Woman of Three Worlds

by Jeanne Williams

  De Haro must have given orders to his body-servant, Mateo, for when Brittany had coaxed a bowl of corn soup down Zach, the stocky, pock-marked young man came to assist Zach into his shelter, beaming when Brittany said, “Gracias,” one of the few Spanish words she knew.

  As soon as Zach was settled, Brittany retired to her bower. Blankets had already been spread on a thick padding of grass and small boughs. Though she grieved for Kah-Tay’s band, it was a relief to know that Apaches were most unlikely to attack such a large, well-armed group.

  Praying that Jody and a few others had escaped, she was sinking into sleep, when a slight rustling disturbed her. Glancing out she saw, against the rosy embers of the fire, a long, shadowy figure composing itself a few paces from her shelter.

  Through her mind flashed an impression of a mountain lion preparing to drowse till a victim chanced along. But Roque de Haro was protecting her! She was a fool to have this vague sense of threat.

  Next morning de Haro himself brought her a silver mug of rich, spiced chocolate, the likes of which she had never tasted. “You had a fearsome night, señorita,” he said with amused concern. “You made sounds like a lost puppy and cried out several times.”

  Flushing, Brittany looked at the froth on her chocolate instead of at him. “I kept dreaming about a lion. I’d glance up at a ledge. His eyes would be on a level with mine. He’d be ready to spring. Or tall yellow grass would sway and I’d know he was there.”

  De Haro said teasingly, “After Apaches, you should not fear lions.”

  “I feared this one.”

  The man laughed and sat down so that she could no longer avoid his gaze. “Then you must let a faithful lion exorcise those of nightmares. For years now, bárbaros have called me El Tigre.”

  His eyes held hers, lazy gold with dark rims and pupils, the eyes of that stalking dream creature. The chocolate that had been so delicious now seemed thick, cloying. Brittany was glad when de Haro rose to his feet in one graceful motion and went to give his orders for that day.

  XIX

  The party kept to valleys, some broad, some narrow, that lay between range after range of marching mountains, the more distant, highest peaks dazzling with snow.

  Zach was still feverish. The men with the litter moved as carefully as they could, but the footing was rough. Brittany hoped the priest at the silver camp would indeed be skillful in healing, but she relied as much on Zach’s recovering once he could rest without being jostled and hustled about.

  Late that afternoon the lieutenant and his soldiers of the regular army turned west, exulting over the trophies they were taking to Chihuahua, though the government no longer paid bounty. Black hair was black hair, and too many scalps had come from heads of Mexicans or peaceful Indians, who were much easier sources of supply than ferocious and vengeful Apaches.

  De Haro’s command continued southeast. Toward sunset they moved up a canyon and ascended a precarious wagon road that led to a mining camp protected on three sides by towering cliffs into which shafts had been dug. There was a church, storehouse, cantina, commissary, corrals of mules, and dozens of small adobe dwellings.

  From the way most of the workers leaving the shafts joked as they made for the cantina, Brittany judged that they were free laborers. The priest, a gaunt, stooped man with kind eyes, came out to welcome his patron.

  He quickly had Zach placed in the extra room of his house, which served as an infirmary, examined the wound, and smeared it with a salve that he said was very good for enflamed hurts. As de Haro translated, Father Damiano went on to say that in similar cases, where an aggravated wound made the patient feverish, and refused to heal, he had gotten good results with inserting maggots in the dead flesh.

  “Maggots!” Brittany gasped.

  “They don’t attack healthy tissue,” Father Damiano soothed. “But they are better than any surgeon’s knife at cleaning out decay.” Lifting Zach gently, he gave him a draft of mescal. “It will make him sleep more soundly. Take cheer, señorita. This man is young and strong.”

  After a meal prepared by a plump housekeeper who smiled sympathetically at Brittany while murmuring words She couldn’t understand, the priest talked for a while with de Haro. Brittany was sitting by Zach when the housekeeper came in with an armful of clothing and motioned her into what must have been the priest’s small bedroom. A tub of water was on the rug in front of the small fireplace, and a towel and soap were placed neatly on a crude bench.

