SHOOTING OF ANCHETA--I JOIN THE “WHITE CAPS” OF NEW MEXICO--TAKEN DOWN
WITH SMALLPOX AND GIVEN UP TO DIE.
After getting rid of Tim W., we furnished a new home and started
to housekeeping again. Mamie and little Viola had returned from
Springfield, Missouri, but the doctors had little hope of saving my
wife’s life, as both lungs had become affected.
Owing to the sickness in my family, I was not sent out of the city on
long operations.
During the fall my stubborn bump and quick temper came very near
landing me in the penitentiary. It shows how a man’s whole life can be
changed by a mere hair’s breadth. Gamblers call it luck, but I would
call it chance.
Mamie was at death’s door and I had been sitting up with her night and
day. It was Saturday, and I went down to the office to draw my week’s
salary and to ask Mr. McParland if I couldn’t remain at Mamie’s bedside
until she got better.
With the salary in my pocket, I started home by way of Laramie street,
so as to get old Colt’s 45 out of “soak.” Being short of cash I had
pawned the pistol for $20.00 to H. Solomon of the Rocky Mountain pawn
shop, and in its place I was carrying a small pistol belonging to
operative Frank McC.
Next door to the Rocky Mountain pawn shop a chemical factory had
blown up and it was reported that a dead man was being brought out by
the police and firemen. The police had ropes stretched to keep the
crowds back, and a special policeman named Rease, was guarding the
front door of Solomon’s pawn shop and wouldn’t let any one inside for
fear a raid would be made on the valuable diamonds in the window and
show cases. Being refused admittance, I stepped up on an iron railing
to get a better view of the dead man who was being brought out. Just
then young Solomon told me to get down and move away from the front of
their shop. I told him to go to Hades or some other seaport. Then the
big double-jointed special policeman pulled me down and tore my coat
almost off. My gold-headed silk umbrella was broken all to pieces over
his head and when he reached for his gun mine was pulled out of my hip
pocket and pointed at his heart and the trigger was pulled. While using
the umbrella on the fellow’s head, other policemen rushed at me. Just
as the trigger was pulled, a policeman by the name of Ball, threw both
arms around me from the rear. His right hand grabbed the pistol and the
hammer came down on his thumb instead of the cartridge, thus saving me
the expense of a trip to the penitentiary, for had he been killed, it
would have meant a trip “over the road.” The sharp hammer had buried
itself in his thumb, so I was told. I saw him many times afterwards,
but never made myself known to him.
By main strength and awkwardness, six policemen put me in the “hurry-up
wagon,” and I was taken to jail, coatless, hatless and an umbrella
less. That evening I was liberated by Chief of Police John Farley,
after Mr. McCartney had come to see me. This ended the matter after
old Colts 45 was taken out of “soak,” and I had tried to round up my
hat and the gold head of my umbrella, but they had vanished.
Poor Mamie died in my arms early in the winter as I was holding her at
the window to get fresh air. Her suffering had been something awful and
our physician, Dr. Herman H. Martin, shed tears when the end came. This
was a surprise to me for I didn’t think a doctor could shed tears, as
they become so accustomed to great suffering.
Mamie’s aunt, Mrs. Will F. Read, formerly Miss Emma Lloyd, of
Shelbyville, Illinois, one of nature’s purest and noblest women, came
out from her home in Anna, Illinois, to comfort my wife in her last
days on earth. When Mrs. Read returned to Illinois, I let her take
Viola along, as she had no children of her own and begged so hard for
the child to raise, as I had no way of caring for her.
Shortly after the breaking up of my home, I was sent to Santa Fe, New
Mexico, to work for the Territory. I was the only operative in the
Denver office who was familiar with the Mexican language, hence this
operation fell to my lot.
It was in the early part of February, 1891. The Territorial legislature
was in session at Santa Fe, the capital, and one night armed assassins
fired into the law office of Mr. Thos. B. Catron, where the executive
committee of the senate was holding a meeting.
