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  Some F Company privates had broken into the sutler’s store and carried away cheese, crackers, canned goods, and six boxes of champagne. Many men stayed drunk day and night, fighting among themselves, feasting on canned fruit and oysters. A whorehouse in a Mexican village five miles from the fort enjoyed a lively trade. Cheyenne Dutch, however, was conspicuously absent from all debauches, as he was out scouting enemy movements.

  Finally, Colonel Slough issued marching orders for the thirteen hundred troops under his command at Fort Union. Ab figured the colonel had finally realized that his regiment would destroy itself with drink if it didn’t see some action.

  A cheer circulated among the companies as they proceeded toward the occupied city of Santa Fe, eighty miles away. They marched south and west on the Santa Fe Trail, setting up a new camp at Bernal Springs, halfway to the captured capital.

  It was on the morning of March 25, 1862, that four hundred troops, including Ab’s company, received orders to cook two day’s rations and be ready to march at a moment’s notice. Word filtered down to Sergeant Holcomb that the force would make an assault on Santa Fe. Ab became almost cheerful and virtually sang orders to his corporals. Major Chivington was going to lead the attack—John M. Chivington, the gun-wielding frontier Methodist preacher, six feet four in his stocking feet, servant of the Lord, and hater of all godless Texans and Indians.

  The order to mount came, and Ab rode anxiously near the head of Chivington’s column. There he traveled all day among the low, pine-studded foothills flanking the old trade route. That night the Coloradoans reached a place called Kozlowski’s Ranch, and camped near the Pecos River. Rumor of six hundred nearby Texans reached Ab through a private of A Company. At dawn a Lieutenant Nelson brought in four captured Confederate pickets, the first enemy troops Ab had seen during the entire campaign.

  It was a sunny New Mexico morning, brisk and beautiful. Ab’s company rode second in the column, in fine position for a charge if the Texans materialized on the road ahead, as expected. About five miles west of Kozlowski’s Ranch, the column passed Pigeon’s Ranch, a stage stop on the Santa Fe Trail consisting of several log buildings and pole corrals. The cattle had been driven into the mountains to keep them out of reach of the Texans.

  Just past Pigeon’s Ranch, the troops reached Glorietta Pass, on the divide between the Pecos and the Rio Grande. From there the road led downhill, through Apache Canyon, which wound seven miles toward Santa Fe, hemmed in by bluffs and mountains on both sides. If the Texans and the Colorado Volunteers met in Apache Canyon, a bloody clash would be unavoidable. Flanking maneuvers would be virtually out of the question. The canyon would funnel both forces together head-on.

  Glorietta Pass struck Ab as a natural gate, a narrow opening between a rocky bluff to the north and a steep hill to the south. As he neared it, he saw Cheyenne Dutch galloping through the pass, toward the column of volunteers. Dutch had a few minutes’ conversation with Major Chivington, then rode shouting along the ranks.

  “Feel your sand, you damned Pikes Peakers! You damned tunnelin’ prospectors! Texans ahead in the canyon! Give ’em hell!”

  A rattle of weaponry commenced. The Volunteers slung canteens, coats, blankets, and knapsacks all along the Santa Fe Trail in preparation for the fight. Ab checked the loads in his Colt and slipped it into his holster. It was the best way, he reminded himself. He would die with Caleb safe in Monument Park, and his soul could proceed to heaven to join Ella. Honor would follow the Holcomb name into posterity.

  “Sergeant Holcomb,” a trembling voice said.

  Ab turned to look at the pale face of a young private.

  “Are you scared?” the private asked.

  “Yes. But so are they. I don’t care if they are Texans, they still scare.”

  “Can I ride alongside you?” the private asked.

  “No. You follow your corporal. Do what he does. Don’t ride with me. I don’t feel lucky today.”

  SIXTEEN

  The order came to advance double quick into the mouth of Apache Canyon. Captain Cook, commander of Ab’s company, ordered his men to ride four abreast into the haunts of the enemy. Cheyenne Dutch galloped his Nez Perce horse forward to join F Company and took his place right beside Ab, who had no objection to taking Dutch with him into the thickest Rebel volley.

  “They’ll git your gold if you don’t stop ’em, you damned ‘fifty-niners!” the old scout yelled at the troops. Then he spoke to Ab: “The spots bulletproof ’em, Holcomb. I’ve a spotted rump myself, but they’ll see nary of it!”

