Excerpt from GLORIETA PASS by P.G. Nagle. 
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= 1 =
     There seems to be no reason to apprehend any immediate disorder in this Territory.
                               --W. W. Loring, Brevet Colonel, U.S. Army

    Silence fell in the rickety shanty of Dooney's tavern as O'Brien prepared for the duel.  He himself saw no point in such drama--if you didn't agree with a fellow, best to settle it quick with your fists--but at the grand age of twenty-nine he was older than most of the lads, and they'd turned to him as referee.  He ought to be flattered, he guessed.  All the miners in Avery had crowded the tavern to watch.  O'Brien ignored them, spoke quietly with the seconds to be sure they had done as he'd told them, and kept an eye on the nervous principals.
    They were miners, too:  Denning, a Georgian, and Peters, from New Jersey.  Best of friends, they had been, until news of the great conflict to the east had at last found its way into Colorado.  "Hurrah for the North" and "Hurrah for the South" had been the first volleys.  Others had joined the dispute, till the clear mountain air rang with bullets and violent words.  Now these two fine young lads, grave determination in their eyes, faced each other across a rough table to settle on behalf of the infant town of Avery the question of Who Was Right.
    The other tables, all three, were pushed back to the walls, with the crates and the stumps that were seats.  Men stood atop them the better to see, blocking the light of the greasy candles set where the wallboards met at odd angles and adding their looming shadows to the already ghoulish atmosphere.  The doctor--an infamous grumbler--arrived at long last.  O'Brien greeted him with a nod and stepped forward.
    "Shaunessy, Morris," he said, summoning two men with heavy six-shooters to stand by the table, "if either man fires before I count three, you're to shoot him down."  He took out a handkerchief--provided by Mr. Dooney himself--and gave a corner of it to each combatant to hold in his left hand.  In the right each held a Colt Navy pistol carefully prepared by the seconds.  The distance between the men, marked by table and handkerchief, was no more than four feet.  It seemed a short distance indeed, but O'Brien had gotten the seconds to agree to it.
    "Make ready," he said, and the men brought up their pistols, leveling them nearly breast to breast.  O'Brien felt an odd pride in them as their eyes met and held, for each must have sensed his own death in the cold tunnel aimed at his heart.
    "One," O'Brien said, as every man in the room held his breath.  "Two.  Three."
    The guns roared together, a great flash, and the duelists fell shrouded in smoke.  The tavern exploded with noise.  Men jumped down from their perches, whooping and cursing.  O'Brien pulled the table aside while the doctor on his knees sought the pulse of the victims.
    "He's alive," the doctor cried, his hand on Peters's wrist.  He moved to Denning.  "They're both alive!"
    The miners exclaimed at the miracle.  O'Brien, leaning against the table, smiled as the doctor tore open the Georgian's shirt to search for his wound.  He found none, no mark on either man save for a red spot on his chest.  The duelists got to their feet, looked at each other in wonder, then turned their eyes to O'Brien.
    "There, now," he said, folding his long arms.  "It's settled the way it began, with nothing but a lot of hot air."
    The spectators burst into laughter, and the faces of the late contenders dawned with the understanding that they'd been betrayed.  The New Jerseyan grabbed his second by the collar.  "P-powder," said the man between gasps of laughter.  "Red said t'use powder only!"
    "Ah, leave him alone, Peters," O'Brien said.  "Didn't you agree to fight by my rules?"
    "O'Brien, you bastard," Denning said, but a grin of relief broke across his face.
    "I'd be a bastard indeed if I let you make Mary a widow over such nonsense," O'Brien said.
    Denning laughed, blushing, and shook hands with Peters.  Both men claimed they'd been knocked down by the force of the powder rather than by fear.  The company, having had their fill of conflict for the moment, heartily agreed and as one turned to Dooney demanding liquor.
    O'Brien helped the mortified doctor to his feet, saying "Don't be embarrassed.  You'll still have your fee."
    The doctor glowered as he picked up his coat and bag.  "My gun has bullets in it," he said, heading for the door.
    O'Brien dismissed him with a shrug and made his way up to the wooden plank where the taverner served the drinks.  Behind it, hidden by a curtain made of flour sacks, was the hole--someone's old false start of a mine--where Dooney concocted his liquors.
    "Clever work, Red," Dooney said, pouring home-made whiskey into a glass.  "This one's on me."
    "Sweet Jesus bless you, Dooney," O'Brien said.  He picked up the glass and, accepting congratulations and back-slappings, retired to a stump in a corner of the tavern.
    He was tired.  The duel had been only a moment's escape from the hard truths of life.  He sat with his back to the wall and nursed his liquor with the careful avarice of one trapped in toil and poverty.  Another long day in the mine had brought nothing; the vein that had promised an end to his struggles had faded like a will-o-the-wisp of a summer's dawn.  It was almost as hopeless as Ireland.
    New York had been better.  There'd been money enough for his efforts, though the work had been low.  But a dockhand, a bricklayer, teamster, or carrier--none of them could hope to rise in the world as he wished to do.  New York thought the Irish scarcely better than Negroes.  The way O'Brien saw it, if he must work like a slave it might as well be all for his own benefit, so when the siren call of gold had reached the city from Colorado, he had answered.  Gold had promised an end forever to poverty.  Gold had charmed him to come west and sink all he had into a claim in the high, blue-white mountains.
    And now here he was, starving at the feet of those beautiful mountains.  Gold he had found, but in dribs and drabs rather than floods, and what he had mined the first summer had been drained away by a long, harsh winter.  Now, in May, snow still lay on the ground in dirty heaps and the air in his mine was bitter cold.  With the last of his savings spent on candles and shot, a shadow of despair had begun to creep over him.
    "Evening, Red.  That was a mighty fine trick."
    O'Brien looked up at a fur-trimmed buckskin coat and the grinning, tanned face above it.   "Joseph Hall, if it isn't the Devil," he said.  "And here I was thinking you'd gone back to Mobile."
    "Not a step past St. Louis," Hall replied.  "Buy you a drink?"
    "Now I'm sure you're not the Devil," O'Brien answered, matching his grin.  "You're a bloody saint, that's what you are."
    Hall laughed, upended a crate for a table, and tossed down his saddlebag on it.  "Stay there, I've got something to show you."
    O'Brien watched him saunter through the crowd to the bar.  On a fine day the previous summer he had nearly shot Hall in the woods, mistaking him for a deer.  The command of foul language Hall had shown on that occasion was enough to earn even the roughest Irishman's respect, and thereafter they'd killed many a buck and not a few bottles of whiskey together.  Then in autumn Hall had decided to become a trade merchant, and disappeared eastward with a crew of ruffians and a wagon train loaded with buffalo hides.  O'Brien had not thought he'd see him again.
    Returning from the bar with two glasses, Hall handed one to O'Brien and pulled a stump up to the table.  He set down his own glass, pulled a newspaper from his coat, and spread it out on the crate.  O'Brien ignored it, his attention reserved for the whiskey, which by its golden color was the genuine spirit, and not the drug-based concoction the taverner usually served.  Hall must have fetched it back from Missouri for Dooney.  O'Brien sipped, and savored the mellow fire on his tongue.
    "Have a look at this," Hall said, pointing to the newspaper.  O'Brien glanced at the meaningless print, anger flaring, and raised flat eyes to stare at Hall.
    "Oh," Hall said.  "Sorry, I forgot."
    O'Brien filled his mouth with whiskey and let it burn all down his throat.  Easy for Hall to forget what he'd taken for granted all his life.  Never mind, never mind.
    "It's about President Lincoln," said Hall.  "He's called for seventy-five thousand volunteers.  I think we ought to sign up."
    "Soldiering's worse than mining," O'Brien said.
    "Three squares a day and a new Enfield rifle?"
    "It's no better than slavery."
    "Well, you're wrong there," Hall said, "but I'll make allowances for your lack of firsthand knowledge.  What matters, Red me lad, is that a soldier can rise from the ranks."
    "In a blue moon," O'Brien said.  "My father was a soldier, and he died a private after twenty years."
    Hall sat back and gazed at him.  O'Brien ignored him and took another slow, savoring sip of whiskey.
    "I am disappointed in you, Red," Hall said.  "I thought you had a sense of adventure."
    "Adventure, is it?"  O'Brien set his glass on the table and held it to the uneven surface with one hand.  "Am I to leave my mine for the first bloody claim jumper who wants it?  Am I to walk five hundred miles to Leavenworth, with Indians trying to shoot me and scalp me, and all for the honor of being killed in somebody else's argument?"
    "It's not just somebody's argument, it's a rebellion!" Hall said.  "Red, this country's going to war, do you know what that means?"
    "Means a lot of poor beggars'll get poorer."
    "It means some men are bound for glory!  Men who can lead others, who can run a good fight and win it, they'll rise like the blazing sun.  Doesn't matter where they started, do you see?"
    O'Brien looked hard at him, trying to decide if he mocked.  Hall liked his jokes, and he knew of O'Brien's dreams.
    "You could be one of them, Red," Hall said.  "You could be a colonel, a general even.  Then all those fine gentlemen would be bowing to you."
    "Generals don't rise from the ranks," O'Brien said, "and how am I fit to become one?  I don't know about armies, or tactics--"
    "You can learn those things." Hall's eyes were aglow.  "And they're not as important as courage.  That's what counts in a war, and you've got it, my boy!"
    O'Brien heard the echo of a siren's call.  He wanted to believe Hall, believe he could rise in this way, above the past, above the contempt of his betters, far above ever having to grub in the dirt for a living.  He saw a ghost of himself, mounted on a mighty war-horse, metal glinting on his shoulders and in his hand, the roar of the battle in his ears.
    "'Tis a pretty dream," O'Brien said slowly, "but that's all it is.  I'm not throwing away what I have to go chase it."
    Hall was silent, staring at O'Brien with eyes gone cold all of a sudden.  Then he reached for his whiskey and downed it in one pull.
    "Suit yourself," he said, setting down the glass with a graceful flick of his wrist.  O'Brien could almost see the lace cuff, the cavalier's sword, the plumed hat that would so suit Hall's brow.   It was at such moments that he felt the great difference between them.  Hall was a gentleman by virtue of life-long training, and O'Brien admired and envied him for it.
    Hall got up, took his saddlebag, and walked away without another word.  It was like him, the sudden withdrawal.  He'd be back, perhaps, cheerful as ever, but heaven knew when.  O'Brien looked down at the newspaper Hall had left behind, touched it with his fingertips.  Had he been too suspicious?  Had good fortune been offered, and he passed it by?  The tavern door banged and O'Brien frowned at the words beneath his hand, resenting them as he resented all good things that he'd hoped for and never received.

     The mail coach had come to a river, and Laura clenched her teeth in anticipation of what was to come.  She had lost count of the rivers and streams they had crossed, though she'd managed to keep track of the days--twenty-three since they'd started down the Santa Fé Trail from Independence--as if the knowledge would help her should she have to find her way back to civilization.
     "Water's high," her uncle said, leaning across his neighbor to peer out of the window.  "Don't worry, my dear.  The river bottom is solid rock here.  No fear of getting stuck again."
     Laura nodded, unable to speak.  A dull ache filled her head.  She had, in the past few days, begun to wonder if she would die, and if that would be easier than enduring the rest of the journey.
     The elegant wooden mantel clock in her lap clanked softly as the coach started down the riverbank.  Laura held it close, lifting it to soften the impact of the bumps.  Sometimes she felt it as if preserving her father's clock was the only reason for her continued existence.  It was all she had left of him, save for a small daguerrotype framed in silver.
     She found old nursery songs running through her mind, tunes she hadn't thought of since her mother had died so many years ago.  Father had comforted her then.  Now she had no one to turn to, except the uncle whom she had never met until he had greeted her train in St. Louis.  She glanced at him, still craning to see out of the window.  Wallace Howland was a man of few graces.  He did not, as Laura had hoped he might, resemble her departed father, having neither the fineness of form nor the refinement of mind that had characterized his elder brother.  Laura did not wish to appear ungrateful, so she strove to conceal her disappointment.
