Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Santiago said, remembering Orlenaʹs story about falling through the ground.

  ʺWe do not go south, but north. I know a place where grass is plentiful. Great sheep with the round horns abound. They are easy to kill. Their meat is sweet and juicy,ʺ Yellow Deer said. Being sixteen to the other two youthsʹ mere thirteen, he carried the day.

  In the afternoon, Night Wind noticed that Santiago was missing, as were the fleet bay pony he had given the boy, and his bow and arrows. Half fearful the youth had tried to escape once more, he sought out White Crane, who often oversaw the boyʹs activities.

  ʺThose young rascals took off on a hunt of their own, I would bet. Swallow Hawk and Yellow Deer are gone, too. Best you follow them lest harm befall. She Who Dreams had a vision of a bear last night. I do not like it.ʺ

  A few questions of the women washing clothing by the stream gave him their direction. Quickly he picked up a trail. After a few hours, Night Windʹs annoyance turned to genuine concern. The foolish boys had headed toward a cave‐infested stretch of mountains, not the below‐ground caverns to the south where the earth gave way, but dangerous enough if they were tempted into one of the openings in the hillsides.

  Just then his worst fears were realized. Warpaint began to shy and prance nervously. Only two things affected the seasoned horse soa puma or a bear.

  Pumas were creatures of the night and seldom attacked men unless they were starving. Spring meant the end of a winter of sleep for the bears in their lairs.

  Such hungry giants were deadly.

  Santiago and his companions had just found out how true that was. A large black bear was peacefully fishing in a stream when the boys crashed through the woods, stumbling on him completely unawares. Although Swallow Hawk managed to hold his seat on his pony, Yellow Deerʹs bolted out of control and Santiago was dumped to earth a scant few yards from the frightened and foul-tempered beast.

  Landing on his back with the wind knocked from him, he struggled to sit up and reach for an arrow, only to find his bow was still attached to the galloping bayʹs blanket strap. His arrows were spilled across the ground. Quickly he pulled a small knife from his belt, woefully underarmed for the confrontation. Swallow Hawk let fly two arrows, wounding and further enraging the animal without even slowing his shambling approach to the crouching boy.

  Santiago knew with a sweep of his eye that there was no refuge in the stream or the brushy woods on its bank. Bears were surprisingly fleet for such clumsy-looking beasts, and they even climbed trees! He stood and readied himself for the deadly claws as the animal reared up on its hind legs and swatted. His blade connected with one paw, slashing a wicked cut in the bearʹs pad, but the impact of contact sent the knife spinning from his numb fingers. Preparing for the embrace of death as several more arrows from Swallow Hawk proved ineffectual, Santiago stood tall and took a deep breath.

  Just then a shot rang out, deafening the boy. Before his eyes the shaggy black monster fell backward, with a splattered red hole squarely between its eyes.

  Night Wind stood with his musket still smoking. ʹʹSometimes a bullet works better than a bow,ʺ he said quietly as the boy ran toward him.

  Dropping the gun, he hugged Santiago to his chest fiercely. ʺYou were very foolish, but very brave, little brother.ʺ

  Night Wind entered the lodge where Hoarse Bark and Santiago sat, eating in companionable silence. Taking a large bite from a skewered slab of beef, the boy wiped the trickling juices from his chin with one brown hand. Were it not for his curly red hair, he looked as dark as a warrior. His skin was bronzed by the sun until all his freckles seemed to merge into a solid tan. He wore an old buckskin shirt and leggins with high moccasins laced over his muscular calves. In the scant three months he had stayed with them, the boy had adapted well.

  ʺI would speak with the brother of my wife,ʺ Night Wind said to Hoarse Bark, who immediately arose, taking with him a fistful of sotol cakes and a skewer of the roasted beef, freshly butchered from their small herd.

  Santiago looked at the water‐stained roll of paper in Night Windʹs hand. ʺYou have word from my father.ʺ It was not a question. Neither was it full of the defiance or joy both would have expected when the youth had been captured.

  ʺYes. He will make the exchange of Fray Bartolome for you. Next month is the feast of Our Lady of Lights. Santa Fe will be full of revelers from all across the province. The roads will be filled with people. In the confusion, we will arrange your return and the priestʹs safe release.ʺ

  ʺYou suspect my father of treachery, do you not?ʺ Over the months, Santiago had heard too many stories of how Conal Quinn had risen to glory. He could no longer ignore his fatherʹs bloody past.

