Bitterroot E-Book

Karlheinz Moll

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 203

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

In 1858, four hard men ride across the border into the New Mexico Territory. Their target is a large ranch where they hope to get rich. After the raid they ride off with a box of ancient coins, leaving the rancher's family dead and the ranch burnt down. Before he dies the rancher sends a letter to his friend, Abraham Lincoln. During the Civil War, some of the stolen coins turn up in the western Territories. President Lincoln nominates former Cavalry Caption Joseph 'Joe' Pernell as U.S. Marshal and requests him to follow the trail of coins and get justice for his dead friend. From Fort Union in New Mexico, the Marshal starts his search which ultimately brings him to the Montana Territory, where he was born and raised. During the journey Joseph Pernell has to use his wits and military experience more than once to solve the mystery of the stolen coins and to bring the raiders to justice.

Leseprobe

Karlheinz Moll

BITTERROOT

Trail of Death

© 2021: Karlheinz Moll

Cover, Illustration: Petru Stendl, Intergrafos

Proofreading: Peter Sherwood

Publisher:

tredition GmbH, Halenreie 42, 22359 Hamburg

ISBN

Paperback

978-3-347-31017-9

Hardcover

978-3-347-31018-6

e-Book

978-3-347-31019-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, electronically shared or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means. Any electronic or mechanical photocopying or recording is not allowed without written permission by the author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, their background and stories herein are the product of the author´s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual real-life persons are purely coincidental and unintended.

Prologue I

April, 1858 – Nogales, New Mexico Territory

He rode ahead of a small group of rugged men. Their horses, exhausted from a long ride and covered in desert dust, matching the equally dusty clothing of the four men, walked in a line along a gravel path. The men had nothing in common except for one thing; the lust for wealth in the form of gold, money or anything else of value. The quartet anticipated that plenty of it would be available at the ranch they were approaching.

The man up front who clearly led the pack was in his early thirties with a shaggy beard over weathered, deeply-tanned skin. He wore a dark-brown poncho over a worn-out shirt and his pants were stuffed into his boots. On his head he had a dark blue woolen army hat from which he had removed the insignia. He was a half-breed, although it was unclear whether one half of his ancestry was of Comanche or Apache descent and nobody had ever dared to ask.

On his belt and in stark contrast to his clothing and general appearance, he carried a mint-condition Bowie knife on one side and what looked like one of those brand new Smith & Wesson 1855 revolvers on the other. His Palomino carried a well-maintained Springfield Rifle. The weapons he carried might have been new but he himself, despite his age, had had his share of fighting and violence and he was ready to apply both in the compound coming into sight which they would reach shortly.

They had crossed the border north of Embarcadero and had entered the United States south of Nogales. It was hard to tell where one country ended and the other began, except there were brothels on the Mexican side and they were nowhere to be found north of the border. It was in one of those immoral establishments that an old town drunk told them about a big American ranch which stretched across ten thousands of acres, starting several miles inside Mexico, passing the outskirts of Nogales and ending more than a hundred miles to the north.

After they had loosened his tongue with a few more glasses of mescal he´d kept on talking about the ranch, its owner and his family and, most importantly, the riches which could be found there. The four men weren´t sure which parts of the man´s story were true and which were simply the fantasies of a drunken old man but they had no specific plans anyway other than to get hold of desperately needed money, in any currency or form. They didn´t need much to convince themselves to get back on their mounts and to head for the border.

Halfway to the ranch they paused and watered their horses at the Patagonia Lake. One of them took the reins and let them fall to the ground, the clear sign for the trained horses to relax but not to go anywhere. The man stayed very close to them anyway as they would all be lost out here without their mounts. He was older with salt and pepper hair and was taller than the leader of the group with a strong build and big hands. This second man wore a buckskin jacket with a flannel shirt underneath and infantry pants. He kept his eyes fixed on the horses and checked that there were enough cartridges in the old Colt Paterson which he´d kept after he had been demobbed two years ago. He wore the holster on the right side buttforward so that he could draw it with his left hand.

While the three quarter horses and the palomino grazed on the fresh green grass alongside the lake, the other three men also checked their guns and agreed on a simple plan of action of how they would play it out once they reached the main building of the ranch.

The main building of the ranch was located between the lake and the lower hills of Madera Canyon, close enough to the reservoir but equally close to higher altitudes to escape the summer heat.

Timing was on their side as the majority of cowboys and ranch hands were spread throughout the property. They were tending to the cattle and the rich fields where various kinds of fruits and vegetables grew alongside the seemingly endless pastures necessary to feed the people and animals living out here in the middle of nowhere. The next town was more than a day´s ride away.