The men who did the shooting were on horseback and rode up to the
glass-front office building on the ground floor and fired. It was late
at night. One charge of buckshot struck Ancheta in the neck and another
lodged in some law books on a table lying in front of Mr. Catron.
The books saved his life. One rifle bullet barely missed Ex-Governor
Stover, then a Territorial senator.
A fierce fight had been raging in the legislature over a free public
school bill which had been introduced by Ancheta, an educated Mexican,
and was being fought by the Catholic church. The legislature had
appropriated $20,000.00 as a fund to run down the guilty parties.
Rewards were offered and a committee of three was appointed to handle
this fund. On this committee were the governor, L. Bradford Prince, the
attorney-general, Edward L. Bartlett and territorial senator, Thos. B.
Catron, all being leading Republicans.
On my arrival in the oldest city in the Union, and the cradle of “Ben
Hur,” I had a consultation with Gov. Prince, and later with the other
two members of the committee. I was made familiar with all the facts in
the case, even to a peculiar track made by one of the horses ridden by
one of the shooters in running over the frozen snow and slush. One hind
hoof of this horse dug up the dirt in a peculiar fashion, showing that
the hoof was crooked.
John Gray, the city marshal, and a crowd had followed the tracks of
these horsemen to the junction of two roads, one leading to Las Vegas
and the other to the Cow Springs country. Here all trace was lost.
I was told to work on the “White Caps,” and if possible, join their
order, as there was no doubt about members of that lawless gang being
the guilty ones, and that possibly the whole organization was in the
plot.
During the last election the “White Caps” had carried the county of San
Miguel, Las Vegas being the county seat, and elected to the legislature
one of its leaders, Pablo H., who had just finished serving a sentence
in the territorial penitentiary at Santa Fe. My mind was soon made up
to win the friendship of this ex-convict member of the legislature, and
through him join the “White Caps.”
The sheriff of Santa Fe county, Francisco Chaves, was a member of the
“White Caps” organization and by spending money freely with him, we
became fast friends.
One night on our rounds in the “hurrah” part of the city, we ran into
Pablo H. and his gang of friends. Of course, I was introduced to the
gang, and we proceeded to “whoop ’em up.”
A few days later the legislature adjourned and by invitation from
Pablo, I was a passenger with him on the train for Las Vegas. In Las
Vegas, both the old and new towns, I was introduced to all the “White
Cap” friends of Pablo H., among them being his two brothers, Judge Jose
and Nicanor, the latter being a fine-looking specimen of the Mexican
race, with jet black wavy hair, reaching to the shoulders; but the
fierce determined expression on his face portended evil for his enemies.
[Illustration: PABLO H. STANDING.--HIS TWO BROTHERS SITTING.]
Days passed into weeks and Pablo and I became inseparable. We consumed
much bad liquor and ate many fine meals in swell society at the
Montezuma hotel, six miles from Las Vegas, at the Hot Springs. The only
thing to worry me was a fear that H. H. Pierce, of the Stock Growers’
Journal might give me away. I had been introduced to him by my old
friend Lute Wilcox, of the Field & Farm in Denver, Colorado, a
couple of years previous, and now he recognized me and I had to trust
him to keep my identity a secret. The county clerk, Rox. Hardy, who
had been elected by the “White Cap” vote, was his running mate, and I
feared that Pierce might tell the secret to him and the chances are he
did. I afterwards found out that Rox. Hardy was a friend to the “White
Caps” for revenue only, so then I had no fear.
I had an old-time friend in the new town of Las Vegas by the name of
“Nick” Chaffin. He owned a livery stable in partnership with a Mr.
Duncan. He didn’t recognize me as we had not met before for twelve
years. The fact that I went by an assumed name, C. Leon Allison, threw
him off his guard when Pablo introduced us one night.
Seeing “Nick” brought back memories of early days in the Panhandle of
Texas. I was dying to make myself known to “Nick,” so that I could
“hark back” to a time in 1877 when he got me to ride a wild horse for
him. This horse gave me a new kind of a ride and thereby impressed
“Nick” Chaffin’s photo on memory’s tablet.