     The coach tilted forward to enter the water, and Laura pressed her heels against floor to keep from sliding off the bench.  The front wheels hit bottom, and with a splash they were into the river and starting across.  Shouts and another splash drifted back over the noise of the coach and the water; the second coach, full of mail and provisions, had followed them into the river.  The guards on the roof over Laura's head whooped as they neared the bank, and the driver snapped his whip at the mules.  The coach bumped, tipped back, leaned crazily toward the water for a heart-stopping moment, then groaned and lurched its way up the bank, to rumble at last to a stop.
     Laura closed her eyes and let out her breath in a sigh.  The shouting began anew, and she didn't need to hear the words to know what the argument was about.  The sergeant in charge of the military escort wanted to halt again to let the animals graze and rest, and the coachmen wanted to press on to the next stage stop.  They were making poor time, but the mules were tired; the same teams had pulled the coaches and the military escort's wagon all the way from Fort Larned.  In the end, a halt was called.
     As the door was pulled open, Laura blinked at the bright sun--so much more intense than in Boston--and drew her black veil over her face.  The other passengers--all men--got out first, leaving Laura her choice of privacy in the coach or a walk in the sunshine.  No words were spoken; by now it was all habit.  In three weeks the travelers had exhausted their small talk and now merely tolerated each other as they tolerated the hardships of travel.
     Laura shaded her eyes with a hand and peered out of the window.  The line of blue mountains in the west seemed no nearer.  The plains were beginning to be broken up by long, flat rock outcrops, rising slowly westward.  The land still seemed empty, with not a green thing to be seen save the few shrubs and trees that clung to the river banks.  Laura leaned in the corner of the bench seat and tried to sleep.  She had learned to snatch what moments of rest she could get, but they were few.  Even when the coach stopped for the night, even when a mattress on a dirt floor in a stage station had been offered (though it was some time since she'd had that luxury), her weary mind would not let her rest, taunting her with the past, haunting her with specters of the future.
     Laura sat up.  Impossible to sleep; she gave up and left the coach to walk the cramps out of her legs.  Her traveling hoops were too narrow for her black dress, and the hem was laden with dust from brushing along the ground.  The veil kept out only some of the dust and sun, but it did shield her from the prying eyes of the soldiers in the escort.  They had climbed out of their wagon and stood stretching, eight pairs of eyes following her, though the men kept a respectful distance.  She glanced at their faces--hard faces--worn and weathered though not old.  They were not like any of the soldiers she had known back in Boston.  She had been to the State Encampment and seen dozens of eager recruits all in shining new uniforms, and had wished she were a man so she could join them.  They were no more like these weary, dusty soldiers than were the old heroes of the Mexican War--friends of her father--who had enlivened their parlor with tales of heroics.  These soldiers did not look like heroes.  They only looked tired.
     The thought of home caused Laura's throat to tighten, and she blinked several times to keep back sudden tears.  She pushed away memories of the funeral, months ago now, though it seemed only yesterday.  She had been left to settle her father's affairs; not so difficult, as she had kept house for him since Mother's death, but hard to bear in her grief.  She had dealt with the letters, the agents, the sale of his meager belongings, the removal of her own few things from Church Street to a modest hotel, and the growing fear of being reduced to labor for her own survival.  Then hope had arrived, in the form of a letter from her Uncle Wallace Howland in Santa Fé, the last of her immediate family, offering to take her in.  She had written her grateful acceptance, said her goodbyes, and undertaken the long journey by train, steamboat, and now stagecoach.  During that journey a war had begun, but Laura had no grief to spare for her tortured country.  She had come to realize how much she had depended on her father, not only as a provider, but as a friend.  Now, surrounded by strangers in a foreign country, Laura paced along the riverbank hugging her father's clock tight to her chest, fearing that if she ceased to move she would crumble altogether.
     Her uncle approached and fell into step beside her.  "Are you are tired, my poor child?" he asked.  "May I take that clock for you?"
     "No, thank you," Laura answered.  "It isn't heavy."
     "You're a good girl," her uncle said, to which Laura could think of no reply.  He was, after all, a stranger, to all intents and purposes.  Laura reminded herself that he had offered her a home, and had gone to great trouble and expense to meet her at Independence and accompany her on the last portion of the journey to Santa Fé.  The thought of that city was her brightest hope.  It would not be like Boston, she knew, but it was a city, with shops and hotels and people.  She must be grateful.
     "Cheer up, my dear," he said.  "We shall reach Fort Union tomorrow, most likely."
     Laura nodded, and made an effort to smile.
     "Have I mentioned to you my young friend who is there?  Lieutenant Owens?  A delightful young fellow," her uncle went on without waiting for an answer.  "Quite the gentleman.  I have told him of you, and he is most anxious to meet you."
     "I shall be happy to make his acquaintance," Laura managed to say.  Her uncle had mentioned Lieutenant Owens at least once every day since they'd left Independence, and she had begun, simply and irrationally, to hate the man.  She began to hum the tune that was foremost in her mind, a lullaby her mother had sung when she was small.
     Hushabye, don't you cry--
     "Care for a little refresher?"
     Laura stopped, staring in astonishment at the flask her uncle proffered.  It was uncapped and she could smell the bitter whiskey.  It made her feel ill.
     "No, thank you," she said, and continued walking.
     "All right, then," Uncle Wallace called after her.  "You can always change your mind."
     When you awake, you shall have cake--
     "Board up," the driver called, words Laura had come to dread.  She turned to face the ordeal once more.
     The coach will be shadier, she told herself, looking for the best of the situation.  As she walked toward it, the armed guard to whom the driver referred as "shotgun" began hitching up the team.  The mules seemed hard, lean, as drained of life by this wasteland as Laura felt.
     --and all the pretty little horses.
     Hoofbeats penetrated Jamie's awareness, making him lose track of the sums he was doing.  He looked up, knowing what he would see through the window over Mr. Webber's desk.  Coming up the Camino Real was a company of cavalry.
     Jamie glanced at his employer, who was helping two ladies choose some calico, and quietly got up from the desk.  He walked to the doorway of the general store to stand and watch the horsemen riding proudly up the street from the Military Plaza. They were lancers, each carrying a long spear with a small red pennant beneath its blade to drink the blood of the enemy.  Each pennant bore a single white star, matching the Lone Star on the guidon carried by one of the horsemen.  The lancers sat proud and erect in their saddles.  They were Germans from town--he recognized some as customers--and they had uniforms, probably made by German wives and sisters determined to send their men to war properly dressed.  Across the corner in Main Plaza a brass band had begun to play.  He could hear the strains of "Dixie" from the doorway.
     "Excuse me, young man," a voice said behind him, and Jamie hastily moved out of the way.  The two ladies stepped past him with their bundle, barely glancing at the martial display.  Such sights had become common in San Antonio this spring.
     Mr. Webber came and leaned against the door frame, running a hand through his greying hair.  "Think you might go for a soldier, Jamie?"
     Jamie felt himself blushing.  "I wouldn't want to leave you in a bind, sir."
     A small smile crept onto Mr. Webber's face.  "Well, do as you think right," he said.
     Jamie watched the horses go by, picking out the ones he knew.  Ranch horses, farm horses, cart horses.  Brushed to within an inch of their lives and glowing under the hot sun, looking finer than they ever had.
     "You rode with Kearny, didn't you, sir?" Jamie asked.
     "I did indeed," Mr. Webber replied.
     "Was it glorious?"
     Mr. Webber gazed at him, a smile twisting up one corner of his mouth.  "To a young soldier everything is glorious," he said, and walked away to put up the bolts of cloth left out on the table.
     Jamie stayed by the door and watched the lancers out of sight, imagining himself among them, dressed in crisp grey with a spear in his hand and Poppa's big gelding, Old Ben, under his saddle.  Old Ben was needed on the ranch, though, and Jamie was small for his age.  Likely he wouldn't be accepted for the cavalry.  Likely he'd stay here, being better suited for clerking than soldiering.  He was nineteen years old, he'd worked in the store since he was sixteen, and it seemed sometimes like he'd be here until he was grey as Mr. Webber.  He sighed and was about to turn back to the desk when he spotted a familiar wagon rolling up the street.
     "Captain Martin!" he yelled, grinning, and stepped out onto the boardwalk waving his arms.
     The driver of the wagon, wearing a dusty frock coat and a wide-brimmed cavalry hat, pulled up his team in front of the store.  "Hey, young Russell!  Came to check on those blankets and beans."
     "Yes, sir!" Jamie said.  "They just arrived this morning."
     "Good.  Let's fill up the wagon and I'll send for the rest."
     Captain Martin jumped down and tossed his hat onto the seat.  His teeth showed white against his sun-cured skin.  Martin was an assistant quartermaster--an A.Q.M--for the army and was constantly prowling San Antonio for supplies.  Jamie liked his easy smile and offhanded kindness, and did his best to find everything the captain requested.  Now he hurried to help Martin load the wagon with sacks of dried beans and bundled wool blankets.
     "Have you ordered those tin plates yet?" Martin asked.
     "Yes, sir!  They should be here in a month," Jamie answered.
     "Then I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to write again.  I need a hundred more than I told you."
     "No trouble, sir.  I ordered five hundred, just in case."
     "Son," Martin said with a grin, "you've got the soul of a quartermaster."
     Jamie grinned back.  "Come on in, I'll write up the bill."
     They went inside, grateful for the cool dimness of the store.  Not yet June, it was already sweltering in southern Texas.  As Jamie neatly wrote out the captain's bill, Mrs. Webber came out of the back with a tray full of glasses and a pitcher.
     "Good afternoon, Captain," she said.  "Would you care for a glass of lemonade?"
     "Don't mind if I do," Martin answered.  "Thank you, ma'am."
     Mr. Webber joined them, shaking hands with Martin.  While the units forming around San Antonio were brand new, many of their officers were old veterans of the U.S. Army who, remembering his honorable service in the past, were among Mr. Webber's best customers.  Captain Martin was one of these, though he was much younger than Mr. Webber, having been only a raw recruit at Monterrey.  In his position as A.Q.M. the captain had increased Webber's profits considerably in recent months.
     "How are the volunteers shaping up?" Mr. Webber asked.
     "Helter-skelter," Martin said.  "Companies forming and disbanding and forming again.  Then they disappear for Richmond."
     "In a hurry to get their share of glory."  Mr. Webber smiled.
     "Well, they're young," Martin said.
     Jamie sipped his lemonade and listened hungrily to every scrap of gossip Martin let fall about the troops headed east.
When the captain rumbled away again in his wagon, Jamie went back to the desk to finish his tallies and daydreams.  At six o'clock he tidied the papers and gave the store a quick sweep while Mr. Webber was locking up, then slipped out the back door.
     Cocoa whickered at him from the corral behind Cutter Blacksmiths next door.  "Hey, girl," he said, stroking her soft, dark-brown nose.  She came up to the fence and reached over to nuzzle his neck, and he laughed at the tickle of her whiskers.  She might not be a war horse, but she was his--the only living creature who was all his own--and he'd loved her since he helped her stand up to reach for her first meal.
     Jamie's stomach growled.  A hundred suppers were cooking in the town, their scents making his mouth water as he hurried to saddle the mare.  He hauled himself onto her back, tightened the strings of his straw hat to keep off the sun, and rode down Soledad to the corner, turning west toward home.
     As he passed the Military Plaza he searched it for signs of more new companies, but saw only the usual food vendors setting up for the evening.  He clicked his tongue, urging Cocoa to trot a little faster past the savory smells of chili stew and fresh bread.  Before long they were out of town, and Cocoa nickered, asking for a gallop.  Jamie gave her her head and they flew over the hills, past fields glittering with water from a spiderweb network of acequias that fed the young crops.  Every year more farms sprang up along the Overland Trail west of town, bringing San Antonio a little closer to Russell's Ranch.
     The sun was starting to sink as Jamie turned down the lane to the broad, white ranch house, nestled under live oaks in the hollow of two hills.  He unsaddled Cocoa and turned her loose in the corral, gave her some water and hay, then headed for the house.  From inside he heard Poppa's voice raised in anger, and a cold feeling settled in his stomach as he ran up the three steps and pulled open the door.
     Poppa stood by the fireplace, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, a sure sign that he was truly angered. Nearby Momma sat in the rocking chair, weeping while sister Emmaline bent over her, murmuring words of comfort.  Daniel, the eldest, stood nearby hugging baby brother Gabe who was just twelve.  Everybody's eyes were on Matthew, the center of all the fuss, standing in the middle of the room in a brand-new Confederate uniform. 