  Night Wind shrugged. ʺI took your sister. He took Bartolome. Now I took you. It is an ancient fight between the Spanish and the Apache.ʺ He paused, studying the youth. ʺYour father loves you, whatever his faults. He will be overjoyed to have you back.ʺ

  ʺAnd I suppose I must go. Back to hot leather armor, stupid heavy saddles, satin dress breeches with shoes that pinch my feetand books. I hate Latin! I would rather stay here and be a warrior. I killed two fat elk last week,ʺ the boy volunteered eagerly. Then, seeing the set expression on Night Windʹs face, he subsided with a long sigh. ʺNo, I suppose I must become a Spanish gentleman and learn Latin. Even French,ʺ he added with a shudder. ʺI will miss Orlena . . .

  and you and everyone here who has taught me.ʺ

  Night Wind felt his chest constrict. The injustice of it all! Why must his world be so cruelly divided? ʺAbout Orlena . . . your father doted upon her back in Madrid, even took her to New Spain. Would he treat her well if I sent her back with you?ʺ The words were wrenched from him, but he had to consider what was ultimately best for her and their child. One day soon the Spanish would own this land in truth. His child could be on the victorious side, even if he could not.

  Santiago was stunned. It had seemed to him that Night Wind was devoted to Orlena. He knew, even though she had never said so exactly, that she loved the half‐caste. His eyes narrowed as he replied, ʺYou took her and made her pregnant. My father could not hide what has happened to hereven if he wished to. She is your wife. You should marry her in the Church. When the priest is ransomed, he can do this, else she will be forever disgraced in the eyes of white men.ʺ He paused, unable to read the shuttered face of the man who had become his hero over the past months. ʺDo you not want Orlena, Night Wind? What of your child?ʺ

  ʺWhat I want and what is best for them are not the same,ʺ was the cryptic reply.

  ʺYou will marry her,ʺ Santiago insisted with dogged determination.

  ʺIf the lady agrees, yes, Little Bear, I will wed her in your Church.ʺ

  Since Santiagoʹs encounter with the black bear, his bravery in facing death had earned him the name Little Bear among the Lipan. Now he would leave all his wild freedoms behindand his sister as wellto return to his responsibilities as the governorʹs son. At that moment, both Night Wind and Little Bear thought life cruelly unfair.

  Every son and daughter of the Church loved a fiesta, whether they were ricos or paisanos, pure‐blooded or castas. The numerous holidays scattered throughout the year involved far more than piety, although each began with a religious procession. Statues of saints were carried across the plaza, and a solemn mass was said. For days before, farmers and ranchers, miners and soldiers gathered in Santa Fe awaiting the feasting, music, and dancing that always accompanied the celebration.

  Fray Bartolome alone worried about the future as he looked out on the plaza crowded with crude wooden carts and spirited horses. Peasants in simple white cotton clothing and gentlemen in silvertrimmed wool suits ambled about in a spirit of camaraderie.

  If Chihuahua City had seemed a wilderness to Fray Bartolome, filled with barbarous men, New Mexico was far worse. So far from the royal arm of law and order, the isolated north was an island of political corruption.

  Living in the governorʹs palace under house arrest, he was allowed to p
erform mass daily in a small private chapel. After that, he stopped by the kitchens to eat a simple meal and talk with the servants. Then he availed himself of Quinnʹs library. Although meager by his standards, it contained some surprisingly fine, if not pious worksa smattering of Greek mythology, Roman history, even the highly suspect if enjoyable adventures of Cervantesʹ Don Quijote. Although the Irishman was well read and glib, it was for the education of his son Santiago that he had brought the extensive reading materials. The priest wished devoutly to meet both the boy and his sister.

  In listening to servants and soldiers gossip, Fray Bartolome learned that the new governor had taken the license for bribery inherent in his office to new heights.

  His extortion of bribes in lieu of the unrealistically high royal taxes was exceeded only by his brutality in dealing with the Indians, both Comanche and most especially all the various tribes of Apache. Long before he had sailed in triumph for Spain, Quinn was known among the Indians as Colorado, the Bloody One.

  Bartolome had seen first‐hand the extent of his perfidy with Joaquín, but now that Orlena and Santiago had been taken, Quinn was as dangerous and unpredictable as a cornered cougar.