When they arrived and rode through the main gate, only a few people were visible working in the fields. The four men ignored them and the ranch hands kept their heads down pretending to be occupied with their work. They didn´t know why, but they had a bad feeling when the quartet passed by them. Once the four riders had passed, they watched after them and then looked at each other with eyes full of worry but they decided to get back to work hoping their first impression was wrong and these men were just passing through or wanted to meet with their boss.

At the main building the four halted their horses and dismounted as a woman came outside to greet them.

“Buenos Dias. I guess you are looking for my husband?”

“Good day…how did you guess?”

“That was easy…there are not many things here that would warrant a long hard ride…”

“You shouldn´t say that.” said the man with the poncho grinning through his teeth as he got closer pulling his left leg. “Could we have a talk with your husband?” he continued, knowing what the answer would be.

“He´ll be back later in the afternoon. He and some of the hands are out after some strays. Can I offer you something to drink while you wait?”

“We´re sure you can offer us more than just that.” the man with the poncho said in a tone which sent a shudder through her, as it was more a statement than a question.

Her eyes widened as she realized that she was facing a bunch of very bad men. She turned around and tried to rush back into the house but was stopped forcefully before she could reach the door by the man with the poncho. Once he, the left-handed man and one of the other two had entered the house all hell broke loose inside. The painful shrieks, cries and begging were heard by the ranch hands who dropped their gear and started to run towards the house, wanting to help.

The fourth man, the youngest among them, blond, baby faced and with a black patch over his left eye, showered them with a spray of bullets from his two Colt Paterson revolvers, only stopping when they weren´t moving anymore. He quickly removed the empty cartridges and reloaded the revolvers in case any additional staff came running.

The man with the poncho was the first to come outside to check what the shooting was about and he waved the fourth man inside. When he saw the carnage he grinned again in satisfaction.

“Your turn…but hurry…not much left.” he said with a broad grin showing his teeth.

When the assault was over, the four men walked back to their horses as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Maybe for them it really was just another day on their path through the Territory. They packed everything they had robbed from the house into their saddlebags.

The young man fixed his pants, still exhausted from his violent act, as he took out several matches, lit them and threw them inside the house. He waited until the house caught fire before he turned around and got on his horse, catching up with the others.

The last of the men wore military clothing too, including a marine-blue cap atop thinning black hair. He carried the heaviest of the stolen pieces; a wooden, metal-plated casket which he covered with his bedroll and put on the backside of his saddle as his saddlebags were already filled with other souvenirs.

Many people couldn´t look at his face because of the scar running straight across from above the right eye to below the left lip, the result of a saber blow during his tenure in the military, when medical attention had come too late for the wound to heal properly. He had developed a habit of killing anyone who looked into his face for more than a few straight seconds with his saber and the daughter in the ranch house was no different.

As they rode off the ranch property, the house caught fire everywhere and was burning to the ground. The smoke was visible from a long way out. Two cowboys from the ranch who were herding a small herd of cattle to another pasture noticed the smoke from miles away and rode straight back to the main house as fast as their mounts could carry them.

There was nothing they could do but to stare at it in agony. The structure of the ranch was completely gone. In the ashes they found some burnt, hardly identifiable bodies in the rubble but instantly they knew who they were.

Nothing had survived the blaze inside the house when the rancher returned from his trip. He too had seen smoke in the air coming from the direction of the ranch and galloped home in full speed. As he saw the rubble he fell to his knees and wept. Only after a few minutes he notice a movement close to the flower bed. It was one of his ranch hands, more dead than alive.

Later, after the rancher had buried the remains of his wife, his four children and the helpers who had died during the raid, he and his men built a basic house where the big main house had once stood.

It took several weeks for the ranch hand to recover from the gunshot wounds. Luckily, the doctor in Nogales was used to treating this sort of injury because he had spent time in field hospitals during the war with Mexico. When the ranch hand was awake and strong enough to speak again he told the rancher everything he remembered.

One evening the rancher sat down in the new, much smaller house and started to write a letter to his friend in which he wrote down everything his ranch hand had told him.

The letter was addressed to a man in Illinois and started with ´My dear friend Abe´.

Prologue II

March,1862 – Glorieta Pass, New Mexico Territory

Atroop of cavalry men were riding through the rugged defile of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains when they spotted a larger, but obviously disorganized party of Confederates on the other side of Apache Creek.

The Union riders belonged to the 1st Cavalry under the command of Major John M. Chivington, and had been ordered to scout the terrain in search of the enemy. A dispatch rider was sent back to the main body to let Major Chivington know where the enemy soldiers were camped and to request infantry support.