= 2 =
      My Dear Loring:  We are at last under the glorious banner of the Confederate States of America.
                                                             --H. H. Sibley
 

     "I don't care," Matt said.  "I already swore in with the Tom Green Rifles, so I can't back out, and that's that!"
     "Just joined, and that's that!" Poppa scoffed.  "Didn't think about your mother!  Didn't think about brother Dan, who's been wanting for weeks to join the army.  Dan's too well-behaved to go against his parents' wishes, but I suppose that means nothing to you--"
     "Fine, I don't belong in this family!  That's what you're saying, isn't it?  Well, I'm leaving, so all that's fine!"
     Matthew stormed toward the door while Momma wept with new anguish, but he came up short when he saw Jamie blocking the way.  Jamie stood stubbornly between his older brother and the door.  Dan came up beside Matt, speaking words of calm sense in his quiet, steady voice.
     "You don't want to leave like this, Matt.  Please." Dan took his brother's arm and brought him back to the family room.  "Poppa, I don't mind if he goes.  I just thought I'd like to see a little of the world, but I can do that any time.  This may be Matt's only chance to shoot a Yankee."
     Poppa sneered.  "A fine ambition for a young man.  Think it's all a game, don't you?"
     Matt clenched his jaw.  "I'm going to Richmond," he said, "to defend our state in our family's name."
     Poppa's face softened, and suddenly Jamie saw the fear that had been hidden behind his anger.  Everyone sensed the change; Momma's whimpers subsided, and Gabe clung to Emmaline's hand.
     "Very well, I can't stop you," Poppa said, his shoulders sagging.  "I suppose you want me to provide you with a mount."
     "He can have Buffalo," Dan offered.
     "Buffalo's your horse," Poppa said gruffly.
     "I can get another."
     "No."  Poppa turned to Matt and shrugged, which was his usual way of apologizing.  "Take Old Ben," he said.
     Matt's eyes widened, and Jamie bit his lip in sudden envy.
     "Poppa--" Matt began.
     "Go on, before I change my mind."
     Matt flushed red with gratitude.  He went over to kneel by the rocking chair and took Momma's hands in his.  "Don't cry," he said.  "I'll be in camp up at Austin for a while.  Promise I'll write every day."
     Momma caught his face in her hands.  "My boy, my boy," was all she could say.  Matt reached up to hug her, kissed her cheek, then got up and kissed his sister.  He tweaked Gabe's ear and told him to behave, and then turned to face his father.
     "Thank you, Poppa," he said.
     "Go on, then," Poppa said, offering his hand.  Matt shook it gravely, and Dan's, too, then turned toward the door.  He nodded as Jamie stepped aside.
     "Keep safe, Professor," he said, giving Jamie a slap on the back and a wink, and was out the door and down the steps, gone.
     Everyone stood silent for a minute.
     "Supper's getting cold," Emmaline said, breaking the spell.  "Let me help you, Momma."
     "Oh, yes," Momma said in a worried voice, and got up out of her chair, coming back to life with the need to get things done.  They all crowded around the table as if to escape what had happened, but Matt's empty chair was a reminder.  Momma refused to let Daniel move it, and kept glancing over at it all through supper.  No one had much appetite although everyone pronounced the meal first rate.  Finally they got up, each to seek solace in his or her own little evening task.  Jamie, feeling ready to burst, fairly ran out to the corral where he caught Cocoa and Buffalo and brought them in for the night.  He gave them each a share of oats, brushed Cocoa till she gleamed in the lamplight, then went back out for the other two ranch horses, Smokey and Pip.  He met Dan leading them in, and took charge of Smokey, the grey.  By silent consent the brothers tended the horses, then went back to the tack room together and sat on sacks of grain.  Dan took down a bridle that didn't need polishing and set to work on it.  Jamie watched him until he could stand it no longer.
     "How could you do that?" he said.  "How could you let him go, when all you ever wanted was to be a soldier?"
     "Easier to let him go than make him stay," Dan replied.
     "But--"
     "Think a minute, James.  Now Poppa has to admit it's right for us to fight."
     Jamie stared at his brother in wonder.  Daniel wasn't a storm of emotions like Matt, but when he moved it was with inexorable determination.  He would get his way, Jamie realized.  He would go to war.  It was simply a matter of time, and Dan didn't think time of much account.
     "Matty's Poppa's favorite," Dan remarked.  "Poppa never could tell him no.  Now he can't rightly say no to you and me."
     "Somebody's got to mind the ranch," Jamie said.
     "Gabe's been lending a hand for a while.  I'll stay til he's learned the ropes.  Emma can help some, too.  She'd do it."  Dan glanced up at him.  "How about you, Professor?  Gonna sign up?  I know you want to."
     Jamie tried to swallow the lump in his throat.  "Doubt I'd make much of a soldier," he said.
     "There's all kinds of soldiers."
     Jamie thought of how his mother would react to losing a second and then a third son to the army.  Not likely she'd stand for it.  "Wonder where Matty got the uniform," he said glumly.
     "I made it," Emmaline said from the doorway.  Jamie and Dan both looked up.
     "Oh, you did?" Daniel said.
     "Yes.  Mind if I join you?" she said, sitting next to Jamie and leaning forward so as not to bump her head on the saddle tree above.  Emma was tall for a girl, taller than Jamie and almost as tall as Dan.  She had Matt's coloring--darker brown than the rest of the family--and a little of his wildness, too.  "I worked on it some every night, after bedtime," she said.
     "You knew Matt was joining the Rifles?" Jamie asked.
     Emma nodded.  "He could never pass up an adventure.  And you, Dan, I know you want to join the army because you believe in the cause.  What I can't figure out is why Jamie wants to go."  She turned her gaze on Jamie, who looked down at the straw-scattered floor.
     "Guess I just want to show I'm good for more than counting sacks of beans," he said.  It sounded inadequate to his own ears, but Emmaline nodded.
     "You could go, you know," she said.  "Poppa's used to you being gone all week.  Won't make that much difference."
     "If Dan can't go I won't," Jamie replied.  His throat tightened on the words, but he meant them.  Dan had given up a lot through the years for the sake of his younger siblings.
     "Funny how you want what you can't have sometimes," Emma said.  "You both want to go away, and I want to stay."
     Daniel hung the bridle back on its hook.  "Momma still wants you to go to Aunt May?"
     Emmaline nodded.  "She says I won't ever be a lady unless I get some polish.  Like I was a candlestick or something.  But I don't want to go to Houston!"  Her dark eyes flashed as she looked up.
     "Maybe it won't be so bad if you just go for a little while," Jamie suggested.
     "Momma'd find ways to keep me there.  You know how she is.  She just doesn't understand how much I love this ranch."
     "Maybe she thinks you'll find a husband in Houston, like Susan did," Daniel said.
     "Maybe I don't want a husband," retorted Emmaline.
     Jamie's eyebrows rose.  "You want to be an old maid?"
     "I want to stay here.  Either that, or marry a soldier and follow the drum."
     "You, too?" Jamie laughed.  "Why don't we just enlist the whole family?"
     Emmaline laughed.  "Gabe can be the drummer boy."
     "And Poppa can be the General," Jamie said.
     "Nope.  Momma," Dan said.  "She always gets the final say."
     Emmaline wailed, and they all laughed until their sides ached, then hugged each other.
     "Things'll work out," Dan said, standing up.  "Don't worry, Professor.  You'll get your chance."
     Jamie smiled a grim little smile to himself as he followed Dan and Emma back to the house.  He didn't know how long the war would last, but he did know that he would rather become a skeleton behind the counter of Mr. Webber's store than prevent Daniel from getting his greys.

    "Come on, Mac," Owens said in his soft, lazy voice.  "They'll make you a captain."
    Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre watched the men loading Captain Sibley's wagons with supplies from the depot:  rations, ordnance, crates of new rifles marked Repacked Fort Union Depot, 1861, all of it destined for Texas and the Confederacy.
    "Doesn't look like there'd be any room for me," he said with a half-hearted laugh.
    Owens shrugged, and stroked the ends of his sandy moustache with a gloved hand.  "El Paso's a long road away," he said.  "We've got to have supplies for the journey."
    "Ordnance?" McIntyre asked wryly.
    "Apaches, Mac," Owens replied.  "We must be able to defend ourselves."
    "You've already got more than we took on last winter's campaign."
    "You're trying to change the subject," Wheeler said, leaning his shoulders against a wagon crammed with supplies.  "Are you coming with us, or aren't you?"
    "My father'd disown me if I resigned," McIntyre said.  "He's a big one for oaths and all."
    "But you swore that oath in Tennessee," Owens said.  "Doesn't that mean you should defend Tennessee?  Isn't that what your daddy would want?"
    McIntyre sighed.  Owens was good at making things sound reasonable.  He'd led McIntyre into a number of scrapes that way, but this was more serious.  This was a war, which was nothing McIntyre wanted any part of, but it looked like the only choice he would have was which side to fight on.
    "Here comes the stage," Wheeler remarked.  "Last chance for a letter from the U.S. Mail."  McIntyre looked at the cloud of dust up the valley and fell in with the others as they ambled to meet the stage.  Wheeler had declared himself; he was going south with Sibley and Owens and the rest.  Rumor had it only Major Canby's influence had kept his old friend Sibley from marching off the enlisted men as well.  McIntyre could count on one hand the officers who were staying:  Captain Shoemaker, Lieutenant DuBois, Lieutenant McRae.  Himself?
    He wanted to do the honorable thing, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.  Duty, honor, country.  Tennessee had seceded.  He had sworn an oath to serve the United States.  Which had the stronger claim?
    "Alec!" Owens said, and McIntyre glanced up to see Alec McRae coming out of the headquarters building.  The rifleman looked grim as he stepped off the wooden porch and around yet another wagon, this one being loaded with Sibley's office accoutrements.  McRae nodded as they met, his bad eye squinting a bit against the midday sun.
    "Major Canby has called a staff meeting," he said.  "All officers are to report to the commander's office in half an hour."
    Owens's eyebrows went up.  "Major Canby is not the commander of this post," he said.
    "He is for now," McRae answered.  "Sibley's turned in his resignation."
    Something cold moved in  McIntyre's stomach.  He glanced at Owens, who was smiling, eyes hooded, at McRae.
    "How about you, Alec?" Owens said softly.  "You coming with us?  You're a Carolina boy."
    McRae gave him a stony look.  "My duty is to the Union," he said.  His dark eyes fell on McIntyre, who fidgeted.  Alec had no doubts, it seemed, though he knew McRae's family had urged him to resign.  Why was it so easy for Alec, and so hard for himself?  He didn't want to lose McRae's respect.  The gruff rifleman had been a friend to him--to Owens as well--when they'd first arrived in the territory a year before.  He'd initiated them into the delights of the fandango and coached them on surviving the harsh climate and the natives' tempers, and had even managed to teach McIntyre a little Spanish.
    "Half an hour," McRae said after a moment, and turned away before McIntyre could say anything.  McIntyre watched him stride off toward the depot.
    "Half an hour," Owens echoed.  "Think you can make up your mind by then?"
    McIntyre frowned.  Owens had been in his class at West Point, and they'd campaigned together over the winter.  McRae was older, serious-minded but often surprisingly witty and never averse to adventure.  How could he possibly choose?
    A chorus of exclamation distracted him.  Looking up, he saw a pretty girl in black stepping down from the stage coach with a box of some sort in her arms.  Wisps of pale hair blew about her eyebrows, which were darker and strongly drawn.  McIntyre was struck by the sadness in her eyes in the instant before she drew her veil over her face.
    "Now that's the prettiest thing I've seen in months," Wheeler said, grinning.
    "Boys," Owens said softly as a large, round fellow came out of the coach, "I do believe we are about to have a treat."
    "Lieutenant Owens!" the round man cried.  He caught the girl's arm and propelled her toward them.  McIntyre found himself standing straighter.  He couldn't remember the last time a white lady had come to the post.
    "Lieutenant Owens," the man repeated, out of breath as he came up to them.  "This is my niece, Miss Howland."