  “Gracias, señora!” cried Brittany from her heart.

  Though she had washed daily at the ranchería and several times used yucca suds to cleanse her hair, she hadn’t had a hot bath since leaving Camp Bowie. Now, with a sense of incredible luxury, she washed her face and hair, rinsing with a pail of lukewarm water the woman fetched, then lowered herself into the tub with a blissful sigh.

  When she had scrubbed herself to glowing cleanliness and rinsed herself of soap and scum, she dried with the coarse towel and worked tangles out of her hair with a comb the housekeeper had placed beside fresh garments on a chair.

  The clothing was simple, apparently gotten from some miner’s wife of her approximate size. White cotton camisole and blouse, a full red skirt and leather slippers.

  Brittany was contemplating them, wondering if she was expected to don them and rejoin Father Damiano and de Haro when she longed to lie down on the first real bed she’d seen in months.

  That perplexity was resolved when the housekeeper returned. Smiling shyly, she gave Brittany a cotton shift and turned down the blankets on the bed with an inviting gesture.

  “Gracias,” Brittany said again.

  As soon as she was covered, the woman called softly. A half-grown boy came in and helped the housekeeper carry out the tub. She slipped back for the pails and towels, whispered, “Buenas noches, señorita,” and she was gone.

  Brittany slept as if she’d fallen through a trapdoor between waking and slumber, and this night she didn’t dream of lions. After all, she was safely at the silver camp, where Zach could recover under the experienced care of Father Damiano. When he was well, they’d go back to the post.

  And then, she thought with a pang, he’ll claim Erskine’s reward and I may never see him again. But first there’d be the journey. Maybe, in those days and nights, he might come to feel more for her than casual male hunger.

  Maybe—

  Sun was spilling through the small window when the housekeeper brought chocolate and hot, puffy rolls, which she demonstrated to be hollow, ready to be filled with honey or grape conserve. It was the first time Brittany had breakfasted from a tray on her bed since childhood illnesses, when Tante had pampered her.

  To her surprise, though she still had to blink back tears at the thought of her beloved old nurse, she remembered her now with warm happiness and gratitude that was losing the earlier taint of grief. But Tante had lived a long time.

  If Brittany were to learn that Jody had been killed, or Pretty Eyes, she doubted she would ever lose a sense of bitter outrage. When she and Zach rode north, she wanted to stop by the ranchería and search for signs of what had happened to those she had cared for most deeply.

  There was no justice in blaming de Haro for avenging the horrible deaths of his people at the other silver camp. All the same, she’d breathe easier when he’d gone on with his little private army.

  Slipping into the clean clothes, Brittany glanced at her buckskins. They needed cleaning with a special clay used for that purpose, but she meant to keep them. For a wilderness journey they were much better than anything else.

  Zach was sleeping so peacefully that she suspected the priest of giving him more mescal or a potion. He was covered to the chin by blankets. She didn’t dare to look to see if Father Damiano had found his wound-cleansing maggots, but lightly, so as not to rouse Zach, she touched his thick auburn hair, backed away in confusion as de Haro appeared in the door.

  “Good. You’re ready.”

  “Ready?” Instinctively retreati
ng toward Zach, she said forcefully, “Thank you more than I can say for helping us. I’m sure Father Damiano will soon have Mr. Tyrell fit to travel.”

  “So am I,” de Haro smiled. “Be assured I shall leave orders for Tyrell to have a horse, food, rifle, all that he requires.”

  “But—”

  “Señorita, kindly come where we can speak without disturbing your friend.”

  Full of mounting dismay, Brittany stepped past de Haro into the main room. There was no sign of the priest. Watching her narrowly from those lion eyes, de Haro said, “Señorita, I have found you a better horse. It is time to ride.”

  “I’m staying here!”

  He shook his head regretfully. “Your pardon, but I am responsible for you. My conscience would always reproach me if I left you to wander north with a lone American.” When she started an angry protest, de Haro added, “Consider this. Tyrell can travel much faster without you, escape peril without having to worry about a woman. You do him no favor in wishing to remain.”

  “I will not leave him.”