I had faith in Mr. Chaffin not giving me away intentionally, but the
rules of my agency forbid making ourselves known where there is nothing
to be gained by so doing.
I finally bought a horse and saddle and one night when Pablo H. had to
attend an important meeting of “White Caps” near the Mexican town of
Tecolote, about ten miles from Las Vegas, I went along. Pablo and I
had been drinking considerably that day, as I wanted him to feel gay
when the time came for him to start, so that he would invite me to
accompany him, which he did. Each of us carried a bottle of whiskey as
we galloped over the hills to Tecolote. We rode up to a large adobe
hall standing on a hill, solitary and alone, about 9 P.M. The light of
the candles inside could scarcely be seen owing to the heavy curtains
over the windows.
I felt a little shaky for fear that Pierce might have given me away and
that this might be a trap set to murder me. I suggested to Pablo that
as I was not a member of the order, I remain outside. This was done for
effect, but Pablo insisted that I was his friend and wherever he went I
should go. Pablo gave the secret knock at the door and it was opened.
Seeing a “Gringo” stranger entering at Pablo’s heels, the guard tried
to stop me, but Pablo, being a powerful man, brushed the fellow to one
side and cursed him in Mexican.
In the rear of the hall several new members were being initiated into
the “White Cap” order, which had a charter from the Knights of Labor
and pretended to be a branch of that organization merely for effect.
My presence in the hall came near starting a riot. The master-workman
ordered me put out. Pablo put his hand on his pistol and told the crowd
to stand back. Then he made a fiery speech, such as he had lately made
in the legislative halls at Santa Fe. He soared to the sky in his
Spanish eloquence and told how he had bled and starved for their noble
order and how he would suffer his eyes to be plucked out rather than
bring a man into the lodge who couldn’t be trusted. The large crowd of
rough looking Mexicans and half-breed Indians were carried off their
feet by this speech and they cheered loudly. The master-workman put a
motion before the house that the rules be suspended and I be initiated
into the order. It was carried.
The half dozen candidates still stood in the middle of the hall forming
a circle and holding each other’s hands. They seemed frightened. Pablo
led me over and breaking the circle, he placed my hands into those of
two Mexicans, and thereby patched up the broken circle. In the center
of this circle strange chalk marks were made on the floor. They all
represented something. The ceremony was started anew for my benefit. It
consisted of weird chanting and gestures and sworn pledges to give up
life if necessary for the good of the order or a brother in need. This
last clause proved hard on my territorial pocket book as later I found
hundreds in need of a drink.
I was the only “Gringo” (American) member of this lodge and I felt
highly honored. Most of its members were “Penitentes,” the religious
fanatics who whip themselves with cactus and inflict all manner of
cruelties upon themselves. In this county they were 2,200 strong, and
most of them had joined the “White Caps” and ruled in politics.
The “White Cap” order had been formed for the purpose of cutting
fences and even killing stockmen who fenced large tracts of land. They
traveled in large bands, wearing white caps on their heads and on
their horses’ heads. The horses were also covered with white sheets at
times. The leaders finally turned it into a political order to frighten
voters into voting the Populist ticket. Some men who opposed them were
murdered. I was let into their secrets of the past. One pitiful case
was where they murdered a poor Turk because they thought he was a
detective.
For quite a while I lived with Nicanor H. on his ranch near Tecolote.
In attending other lodges and visiting brother members in Moro county,
I saw many cruel scenes performed by the “Penitentes.”
I spent some time visiting with Col. Blake and his family at Rociada,
in Mora county. I knew Col. Blake in White Oaks, New Mexico, in 1880,
but he failed to recognize me. He was a strong Populist and hence
sympathized with the “White Caps.”
I satisfied myself that the “White Caps” had nothing to do with the
shooting of Ancheta at Santa Fe. I then bade my “White Cap” friends
goodbye, and left overland for Santa Fe, a distance of about 80 miles.
