hopes of the Confederacy died together in the holocaust of the second battle for Glorietta Pass.
For long and bloody hours the struggle had see-sawed, the issue in doubt. Then a force of Colorado Volunteers, slipping over the mountains, had struck the unprotected Confederate rear. In a fury of destruction they had burned eighty-five wagonloads of irreplaceable supplies and bayoneted six hundred horses and mules.
Isolated in a barren, hostile land, hands and bellies empty, the invaders had no choice but to begin the long and terrible retreat. It was in no sense a rout. They withdrew from the bloody field in good order and marched southward, Canby’s victorious Colorado Volunteers at their heels.
In the little town of Santa Bella, near the northern rim of the dead Jornada, a hotelkeeper by the name of Pardue stood at the window with his wife and watched the grey-clad columns you. He could barely conceal his glee.
“I got it on good authority that Colonel Canby and his Colorado Volunteers are less than five miles behind them. That’s why they’re marching on the double. They brought their war to us but Canby gave them a bellyful of medicine. They’ve had all the fighting they can stomach for a long time to come.”
“Poor boys,” his wife murmured as an ambulance crowded with wounded edged past the marching columns.
“Poor boys, my rump. They came asking for it and they got it. The sooner those thieving beggars clear out the sooner the Yankees will get here. And the Yankees, in case you’ve forgotten, woman, don’t take everything we have and pay for it in promises or worthless Jeff Davis shinplasters. What Yankees need they pay for in good gold and silver.”
A canvas-topped headquarters wagon rattled into view, passing the columns of marching troops. Pardue snatched open the curtain to point.
“Look, there’s Sibley himself—up there on that wagon. The one with the white beard, that’s the great General Henry H. Sibley himself, getting out from underfoot at last.” He pretended to wave a flag, jeering, “Long live the Confederacy! Long live Jeff Davis! Yeah—yeahyeah—”
His wife grabbed his arm.
“Sam, what are they doing to those men down there ?”
Pardue bent forward to look. “Getting ready to execute them.”
A few sorry-looking soldiers, their hands tied behind their backs, were being shoved into line against an adobe wail The firing squad took its stance a dozen paces away. A sergeant with a bull voice read the list of charges, his bellow coming fitfully above the thud of marching fort and the rumble of wagons and gun carriages.
“Rape... cowardice... desertion under fire... looting of dead or wounded comrades...”
The Pardues whirled as the hotel door burst open with a crash. A man charged in, waving a pistol.