  De Haro’s rather broad jaw hardened, but his tone was patient, as if dealing with a child or lunatic. “Very well. We will prepare a litter and carry him with us.”

  “But he needs rest!”

  “Exactly, señorita.” Persuasively, de Haro urged, “Just as he is better off here, you are better with me. In Alamos I will find you safe escort to Arizona, and till then you will be my most honored and appreciated guest.”

  “Señor, I don’t like blackmail.”

  He spread blunt yet graceful hands with a disclaiming smile. “Please call me Roque. I grieve at your displeasure, but I must do what I’m convinced is best for you.”

  There was no way she could win with this man. “Let me leave a letter for Mr. Tyrell,” she said.

  De Haro spoke to the housekeeper, who opened a drawer in a table by the window and produced pen, ink, and a sheet of paper. Retreating to the bedroom, Brittany hastily scrawled an explanation and ended with the hope that she’d see him at the post. She also changed to her buckskins before rejoining de Haro.

  He frowned at the garments, then said dismissingly, “I suppose they are more suited to a journey. We can burn them later.”

  “I made these myself,” Brittany said. “I will never burn them.”

  De Haro only smiled. “Give your letter to the housekeeper. I’ll instruct her to give it to Mr. Tyrell when he’s lucid.”

  As the company prepared to mount, Father Damiano came hurrying from the church. Brittany laid urgent fingers on his sleeve. “Padre, por favor—” She nodded toward the house.

  Taking her hands in his, he spoke reassuringly. “He will do everything he can,” translated de Haro. “Now, señorita, let us ride!”

  Four more days they traveled through mountains and grassy plains. Each night a shelter was made for Brittany, and each night Roque de Haro slept at the entrance.

  Though his Mayo scouts rode ahead and behind to watch for bandits or hostile Indians, he never relaxed his vigilance as they rode, glance sweeping from one side to the other, searching cliffs and trees.

  Resentful as she was of his forcing her to go on, in her heart Brittany knew he was right. Zach could certainly make his way north much more easily and safely by himself, and it was common sense for her to journey with a trading caravan large enough to defend itself.

  Though Roque’s eyes sometimes dwelled on her as intently as when spying out the country, his behavior was elaborately courteous and circumspect. He also had an amazingly sympathetic way of asking questions and listening, drawing her out, so that she caught herself confiding things she had told no one else—her grief at losing Tante and Tristesse, her disappointment in Regina.

  “So you became a laundress to succor an Apache child,” he marveled. “And that after your stage was attacked. In truth, señorita, you are a fool or a saint.”

  “I hope that I’m neither.”

  “You have a tender heart. Perhaps too tender for this raw land.”

  She said defensively, “If I hadn’t befriended Jody, Kah-Tay might have killed me.”

  “If you hadn’t been riding with the boy, you wouldn’t have been captured.”

  Brittany shrugged. “What I think is right didn’t change between Tristesse and Camp Bowie.”

  He inclined his head. “Señorita, it is well for women to be merciful so long as they have a man to protect them and take the part of prudence when necessary. My mother—may she rest in peace—raised many orphaned Yaqui and Mayo children. Most became good Christians and workers. Those who did not—” He hunched a shoulder. “My father dealt with them.”

  Roque could not only listen and question; he painted for her the two centuries of Alamos, begun as a silver town while the Spanish crown, owning all precious metals, granted concessions for mining in return for a fifth of the gross. De Haros had been there from the start, a noble but impoverished Castilian family who amassed fortunes as the camp became a city, mining center of the whole northwest, see of the diocese of Sinaloa, Sonora, and the Californias, and, in the chaos following Mexico’s independence from Spain, capital of the short-lived state of Occidente, which had combined Sinaloa and Sonora. De Haros, along with other aristocratic families with whom they intermarried, had extensive haciendas, but usually lived in Alamos mansions built fronting on the Plaza de Armas, dominated by the cathedral.