Soon after this Pablo H. became an outlaw and killed men for the fun of
it, so it was said. He was finally arrested and broke jail. While court
was in session at Las Vegas, he got drunk and defied the court and its
officers. This angered District Judge Smith and he ordered Billy Green,
a fearless officer, to bring Pablo H. dead or alive, before his court.
Green carried out the court’s order by bringing Pablo’s corpse before
the judge. But this proved the doom of Billy Green. He and a companion
were waylaid and killed later.
Nicanor H., soon after we parted, killed a man and was sent to the
penitentiary. But after serving a short sentence he was pardoned and my
old-time friend, former attorney-general of New Mexico, Col. Geo. W.
Prichard, informs me that he is now living an honorable, industrious
life in Las Vegas. His brother, Judge Jose H., died a natural death.
On my way over to Santa Fe, I traded horses. In the distance I saw a
cloud of dust and two black objects cutting all kinds of monkeyshines.
I hurried to the place and found a negro man trying to plow with a
brown mare. The mare was wild and wouldn’t be hitched to the plow. The
air was impregnated with cuss words and rivulets of perspiration were
flowing from the negro’s manly brow. He recognized me as a brother
“White Cap” whom he had met at one of the lodges. Then there was
rejoicing. He asked me to help him hitch up the “d---- old mar’.” I
replied that I was in too much of a hurry, but to accommodate him I
would trade horses. He asked if mine would work. I told him yes, that
he was hankering to get into that plow and tear up the dirt. With a
grin on his face he called it a trade. His mare was much larger than my
horse, and worth more. I didn’t lie to make this trade, for in Texas
where I was brought up, a lie told in a horse trade is the truth.
Mr. “Coon” helped me saddle the mare and when I mounted her she bucked
hard and wicked. Between jumps I could hear the negro’s loud laugh and
now and then I caught a glimpse of his white teeth shining in the sun.
We finally got straightened out and headed west in a gallop. It was
a level stretch of country and in looking back all I could see was a
cloud of dust where the negro and the bay bronco were having a tug of
war. This horse had never had harness on. I never knew who won in this
battle, the negro or the horse, but I could smell the brimstone from
the cuss words thrown at me as long as I was in sight. Of course, it
may have been imagination.
I arrived in Santa Fe after a hard ride. I thought a hard ride would
take the “buck” out of the mare, but it didn’t, for next morning when I
mounted her on one of the main streets of Santa Fe, she bucked hard. In
this bucking match my pistol flew out of its scabbard and was picked up
by Cooley Beaver, thus starting a friendship which has lasted to this
day.
After a meeting with Gov. Prince, I left for Cow Springs, the end of
the other road which the assassins might have taken. It was at the
junction of this and the Las Vegas roads where the trail had been lost
on the night of the shooting.
Cow Springs is a long day’s ride from Santa Fe. It is an out-of-the-way
place and consisted of about a dozen Mexican families who had small
farms and ranches. There was only one brother “White Cap” in the
settlement. His name was Eustaquio P. He was a good fellow and we
became warm friends. The balance were all republicans.
I lived with Francisco G. and his family.
Before being here a week I found that I was on the right track. I
located the horse with a peculiar hind hoof, and to satisfy myself I
went after cattle one day with the owner of this horse, which was his
pet, and I examined the tracks. The crooked hoof threw up the dirt
exactly as described after the shooting. I also found out that the
owner of this animal, with other relatives of his, were in Santa Fe up
to the night of the shooting. In fact, I satisfied myself that here
lived the guilty parties.
Two weeks after my arrival in Cow Springs, we had a “big time” which
broke the monotony of living on chili and other Mexican dishes.
It was Sunday and the Catholic priest came from Santa Fe to christen
the new bell in the small adobe church. We all turned out and met him
several miles from the settlement. We returned riding ahead of the
priest, singing and playing musical instruments. Sixto G. had a violin
and he led the procession. After the new bell was put in place, five
cents was charged to ring it once. I spent about $1.00 ringing the
bell. Quite a purse was collected. Even little babies at their mother’s
breast forked over a nickel to ring the bell.