The Captain who led the cavalry troop had already decided to seek an engagement with the Confederates to seize the opportunity of a surprise attack, to take revenge for Valverde. Standing at 6´4 the Captain in his late thirties was taller than his men by far. He had dark-blond hair and was of muscular build. He had been wounded twice already in confrontations before the war and hoped to get through this conflict alive.

The Union cavalry troop rode alongside Apache Creek for more than a mile and crossed the creek at a spot where the water was shallow. The Confederates hadn´t noticed their movements and, if things went well, they could attack them from the rear with the advantage of surprise, the Captain thought.

But like his fellow men, he tried to remain cautious. The memory of the Battle of Valverde, which had happened just a month ago, was still fresh. He remembered well that everything had felt good back then too, at least in the beginning. Colonel Edward Canby had had all the advantages on his side but a few fatal decisions had changed the outcome of the battle. Although the Union regiment had far outnumbered the Confederates by far, the Texans had managed to drive them back to Fort Craig, across the Rio Grande.

This time though, the odds were reversed.

The Captain and his men rode through timbered terrain south of the pass, slowly moving up on the Confederates. Everything was quiet among them. Even the horses seemed to sense the tension and made little noise when they halted. The Captain looked through his binoculars, first straight ahead, to assess the situation at the Confederate camp, then to his right to see whether he could see any of his fellows from the infantry units arriving. There was nobody to see just yet, so he figured that they were on their own. It was time to act now, as they might not remain unnoticed for much longer.

All eyes were on his raised right arm, waiting for the signal. The horses started to breath more heavily, feeling the energy from their riders. When the Captain lowered his arm, the men relieved the pressure on the horses, releasing them into a full canter. The cavalry men charged forward, pouring down the bluffs and rode towards the Confederates´ camp.

When the Greys noticed the attack they got up and ran to their rifles. Many had been lying in the grass or sitting in front of a tent, playing cards when they saw the Union cavalry riders approaching. Whether they knew it or not, they had no chance.

The Blues overran the camp, shooting at everyone they saw. Some had their sabers out to slash the fleeing enemy. Within minutes they had surrounded the camp and pointed their guns at the still confused Confederates, who quickly realized that it would not make sense to keep on fighting, at least not today. A first lieutenant gave the signal for surrender and everybody still alive followed the order without hesitation. One-by-one the men in grey uniforms put their hands into the air. The few who were still able to use their guns dropped them down into the dusty soil.

Less than an hour later, the Captain, his men and the captured Confederates crossed the Apache Creek and marched towards where the Captain expected Union reinforcements, hopefully already sent by Major Chivington.

Unnoticed by the Union cavalry, a few Confederates followed the troop and were close behind as the last horses entered the water to cross the creek. The three men in grey had been antelope hunting when the Union cavalry attacked the camp. When the three men heard shots in the distance, they ran back towards the camp but found it vacated upon their arrival. Dead bodies, mostly their comrades but also some blue coats, lay on the ground unburied.

When the main body of the cavalry troop reached the middle of the creek the three men started firing their Southern Army revolvers and rifles. The Union troop turned their horses around and returned fire. When both parties had emptied their guns the three Confederates lay dead underneath the bushes from which they were firing.

The Unionist had paid a price, losing more than five of their troop and the captive Confederates had also been hit in the crossfire. Once the fighting ended, the troop hastened themselves and their horses to the other side of the creek.

The Captain had signaled a halt to ensure the troop could properly assemble on the other side of the creek when he started trembling in his saddle. He lost his grip on the reins and fell off his horse. The left side of his blue coat was soaked with blood. One of the bullets fired by the three Confederates must have hit him.

An hour later, Major Chivington and his regiment met up with the cavalry troop. The Major had successfully attacked the main Confederate body and, like the Captain with his cavalry troop, led a victorious charge against the enemy. The Confederate cavalry raced their horses away from the battlefield and the Southern infantry men fled into the deep forest, leaving behind everything they had.

The Federals burned a total of 80 Confederate wagons, containing ammunition, food and clothing. Confederate horses and mules were captured and would soon serve in the Union army. 36 men in grey were killed and another 85 were either wounded or taken prisoners.

On the Union side, during the Major´s charge and the Captain´s surprise attack at Apache Creek, 29 Federals had lost their lives.

The Captain was returned to Fort Union, together with the other 63 soldiers wounded that day.

Some of them wished they had died alongside their comrades in the battle because they were well aware of the primitive medical practices, where too often a saw was used to treat a shattered arm or leg. However this time, they were lucky. Colonel Slough had sent out riders and requested doctors from nearby Fort Craig and as far as Fort Fillmore. He wanted to have the best care possible for those who made the glorious victory at Glorieta Pass possible.