    Owens bowed with a flourish.  "Very pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said.
    The young lady dipped a curtsey, and McIntyre saw it was a clock, not a box, that she was holding.  A wooden clock, shaped like a pointed arch.
    "Allow me to introduce my friends," Owens said.  "This is Lieutenant Joseph Wheeler, Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre.  Miss Howland, and Mr. Wallace Howland."
    "Yes, yes," Howland said.  "Now, Owens, I thought the three of us could--"
    "I'm afraid my plans have changed, sir," Owens interrupted.  "I'll be leaving shortly."
    "Leaving?"  Howland blinked several times and peered at Sibley's wagon.  "When will you be back?"
    "That depends on Mr. Lincoln, I suppose," Owens said in a lazy drawl.  He turned to the young lady.  "Sorry to disappoint you ma'am."
    "I'm not at all disappointed," she replied.  Her voice was clear and musical, and held a note of challenge.  New England, McIntyre thought.  It reminded him of his days at the Military Academy.  He caught himself squinting to see through her veil, and looked sidelong at Owens.  The Georgian was grinning and seemed about to say something more, but a crash from nearby prevented him.
    All eyes turned toward the back of the wagon, where Sibley's Negro house boy stood frozen over a shattered crate of champagne.  Green glass fragments frothed with the wine that was fast soaking into the dust.  The wagon's driver swore, grabbed his whip from the box, and started toward the hapless slave.
    "No!"
    The force of the cry startled McIntyre; it was followed by a rustle of black skirts.  The driver came to a surprised halt, staring at Miss Howland, who had darted between him and the boy.
    "He didn't mean to drop it," she said in a passionate voice, wholly different from her cool tone a moment before.  She held out one black-gloved hand before her to stave off the whip.
    "Miss Howland," Owens said, stepping toward her, "Come away from that."  His smile had vanished, and his tone was that of an officer to his men.
    "I will not allow this man to be brutalized," Miss Howland said, standing her ground.
    Wheeler chuckled.  McIntyre shot a glare at him to shut him up.  For himself, he thought this righteous young lady was magnificent.
    "It is not your concern, ma'am," Owens said, "and you might be hurt.  That glass could cut right through your boot."
    "I will step away if you will promise this man won't be beaten," Miss Howland said, gesturing to black Jimmy, who was as astonished as the rest of them.
    "You know how much that champagne cost?" the driver shouted.
    "Beating him will not bring it back!" she answered.
    "Well, Bill," came an amused voice from the steps, "you've got to admit that's true."
    McIntyre looked up at Captain Sibley, who stood on the porch admiring Miss Howland with a twinkling eye.  He still wore the Federal uniform that set off his auburn side whiskers so well.  His mustache drooped around the corners of a smile as he stepped down to the ground.  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said, approaching Miss Howland.
    "Miss Howland," Owens said, "allow me to introduce you to Captain Henry Sibley."  He caught McIntyre's eye and gave a little shrug of resignation.
    "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Howland," Sibley said with a bow even grander than Owens's.  "Are you related to Lieutenant George Howland?  Mounted Rifles?"
    "I don't believe so," Miss Howland said.  "I was not aware of such a person."
    "Well in any case, welcome to New Mexico," Sibley said.  "How may I be of service to you?"
    "You may tell that man to put away his whip," Miss Howland answered, her voice resuming its prior dignity.
    Sibley's eyes flicked to the driver, and his smile widened.  "You heard the lady, Bill.  Go on about your business.  You, too, Jim."
    The slave, as if released from a magic spell, hurried into the building while the driver returned to the wagon box, muttering to himself.  Sibley stooped and extracted an unbroken bottle from the mess at his feet, wiped it off with his pocket handkerchief, and offered it to Miss Howland.
    "I hope you will accept this in place of the hospitality I would like to offer you," he said.  "Unfortunately, I'm on the point of departure."
    "Thank you, sir," Miss Howland replied, a trace of frost in her voice, "but I would not further depreciate your stores."
    "Very generous of you, Captain," the uncle said, stepping in to take the bottle.  "Wallace Howland," he added, shaking Sibley's hand.  "Dined with you in Las Vegas last fall."
    "I remember," Sibley said.  "You bought the faro bank, and held it till three in the morning."
    Howland laughed, a deep booming sound.
    "This your daughter?" Sibley asked.
    "My niece," Howland said.  "My dear brother's only child, rest his soul."
    Sibley's brows rose.  "My heartfelt condolences, ma'am."
    "Thank you," Miss Howland murmured, so softly McIntyre barely heard it.  Footsteps sounded on the porch, and he glanced up to see Major Canby had come out of the Commander's office.
    "She has come to live with me in Santa Fé," Howland said.  "Perhaps we will see you there, Captain Sibley?"
    "It's Major Sibley, now," Canby said, joining them, his clean-shaven face a stark contrast to Sibley's flamboyance.
    "Until Washington gets my letter," Sibley said.  "I appreciate the gesture, though.  It'll get me a colonelcy in the Confederate army."
    "Much good may it do you," Canby said quietly.
    Sibley laughed.  "You sound jealous, Richard.  You can still join us, you know.  The star of the South is rising," he said, his voice suddenly vibrant.
    All fell still.  McIntyre glanced at Miss Howland, wondering what thoughts her veil concealed.  Looking back at Canby, he saw the major's eyes narrow as he silently shook his head.
    "Well, I'm sorry, then," Sibley said, offering Canby his hand.  "I shall miss the good times we had."
    "So will I," Canby said quietly.
    "Give Louisa my best regards."
    Canby nodded, and Sibley slapped his shoulder before turning back to the Howlands.  "Pleasure meeting you ma'am.  Mr. Howland."  Touching his hat, he stepped past them to the front of the wagon.  "Finish up, Bill, and let's get moving."
    Sibley strode toward the depot with Wheeler on his heels.  Owens started after them, then paused.
    "Coming, Mac?"
    McIntyre glanced at Miss Howland, and at Canby behind her.  "No," he said on impulse.
    Owens stared hard at him for a second, then turned and walked away without a word.  McIntyre blinked, frowning at the sun that had suddenly started to hurt his eyes.  He turned his back on it, and found Major Canby's cool gaze on him.
    "Miss Howland, this is Major Canby," he said to cover his discomfort.  "And Mr. Howland."
    "How do you do?" Canby said.  "I must beg you to excuse me, I have great deal to do.  I'll see you at the staff meeting, Lieutenant?"
    "Yes, sir," McIntyre replied.  He'd decided, it seemed.  Didn't make him feel any better.
    Canby gave a short, approving nod and returned to headquarters, passing Jimmy in the door.  The slave carried a second crate of wine, which he carefully placed in the wagon under the sharp eyes of the driver.  Shouts from the teamsters by the depot heralded the departure of the wagon train.  McIntyre glanced back at the long line of wagons, trying to spot Owens.
    "Mr. McIntyre?"
    The sound of his name in that New England voice sent a chill down his back.  Turning, he saw Miss Howland beside him, close enough he could almost see her eyes through the veil.   He was suddenly glad he had chosen to stay.
    "Is that man indeed a slave?" she asked.
    "Yes," McIntyre said, watching Jimmy climb into the wagon among all the furniture.   "He belongs to Captain Sibley."
    "I had thought the territories were free of slavery," Miss Howland stated.
    "It's kind of up in the air," McIntyre said.
    The driver's whip cracked, making Miss Howland jump, and the wagon rumbled forward to join the train.
    "Come, my dear," her uncle said.  "The post sutler will sell us some refreshment."
    McIntyre watched Miss Howland walk away with her uncle.  The wagon train was moving, blocking their path to the sutler's, and they stopped to watch it pass.
    "So you stayed."  McRae's voice came from behind him.
    McIntyre turned to see McRae coming up to join him, and gave him the best smile he could muster.  Together they watched the train's departure.  McIntyre spotted Owens riding in the foremost wagon with Wheeler and a handful of others.  Sibley was among them, he saw, and as their wagon passed the headquarters building Sibley stood up and turned to them.
    "Boys," he called, "if you only knew it, I am the worst enemy you have!"
    McIntyre glanced at McRae, whose mouth curled in a grimacing smile.   "You're your own worst enemy, Henry," McRae said softly.  He turned and headed up the steps to the commander's office.
    McIntyre stayed to watch the train a little longer, though the dust raised by the wagon wheels was beginning to block it from view.  Still, he thought he saw a gloved hand raised in farewell.  He waved back, then hurried into headquarters, hoping Canby would give them too much to do so he wouldn't have time to think.
= 3 =
      Colonel Loring, of the Regiment of Mounted Riflemen, in anticipation of the acceptance of his resignation, left this place today, after placing me in the general charge of the affairs of the department.
                                                    --Major Ed. R. S. Canby
 
 
     "Look, my dear, that's an old Indian city."
     "Pecos," said Mr. Krohn, a fellow passenger.
     "Like the river?"  Laura leaned forward to peer out of the window and glimpsed a heap of crumbling mud walls and the remains of a Spanish church.  The sun was behind it, sinking toward the stair-step mountains and hurting her tired eyes.  The trail had left the river and begun to rise as it turned north and skirted the mountains beyond which lay Santa Fé.  Now that they were close to the journey's end, Laura was able to take more interest in the country they passed through.
     "Just a mile or two to the next stop," her uncle said.  "The supper is worth waiting for, I assure you."
     Laura sat back, making an effort to smile.  Her uncle's assurances, she had learned, were generally exaggerated.  As they had stopped at a ranch not an hour before, she made up her mind not to expect less than ten miles in the next leg, which would bring them within a day's travel of Santa Fé.  Rubbing her thumb along the peak of the clock in her lap, she stared out of the window at the cedar-dotted hills.  Though her middle seat had a poor view, it was better than staring at her fellow passengers.
     Her mind returned to Fort Union, as it often had in the last few days.  Her uncle had expressed his disappointment in her behavior there; she had failed to captivate Lieutenant Owens, and she had interfered with Captain Sibley's "property" in a most unseemly fashion.  Laura had swallowed her indignation, but could not bring herself to apologize for a simple act of humanity.  It troubled her to find herself in a country where slavery was tolerated, and it troubled her deeply to know that her uncle acquiesced in that tolerance.
     A cool breeze reclaimed her attention.  The trail had swung west again, passing between rising hills.  Pine trees began to appear, dwarfing the cedars and casting long shadows in the slanting sunshine.  The stage slowed, mules laboring uphill as they entered a little canyon.  Ridges of rough, grey rock closed in on both sides.  The sun was hidden by the cliffs, and the air in this valley was much cooler.  Laura shivered at the sudden drop in temperature.  She was beginning to wish for her shawl when the trail rounded an outcrop and sunlight spilled through the window once more, dappled by a sea of fluttering green leaves.
     "Oh!" Laura cried involuntarily.  The valley had opened into a little bowl, surrounded by pine-covered hills and filled with rustling cottonwoods.  The trail bisected the grove, and in the middle a ranch house appeared, its mud walls glowing golden in the late sunshine, a rocky ridge overlooking it to the north with a blue, domed mountain beyond.  It was the loveliest place Laura had yet seen in New Mexico, and her spirits rose as the stage slowed to a halt before the house.
     "Here we are," Uncle Wallace said.  "Not so bad, was it?"
     "No," Laura replied, and this time her smile was heartfelt.  As she stepped down from the coach she inhaled cool air tinged with the smells of wood smoke and forest earth.  Rock walls marked a large corral west of the ranch house.  A covered portal shaded the whole front of the house, which had three doors facing onto the trail.  From one of these emerged a tall, lanky man in rancher's clothes, waving long arms in welcome and saying "Bonjour, bonjour!  Welcome to Glorieta!"
     "Glorieta?" Laura said.  "What a pretty name."
     The Frenchman's face crinkled in a smile.  "And you are a pretty lady, madame.  May I carry that for you?"
     Laura sensed kindness, as though this gentleman drew great joy as well as a living from serving his guests.  His hair and mustache were black, just beginning to be peppered with grey, and his eyes had a merry twinkle.  She liked him, she decided, and allowed him to relieve her of her clock.
     "Thank you, Monsieur--?"
     "Alexandre Vallé," he said, bowing with a flourish.  "But I am also called 'Pigeon'."