Soon after this we received word that a Mexican woman had died from
smallpox out in the hills and that there was no one to bury her. A
crowd of us took shovels, etc., and struck out to do the job. In the
house lay the corpse and by the side of two little twin babies lying
on the floor with nothing but a sheepskin under them, sat the father
feeding the babies. He had nothing to feed them with but dried raw beef
which he would chew up and stick in their mouths so they could suck
the juice out of it. Their little bodies were parched and cracked open
from the smallpox. The winking of the coal-black eyes and the movement
of their lips were the only signs of life left in them. After burying
the woman I got a box of salve from my saddle pockets and greased those
little babes from head to foot. It was a pleasure to see them smile and
their little eyes wink. It no doubt relieved their pain.
I had no fear of catching the smallpox, as I had it in 1882 in Texas.
On that occasion I had to ride 200 miles to a doctor and had to
sleep out at night in rain with no covering but my saddle blankets.
Therefore, you may know that I could sympathize with these babes. I had
always heard that a person couldn’t take smallpox more than once, but I
know better now. Gen. Smith’s son-in-law, I am told, died in Santa Fe
the third time he had it, and doctors tell me that a case is on record
where a man had the disease eight times. I know positively now of one
poor d----l who had it twice.
On our return to Cow Springs we sent a nurse and food to those sick
babies, but they died a few days later.
Shortly after the burial of the woman, I got sick with a burning fever.
Late in the evening I started for Lamy Junction, the nearest store, a
distance of 12 miles, to get a bottle of Carter’s little liver pills,
my favorite remedy when feeling badly. I secured a room in the Harvey
hotel and taking a dose of pills, went to bed for the night. Next
morning I felt worse and was burning up with fever. Still I had faith
in a few doses of the pills curing me, so I concluded to return to Cow
Springs.
After saddling my mare I dreaded to mount her, as her vicious bucking
which she always practised after a night’s rest, would be painful to my
already aching bones.
I was sitting on the steps in front of Charlie Haspelmath’s store
holding the mare by the rope with my face buried in both hands to ease
the severe headache. Just then a big drunken Irish car repairer for
the railroad company came along and asked me to please give him a ride
on my horse, as he hadn’t been on a pony since coming west. Forgetting
all about my headache and looking up with a smile, I handed him the
rope. The mare stood still until he was seated in the saddle, then
business started with a rush. Seemed to me as if the Irishman stayed
up in the air long enough for birds to have built a nest in his coat
pocket. I heard afterwards that he lay in the hospital quite a while.
The mare went flying over the hills towards the southeast, dragging the
long rope. I hired two Mexicans on good horses to stay on her trail
and bring her back. She was found fourteen days afterwards twenty-five
miles from Lamy, just about starved to death. The rope had wound around
a tree. The saddle was gone.
In the evening the train started for Santa Fe, and I was one of the
passengers. On arriving in the city I had a hack take me to Mrs. Aaron
Gold’s rooming house, where I had formerly roomed. She had two nice
daughters, Rebecca and Zepora, and I had found it a pleasant place to
live.
I was a very sick man, but kept on my feet long enough to slip into the
Governor’s Palace after dark to report to Gov. Prince. He was absent
from the city, so Mrs. Prince, his wife, informed me. She entertained
me in her elegantly furnished parlor for a couple of hours, so that I
forgot about being sick. It was a treat to have my high-heel cowboy
boots buried in Brussels carpet after being so long on dirt floors. But
I smile even to this day when I think of how good Mrs. Prince would
have stampeded had she known that I was at that moment burning up with
a smallpox fever.
That night I slept very little and by the next morning I was beginning
to lose faith in Carter’s little liver pills. I had already taken half
the bottle and still the fever was growing worse. Despite my suffering,
most of the day was spent writing reports. Late in the evening I went
to bed and sent for Dr. J. H. Sloan. While waiting for him Miss Zepora
Gold came and sat at the head of my bed and with her beautiful girlish
face and sweet voice, cheered my drooping spirits, but it wasn’t for
long, for when the doctor came and pronounced it smallpox she stampeded.