  The priest had been summoned that morning to the governorʹs office. His heart filled with dread, Bartolome waited while he overheard Quinn receiving a payment from one of his lieutenants. Why had he been asked to wait in these private chambers? Had the exchange of the boy for him been completed? What of the young woman Joaquín held?

  Fray Bartolome feared what would ultimately befall the star‐crossed life of his brilliant pupil. Quinnʹs treachery knew no limits and brought forth an answering savagery in Joaquín that made the priest heartsick.

  The governorʹs large oak desk was filled with papers. Perhaps if he could find some damning evidence of Conalʹs blatant corruption among them, he could have him recalled from office by the viceroy. Checking the door, he walked over to the papers and began to scan them quickly with a scholarʹs practiced eye.

  Amid requisitions for presidio payrolls, letters of recommendation for officersʹ

  promotions, and various tax collection documents, one single sheet of paper caught Fray Bartolomeʹs eye. He had taught the beautiful penmanship to this writerhe would recognize Joaquínʹs hand anywhere, even if the missive had not been signed.

  Before he could read it, the heavy door to the office moved. Quickly slipping the small paper into the folds of his robe, he moved away from the desk and stared calmly out the window.

  Conal dismissed the pesky Sergeant Ruiz, who had just collected taxes from the outlying ranches, a fat bit of coin he could put to excellent use outfitting the men he would use to hunt down and kill Night Wind once Santiago was safe. He looked at the stiff back of the priest and muttered an oath, damning the ill fortune that brought Ignacio Valdéz to New Spain at precisely this time.

  ʺThe viceroyʹs emissary feels I have done you a grave injustice,ʺ he said impenitently to Bartolome.

  The Franciscan turned and affixed Quinn with shrewd gray eyes. ʺI can see how concerned you are with his excellency, Don Ignacio. I doubt you have summoned me to impart that bit of news,ʺ he added drily.

  ʺNo. I have other, more pressing problems. I will deal with Valdéz later. Your savage has finally responded. He will return my son for your freedom. We make the exchange during the feast celebration. He has chosen the place.ʺ

  Bartolome considered, not liking Quinnʹs apparent calmness. ʺNight Windʹs word is good. If he says he brings the boy unharmed in honest exchange, he will do so. But what of you, your excellency? Will you lay a trap once you have the lad?ʺ

  Conal shrugged, then laughed. The harshness of the sound disturbed the priest, sending a chill of premonition down his spine. ʺYou did well with his education, Priest,ʺ Conal said coldly. ʺHe sets up the conditions most carefully. I must give you to his intermediaries and take back Santiago somewhere on the crowded road between here and Taos. He will choose when and where. I like it not, but he yet holds Orlena. I would not see her further harmed else I would certainly entrap him.ʺ

  ʺNight Wind is a man of honor. He keeps his word,ʺ the friar rebuked him.

  Conalʹs fist smashed the thick oaken table, sending loud reverberations around the room. ʺI reserve honor for civilized men who deserve it. Stinking savages are lower than curs. They possess no honor!ʺ

  ʺAnd no souls?ʺ Bartolome probed.

  ʺWhat would you do, turn me over to the Holy Office for uttering heresy? I know the Church has bestowed souls on these black, conscienceless animals. As a soldier, ʹtis none of my affair what you do with them in the next worldI must deal with them in this one. Be ready to travel within the week. And rejoice, Father. Soon you will be reunited with your student. Would that he had not proven such an apt pupil.ʺ

  It was nearly midnight and the tallow candle on Conalʹs desk had almost burned out. He did not want to have it replaced now because this meeting was secret, between him and Lieutenant Terris.

  ʺYou are certain this Jicarilla is the one?ʺ

  ʺYes, excellency. In the past months, I have had two men from the village following all the Indian militia as you instructed. This Juanito is the one who rides out alone often. One of the village women saw him talk with a man who she thinks was the half‐caste, only days before your son was taken.ʺ ʺGood.

  Have the Jicarilla followed closely at all times from here on. Do not allow him to escape. I will have need of him shortly. That will be all for now, Lieutenant.ʺ

  ʺWill it be soon now?ʺ Santiago asked as Night Wind scanned the trail below.

  They were on a particularly desolate, rough stretch of terrain on the Taos end of the Royal Road.