     "Thank you, Monsieur Vallé."  Laura gazed around the valley again, drinking in its beauty.  It was a peaceful place.  The wind in the cottonwoods reminded her of the ocean, and instead of making her homesick, it made her feel at home.
     Uncle Wallace trudged up with his portmanteau and Laura's traveling case.  "Hallo, Pigeon," he said.  "When's the next fandango?"
     "You just missed one."  The Frenchman grinned.  "For three days we were dancing."
     "You'd outdance the devil himself," her uncle said.  "I see you met my niece."
     "Ah!" Vallé exclaimed, turning to Laura.  "So this is Miss Howland?  You did not tell me she is so beautiful!  She will break all the hearts, my friend!"
     Laura gave a cough of surprised laughter and tried to frown at Vallé, but he was smiling and she found herself smiling back.  She had not been teased since her father died, she realized.  She glanced down at her dusty half-boots, suddenly lonely.
     "Supper?" Uncle Wallace asked.
     "It will be ready in half an hour," Vallé said.  "Meanwhile, I will show mademoiselle her room, yes?"  He waved them to the center door, through which the other passengers had already gone.
     The house was Mexican in style, like every other ranch they had stopped at since Fort Union:  thick walls made of the mud bricks called adobes, dirt floor covered with black and white checkered rugs, and wool mattresses rolled against the walls.  Two rough tables and several chairs formed the rest of the furniture.  One of the curious little beehive fireplaces common to the country was tucked into a corner, and a larger conventional hearth crackled with bright fire over which a pot of something savory was simmering.  A diminutive Mexican woman with a long, glossy black braid down her back looked up from stirring the pot as they entered, and smiled when her eyes fell on Laura.  Very bright, those eyes, giving her an elfish look.
     "Carmen," Vallé called to her, and paused to exchange a few words in Spanish.  The stage passengers were setting their bags on the mattresses, claiming their beds for the night.  Uncle Wallace hurried to secure one while Vallé led Laura to a door in the lefthand wall.
     The second room was as large as the first, though it had but one table and one corner fireplace.  Luxurious accommodations for a solitary female.  "Shall I light the fire, mademoiselle?" Vallé asked as he set Laura's clock in a little niche in the wall.
     "Yes, thank you," Laura answered.  Vallé knelt by the beehive fireplace, and Laura went to the front wall, where a door and a window faced the trail.  There was glass in the window--attesting to Monsieur Vallé's prosperity--and the curtain tacked over it was clean, if a little faded.  As Laura looked out, the mail coaches rumbled past on their way into the corral for the night.
     Uncle Wallace came in with her traveling case, which he set near the fire.  "Well, now," he said.  "Quite cozy, aren't we?"
     "Yes," Laura said.  "This is a beautiful valley."
     "Knew you'd get to liking New Mexico.  It grows on you."
     Laura glanced at Vallé and refrained from expressing her opinion of New Mexico in general:  hot, dry, dusty, filled with starving Mexicans and American adventurers.  Instead she opened her case and took out her black shawl.  "I think I'll walk while there's still light," she said.
     "Bien," Vallé said, dusting off his knees as he rose from the fireplace.  "When you hear the bell, supper will be served."
     Laura went out into the crisp evening, crossed the dusty ruts of the Santa Fé Trail, and found a stone well to the south of it, with a stand of young corn nearby.  Beyond the well was a small pond, fed by a stream that trickled down the valley from the west.  Spring had lingered in the shelter of the mountains, and purple and white wildflowers flourished at the water's edge.  A plink of water told her of fish, and she glanced up in time to see circles widening on the pond's surface.
     This place I could live in, she thought as she strolled into the woods that were something like the green she had known at home.  She had always loved the outdoors, both wild forests and civilized gardens.  She and her father had taken long, frequent walks, looking for herbs to make into medicines, discussing philosophy and politics, pondering how to improve his career as a lecturer on health and homeopathy, making grandiose plans that had never been put into motion, and now never would be.
     Laura's throat tightened, and she came to a halt in the middle of a little copse of trees, pulling her shawl closer around herself.  She had tried so hard to help her father's success.  They had struggled.  They had made sacrifices, stood by their beliefs, and then he'd been drowned in a fishing accident--of all useless ways to die--just when he'd seemed on the verge of success.  Why? she asked silently, as she'd done a thousand times in her prayers.  God had a reason for everything he did, but this she had not yet been able to understand, and she was tired, so tired, of the weariness of grieving.  She tilted back her head and closed her eyes, inhaling the smell of forest earth, hoping still for an answer.
     "La glorieta," a soft voice said.  Laura started, and looked up to see Monsieur Vallé at the edge of the glade.
     "Forgive me," he said.  "I did not mean to frighten you."
     "You followed me?" Laura accused, anger replacing the momentary fear.  Her heart was still racing from surprise.
     "I am sorry," Vallé said.  "When I saw you go into the woods, I came to be sure you were safe.  Many people travel on this road, mademoiselle," he said, gesturing toward the Trail.
     "Oh," Laura said.  "I see.  It's kind of you to be concerned."
     "Also, it is almost time for supper," the Frenchman added.  "Shall I walk back with you, or do you wish to be alone?"
     "Let's go back," Laura said with a glance at the hills behind which the sun had dipped.  Twilight was falling in the forest, and she fell into step with Vallé, who kept a respectful distance as they walked up the gentle slope to the trail.  "What did you say?"  she asked.  "Glorieta?"
     "Yes," Vallé said.  "That is what you were like, standing in the middle of those trees.  Like a glorieta.  The Spanish give that name to any place where something special is surrounded by trees.  A fountain, a shrine, a statue--"
     "Are you saying I looked like a statue?" Laura asked in mock indignation.
     "It was not how you looked," he said.  "To me it is the feeling that makes a glorieta.  There is a special feeling . . . eh, bah.  I am talking nonsense.  Please pay no attention."
     Laura looked at his sun-weathered face, wanting him to continue.  Shyness prevented her from asking; she did not know him and didn't wish to be rudely inquisitive.  Yet she had the feeling that what he had been about to say was important.
     The clear sound of a bell broke the silence.  They reached the house as Carmen was hanging a lantern from the portal's roof.  The coachmen started coming in from the corral, and with a last glance at the whispering cottonwoods, Laura followed her hosts in to supper.

     "It's grown," O'Brien said as he and Hall rode into Denver City.  A jumble of tents and shacks clustered the town's outskirts on both sides of the South Platte and eastward along Cherry Creek.
     "Yes, there's always another fool trying to find his fortune out West," said Hall.
     O'Brien shot Hall a look, then glanced back at the cold Rocky Mountains, the wind rolling down from their rugged peaks out to the eastern plains.  He was not such a fool as to let Joseph Hall annoy him.  Hall was still in a prickly mood, though he'd come back to Avery much sooner than O'Brien had expected.
     "So, what do you think of him?" Hall asked.
     "This bag of bones?" O'Brien said, patting the thin withers of the horse Hall had loaned him.  It was the first horse he'd had a leg over since New York, and the worst excuse for a horse he'd seen since leaving Ireland.  He hadn't mentioned it to Hall, because Hall could turn such things against one, but in fact he'd grown up around horses in Racecourse, and loved them, and hated to see them broke down like this poor old nag.  He shook his head and said, "I think he has maybe a year or two left in him."
     "Well, he's in better shape than when I bought him.  Let you have him for fifty dollars."
     O'Brien laughed.
     "I could get twice that," Hall said.
     "And you paid half as much, I'll be bound," O'Brien answered.  "No, save your breath.  I've got no fifty dollars to give you.  Dooney only gave me ten for a week's diggings, and I need every penny for clothes.  I've a hole in one boot that's as big as a dollar."
     "Well," Hall said, "I just happen to know where you could get that fifty dollars, and more besides.  Did you hear our new governor's planning to call for volunteers?"
     "That again.  Aye, I heard."
     "Hear he's going to make any man a captain who brings in twenty-five men?"
     O'Brien had not heard that.  "I see," he said slowly as they headed down Larimer Street.  "And when am I to congratulate you, Captain Hall?"
     Hall laughed.  "Oh, not me.  I'm too lazy to be a leader of men.  A captain's got to be able to knock heads together; I'd just want to shoot 'em and be done with it.  I was thinking of you, my friend."
     "Me?" O'Brien laughed.  "A captain in the army?"
     "Why not?"
     "Because they don't want my sort for officers, even if I had the money.  They want the fine gentlemen for that."
     "You weren't listening, Red.  You don't buy a commission here the way they do in Europe.  All you need is twenty-five men, and you can get them in Avery."
     "You've got it all planned, have you?" O'Brien said.
     "Yep," Hall said, smiling as he leaned back in his saddle.  "It should be a cavalry company, I reckon.  Twenty-five brave fellows, galloping into Denver.  What do you think?"
     A shadowy army of warriors appeared to O'Brien, descendants of King Brian Boru, bright swords aglitter and proud horses snorting.  It pulled at his heart, that vision, and whispered of honors to be won.  He drew in a deep breath, and just as he did so the nag stumbled--a bad omen.
     "I think," he said after he'd steadied the horse, "that you're hoping to sell me your breakdowns for this fairy-tale company.  Best look elsewhere."
     "Now, Red--"
     "Joe Hall!"  The voice came from down the street.  O'Brien glanced up.
     "Hey!" Hall shouted, breaking into a grin.  He waved to the man who had hailed him--a tall fellow with a wide, friendly face and mutton-chop whiskers--and kicked his horse into a trot.  O'Brien followed, reining in beside Hall, who had dismounted and was pumping the tall fellow's hand.
     "Good to see you, Logan," Hall said.
     "Likewise," Logan replied.  "Come have a drink--I'm meeting Hambleton at the Criterion."
     "How'd you get him to go in there?" Hall asked.  "I thought he didn't care for Southerners."
     Logan grinned.  "No, but he knows Charley Harrison's got the best whiskey in town."
     O'Brien slid from his saddle, and Hall glanced his way.  "Sam Logan, I'd like you to meet my very good friend Red O'Brien.  He's got a claim up in Avery."
     "Oh?" Logan said, shaking hands.  "And how's mining in Avery?"
     "Cold and dry as a witch's teat," O'Brien answered.
     Logan laughed and said, "Come on along, then.  You can warm up with a glass of whiskey."
     "I'll catch up," O'Brien said, nodding toward Wallingford & Murphy's Mercantile nearby.  "Need to buy a few things."
     "Don't be long," said Hall, throwing an arm around Logan's shoulders.  As they went on down the street, O'Brien tied his borrowed nag to the rail outside the merchant's and went in.
     "Good morning, Mr. Murphy," he said, taking a grey woolen shirt from a stack near the door.
     "Morning," Murphy answered from behind the counter.  He seemed preoccupied in unwrapping some cloth.  O'Brien chose two pairs of trousers, some socks and long underwear, and carried his purchases up to the counter, where Murphy added them up.
     "Six dollars and thirty cents."
     "How much for the boots?" O'Brien asked, pointing to a shelf behind the counter.
     "Seven dollars a pair."
     "Could I pay you on credit?" O'Brien asked.
     Murphy shook his head.  "Sorry.  Cash only."
     "Then where can I find a good cobbler?"
     "Independence," Murphy said with a laugh.
     Annoyed, O'Brien paid for the clothes and went down the street to the shop of a saddler, who agreed to add some leather to his boot soles for fifty cents.  O'Brien left the boots and the horse with the saddler and walked barefoot back toward the Criterion.  Before he had reached it a shouting arose up ahead.  He passed by the saloon to see what was the matter.
     A crowd was collecting outside Wallingford & Murphy's.  On its roof was a flag he'd not seen before; one wide, white stripe between two red ones, with a circle of stars on the blue corner.  Murphy stood before his door exchanging hard words with the crowd.  O'Brien moved closer, and caught the words "damned secessionist."
     "That again," he muttered.
     "You got something to say about it?"
     O'Brien looked up to find a great buffalo of a fellow glaring at him.  "Not a thing," he said.  "What flag is it, then?"
     "It's a damned Confederate flag, that's what!"
     "They call it the Stars and Bars," Hall's voice drawled from behind them.  O'Brien turned.  Logan was there, too, frowning at the shopkeeper's new flag.  "Take it easy, Hambleton," Hall added.  "O'Brien's all right."