It was raining hard and Dr. Sloan told me not to listen to the
pleadings of Mrs. Gold and her daughters should they try to have me
moved in the rain, as it would cause my death. I sent for my old “White
Cap” Mexican friend, Francisco Lechuga, to come and nurse me. As Dr.
Sloan was slow about returning, I became impatient and sent my nurse
after Dr. Harroun. He also pronounced it smallpox and advised me not to
be moved in the rain.
After dark Mrs. Gold and Zepora pled with me from a distance through
the partly opened door, to vacate my room before the other roomers
learned of my presence, as they would all leave. I could resist the
pitiful pleading of Mrs. Gold, but not of the pretty daughter. I
thought of the countless numbers who in past ages had given up their
lives at the command of youth and beauty, and why not I? So I consented
to be moved if a place could be found for me.
In the course of an hour Mrs. Gold returned saying that she had found a
place at the house of Diego Gonzales, but that I would have to pay $3 a
day for a room and board; that they would wait on me during the day,
but I had to furnish my own nurse at night. I agreed to this.
Soon a hack drove up to Mrs. Gold’s and throwing a quilt over my head
I walked through a pouring rain for about 100 feet to where the hack
stood. An hour later, when Dr. Harroun found me in my new quarters he
was angry at me for moving in the rain. By this time I had broken out
with sores from head to foot, and I was “swelled up” like a Chicago
alderman.
About four or five days later, Dr. Harroun came to see me at about 8
P.M. as usual. He felt my pulse and then began walking up and down
the floor with a worried look on his face. I could still see through
a corner of one eye which hadn’t swollen shut yet. I knew there was
something wrong, so I asked for an explanation. The doctor sat down by
the head of my bed and taking hold of my hand, told me that I couldn’t
live till morning, as my temperature had been up to the highest pitch,
either 105 or 107, I forget which, for four or five days, which was
the limit; that my vital energy would be burnt out before morning. He
advised that if I had any word or will to leave, that I attend to it
then. I made him promise that he would keep the matter of what he was
to write down a secret; and that not a soul but himself should know of
it until after my death. I got him to write down a last farewell to my
mother and relatives, but didn’t tell who they were, nor where they
lived.
Before leaving, the doctor left some medicine for me to take every ten
minutes. He instructed my nurse, a strange young Mexican whom Francisco
Lechuga had sent to work in his place that night, to stay awake and
give me the medicine regularly. Then the doctor shook hands with me and
departed.
After the doctor had gone, the band began playing in the Plaza, and we
could hear shouting and firing of cannon. The sleepy old city had woke
up that day from her 300 years’ slumber. An election had been held, and
it was voted to incorporate and have a city government. This music and
noise was to celebrate the event.
After giving me the first dose of medicine, the nurse asked if he
could go to the door and hear the music. I consented, with his promise
to be back in 10 minutes so as to give me the medicine again. I had
overlooked the fact that he was of the common peon class, and that free
liquor was flowing like water down town.
The Gonzales house covered nearly half an acre of ground, and the
family lived across an open court in a different part of the residence
from my room. They had gone down town to the rally after turning me
over to the nurse before the arrival of the doctor, hence they knew
nothing of my dangerous condition. On returning at midnight, they went
to bed.
After enduring a burning thirst for an hour or two, I tried to get up
to find a drink of water and call for help, but failed. I was swelled
up like a barrel, and every inch of my body even to the soles of my
feet and the inside of my throat was covered with sores. In lying so
long on my back, these sores had become calloused, but on undertaking
to turn over on to the fresh sores so as to try to get up, I would
scream with pain and fall over on my back again. By this time I was
good and angry at my nurse for his long absence, and I surmised the
truth of his long stay. The only consolation that I had during the
night was the satisfaction of knowing how to curse in the Mexican
language, for fear that the god who ruled over this truant son of old
Montezuma might not understand my English swearing.
