After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  Tía laughed. Judy did have a way of spreading her world around. She had dragged her whole assemblage into the parlor. She was the only person Tía knew who could eat and read and talk at the same time.

  “She’s a busy little thing, isn’t she?” Tía asked, smiling. She was enjoying having a little sister. All her life, she had been the little sister. Judy was older, but only in years. Tía felt very maternal with her.

  “How can you smile about it? All you do is clean up after her.”

  “I don’t mind. She reminds me of Mama.”

  Andrea frowned slightly. “She does a little, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s not a mean-spirited person, not really. She’s just trying to live her own life as best she can.”

  “It’s no wonder it takes her all day and all night, then,” Andrea observed, shaking her head at the wake of Judy’s “living.”

  Dressed in the traditional brown cassock of the priests who had first settled this land, Esteban Amparo rode all night and most of the day to reach the pueblos of El Gato Negro. He trembled with his own importance. The news he had for el general was so personal and so outrageous that only a relative could carry it and speak the words without fear of death. He reached the pueblos in later afternoon, grateful for the coolness of the mountains after the deadening heat of the valley he had crossed.

  “¡Esteban! Welcome. Much time has passed since you came here,” Alanestra greeted him at the natural rock entrance to the pueblos. “I get off duty at sunset. We can have a drink, no?”

  Esteban’s cousin by marriage, Alanestra had been with El General for two years, ever since the week before his seventeenth birthday.

  “Sí, that will give me much pleasure, but for now I have important business with el general,” he said proudly. “Is he here?”

  “Sí. He is here,” he said with a significant look at the other sentry who half dozed with his back against a rock. “If you would speak to him of bad news, go with God.”

  “A foul mood, heh?”

  “The most foul,” Alanestra agreed, shaking his head sadly. El general was at best a moody man, but since his rubia wife had mysteriously disappeared, he had only one mood—black. The men who rode for El Gato Negro were not supposed to know Rita was missing, but after the stab wound el general had moaned in his delirium. The woman who cared for him had pieced together the story and shared it with Alanestra because they slept together, but, wisely, Alanestra had said nothing. El general was a proud man. And women—even though they belonged to the most famous of men, were still women—and capable of great treachery. If he repeated the confidences of his mistress, it could cost them both their lives. Though no one had suspected it, it now appeared that el general’s marriage to the most beautiful gringa had been a tempestuous one. Whatever the problem between them now, Alanestra prayed it would soon be over. He had been with the rebels three years, ever since he had turned seventeen, and one of the first things Patchy Arteaga had warned him about was the señora. If you value your worthless life, you do not speak of el general’s wife. For you she does not exist, comprende?

  Sí, Capitán. She does not exist. But…

  No buts. She comes and she goes as he wishes. Keep out of it, even with your eyes, especially with your tongue, if you value it.

  That command had been easy to follow. The few times the gringa had come to the pueblos, el general had sent an escort so she would have no problem with the sentries—no matter who was on guard. Fortunately for him no one ever tested his ability to keep his mouth shut. A conspiracy of silence surrounded el general’s private life.

  “I will see you after my business is complete with my cousin, el general,” Esteban said, waving good-bye, pleased at the shock on Alanestra’s face.

  “Vaya con Dios,” Alanestra replied, lapsing into the idiomatic Spanish of the Arizona border.

  Sitting the saddle proudly, Esteban passed through the natural rock portal and into the canyon of the pueblos. The sides of the canyon were built up with small adobe huts that perched on the canyon walls. Once, a long time ago, Indians had built most of it. The story was that they had abandoned it because their gods had been displeased with them, but apparently their gods did not mind if the rebels made use of it. In twenty-five years no Indian gods had ever bothered them. Esteban’s father, Antonio Amparo, was el general’s cousin and one of his lieutenants; he told many stories of El Gato Negro’s exploits. Esteban was one of the few people remaining who still knew el general’s given name. Only the oldest of his men knew it, and they did not use it—to protect the señora’s identity and thus el general. Only in that way was he vulnerable. Esteban was very proud of his inside information, his relationship to el general. Knowing el general’s family name, even though he had never spoke it to any living man, had put him in the enviable position now of being able to perform this service. Perhaps someday he would follow in his father’s footsteps and be a leader in el general’s army instead of a lowly spy. Spies were necessary, even el general said muy importante, but in el general’s army they were not as important as capitános.

