Aztec Fire

by Gary Jennings

  Felix was loyal to the Crown clear through.

  But what of Juan Rios and Maria de Rosa? He assumed they would head east on the road that would eventually lead them south. He sent messengers to spread the word.

  And set out to pursue them himself.

  PART VII

  JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE NIGHT

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE NEXT NIGHT I made a deal with a ranchero to take the three horses in exchange for a strong mule, a sack of tortillas, a blanket, and eight silver reales. That was the extent of our finances—enough money to feed us for a couple of days.

  We rode half a day, and by the time we stopped to eat, Maria had redoubled her disdain for me.

  “You are so stupid,” Maria said. “The horses were worth many times what he gave you.”

  By now the only thing about me she respected was the saddle blanket I had given her during the night ride when I saw her shivering—despite her failure to bring one for herself.

  Only the fact that she had lost everything—including the last living member of her family—kept me from pointing out that we would be much better off if she had spent her time tracking down the money sack her father had hidden in the house instead of a book of poetry.

  “We are lucky he gave us anything,” I said. “The man knew we were on the run. Had the horses carried the royal brand, we would have gotten nothing.”

  Since Madero’s constables and spies often worked undercover, they rode unbranded horses to conceal their affiliation with the viceroy.

  “Why didn’t you at least get two mules? Two would carry us much faster.”

  “Because a woman riding a mule would attract attention. A woman riding behind her husband would not. If you’re going to be a rebel, Maria, perhaps you should start thinking more like a bandido. They both live lives on the run, relying on secrecy and subterfuge to survive.”

  “Don’t tell me about being a rebel. You are nothing but a—”

  I turned away from her to pack the mule, and she was quiet for a long moment. She finally came up behind me.

  “I’m sorry. You not only saved my life, you faced death with great courage. It’s just that … that …”

  “You suffered a great loss—”

  “You could be doing so much for the revolution. It eats at me.”

  “Give me time,” I said gently. “I am now an outlaw on the run. Perhaps I will someday be the rebel you want me to be.”

  “I’ve ruined everything. I killed my father with my stupidity, I ruined your life. We’ll probably both be hanged because of me. I didn’t listen to anyone. I thought that God would protect me, because I told only the truth.”

  She sat down and sobbed. I sat beside her, not knowing what to say. She had told me her father was in great pain and only wanted to die, but his religion had kept him from taking his life. But he didn’t deserve to die violently at the hands of Madero’s killers.

  I hadn’t told Maria that I had trafficked arms for the rebels for years because I didn’t know what was facing us. I had already killed and risked death to defend her—and would do so again—but if I was killed and she was captured, knowledge of my activities would increase the penalties against her.

  Maria’s only crime was writing pamphlets—nothing as serious as my own irremediable sins.

  I asked myself whether I had lost anything in taking Maria under my feeble wing. The resources and support I had had were now lost to me. Nor was the construction of a permanent facility in a rebel camp—something similar to Felix’s compound—feasible. The rebels survived by staying on the move. Sooner or later, the viceroy’s forces would learn of the factory and burn it.

  Ayyo, at least I would no longer be a bond slave. What life lay ahead of me—and ahead of Maria—was now an open question.

  I lay back and stared up at the sky, my hands behind my head. We would need ten to fifteen days—depending on the route we took—to reach the region where Vicente Guerrero was operating. Meanwhile, I had to keep us fed, moving, and … above ground.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I LED US far into the brush until trees and bushes completely concealed us and we could eat and rest with some degree of safety. Neither of us had gotten any sleep, and I wanted to travel as much as possible at night, knowing we would face fewer travelers and patrols.

  Maria was starting to doze off when I leaned over her with my knife. She started to scream, but I smothered it with my hand.

  “Shhh. I’m not going to murder you. I’m just going to cut your hair.”

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “I can cut your hair or Madero can cut your throat.”

  “You want me to look like a boy?”

  “They won’t be looking for a man and a boy.”

  “How can you be so sure he’ll catch us?”

  “Madero will have already sent fast, well-mounted couriers ahead of us. They will distribute our descriptions in every town, village, and crossing—an indio male and a mestizo woman. Even more lethal, they will post rewards on us. Impoverished peons would sell their mothers for a little dinero—let alone for hundreds of reales. Everyone we meet will be an informant, slavering after that reward.

  “If that weren’t enough, the local constables will set up roadblocks. Everyone will be stopped and questioned. We can’t even risk contact with rebels until we reach Guerrero and know it’s safe.”

  I took a handful of her soft hair. I put the blade under it and pulled it through.

  She grabbed my wrist with both hands, resisting. She stared at me nose to nose, her eyes blazing with fury.

  “You’re enjoying this,” she hissed.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  “I hate you, you smug bastardo.”

  “And I love you even more when you’re mad at me.”

  “Then you must be head over heels.”

  Her eyes were narrowing in rage, her upper lip curling over her front teeth.

  “You really do detest me,” I said, still grinning.

  “Why not? You’re scalping me like a savage.”