     The crowd was getting bigger, and the shouting louder.  A man pushed at Murphy and he yelled back in anger.
     "Someone's going to get hurt," Logan said, and began to push forward.  Hall and Hambleton went with him, and O'Brien followed, mindful of heels near his feet.  Logan reached the store and climbed up on the rail out front.  This distracted the mob, which paused in haranguing the merchant to watch Logan scramble up onto the roof.  In two steps he was at the flagpole and hauling down the banner.  A cheer went up, and Logan jumped back to the ground with the bundle of cloth in his hands.
     "Keep it to yourself, Murphy," Logan said, handing it to its owner.  "Your neighbors don't like this flag."
     "I have a right to display whatever flag I wish on my own property," the merchant fumed.
     "Colorado is a Union territory!" someone shouted from the crowd, and a roar of agreement went up.
     Hambleton stooped to pick up a rock, which he aimed at the store's expensive glass window.  O'Brien jostled his arm, and the rock struck the wooden wall instead.  Hambleton turned on him, eyes blazing with fury.
     "I wouldn't," O'Brien said, his thumb stroking the hilt of the sharp hunting knife that a flick had brought into his hand.  Hambleton glanced at the blade, and then back at O'Brien's face.  O'Brien knew the look; a fighter thinking, wondering how strong his opponent might be and if flesh could be quicker than blade.
     "Try it then," O'Brien said softly, shifting his grip on the knife.  Someone screamed, and the crowd melted away, leaving Hambleton and O'Brien facing each other across two yards of dirt.
     Logan hurried up to put a hand on the buffalo's shoulder.  "Enough, Josiah," he said.  "It's over."
     Hambleton, nostrils flaring, stared hard at O'Brien, then strode to the merchant and pulled the flag out of his hands.  To the crowd's great delight, he threw it in the dust at Murphy's feet and ground his heel into it.  "No one flies that rag over this city!" he shouted, and the crowd cheered.
     Logan came between his friend and Murphy, and began coaxing Hambleton away.  The buffalo tossed one malevolent glance at O'Brien, who watched him away down the street, then looked at the merchant.  "Best get inside," he said with a jerk of his head.
     Murphy, still angry, picked up his flag and went back into his shop.  Left with nothing to look at, the watchers began to disperse.  O'Brien put away his knife.
     "That was good of you, Red," Hall said slowly.  "You a friend of the Confederate cause?"
     "Just a decent citizen trying to keep the peace," O'Brien answered.  Privately, he thought he was more a damned fool who reacted without thinking.  This quarrel was none of his business.
     "You deserve a reward, then," Hall said.  "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."
     O'Brien glanced at the Criterion, famous for two things; good whiskey, and the rowdy Southerners who made it their haunt.
     "No, I'm not in the mood anymore," he said.  "You go on."
     Hall frowned at him, looking puzzled.  "Murphy's no friend of yours, is he?"
     "No."  O'Brien looked at the empty flagpole atop the store.  No, he wasn't a friend of secession, but he'd seen enough hopes trampled down in the dust to last him a lifetime.  "A flag doesn't belong in the dirt," he said with a shrug.
     A corner of Hall's mouth turned up.  "Why, Red!" he said softly.  "I do believe you have the makings of a patriot!"
     West of the mountains at last, the Santa Fé Trail turned northward and began a gentle descent.  Laura leaned forward eagerly, trying for a glimpse of the city, but the country was hilly and still rural, scattered with adobe houses and patches of corn and beans.  The houses grew closer together, and at last the coach splashed through a stream running along a stone gutter, and rattled to a stop at the top of a hill.
      "Exchange Hotel," the shotgun shouted, and began hauling luggage off the roof of the coach.  Laura stepped down to the corner of a large, dirt square, sparsely shaded by young cottonwoods and inhabited by burros, a few Mexicans, and several sleeping dogs.
     "Welcome to Santa Fé," her uncle said proudly.
     Laura's arms tightened around her clock as she gazed in dismay at the flat-roofed adobe buildings surrounding the square.  Nearly all had long, covered portals.  Some seemed to be private residences, others housed merchants and wine shops, but none looked remotely like the shops she had expected.  There were no graceful houses, no green parks.  Except for the flag hanging limply from a pole in the square's center, it was a Mexican village, like every other they'd seen, if perhaps a bit larger.
     "This is the Plaza," her uncle said.  "Over there's the old Spanish governor's palace.  It's the military headquarters now."
     "Palace?" Laura repeated, unable to see any structure that came close to deserving the name.
     "There," her uncle said, pointing to the building that ran the length of the plaza on its north side.  To her it looked more like a stable.  A number of soldiers lounged near a doorway, where two mules and a horse stood tied to some of the wooden pillars of the portal.  A pair of dogs began to wrestle in the dirt, growling good-naturedly.  The entire image presented by the plaza of Santa Fé was that of a dusty, packed earth barnyard.
     "Come, my dear," Uncle Wallace said as the mail rumbled away toward the post office on the square's west side.  "You'd like to settle in, I expect."  Laura turned to see him poised in a wide, double doorway set at an angle into a building on the plaza's southeast corner, marked Fonda by one sign and Exchange Hotel by another.  Beyond, at the end of the street to the east, stood a large Spanish church with the blue mountains rising behind it.
     "We're staying here?" she asked.
     "Of course," her uncle said.  "It's the best place in town."
     "I--assumed you had a house," Laura said.
     "House?  Lord, no!  D'you know what it would cost to build a proper house out here?  Come along, now."
     Chastened, Laura followed him into the hotel's office, which besides a desk boasted a real Turkey carpet on the floor and two cushioned chairs.  An open doorway beyond led into a cantina; she could see the dark wood of a long bar.
     "Mr. Howland!"  A man in a white shirt, vest, and dusty trousers looked up from the desk.  "Good to see you back!"
     "Thank you, Phillips.  Where's Parker?"
     "Around somewhere.  Want your usual room?"
     "If it's free, yes, and one for my niece."
     "Yes, indeed!"  The clerk's gaze made Laura uncomfortable.  She looked away, only to find a couple of men in the doorway of the cantina staring at her as well.  She drew down her veil.
     "Number four," the clerk said, handing keys to her uncle.  "It's on the placita."  Laura thought she saw him wink.
     "This way, m'dear," Uncle Wallace said, starting toward a closed door.  "Fetch in her trunk, will you, Phillips?"
     "I surely will," the clerk said in a lazy tone, going through the double doors to the street.  Laura sighed as she followed her uncle.  So far, Santa Fé was a great disappointment.
     "Damned fool thing," her uncle muttered, fiddling with the door latch.  "Ah, there we are."
     The door swung open, and Laura was surprised to see that it led outside again, into a garden entirely surrounded by the hotel.  Portals were set back on all sides, shading doors.  The center, a rectangle perhaps ten feet by sixty, was filled with rose bushes just starting to bloom, raising a heady scent in the afternoon sunshine.  Beneath them hid pansies, oregano, and marjoram, and along the ground grew tendrils of thyme covered with tiny purple blooms.  Mockingbirds sang from wicker cages, and vines climbed the great tree-trunk pillars of the porch roof.
     "A glorieta," Laura whispered, enchanted.
     Uncle Wallace led her down the portal to the centermost door on the western side, which he unlocked and held open for her.  As she peered into the dim apartment Laura saw a small fireplace, an actual bed, pegs for clothes, and a rough-hewn table and chair.  A patch of the black and white wool rug that Monsieur Vallé had called jerga covered part of the floor.  How humble I've grown, Laura thought, smiling.  Back east she would have been insulted at being offered such a room--even her father's scant means could command decent lodgings--but compared to the accommodations she'd had along most of the Santa Fé Trail, it was palatial.
     "That opens on the street," her uncle said, pointing to a second door opposite the first.  "Keep it locked.  If you need anything ask Phillips, or come and find me.  I'm in number eight, on the far side of the cantina."
     "Thank you, Uncle."  Laura set her clock down on the table.
     "I've got a few things to see to," Uncle Wallace said, patting his pockets.  "I'll come back in an hour and we'll have some supper.  Oh, here's your key," he added.  He pressed it into her hand and withdrew, leaving the door open behind him.
     Laura sighed, untied the strings of her bonnet, and hung it on one of the pegs.  She drew out her small gold watch, which she had taken to wearing on a long chain inside her dress to protect it from the dust.  Monsieur Vallé had given her the correct time that morning.  She set the mantel clock, then pulled out its weight, which had been wrapped in cloth and tucked into the case, and carefully rehung it.  Winding the clock with the key, which she kept on her watch chain, she smiled as it began its gentle ticking.  It was almost the half hour.  Laura lay on her side on the bed, watching the minute hand slowly move toward the six, waiting for the musical chime.
     "Where d'you want it, miss?"
     Laura started, and got hastily to her feet.  The desk clerk stood in the door with her trunk, wearing a grin.
     "By the wall, please," she said, regaining her composure.  The clerk carried the trunk in and placed it near the foot of the bed.  "Could someone bring me water and a basin?" Laura asked.
     He straightened up and gave her a long, appreciative look, and the grin widened.  "Sure thing, missy," he said on his way out.  "If you need help with your bath, let me know."  He slipped out before Laura could reprove him, and she threw the door shut with a snap.
     This is not a civilized country, she thought in the resulting darkness.  She pulled back the window curtain to let in some light, then unlocked her trunk and took out a candle and matches.  With candlelight dispelling much of the gloom, she covered the window again and sat on the bed to remove her dusty half-boots.  The place might not be civilized, but she would remain so.  Her feet rejoiced at the freedom of slippers, and she knew that with a fresh gown draped over a proper hoop, she would feel more herself.
     A soft knock heralded the arrival of a Mexican maid with her wash basin.  "Thank you," Laura said, letting her in.  "Set it on the table, please."
     The girl looked apprehensive.  "No entiendo."
     "Here," said Laura, touching the table.
     "Ah, sí."  The girl brightened.  She set down the basin and a towel, bobbed her head, and turned to leave.
     "Thank you, thank you very much," Laura said smiling and nodding as she closed the door.  "I suppose I should learn Spanish," she added to herself.    She went to the table, removed her gloves, and splashed the cool water on her face.  Spanish didn't interest her, but it appeared she would need to know it if she remained in Santa Fé.
     The clock chimed once.  Laura straightened, wondering for the first time just how long she would be here.  She picked up the towel and dried her face, then undressed and began sponging her weary body.  Surely this dusty village in what was, to all purposes, a foreign country would not be her permanent home.  The idea that her uncle intended to stay in this dingy hotel astonished and worried her.  She had meant to keep house for him, as she had done for her father, and thereby earn her support, but it appeared that was not to be.
     How, she wondered as she dressed, did her uncle pay for his accommodations?  She had assumed he had some profession, but he had not described his business to her, and while he seemed to have money enough, she felt precarious all at once.  An ache came into her heart, an intense longing for green Massachusetts.  Suddenly she couldn't bear the dark, tiny room.   Snatching up her gloves and bonnet, she hurried out into the garden.
     Her hoops kept her from going out on the narrow path among the roses, but it was just as well, for the sun was intensely bright after the dimness of her room.  She strolled along the portal instead, gazing out at the flowers.  Their scent soothed her, and the warmth of the sun-baked walls made her drowsy.  She found herself at the end of the portal, facing a pair of doors that stood open to a dining room.
     "May I help you?" a man inside said, noticing her.  He came to the doors, smiling.  He wore a neat coat and waistcoat, and had dark hair, thinning a little, and bushy side whiskers.
     "No, thank you," Laura said.  "I'm just exploring.  Forgive me for disturbing you."
     "Not at all," the gentleman replied.  "If I can be--"
     "Parker!" her uncle called, coming up beside Laura.  "Been looking all over for you!"
     "Mr. Howland!  Welcome back," said the gentleman.
     "This is Mr. Parker, my dear," Uncle Wallace informed her.  "He owns the hotel.  My niece, Miss Howland."
     "How do you do?" Mr. Parker's smile widened.  "I trust you've been given everything you need?"
     As Laura began to reply a great ringing of bells commenced from nearby.  Mr. Parker beckoned her and her uncle into the dining room, and shut the doors against the din.