  The pueblos hummed with activity. Men, women, and children came and went, some nodding and smiling at him as they would have in any town, others ignoring him. The air was filled with the rich smells of evening meals simmering over hot coals: tamales, corn cakes, meat pies, tortillas sizzling on greased skillets, stews bubbling in heavy iron pots, coffee brewing. Esteban’s stomach growled. In his urgency to share his news and bring glory to himself, he had eaten very little this day.

  Wisely, he walked his horse through the narrow street so as not to make a dust cloud to irritate the housewives whose windows opened onto the boulevard. In the quad below el general’s quarters, another sentry lounged in the shade, his rifle across his knees. Not even stopping to lift a glass of tequila to soothe his parched throat, Esteban left his horse in front of the cantina and approached the guardia in the quad. Chewing on a stubby cigar, his arrogant eyes slashing out at Esteban, the man was ready for hostility.

  “Esteban Amparo to see el general,” he said, his tone and formality matching the importance of the news he carried.

  “Is el general expecting you, Father?”

  Hiding the satisfied smile at the reminder that he was a very convincing padre, Esteban nodded. “He is. I have important information, requested by el general himself in Tombstone.”

  “Wait here.” The guardia climbed the long row of stairs to el general’s, quarters—two rooms high above all the others. Apparently el general did not enjoy frequent visits from feeble ones, or perhaps from anyone.

  Returning, the guardia motioned Esteban to proceed. Esteban took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness, crossed swiftly to the door the guardia had indicated, and knocked softly.

  “¡Entra!” El general sounded angry. It was a good thing for him he was a second cousin. Swallowing, Esteban opened the door.

  El general was seated at a small table in the middle of the room. A half-empty bottle of tequila sat in front of him. He did not look up. In profile, his face looked ominous. Always the arrogant perfection of his medallion-sharp features rested on the edge of a snarl. Hiding his fear, Esteban waited to be acknowledged.

  At last, as if resenting the intrusion, el general sighed. Surprisingly, he spoke with the voice Esteban remembered from his childhood—a voice patient and not unkind.

  “Sit, Esteban. Help yourself to food and drink. You have information?”

  “Sí, General,” he said, squaring his shoulders with pride. He had far more than had been requested. Far more. Eagerly he seated himself across from his general. Leaning forward, he waited for the general’s nod.

  “The girl, Teresa Garcia-Lorca, left Tombstone that same day…for Rancho la Reina.” He paused to let the significance sink in. His voice low and firm, he continued in a tone befitting this momentous occasion. “She is the new owner,” he said quietly.

  El general’s stunned dark eyes lifted to Esteban. A prickle of fear starte
d on Esteban’s neck and sped along his spine until his whole body shook with alarm. Thank the Virgin Mother he was only the messenger and a second cousin. There was fury in that look—fury and disbelief.

  Mateo Lorca did not move or breathe. The blood drained from his heart. Rancho la Reina! The white man’s parody of a name for what had once been the lands of the Garcia-Lorca family. As soon as he was well enough to ride, Mateo had gone to Tombstone, the origin of that letter to Rita, and asked questions until he’d learned that Burkhart had died. But he had not known that Burkhart’s Rancho la Reina, the ranch on which Mateo had been raised, the ranch Mateo had expected to inherit one day, was Burkhart’s possession.

  “The new owner?” he asked, the words choking him.

  Esteban could feel the cold sweat breaking on his own brow. This part he did not enjoy so much.

  “Sí, General. Señor Burkhart, who was the owner, claimed Teresa as his daughter and left half of the ranch to her.”