  ʺYes. I see your fatherʹs men. Fray Bartolome is with them and no others lie in wait to give chase anywhere along the trail.ʺ Night Wind set down the glass he had used to identify the riders from the mountain where the renegades hid. ʺThis road is rough for an old man used to riding only mules, but he will have to do his best.ʺ Night Wind looked at the boy and felt profound regret wash over him again. ʺWe have opened many doors these past months, Little Bear,ʹʹ he said quietly.

  Mute with misery for a moment, Santiago struggled to clear his throat and then said, ʺI will never forget what you and White Crane and all the others have taught me. I . . . I will miss my sister, too. When the baby is born, I would know . . .ʺ His voice choked off. Parting from Orlena had been very painful, and now he was finding, inexplicably, that parting from Night Wind was proving even more so.

  ʺWe will meet again. You will play with your nieces and nephews, Little Bear. I swear this to you, and a Lipan never breaks his oath. But for now you must be Santiago again. Tell your father as little as possible. It will be easier that way.ʺ

  ʺThink you so? I do not! I will try to allay his fears about Orlena. I do not believe he will heed me, though,ʺ Santiago added gloomily. ʺIt is time to go. Look you, they approach the place I have marked.ʺ Night Wind embraced the boy one final time and then stood on the craggy hillside watching him descend, a small, solitary figure against the bleak landscape.

  Sergeant Ruiz looked ahead and saw two of Night Windʹs Apache raiders riding around a sharp bend in the trail. Putting up one hand, he waited as the party of twenty heavily armed soldiers stopped behind him with the priest. The Lipans would signal for the boy to walk free when Fray Bartolome was clear.

  Conal watched the emissaries approach through slitted eyes, darting glances at the sharply rising bluffs around them. He could be hiding anywhere. A slow smile spread across his face as he thought about the Jicarilla, Juanito. Night Wind would yet curse the day he had stolen Santiago Quinn.

  Fray Bartolome observed Quinn with an acute sense of unease. Why was he so calm? Earlier, when the exchange had first been arranged, he had been as tense as an overwound watch. Something was amiss. He smelled a trap. Both men were desperate and dangerous, alike in their blood lust. He said another prayer for the innocent youth beginning to climb down the hill
after he had urged his mule toward the Lipan riders. Precious Savior, preserve the boy and his sister, I implore in your name. In spite of his misgivings, no additional soldiers materialized from behind the rocks and scrub brush to thunder down on their small group.

  As soon as the priest reached the two Lipan men, Santiago approached the soldiers, walking slowly. But Fray Bartolome had no time to ponder how odd it was that the youth did not run to his father. The exchange went smoothly. On Night Windʹs signal, the Apaches took off at a canter that the priestʹs mule was hard pressed to match. As soon as they clamored up the twisting, rocky path to the summit of the hill, Night Wind appeared with a fresh horse for Fray Bartolome.

  They rode until well past midnight, stopping for nothing. Finally, beneath the light of a brilliant spring moon, an enchanted scene appeared. Seeming to materialize out of nowhere, the small hidden valley was graced by a twisting silver ribbon of water with lush stands of rustling oaks along the banks.

  ʺWe will camp here and rest your weary bones, which I know are far better suited to kneeling in prayer or hunching over a book,ʺ Night Wind said as he reined in beside the exhausted priest.

  Arching his bushy brows, Bartolome said, ʺAnd your bones do not in the least need a respite from the jarring of that demon?ʺ He motioned to the heaving piebald as he dismounted.

  This was their first opportunity to speak since the headlong flight had begun that noon.

  ʺYou are unharmedother than by the ride?ʺ Joaquín asked in seriousness as one of his men built a fire and the others began to rub down the sweat‐soaked horses.

  ʺI am unharmed, yes, in body. Conal Quinn can do naught to me, Joaquínat least not to my spirit. But you . . . you have done so,ʺ the older man said quietly.

  Joaquínʹs eyes clouded with resignation. ʺYou charge me with my sins in taking the boy. He enjoyed his time with the Lipan. We did him no injury. Come, let us speak of this thing in the house.ʺ He walked toward a dense stand of oaks, whose dark branches embraced a small adobe building. At the priestʹs surprised look, he added, ʺIt belonged to a family of sheep ranchers. They all died of smallpox some years ago. I have been using it as a rendezvous point.ʺ