New Mexico Territory
1887
He rode north at sunset, covering the fifty-odd miles from El Paso to Brice in a night’s ride, then stopping to water his mule and sleep through the heat of the day. After another day’s journey, he reached Tularosa and received his first solid lead, the testimony of a Mescalero woman translated through a priest. “Northeast, on the far side of the mountains. A man killed and a young girl carried off.” The shootout occurred that evening, and Abraham Woolsey, ambushed by a pair of cowboys, had left two men dead in the street. There was no telegraph machine in town, so he composed his report by hand and paid a miner’s son to deliver his missive to the District Court in El Paso, chafing at the delay as he waited for the coroner’s jury to convene. Two days lost, he thought, swearing to himself. He’ll be halfway to Canada by now.
II.
It surprised no one that Martin Colson had been sentenced to hang, though more than a few shook their heads in disbelief at his capture. A heavily muscled giant with a shoulder-length mane of black hair, the outlaw preyed on the cattle ranchers who drove their herds through the Oklahoma Territory and left a trail of outrages from Abilene to Dodge City for the better part of a year. When a cattleman named John Morris offered the princely reward of five thousand dollars for his capture, Martin Colson shifted his operations westward to raid the silver mines of the New Mexico Territory and the vaquero ranches south of the Rio Grande. Indicted for murder under the Judiciary Act of 1789 (a pair of guards had been gunned down during the raid of an arsenal), Martin Colson had attracted the attention of the United States Marshals Service.
Abraham Woolsey had not been present for the raid, but the arrest was anticlimactic – after a long night in a nearby saloon, Colson and three henchmen were found sleeping in a stable and taken into custody without a single gunshot fired. Woolsey had taken inventory of the outlaw’s possessions – one Smith and Wesson Schofield revolver, a book written in a foreign language (Jenseits von Gut und Böse), and a scientific monograph written in the same language and cluttered with graphs and odd symbols. He had escorted the prisoner back to El Paso for trial, and they had conversed at length during the journey.
“Thank you for collecting my papers – I particularly treasure the one by Clausius. ‘Ueber die bewegende Kraft der Wärme.’ Perhaps I can read it again before they hang me.”
“You talk different from most bad men.”
“I was a philosopher and a scientist before I became an outlaw. Speaking of which, to what do I owe the attention of the federal courts?” Woolsey carried a federal statute book in his saddlebag, and he read a few passages aloud as the big man chuckled.
“It sounds like I’m in quite a bit of trouble, but don’t lose sleep over my hanging – I don’t expect to die just yet.”
Martin Colson was not alone in his skeptical view of the courts, for a Texas Ranger named Tom Briley had drawn his pistol during the arrest, arguing that Martin Colson was far too dangerous for captivity and trial. Briley’s act of summary justice was denied only by the intervention of a marshal named Ed Parker, a man of about Woolsey’s age with a new bride and a keen sense of justice. The captive himself had little gratitude for the act of mercy.
“If they had any sense, they would have shot me on the spot. Instead, I find myself alive and well, and I assure you they will rue their decision.”
Martin Colson had been as good as his word, for a fortnight before his trial, he slipped one huge arm through his cell bars and throttled the deputy that delivered his evening meal. With his other hand, he tore the key ring from the deputy’s belt, and Martin Colson was a free man. The next morning, Ed Parker and his young wife were found dead, and Parker, a man so handsome that he could have been a stage actor, had endured the attentions of a sharp knife before his own demise. Tom Briley had discovered the body – “Ed was carved up so bad I didn’t recognize him” – and that afternoon, he had left his Ranger’s badge on the bar of a saloon and vanished. He’s seen enough and headed back to Austin, Woolsey told himself.
Martin Colson’s accomplices were less fortunate than their absconding leader, for they were tried, convicted, and hanged the following week.
III.