  El general did not move. Like a stone, he sat for so long that Esteban began to sweat profusely. He had been a fool to carry such a blasphemous lie to el general. Everyone knew that both girls belonged to El Gato Negro. No one had ever questioned it. The blondness was of no import. El general could father gods if he chose. Bill Burkhart had been the fool. Patchy Arteaga and his own father attested to the fact that el general’s own mother was a blue-eyed blonde. Blondness ran in the Garcia-Lorca family.

  El general’s face darkened, and Esteban could feel his hold on life becoming fragile indeed. He should have sent a boy. El general loved children. Everyone knew that about him. Almost as much as he hated gringos. If his rubia wife had lain with a gringo, el general would have killed her instantly. He would have wrung her neck like a chicken. No one had ever questioned el general’s paternity. He could father albinos and gods if he chose. If Esteban could find the words to tell this to el general, perhaps then he would be spared…

  But Mateo Lorca had forgotten Esteban’s presence. He wanted to reject his second cousin’s information, but his good sense told him it was true. No doubt Bill Burkhart had bought almost three-quarters of the land granted to the Garcia-Lorca family by the queen, after that fat pig who had stolen it had died in a suitably horrible fashion. Bill Burkhart had sired Teresa. The two Burkharts were one and the same. He should have made that connection when he saw Burkhart’s name on that letter to Rita.

  But it was too implausible that the Burkhart who had bought the Garcia-Lorca lands had fathered Teresa. Bill Burkhart, whom he had spared so long ago, because he’d come later, after the fat colonel had died for his sins…

  Mateo shook his head. He had spared the man who had cuckolded him, the man who had lain with Rita. Bill Burkhart had desecrated the land with his walled enclosure and planted his seed in El Gato Negro’s wife, and he had died without paying for his treachery.

  Rage turned black as bile in him, became a torrent of emotion from which no escape was possible. Bill Burkhart was dead, Mateo reasoned. But his son was not. Not yet.

  But at least now Mateo could begin his revenge. He knew where to find Teresa. He would not have to find Rita. Once word reached her that he had taken Teresa as his woman, Rita would find him, and then she would die—Andrea or no Andrea…He did not need love conditioned upon his accepting the unacceptable.

  “¿General?”

  “Sí, Esteban?” asked Mateo, his voice hoarse with rage.

  “Is there anything I can do, anything to help?” he asked lamely.

  “No, Esteban. Eat. Rest. I am leaving. I have business at Rancho la Reina.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Every day Johnny Brago rode out to scout for Indian sign. The afternoon of the third day after the Indian attack, Johnny returned from his search and found Steve in his office working on a design for a more efficient water pump.

  “Looks quiet out there,” Johnny said, dropping onto the chair opposite Steve. “I found the remains of a big camp…maybe two, three hundred Injuns, including squaws and young’uns. The tracks went south, then east into the Chiricahuas. Maybe to their Tres Castillo mountain camp. I followed ’em for about thirty miles and saw no sign of another camp…not even a stray war party around.”

  “What do you think it means? Are they going to rest for the summer or take us on in numbers?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Hell, Apaches don’t wage war like the cavalry, ’paches slip in like snakes and kill a man, slip out again. They harry loners. A half dozen of ’em will kill a lone settler and his family. They’ll lurk in deserted places and shoot from ambush. That’s their style. Only Captain Rutledge would expect murdering Apaches to do close-order drills,” he said with disgust. “It’s a cinch they aren’t gonna take their womenfolk and young-’uns into war.”

  “Maybe that Apache I killed was a stray,” Steve said slowly. “Probably one of Chatto’s braves out to earn himself another coup.”

  “They don’t earn coup by killing,” Johnny corrected. “They earn coup by touching the body of their victim after they killed him. To their way of thinking, it takes courage to face a man you’ve killed.”

  Indians were so strange to Steve that he didn’t even try to figure out how they thought. “What do you recommend?”