  Life was not always graciously leisured. Apart from lightning Apache thrusts, long-settled farming communities of Yaquis and Mayos fiercely resisted Mexican rule and attempts at taxation. Those struggles raged along with interminable battles for the governorship of the state. Added to local strife had been Mexico’s war with the United States, which ended in 1848 with Mexico’s loss of vast territories that included Arizona, and France’s effort to make its puppet Hapsburg, Maximilian, emperor of Mexico. From 1862 till 1867 French armies and Mexicans supporting the emperor fought back and forth over the tortured country with President Juárez’s troops.

  “And as if constant wars weren’t enough,” said de Haro, “a cholera epidemic in 1851 killed hundreds; no one knows how many, for the dead were collected in street-cleaning carts and dumped into huge common graves. Then there came a great flood eight years ago that destroyed half the city. But we rebuild, bury our dead, and Alamos goes on.” He mused for a moment before he flashed her a smile. “Is it not interesting to consider, señorita, that had you been born thirty years sooner, you would have been a Mexican?”

  “Two of my great-uncles were killed at the Alamo.”

  “Indeed? I had kinsmen on the other side. I hope you bear no grudges.”

  She grimaced. “If I were bearing grudges, it’d be at the Yankees for killing my father and stealing Tristesse. But I’d rather use my energy in living, not hating.”

  “A sensible attitude,” he applauded. “I admire those who make the best of what is instead of lamenting what might have been.”

  She wondered why a seeming compliment should make her so uneasy.

  Outside Alamos, near the cemetery, the small army dispersed, volunteers going to their homes, de Haro’s men returning to his hacienda and mines. All turned their firearms over to one of de Haro’s lieutenants, who loaded them into a wagon and followed de Haro into the city.

  At a soft order from de Haro, Mateo rode swiftly ahead while Roque escorted Brittany along the cobbled street leading past white-washed houses, some with arched portals, all with grilles opening into inner courtyards.

  “The church still bears the arms of Spain.” De Haro nodded at the carved emblem above the door. “Originally the cathedral was meant to have two towers, but when the see of the bishopric shifted to Culiacán, we were left with a single tower. However, we have three domes.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said truthfully.

  “You must see the inside.” He glanced at several of the houses surrounding the plaza. “Anselmo seems to be here. He’s the brother who understands finances and manages our businesses
. Nacho is doubtless at his hacienda. A real charro, that one. Tranquilino, the eldest, may still be in Mexico City. He thinks President Dfaz can’t run the country without him. Perhaps he can’t.”

  Brittany’s head spun from all the names. As if guessing that, Roque laughed. “Don’t worry. They’re all quite different and will fall quickly into place.”

  They turned down a side street and rode into a courtyard full of bustle that belied the serene porticoed front of the mansion. Boys unloaded burros piled high with wood; servants cleared a heaped ox cart of butter, eggs, cheeses, chickens, small pigs, and slabs of cured meat. While two women scrubbed laundry, others rinsed, wrung, and hung to dry. In part of the long carriage house obviously used as a workshop, a man was repairing a wheel.

  From the stables two swarthy young men hurried to take Roque’s and Brittany’s horses, and others helped unload the wagon of firearms. Roque sprang down, helped her to the cobblestones, and ushered her past storerooms, bakery, and kitchen into a tiled patio where fountains rippled among orange trees heavy with golden fruit and a profusion of brilliant flowers denied that it was winter.

  Even in its glory days Tristesse could not have been this magnificent. Dazed by it all, Brittany had no words as de Haro opened a heavy door and smiled as she passed through.

  “Welcome to my house. As we say here, it is yours.”

  An immense white-clad Indian with a round, childlike face hurried into the large room hung with crystal chandeliers and furnished with elegant French-looking tables, cabinets, and upholstered settees and chairs. Like a genie, the big Indian listened to Roque’s commands, bowed low, and vanished.

  “Tomás is my majordomo,” Roque explained. “If you have a wish, you have only to tell him.”

  I wish Zach and I were back at the post, she thought, but there was nothing to gain in being rude. Acutely conscious of her stained buckskins, she said, “If I could bathe—”

  “Tomás already has maids filling your tub.” Gold eyes teased her. “If you can be parted from those Apache hides, something temporary can be found for you till seamstresses can devise suitable gowns.”