  Ab hated to admit it, but Dutch’s maniacal jabber stirred him for the battle.

  The Pikes Peakers filed through the gate of Glorietta Pass and marched toward a certain clash with the enemy. As they turned a crook in the canyon, they suddenly found themselves looking down the muzzles of a pair of Texas howitzers, just two hundred yards away. Shells sang over the heads of the Volunteers and clipped tree limbs on the bluff behind them. The infantry broke to either side of the canyon, cavalry mounts bolted in every direction.

  “Sergeant,” Captain Cook said to Ab, “hold your men in place.”

  “Yes, sir!” Ab shouted as the shells sang lower overhead. “Close your ranks! Wait for orders!”

  The rest of the companies scattered right and left, but F Company held its position in front of the howitzers, Sergeant Holcomb and Cheyenne Dutch flanking the men on spotted horses, shouting at them to take order by fours.

  Chivington’s infantry scrambled up the hills on either side of the Texas cannoneers and fired down on them. When the fire grew hot enough, the Texans hitched their caissons and retreated down the canyon. F Company followed a mile or more at a canter but did not charge. The Texans pulled the howitzers around a rocky point jutting into the canyon from the left and disappeared.

  “Main Texas body’s around that point,” Dutch shouted to the captain.

  Captain Cook halted his company behind the point and looked over his shoulder. “Wait till the major brings the infantry up,” he said to his lieutenants, “then we’ll charge the bastards.”

  The infantry came at a trot down the canyon and again began climbing the bluffs on either side, preparing to fire down on the main body of Texans around the bend to the left. The horse soldiers of F Company sat on their mounts and trembled in anticipation of the charge. Major Chivington galloped brazenly ahead, around the rocky point, to get a look at the enemy’s position. The bullets of Rebel sharpshooters fell all around him until he regained the protection of F Company’s point. He carried a pistol in each hand, a third under his belt.

  “Captain,” he bellowed, towering above the troops on his huge gray. “Your cavalry will charge those howitzers down the canyon floor. The infantry will give you cover from the bluffs on the flanks. Wait for my signal.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cook said.

  The major charged back across to set his foot soldiers.

  “Dutch, what’s the ground like around the point?” Cook asked.

  Dutch gouged his spotted horse with his spurs and drew rein beside the cavalry leader. “Bad for a charge, captain. Rocky. That damned arroyo is deep up there, angles across the canyon floor. There’s a bridge over it. Only way across. The son of a bitches’ll be usin’ the arroyo for cover.”

  A hush fell across the canyon, then Chivington’s voice echoed as if preaching hellfire from the pulpit. Captain Cook led his men around the point, into a deluge of Texas musket fire.

  Bullets came from both canyon walls and from the arroyo angling across the floor of the canyon. Ab heard the captain curse and looked ahead to see the Texas artillery already retreating over the bridge that crossed the arroyo, three hundred yards ahead.

  Cook led F Company directly toward the bridge. The Pikes Peak infantry was shooting down at the Texans now, absorbing some of the enemy fire that had before rained down only on the cavalry unit.

  A bullet hit Captain Cook in the thigh but failed to unseat him. A private tumbled from his saddle beside
Ab. Another hundred yards down the canyon, Cook’s horse stumbled on a rock and fell with him. Pard made a marvelous leap to avoid the fallen captain, lurching Ab almost out of the saddle, dashing on near the head of the charge. Lieutenant Nelson kept the charge alive and fired his revolver at the surrounding bluffs as he rode.

  All eyes of F Company were on the bridge spanning the arroyo, the only way to cross in pursuit of the Texas howitzers. But as Ab galloped ever nearer the head of the charge, he saw the bridge timbers falling. The Confederates were pulling it down! Gunfire came thick from the arroyo on either side of the crumbling span.

  The lieutenant balked and slowed his charge when he saw the bridge surface buckling, but Ab sped past him. He could see only the enemy now. His fellow volunteers rode behind him. The lieutenant would curse him for robbing the glory—a sergeant—but what was ire to a dead man?

  The arroyo revealed itself as a narrow fissure in the canyon floor, only fifteen feet across but deep enough to protect the Texas riflemen. Ab slapped his stirrups against Pard’s flanks, but he wasn’t sure the gelding would have the wind for the test ahead. Then someone gained his left side.