     "It's the parroquia," he said, gesturing eastward.
     "The Spanish church down the street?" Laura asked.
     "Yes.  There are others, too, which you'll hear if you walk about the town at all.  Would you care for some dinner?  I was just about to sit down, and I'd be honored if you would join me."
     "Delighted," Uncle Wallace said.  He and Laura followed Mr. Parker to a table near the kitchen, where they were served a lavish dinner of roast beef and potatoes, peas, scalloped onions, rice with tomatoes, and fresh bread.  There was also a dish of pork in bright red sauce, called cárne adobada, just the smell of which made Laura's eyes water.  She declined to taste it, but the rest of the meal was delicious, and she ate hungrily while listening to her uncle catch up on gossip.  He seemed mostly to be inquiring which of his numerous acquaintance were presently in town.  He must be reasonably prosperous, she decided, to know so many people.
     The cook brought out individual dishes of caramelized custard for dessert, and Mr. Parker poured the coffee.
      "You will find very pleasant society in Santa Fé, Miss Howland," he said.  "There are a number of Americans in town, and some of the better Spanish families are quite cultivated.  There are also some good people with the military, though they're all at odd's ends just now.  I heard Captain Sibley resigned."
     "Yes," Laura said.  "We saw him leaving Fort Union."
     "Did you?  He laid out that depot, you know.  Knows every box of biscuits in it."
     "He appeared to be taking a number of them along," Laura said dryly.
     Mr. Parker shook his head.  "It's a bad business.  Most of the West-Pointers are going south.  Captain Ewell, Captain Wilcox, Major Longstreet.  And I understand Colonel Loring's resigned."
     Uncle Wallace's brows went up.  "I thought Loring was the departmental commander," he said.
     "He is.  Was.  He's packing up to head for El Paso right now.  Wanted to take the Fort Marcy troops with him, but Canby's blocked it."
     Laura raised her head.  "Major Canby?" she asked.
     "Yes.  You know him?"
     "I met him at Fort Union."
     "He's about the only loyal officer in New Mexico," Mr. Parker said.  He glanced at Laura, and seemed to decide the topic was too grim for her tender ears, for he smiled and changed the subject.  "Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Howland?"
     "Yes," Laura said, laying down her spoon, "though I have not been dancing of late."
     "Oh, of course not.  Forgive me.  I was just going to mention that we have little bailes here occasionally.  This room has the best floor in town, you see," he added with pride, gesturing toward the long expanse of wood.
     Laura smiled.  "I'm sure it makes an excellent ballroom."
     "They have concerts, too," Uncle Wallace said.  "There's a bang-up band at Fort Marcy Post."
     "I shall look forward to hearing them," Laura said, rising from her chair.  "Thank you for the excellent dinner, Mr. Parker.  Will you pardon me if I retire early?"
     "That's right, you rest up," her uncle said.  "Tomorrow I'll come round and show you the town."
     The gentlemen rose, and Laura left them to seek the quiet of her room.  The dinner had done much to restore her spirits, and as she went out into the garden she sighed.  It would be impossible, of course, for this place to compare with home, but it was not so very unpleasant, after all.  Mr. Parker was certainly a gentleman, and he had said there were other good people in Santa Fé.  If she could find intelligent company, who perhaps even shared her views, she thought she would do very well.
      She glanced past the garden at the opposite portal, where sunlight was beginning to slant in beneath the roof.  No guest rooms on that side--only a door into the kitchen and another, standing open now, which appeared to lead into the cantina.  A form moved inside, and the hotel clerk came out to lounge in the doorway.  Laura quickened her step, feeling the clerk's gaze on her as she hurried to her room and locked the door. 
= Valverde =
     Wounded and dead horses were stripped, and those that were able to move were turned loose to feed around or to shiver and die till the battle was over.
               --Sergeant Alfred B. Peticolas, 4th Texas Mounted Volunteers
 

     "They're withdrawing," Canby said, and handed the field glasses to Chapin.  McIntyre, though his eyes were a bit bleary, didn't need the glasses to see that Canby was right.  The Texans that had advanced toward the river were now falling back.  A rider kicked up dust amid the scrub as he galloped toward the small group of mounted officers.  Canby waited, wearing his favorite grey woolen shirt, an unlit cigar dangling from his lip, the cold breeze ruffling his hair.  He sat his old horse Charley, the mount he'd ridden in Mexico, with the ease of a gentleman of leisure preparing to ride out for a picnic.  McIntyre, stiff from the previous night's adventure, waggled his shoulders in a futile effort to make them comfortable.  The rider--Nicodemus, he now saw--slowed to a trot and picked his way through the empty tents of the volunteers to where Canby and his staff waited.
     "Colonel Pino's respects, sir," Nicodemus said, tossing off a salute.  "He believes the enemy is retiring."
     Canby took the cigar from his mouth.  "Thank you, Captain Nicodemus," he said.  "When you've caught your breath please return and tell the colonel to bring his men back to this side of the river and await orders."
     "Yes, sir," Nicodemus said, accepting the canteen offered by McIntyre.  He took a strong pull at it, coughed once, and looked back toward the river.  The Texans were turning north.  They would pass behind the mesa and join their comrades at the ford, where Colonel Roberts waited with the bulk of Canby's troops.
     "Mr. McIntyre," Canby said, putting the cigar in his pocket.
     "Sir?"
     "My compliments to Colonel Roberts, and inform him that I'll be taking command in the field shortly."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Would you also tell Captain McRae to expect the third section of his battery?  Thank you."
     McIntyre saluted and guided his horse down the slope, cutting cross-country to the wagon-road.  Once on it he spurred from a bone-jarring trot to a gallop, and was soon approaching the bend in the river that marked the north ford.  The sky was heavy with silent, grey overcast that promised snow.  Cold air burned his face and lungs.  McIntyre found Colonel Roberts on the west bank, gazing intently toward the grey, leafless cottonwoods of the bosque that lined the river.  Above the ford McRae had four guns, silent at the moment, trained across the water.  Sporadic small arms fire echoed against the mesa to the south.
     Roberts received Canby's message in silence.  "Very well," he said.  "Would you do me the favor, Lieutenant, of crossing the river and asking Captain Selden to prepare to advance?"
     "Sir," McIntyre said, saluting crisply and turning toward the ford.  His mount splashed through the cold, muddy water and up the eastern bank into the bosque where the regular infantry were in line among the trees.  "Where's Captain Selden?" he called to the men.
     "Up with the Pike's Peakers," a soldier said, waving north.
     McIntyre picked up a trot.  It had begun to snow by the time he reached the left end of the Federal line.  Dodd's company were in front of the grove of barren trees, facing low sand hills across a stretch of flat.  Behind the hills Texans were making their presence known with occasional rifle shots.  Captain Selden and Anderson stood with Captain Dodd and Lieutenant Hall, who broke into a grin as McIntyre dismounted.
     "Come to help avenge the mules?" Hall asked.
     McIntyre managed a laugh, and raised an aching arm in salute.  Selden turned, as did Anderson.  McIntyre nodded, glad to discover his friend well and whole.  They traded silent smiles.
     "Captain Selden," McIntyre said, "Colonel Roberts asks that you prepare to advance."
     "Good."  Selden turned to his bugler.  "Sound the recall.  Allen, take the word to Wingate--"  Selden and Anderson strode off down the line with Dodd following.
     "Could you spare some water?" McIntyre asked Hall.
     "Fire water or river water?"
     "Either."
     Hall handed him a canteen.  "Here's the whiskey.  Otherwise you can wring out my trousers, and be thankful you're mounted."
     A shout made McIntyre look up.  Three columns of horsemen were pouring from the sand hills to the south, driving straight toward Dodd's company, the blades of their lances glinting.  McIntyre glimpsed Dodd charging back to his men shouting "Form square!  Form square!"
     Hall took up the cry.  "Form square," he yelled, drawing his pistol.  "Fix bayonets!"
     "Christ!" McIntyre said, flinging away the canteen and reaching for his saddlebow.  With a grunt he forced stiff muscles to heave him into the saddle.  The Pike's Peakers were hastily converging into an infantry square, bayonets bristling toward the oncoming charge.  Hall and Dodd stood in the center shouting orders.  The lancers raised a blood-curdling yell and McIntyre spurred his horse, while the infantry on Dodd's right loosed a volley into the horsemen crossing their front.
     "They are Texans," he heard Dodd shout behind him.  "Give them hell!"
     McIntyre left the square at a gallop, flying past the ranks of men just before they closed, and made for the river.  Deeper here; he hissed as cold water poured into his boots.  Drawing his pistol to keep it above the water, he slid out of the saddle while the horse swam, floating alongside until they got to firmer footing near the west shore.  He got back in the saddle and they scrambled up the opposite bank, where McIntyre found himself in the midst of McRae's battery, the men all staring across the river.  Turning his horse, he was just able to make out the fight through the bare branches of the bosque.  The lancers were evaporating, shattered by rifle fire.  Dodd's men stood firm against the remnants of the attack.  It was terrible and glorious, and McIntyre couldn't look away.  Rifles rattled.  Bayonets flashed, some lifting doomed lancers from their saddles.  The squeals of wounded horses tore the air and made McIntyre's mount sidle nervously.
     "By God," McRae said at his knee.  "Those Pike's Peakers are sound!  Refreshing, after yesterday."
     His voice recalled McIntyre to his duty.  "Captain McRae," he said, and cleared his throat to get rid of the quaver in his voice.  "Colonel Canby is sending your third section up to you."
     "Looks like we'll need it," McRae said.  "Lacey," he added as McIntyre started to turn his horse, "are you all right?"
     No.  "Yes.  Must go," McIntyre said.  There was an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with being knocked silly the night before, and everything to do with the gallant cavalrymen who were spilling their blood across the Río Grande.  With feelings as muddy as that river's waters, he turned away from the battle to find his commander.


     "Start another one," Martin said.
     Jamie and Martin stood back while the quartermaster's hands finished shoving a bottomless half-barrel into the hole they'd dug, then moved a few feet away to dig a second pit in the dry stream bed.  Men reached eagerly into the barrel, which had welled up with silty water, to cup the precious liquid to parched lips.
     The 1st Regiment had fought stubbornly all morning but had been slowly pressed back and had finally gone into an old river bed, an excellent natural line of defense.  A lull had fallen in the battle.  Men lay exhausted under the shelter of the bank, chewing dried beef and hard tack.  Now and then a cannon boomed to remind them the enemy was still at hand, and the number of fallen mules and horses east of the stream bed attested to the deadliness and superior range of the Federal sharpshooters.  The animals, tied to trees and bushes, had been unable to escape when the Federals opened on them, and only recently had the fire diminished enough for the men of the 1st to set the remaining mounts free.  Jamie looked away from the sad corpses, thankful that Cocoa was safe with the wagon train.
     "Bring those canteens over, Rose," he said.  He had brought a ladle from an empty water cask and started dipping it into the seeping hole and filling the canteens.  "Take over," he told Rose, and he and Martin began handing out the filled canteens.  Word had traveled fast; men gathered from all along the line for the first water they'd had in over a day.
     "One to a company," Martin said.  "Bring back empties."
     Jamie gave away his last canteen, then found a full one thrust into his hands.  He looked up at Martin.  "Forgot," he said with a grin, and sipped, then drank deeply.  The water was bad, but it tasted sweeter than anything he'd ever drunk before.
     "Hey, Russell!" Lieutenant Reily called, trudging toward him.  "Heard you found water.  Can I have some for my men?"
     "Have some for yourself first," Jamie said, handing him the canteen.  "Enjoying the fight?"
     Reily guzzled, then paused to breathe and dragged a sleeve across his mouth.   "Lost a gun," he said in disgust.  "Carriage splintered, had to leave it on the field.  And we're out of action for now.  My little howitzers don't have enough range."
     "You'll come around."
     "How about you?" Reily asked.  "Seen any fighting?"
     Jamie shook his head.  "We just finished getting the wagons in."  He watched Reily pull greedily at the canteen again. "What's it like?" he asked.
     Reily laughed.  "Search me," he said.  "All I could see was a lot of damned smoke.  My boys are doing good work, though.  Only lost a couple so far."