After my anger had cooled down somewhat, I began to think of dying and
wondered what kind of a reception I would receive on the other shore
from whence no cowboy detective has ever returned.
Towards morning I could hardly get my breath, and I was suffering the
torments of hell. This I thought meant the approach of death and I
cried at the thoughts of being dragged off by a lot of cheap peons
before my body was cold, and thrown into a smallpox grave. Then, for
the first time, I realized the satisfaction of being buried by loving
hands and having flowers strewn on our graves.
When the cry was over my teeth were set and I made up my mind not to
die. I was determined to fight off death with all the energy left in me.
Next morning at 7 o’clock the doctor was the first one to come. He was
as tickled as a little boy with his first pair of pants, when he saw I
was alive. My temperature was down to 101, and he said I was safe.
For the next two weeks I suffered greatly. Most of the time I was
compelled to lie flat on my back, as turning over on to the fresh sores
which had not been hardened through contact with the hard corn-shuck
mattress, was too painful. These sores seemed to have melted and all
run together, forming one solid scab from head to foot.
Diego Gonzales and his good wife had two daughters, Braulia and
Delfina; also some little grandchildren by a son, Perfecto, and they
all made it pleasant for me while recovering. The baby grandchild,
Manuel, spent half of his time playing in my room. Catarina, an adopted
daughter, also did her share towards making life worth living.
It was the first part of July when Francisco G. came in from Cow
Springs in his wagon and took me out home to where my bucking mare was
waiting for a tussel with me. She hadn’t been ridden since that drunken
son of Ireland struck the earth on his head, and she had recovered from
that hungry spell while fast to a tree for a couple of weeks. After
buying another saddle, I gave the mare an opportunity to practise her
favorite game. I finally traded her off though, as I had tired of her
“monkey business.”
For the next month or two my time was divided between Cow Springs and
Santa Fe.
I received a partial confession from the Mexican with the crooked hoof
horse, also other evidence that convinced me of the guilty parties who
fired into Catron’s office; but I was never able to satisfy myself
positively, as to the motive, though I think it was done to kill
Ancheta and Governor Stover for their part in helping to pass a public
free school law for the Territory. Of course it could have been done by
these few religious fanatics without the sanction of the Church, even
though the priests and Church officials did fight Ancheta and Stover,
“tooth and nail,” through their representatives in the legislative
halls.
The chances are the Borreago gang of “bad” men--four of whom were hung
for murder in Santa Fe a few years later--had a hand in the Ancheta
shooting. For, in visiting Santa Fe with any of these Cow Springs
suspects we would always call on the Borreago boys. There seemed to be
a deep friendship between the two families.
On laying the matter before Governor Prince and General Bartlett, I
advised that the suspects be arrested, as I felt sure one or more would
become frightened and make a full confession. But this was decided
not advisable, owing to the chance of failure, which would injure the
Republican party, the suspects being members thereof. I believe in
taking chances in such matters, and “sink or swim.” The chances were
favorable for a confession, had they been jailed under the impression
that we knew all of their secrets. Of course it may have resulted in
opening old sores in New Mexico politics, which I knew nothing of; for,
in Spanish-speaking countries, politics make strange bedfellows. It was
decided best to drop the matter and discontinue the operation.
It was early fall when I took my departure for Denver. I hated to
leave, as I had found the climate of Santa Fe the finest that I had
ever been in. The summers can’t be beaten anywhere, and the winters are
better than most places. In fact, I liked it so well that I made up
my mind to build a permanent home there, and with that end in view I
secured a tract of land a short distance from the outskirts of the city
and christened it the Sunny Slope Ranch.
During my eight months in sunny New Mexico on this operation, I saw
much of the Mexican people, especially of the lower classes. I like
them as a whole, and would like them still more if the blood of their
Spanish sires could be eradicated so as to do away with their cruelty
to dumb animals. As a whole, they are a hospitable, law-abiding people,
although their gait is not very swift, except when they fill up on
the rotten, poison liquors which are manufactured in local cellars
cheaply, for this class of trade, by Jews and so-called Americans of
the money-grabbing races.