  He glimpsed the beaver hat just as a musket shot tore through the high crown of it, narrowly missing Dutch’s head. The scout’s spotted horse challenged Pard for the head of the column, and the charge became a race. The hoofbeats of the two bulletproof Nez Perce horses drummed in unison, and their nostrils vied for the wind. Pard lengthened his stride and held the lead by a nose.

  The sunken bridge rushed to meet them, sailed under as they leapt. Eight hooves cut silently through the black smoke over the arroyo. Ab saw the long barrels sweeping over the Texans’s heads as they drew their beads on the leaders of the Colorado charge. A blast went off below him and tore his right foot out of the stirrup. Pard lit on the far rim of the arroyo without so much as a stumble, but Ab left the saddle and slid across the rocks in the middle of Apache Canyon.

  He sat up and saw his own company leaping the arroyo at him. The gamest mounts cleared the cut; one fell short and broke its neck on the brink, pitching its rider into the rocks. Others leaped into the arroyo on the Texans, their riders broadcasting pistol bullets like seed corn. The Texans fled the splintered bridge, retreating to either side of the canyon, where they found the Pikes Peak infantry coming down on them, squalling like Indians, rallied by the charge of F Company. The riders who made the jump across the arroyo continued to chase the Texas cannons toward Santa Fe.

  Ab pulled his Colt from the holster but couldn’t see a Texan to shoot at. He let a few rounds go into the pale blue New Mexican sky. He wanted them to think he had died fighting when they found his body and checked his weapon. Bullets sang near him.

  He looked at his right leg and found a fountain of blood spurting from his knee and pouring across the gravel of the canyon floor. The bullet had struck him in the calf, traveled all the way up and through the bone, and come out under his knee. He lay back on the Santa Fe Trail and looked at the canyon walls rising on either side of him. The pain was mounting, but he would soon bleed to death. It was not such a bad way to die. He hoped no one would shoot him as he lay on the floor of the pass. The leg wound would do, if he just let it bleed.

  The canyon had begun to darken as if filling up with smoke when he heard the hoofbeats. F Company was returning to the battle, having failed to capture the fleeing Texas howitzers. Ab opened his eyes and saw Cheyenne Dutch’s grotesque face looking at him, bullets humming all around. He used his scarf to bind the bleeding knee, then took off his top hat and pointed at a large bullet hole surrounded by three smaller punctures.

  “Look, Holcomb. The bastards are usin’ the old U.S. musket loads. One ounce ball and three buckshot. They go like bees when they fly—a-hummin’. Sting, too.”

  “Go away,” Ab said, trying to raise his revolver.

  Dutch took the Colt from him. “Don’t fret,” he replied, calmly replacing his hat in the midst of musket fire. “Palousey’s a spotted horse god and bulletproof.”

  The pain racked Ab’s wounded leg when Dutch threw him over Pard’s saddle. The scout found a path through the arroyo and led the bleeding sergeant back toward Pigeon’s Ranch, ignoring the lead that pitted the ground in his path.

  * * *

  Ab dreamed of thunder in the darkness. Thunder so powerful that it shook the ground under him. He heard voices, too. Shouting, screaming, none saying anything discernible. It sounded to him like the storm that floated Noah’s ark, and he thought the world was flooding again. Then there was the quiet contrast of moaning, grumbling, coughing. Something vague and violent happened to him then. It sapped his strength and left him in a dark and empty place.

  When he woke, the frightened private from Glorietta Pass was beside him in a cabin.

  “Where is this?” Ab asked. The leg still hurt.

  “Pigeon’s Ranch, sergeant. Hey, Doc! The sergeant is wakin’ up.”

  Ab saw the regimental surgeon looking down at him, haggard, emotionless. The tired eyes checked the bandages around the shattered knee. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I’m alive,” Ab said. “The Texans…”

  “They’re whipped,” the private said. “The day after you and Dutch jumped that bridge we fought ’em for six hours straight. They backed us up and took our hospital. You were their prisoner for two days. But while we were fightin’ here, Major Chivington snuck around behind ’em through the mountains and blew their whole supply train up. They’re licked and runnin’ for Texas now.”