The most direct route passed through the Mescalero Reservation, but the journey was a calculated risk – the bloodiest years of the wars were behind them, but bitterness lingered, and it would be easy enough for a man to vanish in the backcountry. The Apache aren’t the only problem, Woolsey thought – the dead cowboys in Tularosa were bounty hunters on the trail of John Morris’s reward, and others were surely close at hand. Five thousand dollars is worth more than one dead marshal. He hired a Jicarilla guide named Samuel and watched the horizon, a Winchester rifle in the crook of one arm, as they studied each draw and side trail. The forest was mostly Douglas Fir and Ponderosa Pine, with a smattering of oak and aspen, and in the distance, the tallest mountains were capped with a dusting of snow. It rained a little in the afternoon, and Woolsey was grateful for the moisture – the mountains were arid for much of the year, and the smallest cooking fire risked engulfing them in a conflagration. And if you don’t finish the job quickly, it will be snowing in another month.
His guide spoke rarely, save to comment on the oddity of a man riding a mule rather than a proper horse. Woolsey explained that a mule was slower but hardier, better suited for the dry country north of San Antonio, less likely to tire in the steep slopes of the mountains. Left unsaid was that his mount served as a form of camouflage, for no outlaw expected his nemesis to arrive on the back of a pack mule. Not all outlaws, he thought, for Martin Colson perceived more than other men and would not hesitate to shoot him on sight.
They crossed a high gap on the third day. Samuel held up a hand, but Woolsey had already seen the smoke, and he reined in the mule.
“You reckon the woods are on fire?”
“No.” Samuel’s hands wandered to the Sharps carbine by his saddle. “A village is burning.”
IV.
The village had consisted of a dozen inhabitants, a handful of families gathered in a collection of wooden structures. Now everyone was dead, their cabins reduced to smoldering ashes and wooden bones.
The clouds opened with a vengeance as they dismounted, and Samuel carefully inspected each corpse as Woolsey searched the ruins of the village. Good luck of a sort, he thought. If they had arrived an hour later, the rain would have obscured the smoke completely. We would have passed by on the main road, never knowing what happened. He made a wide circuit, noting the dirt track at the far end and a single hoofprint, slowly dissolving in the rain, that led into the forest. Satisfied, he returned to the open space, where they arranged the dead into a neat row. Samuel gathered a handful of gray hair to the nape of his neck and drew a long knife.
“Funeral custom,” he said. “When an Apache dies, the family cut their hair in mourning, but there’s no family left for these. What do you make of a man who guns down an entire village?”
The hair was placed carefully in a tree branch, and Woolsey retrieved the statute book from his saddlebag. The book was placed at the feet of the dead, and Woolsey, after a moment’s thought, drew the revolver from his belt and flipped open the loading gate. The makeshift cairn would not survive the next storm, but it was the best that he had – a fleeting monument left for the dead.
“That path.” Woolsey pointed to the dirt track as he twirled the bullet in his fingers. “Where does it lead?”
“To San Patricio. There’s been a mission there since before my grandfather was born.”
Woolsey studied the forest path as he pondered the ruined face of Ed Parker, Tom Briley’s abandoned Ranger’s badge, the dead Apache lined in a neat row, as Martin Colson’s words echoed in his brain. “The world is a deep forest, and most folks never see beyond the trees around their campsite. Look deeper, even once, and you’ll know the truth for the rest of your life – you’ll see the things that move about in the woods.” He mounted the mule, and they rode into the forest, headed toward San Patricio as he scanned the trees for movement in the forest.
The bullet remained behind, carefully placed atop the statute book.
IV.
The sun was low in the sky when they heard the shots, and the mule picked up speed as Woolsey nudged its flanks with his bootheel. Samuel’s horse was faster, but the mule was more sure-footed, and he edged ahead as his guide slowed on the steeper ground. The gunshots reached a brief crescendo, then ceased as they emerged into the valley.
The party was dismounted, and a pair of men worked to calm their skittish horses as another tossed a noose over the limb of a scrawny pine. Two more lay dead in the tall grass, but it was the last man, larger than the others, who attracted Woolsey’s attention. Martin Colson was lying on his back, and though the aimless movement of his hands indicated the presence of life, the grievous nature of his wound suggested that the hanging would be little more than a formality. Woolsey approached at an easy canter, and they gave him a perfunctory glance before returning to their work.