  “It hurts me worse than it hurts you.”

  “If I get my hands on that blade, you’re becoming a woman.”

  “If we get caught, it’s hot coals and whips.”

  I grabbed a handful of her lustrous raven tresses and carefully began to cut.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WE SLEPT SEPARATELY, myself on the bare ground, Maria wrapped up in our horse blankets.

  I was in that twilight between dozing and real sleep when she screamed.

  “Snake!”

  Leaping out of her bedroll, she hopped around, slapping at her body with both hands as if hoping to drive off this fiend from hell.

  I got up and rooted through her bedroll.

  There it was—a common grass snake.

  “It’s harmless. It lives on field mice. It wouldn’t have hurt you. It crawled into your bedroll for warmth. The poor thing was cold, that’s all.”

  “Kill it!” she hissed.

  I pretended to twist its neck and threw it into the woods.

  “There, it’s dead.”

  “Others will be back.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll kill them, too. Now let’s get back to bed. We have a long day tomorrow.”

  “Will you stand watch?”

  “For what?”

  “Snakes.”

  “You want me to watch over you for garden snakes?”

  “Any snakes. They terrify me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Silence.

  Then … “Please.”

  A word I didn’t expect to hear from Maria. She was a woman who asked for no quarter and gave none.

  She was shivering. Her arms were covered with goose-flesh.

  I sat down beside her and took her in my arms. “It’s all right. Nothing will harm you. I’ll protect you.”

  “Juan, I’m so sorry—”

  “Stop it. We have a lot of road to cover. We�
�ll talk about things after we get to Guerrero. Right now we need our rest. And our confidence.”

  We both lay down on the blanket, fully clothed, and I held her in my arms. She was shaking and I realized that she wasn’t just cold, she was scared.

  “Oh, Juan, I’ve been such a fool. I got my father killed. You’re on the run because of me. I can’t help anyone—least of all myself. I can’t even protect myself from harmless snakes. I can’t do anything for anyone. Without a press, I can’t even write my pamphlets anymore.”

  She began to sob again. I held her in my arms more tightly and stroked her soft black hair until she slept.

  I don’t know when it happened, it was sometime before dawn when the night was the coldest. She snuggled closer against me, pressing for my warmth.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “From the first time I saw you. From the first time you told me I was stupid and cowardly and—”

  To my undying surprise, she kissed my neck … and then my cheek.

  I kissed her full on the mouth. Her tongue flickered tentatively against my teeth, then probed my own mouth, gingerly at first, exploring the interior until it found my own tongue that it touched lightly at first, then groped and grappled with it deliriously.

  I was more than shy. In truth, I’d always been afraid of her—of her extraordinary beauty, her scathing wit, her searing intellect … so often used at my expense. The mere sight of her had intimidated me. More than intimidating—it was terrifying in the extreme … like staring into a cocked and loaded gun.

  I was the macho man, the secret rebel, the best shot in the colony. But this woman terrified me more than royal constables.

  When she placed my hand on her breast, I … trembled.

  When she slipped her knee in between my legs, my trembling trebled.

  When she slipped my hand inside her skirt and I touched her and she groaned, I whispered, “Maria …”

  She was shaking again—but this time not from fear or the cold. Placing a finger over my lips, she said softly, “I know. But we’ve both been through so much, and I need you.”

  With her left hand, she helped me remove my pants.

  THIRTY

  ANDALE, MANUEL. WE must hurry.”

  “Manuel” glared at me as she let me pull her up to sit behind me on the mule. Her face was dirty—I had rubbed dirt on it—and I made her take off her earrings and necklace and put on my change of clothes. The pants and shirt were too big, but they would have to do until I could get her some boy’s clothes that fit.

  Aboard, she put her arms around me.

  “Don’t hold me so tight.” I grinned. “You’re my brother, not my lover.”

  “You did not say that last night, bastardo.”

  Last night, she had bled and sobbed so much at her loss of innocence I could do little more to console her than swear the eternal love that burned in my heart, in my soul.

  Today, however, was different. We were fugitives on the run.

  I twisted my neck to glance back at her. “Such language from a lady. Don’t forget, God hears these things.”

  “That was Manuel speaking. The way you cut hair, you should be a butcher, not a barber.”

  Ayyo. I turn a pretty girl into a boy with ugly hair and I get no gratitude.

  From peons laboring in a field of maize, I bought straw hats straight off their heads for the two of us. The hats were sweat-stained, filthy, and well worn—exactly right.

  Maria wrinkled her nose at the hat I gave her. “It stinks.”

  “Good. It’s the smell of sweat from hard work—a scent that constables questioning us would recognize.”

  “It still stinks.”

  I pulled off the bandanna from around my neck. “Put this under the hat. It’ll help cover more of your head.”

  “It stinks, too.”

  “Ayyo … women!”

  We took long detours around the small towns we came upon. Finally, I decided I needed to hear the news and get her “boys” clothes that fit. Entering town a roadblock stopped us, but the constables had little interest in either of us because a ranchero on horseback with his woman sitting behind him was approaching. A constable started to question me, but when he saw the man and woman, he pushed me away and turned toward more promising prey.