     The thud of hooves announced Captain Owens, who reined in, spattering them with sand.  "Where's Colonel Scurry?" he asked, reaching for the canteen.  "Anything left in that?"
     Reily handed it to him.  "I saw him with Major Lockridge earlier," he said.  "Up that way."  He gestured up the line.
     "What's the news?" Jamie asked.
     Owens had drained the canteen and grimaced as he tossed it back.  "The General's ill again," he said scornfully.  "He's gone back to his ambulance and left Green in charge."
     Jamie and Reily exchanged a glance.  "Heaven help the righteous," Reily said.  "I wish my father were here."
     "So do I," Owens said.  "Canby's pressing our left.  We'll be in trouble before long."  He picked up his reins.
     "Wait a minute," Jamie said, and ran to the water hole, returning with two full canteens.  He gave one to Reily and handed the other up to Owens.  "For the colonel."
     Owens slung it over his shoulder.  "He'll be grateful," he said with a nod, and was off again.
     A cannon discharged nearby, then another, followed by a shower of spent minie balls that made Jamie flinch.  Reily grinned.  "Heating up for a duel, sounds like," he said.  "Let's have a look!"
     Reily crept up the dry bank to peer westward.  Jamie followed him and cautiously raised his head.  Captain Teel, whose battery had been part of Baylor's command before Sibley's advent, had two long field guns aimed at the Federal line.  The crews had taken a beating.  Jamie could see Teel himself helping to serve the pieces.  Cannon fire was now almost continuous, from both in front and further down on the left of the line.
     "The Yankees must have brought their guns across," Reily said.  "Getting hot up there."
     As he spoke a shell exploded beneath one of Teel's guns and Jamie heard the yelping voices of the cannoneers as the grass nearby caught fire.  Two of them hurried to drag the limber out of danger while others beat at the flames with their jackets.
     "I'd better get back to my battery," Reily said.  "Thanks for the water," he added, and with a wave he jumped down from the bank and jogged off to the south.  Jamie sighed and slid back to the stream bed, returning to oversee the distribution of water from the second well while the hands started on a third.  Minie balls now began to sing overhead.  One struck a private in the arm and he screamed as his friends dragged him to shelter under the bank.  Jamie swallowed and kept working.  All his enthusiasm had drained away again.  He kept thinking of Emma's peach cobbler for some reason, and it made him homesick.  He could see himself writing his next letter home:  "There was a battle.  I filled canteens."
     A commotion made him look up to see Colonel Green trotting along the line.  "Boys," he said, "we must charge that battery.  I'm looking for volunteers."  Men jumped up to offer their services.  "Form here and wait for Major Lockridge's order," the Colonel told them, and rode on down the line.
     "Line up here, boys," Captain Shropshire yelled, holding up his sword.  He grinned, blue eyes flashing at Jamie.  "Coming?"
     Jamie felt a tingle in his hands.  If he was to get into the fight, this was his chance.  He stood, looking for Martin.  The captain caught his eye, came toward him, then nodded.
     "Sergeant Rose," Martin called over his shoulder, "You're in charge of the train."  He clapped a hand on Jamie's back and smiled.  "Time to show what a quartermaster can do," he said.
     McIntyre let his horse jog along after Canby's as the staff rode down the river's west bank.  They'd spent the last hour repositioning troops in preparation for an advance.  Canby planned to pivot his forces and enfilade the Confederate line, a maneuver that would have been sure of success had his men all been seasoned soldiers.  They were not, however.  Fewer than half his force were regulars, and of the volunteers, only Dodd's company and Carson's regiment had proved themselves reliable.
     It was getting late; another hour of daylight, two at most.  Even Nico was silent, too tired to do anything but follow orders.  McIntyre was numb from a long day of hard riding.  He wondered where Anderson was, hadn't seen him since the lancer charge.  He wished the whole business was over.
     Rifle fire continued, hotter in some places than others, joined by the deep boom of cannon at either end of the line.  Canby aimed his field glasses south where the Federal right ran against the mesa.  "I believe," he said slowly, "they are forming to charge Hall's battery.  Chapin--where's Chapin?"
     "With Colonel Carson, sir," Nicodemus said.
     "Then you, Nico," Canby said.  "Go to Ingraham and tell him to support Hall's battery.  Colonel Chaves, would you ask Colonel Pino to cross your reserves to the east bank and stand ready to support Selden?"
     Chaves nodded grimly.  "They have crossed the river twice already, sir," he said.
     "I'm sorry," Canby said with gentle firmness.  "They're not the only ones who are wet, if that's any comfort."
     Chaves gave a silent salute and turned his horse south.
     "McIntyre?" Canby said.
     "Sir?"  McIntyre roused himself.
     "Go to McRae and Dodd, tell them to hold firm.  They're the anchor for our pivot.  D'Amours, go and find Wingate--"
     McIntyre urged his tired mount to a trot and rode away from the staff, northward, back to the ford.  He'd lost count of the number of times he'd crossed the river with messages to and from the commanders in the field.  A minie ball flew past with the peculiar whiz which in the morning would have made him cringe, but he hardly noticed it now, he'd heard so many.  If a ball was meant to get him it would, and there was nothing he could do about it.
     The bosque was thick with smoke and McIntyre's eyes began to sting as he entered it.  McRae stood watching his men feed the hot mouths of his six cannon with clockwork economy of movement.  McIntyre left his mount tied to a tree near the artillery horses, having learned earlier in the day that if he tried to ride up to the roaring guns the beast would do its best to throw him.  He came up on the battery from the right.  The ground was bad, too rough, with brush and fallen trees that would make it difficult to maneuver.  Voices of tactics instructors echoed warnings in his mind.
     "Alec," he shouted above the din of the guns, "Canby wants you to hold firm.  He's going to pivot the line."
     McRae threw a glance at the sand hills.  "We'll hold," he said.  "But we may need more support."
     McIntyre nodded.  "The reserves are crossing now."  He peered into Dodd's company, now just behind and to the left of the battery.  "I need to find Captain Dodd."
     McRae nodded and returned his attention to the guns.  McIntyre started toward the infantry and a shower of musket balls made him duck behind a tree.  The Texans were firing cannister.  That meant they were close.  McIntyre tried not to think about it as he slunk through the trees toward Dodd's company.  He found the captain sitting on the trunk of a cottonwood that had been felled by a cannon ball earlier in the day.  Compared to the havoc around McRae's battery, the Pike's Peakers were on holiday, crouched behind trees just inside the bosque, with only an occasional ball hissing by.
     "Hello, Lieutenant," Dodd said as McIntyre approached.  "What's the news?"
     "Colonel Canby wants you to hold firm," McIntyre said.  "He plans to pivot the line on your anchor."
     "Well, this is a nice spot, eh, Hall?" Dodd said as Hall joined them.  "Don't see any reason to leave it, even if the neighbors are a little noisy."
     "There are some Texans collecting behind that bank," Hall said.  "I was just out for a walk, and one of them tried to redesign my hat."  He showed them his hat, the brim of which had a ragged edge where a ball had grazed it.
     "How many Texans?" McIntyre asked, frowning.
     "Can't say," Hall said with a shrug.  "More than before."
     McIntyre stared toward the sand hills, disliking the silence.  "Where were you when you saw them?" he asked Hall.
     "I'll show you if you like.  How much did you pay for your hat?"
     They walked north through the bosque past companies of the 7th, 10th, and 5th that formed the Federal left, then crept east, sheltered by scrub.  Hall took to his knees and McIntyre followed suit, the back of his neck prickling as it had on the mule expedition.  They elbowed their way up a soft, sandy rise and found themselves overlooking an old channel of the Río Grande which curved away to their right.  A couple of hundred yards down, beneath the overhang of the west bank, Texans stood clustered with arms in hand while an officer paced their length.
     "There's more now," Hall whispered.
     McIntyre glanced around nervously, looking for pickets, but saw only the milling troops.  He guessed there were two hundred in sight, and probably more beyond the curve.  "They'll charge," he said softly.  "I have to tell the colonel."  They backed down the slope and hurried to the Federal line.
     "Put on your party clothes, boys," Hall called as they jogged into the bosque.  "Company's coming!"  He grinned, and waved farewell to McIntyre, who continued on.
     The cannon fire had fallen off somewhat, and as he came toward McRae's battery McIntyre realized with a sinking heart that it was because the Confederate guns had gone silent.  He sought McRae, whom he found inspecting a damaged limber.  The captain looked up as he approached.
     "You're about to be charged," McIntyre said, and quickly gave him the few details he had.
     "Where are the reserves?" McRae asked, glancing back at Dodd's company.
     "I don't know," McIntyre said, searching the bosque to the west.  "They should have crossed by now.  I'll go--"
     A banshee howl filled the air, the yell with which the Confederates had begun all of their charges that day.
     "Double cannister!" McRae shouted to his men, who were instantly in a flurry of motion.  Minie balls began to fly close, some sinking with sharp thuds into tree trunks.
     McIntyre ran crouching through the trees to his horse, and rode away from the chaos toward the river.  The horse stumbled and grunted, slowing momentarily until McIntyre's spur urged it onward and over the riverbank.  He held reins and pistol in one hand, about to kick out of his stirrups for the swim across, when the animal suddenly faltered and went down.
     Icy water closed over his head.  McIntyre nearly panicked as he struggled to free his boots from the stirrups.  His foot touched the river bottom and he pushed against it to get clear of the horse, and found he was able to stand, the water just up to his chest.  He gasped and coughed, spitting river water.  A thin red swirl in the muddy current explained his mount's fall; the animal must have been hit.  If not already dead it would swiftly drown, and McIntyre abandoned it for lost.
     The current was fast and threatened to carry him off his feet.  He looked at the western shore.  If he crossed over he'd be out of the nightmare for good, probably, and could walk along the road until a mounted officer found him.  Then he glanced toward the east bank, the nearer of the two.  He could hear the report of the cannon, and picture McRae standing his ground stubbornly.  He might still be able to help if McRae would lend him a horse.
     "Hell," he whispered, and struck out swimming for the east bank, hoping he would not be too late.

     It was thunder and hell.  Jamie's hands shook as he clutched the shotgun he'd borrowed from one of the teamsters.  Out ahead the first line was getting shot to pieces by the Federal cannon and supporting troops.  Some of them had gone into a stand of trees a little to the left, and Jamie caught himself wishing for a skinny cottonwood to hide behind.
     Captain Shropshire, waving his sword over his head, strode on, and the second line followed.  Jamie forced his feet to move and stared at the bosque ahead, where dark forms moved in the smoke like ghosts or demons.  He glimpsed a laniard flipping away from its gun.
     "Down!" Shropshire screamed, and Jamie dropped with the rest of the line, covering his head as the hail of balls shrieked overhead.  He looked at Martin beside him, who grinned.
     Major Lockridge came up, a bull of a man, shouting "Charge!"  The line rose, and a wordless howl burst from them as they ran toward the Yankees.  Men from the first line came out from behind their trees and followed.
     A wave of bullets hissed toward them and the shouting of the Federal cannoneers promised another deadly hail of shot.  Jamie's throat and nostrils burned with the smell of powder.  Someone let out a yelp of triumph, and Jamie saw that part of the Yankee line had fallen back behind the battery.  Many blue coats lay on the ground around the guns.
     "Charge!"  Lockridge's sword flashed in the smoky light and Jamie added his voice to the yell as they started forward, though he could hardly hear himself.  He heard the whine of a minie ball and thought for sure he'd be hit, but it was Martin who suddenly stumbled to his knees.
     "Sir!"  Jamie reached toward him, glimpsing blood on the captain's shoulder.
     "Don't stop!" Martin shouted, waving him on.
     Jamie forced himself to face the guns again.  Duty, do your duty, show you're a man.  He hurried to catch up with the line and it seemed now he was marching straight into hell.  The best thing, he decided, was not to think about it, not to think at all.  With that decision came the release of anger, fear, and frustration all jumbled up together and he yelled as he hadn't yelled before, shrieking like a wounded animal, searching the Yankee line for a likely target.
 
Excerpt from GLORIETA PASS by P.G. Nagle. 
Published by Forge Books.  All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher. Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for personal use.

Copyright © 1998 by P.G. Nagle. All rights reserved.