“Hello boys.” Woolsey dismounted and tipped his hat. “Who’s the guest of honor at the necktie party? Our friend there appears to be dying already.”
“Stay out of this Abraham.” The man with the rope spat into the dust. “He killed two of my men, and the reward says dead or alive, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t interfere.”
“I’m aiming to interfere,” Woolsey said. “Tom Briley, I’m placing you under arrest for murder.”
V.
Time acts in strange ways, not wholly comprehensible, in the presence of impending death. Most gunfights are short, brutal affairs, but the prelude to a shootout occurs with agonizing slowness – when one knows that bullets will fly in the next few minutes, the mind has ample opportunity to dread the outcome. Abraham Woolsey faced Tom Briley, his right hand at his gun belt, as Samuel reined his horse at the edge of the group.
“You were right Samuel,” Woolsey said, “What kind of man kills an entire village? A man who isn’t riding alone. The rest of Martin Colson’s gang is dead, and he couldn’t have rounded up the whole lot – some of them would have escaped into the woods. What happened Tom – did you lose your head?”
“Last week.” Tom Briley spoke slowly, his eyes never leaving Woolsey’s face. “We were a half-day into the mountains when Martin Colson gave us the slip, circled back to Tularosa, and murdered two of my men. Our blood was up, and when we saw the village… He had to pass through on his way back.”
“Tularosa.” Woolsey spoke softly as the name sank in. “Martin Colson never came back to Tularosa. You made a mistake.”
“Maybe we did,” Tom said. “But if that’s so, then who killed my men?”
“I did,” Woolsey said, and drew.
VI.
It was over within ten seconds.
Tom Briley reached for his weapon, but Woolsey had the initiative, and he fired one shot into his opponent’s torso and two more into the cowboy at Briley’s side. A third man took aim, and Woolsey might have died at his hand, but Samuel’s rifle boomed, and the man fell, shot through the heart. Woolsey fired again as Tom Briley struggled to raise his pistol, and the wounded man’s head snapped violently backward as the bullet struck his chin. He lay still, blood pooling around the wound in his face, as Woolsey reloaded. I’m sorry, Tom – I always liked you.
Martin Colson was still alive, and he approached with care, checking the outlaw’s big hands for weapons as he circled the body. The bullet had struck his temple at an angle, leaving an empty socket where his right eye had been, and the other eye wandered aimlessly, unaware of the marshal’s approach. Woolsey guessed that fragments of lead and bone had penetrated the outlaw’s brain, and he seemed unlikely to survive for much longer.
“How far to the mission?” He asked Samuel.
“Three, maybe four hours ride. I doubt he’ll live that long.”
So do I, Woolsey thought, but I won’t shoot a dying man. Moving the giant was hard work, but they lifted the fading remnants of Martin Colson across the back of the mule and tied him in place with the hangman’s rope. Woolsey mounted Tom Briley’s horse, and they continued their journey, riding toward the mission as the light faded from the sky.
VII.
To everyone’s surprise, the outlaw survived for two more days. The priests dribbled soup between his lips as Woolsey composed his report to the District Court, and he checked the sickroom every few hours, wondering if Martin Colson would recover sufficiently to speak any final words. Instead, the outlaw remained silent, and when the fever set in, Woolsey knew that it would be only a matter of time. Martin Colson died at midnight and was buried the next morning, and though Woolsey felt a tinge of loss at his passing, it was a foolish notion to seek the counsel of an outlaw. Instead, he went to Samuel.
“You feel responsible for what happened? You couldn’t have known.”
“Maybe not,” Woolsey said. “The world is a deep forest, and it’s hard to see past the campfire.”
They rode away, leaving the outlaw’s grave in its place outside the mission wall.
So, so, sooooooo freaking good! I love Abraham Woolsey. Love. Him. Moooooore!