  Rumors claimed many threats were descending on the colony, ranging from an approaching army led by a long dead priest that would murder all the men and rape the women to something akin to the truth: two rebels were wanted and on the run, a man and a woman. Their crimes varied according to whom you asked—I heard that they were bandidos, murderers, rebels. But the one thing that everyone understood was that a reward was offered.

  I bought quill, ink, and paper, and told Maria, “Write. Not well. Scribble. Give us permission to leave Hacienda de la Valle.”

  “What’s that?”

  I shrugged. “Who cares? There are haciendas and valleys everywhere.”

  “Why am I doing this?”

  “Because words on a piece of paper will impress a constable if he wants to know what right a couple of peons have to be on the road. He probably won’t be able to read it, but he’ll know they’re words and that will make him fearful, not about what the words say but who wrote them. I don’t care what you write—just make it look official and impressive.”

  She said nothing for a moment. “Juan … you are full of surprises. And clever. Too bad you’ve wasted your talent.”

  ¡Ay caramba! Women! Particularly this one.

  Buying the clothes and some food had taken the last of my dinero. I didn’t know how we would make it to the China Road, but I didn’t worry Maria with it. I had to keep her spirits up. We had a long way to go, and if we were stopped by constables and she showed fear or guilt, we would be finished.

  “We have to stay off the main roads. That means our trip to the China Road will take twice as long and be twice as hard. We better get started. We have a lot of territory to cover.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  STAYING OFF THE main road—taking back roads when we could find them, mostly just crossing open territory—was difficult. Traveling was slow, tedious, and dangerous. We slept on the ground, ate cold food when we could steal it, drank water wherever we could find it.

  Three days later disaster struck—our mule went lame.

  Taking it into the nearest town, I sold it to a butcher for its hide for three reales—knowing the meat alone would be resold for more than that.

  But I lacked the leverage to negotiate for more.

  Moreover, the money would soon be gone—used on tortillas and beans—and we would be escaping on foot from the king’s men. We would be destitute and on foot.

  Maria asked what we would do. I told her I had a plan but did not give her specifics. My plan was that she stay in a safe place off the road while I went down and robbed a traveler—hopefully a rich merchant or wealthy primate of the Church.

  Unable to earn our daily bread by honest sweat, I would do it by the grace of my pistolas.

  Ayyo … it was now clear to me why the difference between a rebel and a bandido was so minute—both needed a fast horse, a head start, and a good gun.

  Having packed a flint and a piece of sparking steel in my traveling bag, I’d had the presence of mind to grab a small cooking pan at Maria’s house, and sometimes I’d forage fields for ears of green corn and black beans. Deep in the brush, behind stands of trees, we boiled our contraband corn and beans—when our stomachs growled and burned too painfully.

  By the time we reached the town of San Rafael, we were exhausted, filthy, and starved for real food … but at least we had circumvented roadblocks and patrols looking for the two fugitives from Lake Chapala.

  Interest in the two fugitives seemed to be fading—other news stepping in to fill the void: Near the town of Morena, bandidos had attacked a hacienda and murdered the occupants, a local militia captain had killed the mayor after a dispute over cards, and the richest widow in town had married a man younger th
an her son.

  There was no shortage of horror and scandal.

  Juan Rios and Maria de Rosa were old news.

  Or so we hoped.

  And while I said nothing and tried to put a good face on our predicament, I knew Colonel Madero would never quit the field or give up the hunt.

  PART VIII

  MONEY, GUNS, AND GAMES OF CHANCE

  THIRTY-TWO

  WHEN WE WANDERED into the village of Valdero—a small town on the way to nowhere—a festival was under way. All the things I loved—food, drink, señoritas, music, dancing, and card games—were in abundance … for people with dinero.

  By contrast we were almost broke, saddle-sore, footsore, body-sore, frightened, famished, dispirited, bewildered … and without any prospect of better times to come.

  It was just as well.

  Since we had not bathed for three days or washed our filthy threadbare peon garb, we looked like the miserable tramps we were supposed to be—and in truth were.

  The town square was packed with booths selling food and religious icons.

  I was more interested in the card tables.

  We stopped at one table to watch one especially colorful high-stakes card game. A small crowd had gathered around it.

  A man in black clothes with an extravagant ebony mustache and goatee—attired in a black frock coat and matching hat—was smoking a long, thin cigar. He sat at a makeshift table, playing cards with a portly hacienda owner dressed in a long white jacket and matching pants with silver stitching. The hacendado had mean deep-set eyes, a chronic sneer, and a nose like a badly busted knuckle.

  But it was the black-clad stranger that fascinated me.

  Another man who dressed entirely in black was Madero, the head of the viceroy’s secret police. This man was not Madero. Still he gave off an aura that warned Do not trifle with me … and suggested that he was not fit for civilized society, that he traveled a different and far more dangerous road.