After this decisive blow, the Confederate plans to dominate the West alongside the Rocky Mountains came to an immediate halt. The President was delighted to hear that the Union was keeping the upper hand in the western theater of the war, at least for now.

Hours later, Colonel Slough visited the medical tents where the doctors and nurses were taking care of the wounded men. He entered each of the tents and spoke to most of the wounded soldiers, providing comfort and praise. Buckets full of blood were gruesome evidence of the toll it had taken on his men even though they had been victorious. Occasional screams could be heard throughout the camp. The Colonel had seen enough carnage in this war and had started to look ahead. He knew that the doctors would do their best under these circumstances but that many men under his command would not survive their wounds.

Colonel Slough took extra time to talk to the Captain who lay on a large table being prepared for surgery. A bullet would have to be removed from his chest and the doctor expected a long and difficult surgery. When quizzed by the Colonel, the surgeon whispered his answers, so the Captain couldn´t hear, and gave a somber assessment of the situation, saying that it was unlikely that the Captain would survive. The Colonel nodded.

Colonel Slough moved closer to the Captain´s ear and told him that everything would be alright.

“We all have to die sooner or later…but for you, it sure as hell will be later…much later…you will live, you hear me…this is an order Captain.” Colonel Slough said in soft tone.

The man nodded and closed his eyes.

Chapter 1

June, 1864 – Fort Union, New Mexico Territory

It was early June and the heat was almost unbearable already. The early afternoon sun was burning down relentlessly forcing him to stop frequently to share the little water in his canteen with his horse.

He rode on a grassy strip alongside a trail marked across wide stretches of grassland by the thousands of wagons pulled by mules or oxen crossing the plains through the territory, on their way to the gold fields in California or farmland in Oregon.

The wagon wheels of westward travelers, mostly starting from Franklin, Independence or Westport, had cut deeply into the prairie sod of the Santa Fe Trail. From own experience, he knew that the journey to the promised land in the west could take several months of hardship. He figured the promise of a better life must have made it worth the effort for most.

Sometimes, he could hardly believe that less than twenty years ago, 525,000 square miles of land covering the Territory of New Mexico and stretching all the way to California, had belonged to Mexico, and now partially belonged to the Confederate States. The Santa Fe Trail had even existed long before the outbreak of the war with Mexico in 1846 but the Mexican government had little success in maintaining control of this northern part of their country allowing the Comanche and Apache to raid in these parts. They targeted the wagon trains, the scarce settlements and remote homesteads, Joseph had learned during his brief tenure at the military academy, before he was sent into his first battle.

In the far distance the outskirts of Fort Union were visible. Joseph Pernell figured that he would reach the Fort before nightfall. Fort Union had been erected to protect the settlers who passed through the Territory on their move west and to defend them against the various nomadic tribes who inhabited huge areas of the region on both sides of the Rio Grande for hundreds of years.

There were bands of Comanches, who moved in and out of Mexico and a bit further to the east across Oklahoma, with their huge herds of horses, their most valuable assets, differentiating them from most of the tribes roaming the prairie. They had become consummate horsemen after watching Spaniards on horseback a long time ago. During the past hundred years, they had developed their own art of training and riding horses.

Further west were the pueblos of the Navajo settlements and in the southwest there were various Apache tribes who frequently made trouble throughout the west.

The sun set as he rode into the Fort. He let his horse, a rare cross of a well-paced black-and white paint horse and a muscular tall draft horse, take the lead to walk straight to an over-sized barrel of water. He got off the horse and let the reins fall to the ground. While the paint lowered his head and started to take in the much needed water, Joseph Pernell took in what was going on in Fort Union.

He noticed that much had changed in the past two years. The wooden barracks for the enlisted men and small fenced parcels for the horses and mules had been replaced by a sprawling installation of adobe brick buildings standing on stone foundations with a large corral to hold the animals. He counted more than nine main buildings and at least as many smaller ones. The corral was fully stocked with horses and pack mules all of which looked well fed and watered.

The troops on guard were well equipped with the latest army weaponry. From what he could see, the soldiers carried breech-loading Springfield rifles and .45 caliber Colts. He wondered whether the enlisted men were still the same kind of men he had led during his days, in the battle at Glorieta Pass.

Most of the men under his command back then were German and Irish immigrants. Some of them were suspected to be fugitives from justice or were running away from their shrewish wives while others were simply adventurers who liked soldiering. He knew that there was one thing they all had in common; they fought for the cause of the Union the honor of his cavalry regiment. He may run into some of the brave men from back then but he knew that many of them were fighting in the southeast and they were all hoping that the war would be over soon.

He brushed the dust off his brown buckskin jacket and his old white Cavalry hat as he saw a man exiting the tallest building in the Fort.