  “You owe your life to Cheyenne Dutch and the Texas surgeons,” the doctor said.

  Ab remembered Dutch’s interference. But the Texans? The Texas surgeons had saved his life? “What do you mean, the Texans?”

  “They took that leg off,” the doctor said. “They could have left it to rot and kill you, but they sawed it off. I don’t guess you’d remember, but they said it took three privates and a one-armed lieutenant to hold you still. You almost lost all the blood you had, but you’ll mend.”

  Ab kicked at his right leg with his left one and felt nothing. He lifted his head and saw his leg ending in a bulb of bloody bandages at the knee. He gasped, almost exhausted by the simple task of lifting his head. “Sons of bitches,” he muttered.

  The surgeon put his hand on Ab’s shoulder. “Try to remember, sergeant. They did it to save your life. Private, get him to take some soup.”

  Ab couldn’t swallow much of the broth. He felt sick with anger and failure. As he slurped occasional spoonfuls of soup, the private told him about the battle of Glorietta Pass.

  “All the infantry seen you and Dutch jump the bridge,” he said. “It got ’em fightin’ somethin’ fierce, sergeant. The next day Dutch kept yellin’, ‘Remember Holcomb’s Charge!’ That’s what kept us scrappin’. That’s what beat the Texans.”

  * * *

  Ab stayed at Pigeon’s Ranch for almost three weeks, acquiring a deeper hatred for the Texans who had sawed off his leg and foiled his suicide. When he learned to walk on one leg with crutches, the surgeon made him get out of bed twice a day for exercise around the ranch.

  After the Union Army chased the Texans south of Albuquerque, the Pigeon Ranch vaqueros began bringing cattle down from the mountains and back to home range. Only Mexican cowboys worked the ranch, and they knew their trade. The wild longhorn cattle required all their skills as riders and ropers.

  One evening, as Ab was sulking under the low porch roof of the cabin that had served as the Union hospital, a pair of vaqueros brought fifty head down from the hills. Two others had a branding iron heating over a fire. The mounted vaqueros began cutting the unbranded yearlings out of the herd of fifty so the branders could apply the hot irons to their hips. The beauty of the work diverted Ab from his hatred of Texans, his agony over his lost limb, his grief over Ella, and his dread over Caleb.

  The vaqueros used rawhide lariats sixty feet or more in length. The wide loops settled over horns and around necks like living sna
res. One vaquero could make a loop crawl under the flanks of a steer and stand on edge for a mere instant, so the animal would step in as if trying on a pair of bloomers. Then the roper would wrap the rawhide around his pommel and, with his partner’s loop pulling on the opposite end of the same steer, stretch the animal out so the branders could tail him down for the burning and earmarking.

  The heel roper swirled the dust with his swinging loop and whistled through his teeth at the dumb beeves. He might just as well have been netting butterflies.

  For the first time in months, Ab thought of his ranch in Monument Park. He saw Matthew and Pete swinging ropes like the vaqueros. He had failed at trying to kill himself. He was not going to try again. The consequences were too horrible. He had to find a reason to live: a regimen of some kind to occupy his mind through the daily tortures. With a few good ropers, he could set his mind to building a ranch for Pete and Matthew to inherit. Caleb, of course, would be a farmer. Ella would never have approved of him riding wild cow ponies.

  When the fifty cattle were sorted, penned, branded, and marked, the Mexican heel roper rode past Ab on the way to the water gourd.

  “Is that your horse with the spots?” the vaquero asked.

  Ab nodded.

  He dipped the gourd into a cask of well water and held it before his mouth. “Guapo, señor. I would like to have some horses like that.”

  “To rope cows?” Ab asked.

  “Yes. And to chase the Tejanos like the Pikes Peakers. I spit on those goddamn Tejanos.” He demonstrated.

  The one-legged sergeant smiled for the first time in over a year.

  SEVENTEEN

  After four months, Buster had even Snake Woman convinced that he and Caleb had turned Indian. In fact, Caleb was becoming pretty sure of it himself. Buster had given him a horse and told him to get used to riding it. He had traded Moon Bull his old single-shot pistol for the horse, a long-tailed, silver grulla mustang with blue eyes and a Texas brand on the shoulder. Caleb knew no better-looking animal among the hundreds of horses grazing around camp.