  “I think we might as well get back out there and do some ranchin’. The boys are gettin’ on each other’s nerves. We built the new corral you wanted, put new shingles on the bunkhouse, cleaned the barn, and weeded Carmen’s garden. They’ve played cards until they’re on the verge of gunfights. I broke up two fistfights between a couple of featherheads yesterday. Besides, Dap won everybody’s money, and the cantina is almost out of beer. Horseshoes are out. Leon tried to wrap one of ’em around Robert’s and Willie B.’s necks. Even Lindy, usually the quietest, best-natured man on the place, is looking cranky.” Johnny sighed. The Parker boys were his favorites. They were good, steady workers, which was essential to his way of thinking, and they were good-hearted. Droll and playful, they rarely said what they meant. Their comments were meant to entertain, not to be taken seriously.

  “And those are just the best of ’em. The rest of the men are skittish as a colt in a grizzly’s cave.”

  Red came into the room with his particular claw-tapping walk and stopped beside Steve’s chair. Steve reached down and patted the dog’s shiny, rust-colored coat. “Sounds serious. Well…take ’em out tomorrow and see if you can wear off some of the rough edges.”

  Johnny informed the bunkhouse that work would resume the following day.

  “Hey, Brago!” High Card Slocum yelled from the table where he was playing solitaire. “You ain’t played a hand of cards with anyone. You as lazy as they say or just savin’ your money?”

  “How lazy do they say?” Johnny drawled.

  “Heard tell they had a man check to see if you was still breathin’ once a day ever’ day.”

  When the howls of laughter died down, Dap adjusted the wad of snuff in his left jowl and added his two bits. “My papa always told me that if you got a hard or ’specially complicated job to do, you should find the laziest man you know and give it to him, then watch how he does it. Maybe that’s why Burkhart hired you, Johnny. Figures you can show us the easy way to do ever’thang.”

  The men howled. Keeping his face impassive, Johnny merely shifted into a more comfortable position, confirming their opinion of him.

  “Wal,” Dap drawled with deliberate slowness, exaggerating his Texas accent, “my papa told me that laziness may not be curable, but then it ain’t fatal, neither.”

  Callahan hooted. “Hell! Who wants to cure it? I jus’ want’a get in on it.”

  “Hey, Brago,” Leon yelled from his bunk. “I heard a rumor that you ain’t dark-skinned a’tall.”

  Johnny leaned back against the wall and grinned. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Heard that’s just rust makes you so dark.”

  Rollicking laughter followed that sally. Johnny smiled a slow, good-natured smile.

  The next mo
rning the hands went out early and came back late. They straggled in to eat and then collapsed across their bunks, too tired to undress.

  At seven o’clock, only half an hour after dinner, Johnny walked in, strolled the length of the bunkhouse, surveyed his devastated crew, and then walked back to the door, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face.

  “I’m looking for a dozen volunteers to help me build a new corral.”

  “We just built a corral three days ago. What the dickens you trying to do, kill us?” Willie B. asked once the racket of protest had died down.

  Johnny smiled a slow, innocent smile. “You boys are a mite disappointin’. Only yesterday you were complaining about how we don’t work hard enough around here.”

  “Ah ha! So that’s it!” Lera yelled. “He’s trying to kill us to make a point.”

  High Card shook his head disgustedly. “What do ya mean, trying to kill us? I’m killed,” he said tragically, “and just look at Brago. Fresh as a yaller daisy. Hell, you ast me, he made his point.”

  “Brago, you closemouthed son of a gun, was that what you was doing?” Dap asked.

  Johnny cast one long, appraising look at the sad lot sprawled on their bunks. “Y’all were telling me what your papas said, and all the racket reminded me of what my papa said.”

  “Uh-huh, and what might that’a been?” High Card asked, looking from Johnny to the others.

  Casually Johnny stepped close to the door. “He told me that men learn by doing, but that they learn better by being done to.” He stepped quickly outside and pulled the door closed. A heavy boot thudded into the door. Laughing, knowing they watched from the window, Johnny strutted across the porch and down the steps.

  For Tía the second week on the ranch was the most hectic of her life. On Monday after breakfast the men carried their dirty clothes and linens to the wash area north of the house, where five heavily blackened wash pots squatted, and paid by the piece to have them washed.