by tiffy
ʺI do not know what the Almighty wills, daughter, but I do know what human cruelty has wrought,ʺ he replied to her agonized question.
Desperately, he searched his scholarʹs orderly memory for the books he had read on medicine, especially midwifery. Mostly written by Jews, they were prohibited by the Church, but their inclusion on the Index had never been sufficient reason for the Franciscan to forego reading them. ʺRemember Maimonides,ʺ he muttered to himself as he felt Orlena gasp for breath. Before the infant, nearly five months along, was expelled, he quickly baptized its soul. He was certain the body would enter this world devoid of life.
The babe was to tiny, yet so perfect, it wrung his heart. A girl, with Joaquínʹs coal‐black hair and Orlenaʹs cameo‐perfect features, now placid in death. Death before life. Why, oh Lord? Forcing aside his doubt and grief, he said prayers for the infant, all the while working carefully to see the mother safely delivered of the afterbirth. Joaquínʹs daughter had died, but he would not lose his wife, too. If only he remained alive to mend their painful parting some day.
Before Orlena regained consciousness, the priest wrapped the babe in a clean cloth and walked over to where the soldiers had pitched camp. ʹʹI will need a small grave dug. Deeply and quickly,ʺ he said to Ruiz.
ʺThe woman?ʺ the sergeant asked impassively.
ʺShe will live, in spite of what you and your commander have done to her.ʺ
The adobe shacks straggling along the river south of Santa Fe were rude and small, as impoverished as the inhabitants. Santiago hid in the thickening shadows, waiting to be certain he was not followed as he now knew Juanito had been followed. The Jicarilla scout and his ʹwife and children had been imprisoned by Conal. It was hard to reconcile this strangerʹs actions with his father, for Conal had the woman raped and then threatened to torture the boys.
Juanito finally told the governor about the hidden valley in the mountains where Night Wind would take Fray Bartolome after the exchange. The Jicarilla had died from his wounds in prison last night. Torturing him had yielded nothing until his family was arrested.
ʺIf only I can convince the others to help me,ʺ Santiago whispered to himself. The darkness of night descended quickly in the New Mexican mountains. With the stealth he had practiced in the Lipan camp, the youth crossed from tree to tree until he reached a small building on the far outskirts of the Indian settlement. He knocked lightly on the door and waited, holding his breath. A thin shaft of pale amber light spilled out as a woman cracked the door open. Her round, flat face was expressionless until he said, ʺI am come from the prisonJuanito died last night.ʺ
Her face crumpled as she asked, ʺWhat of his wife and children?ʺ
ʺShe who was called Yellow Bird is dead by the Spaniardsʹ hands, but the children are unharmedfor now. The prison holds another, one who can free your nephews and avenge your sisterʹs death. Night Wind.ʺ
The door swung open and an old man with long gray hair and rheumy, opaque eyes motioned him inside. ʺYou are Quinnʹs cub. Why do you come here to tell us this?ʺ
Sighing, the boy replied, ʺIt is a long and bitter tale . . .ʺ
ʺWhile I lived at Night Windʹs camp, I learned of his system of spies among the presidio scouts. My sister is wife to the Night Wind,ʺ Santiago proudly explained as he stuffed heaping spoonfuls of beans into his mouth. In the two days since he had escaped from the governorʹs palace, he had eaten little, for he had been unable to sneak much food from under the watchful eye of Señora Cruciaga. He had hidden in the stables the first day, then traveled that night to the prison on the hill where he had been told Conal was holding Juanito and his family. What he learned there only strengthened his resolution to rejoin the Lipan. The following afternoon, Conal had returned with Night Wind. He watched their entry into the city from afar, knowing his bright red hair would betray him as the governorʹs runaway son if he tried to get closer. When the soldiers took Night Wind to the prison, Santiago knew what he must do. ʺEven now they torture him. Soon they will kill him and place his head on the presidio wall if we do not act.ʺ
The old man, who was named Silver Hair, considered the boyʹs long and incredible story. His daughter and son‐in‐law were dead and his grandchildren in mortal danger. Could he trust Colorado Quinnʹs son? The boy obviously had learned much during his time with Night Windʹs band. Perhaps he truly knew his father for the manʹs worth now. But dared they attempt to rescue Night Wind?
Guessing the old manʹs thoughts, Santiago said, ʺIf my father hears that a red-haired boy was seen on the Taos road tomorrow, he will postpone killing Night Wind, to ride himself in pursuit. While he is off on this foolʹs errand, we can do as the Night Wind himself did last spring, when he took a dozen Apaches from that place.ʺ
ʺI will send word to our village in the north. We can have enough warriors to get into the prison, but how will you lure Quinn to the Taos road?ʺ Silver Hair asked.
Reaching for a knife sitting on the rude table, Santiago began to slice the long red locks from his head. ʺBack in Spain we have a curious custom. It is called wearing a wig.ʺ
ʺI do not want him to die . . . yet. Remove him from the box for the night and chain him in the cell. Let him ponder his return to it on the morrow.ʺ With that he walked away.
From somewhere in what seemed a far distant place, Joaquín could hear Conalʹs voice and echoing footsteps. The tremors that wracked his body and the tight dizzying paralysis of his breathing forced him to concentrate on the pain of his lacerated back and then on Conalʹs facehis fatherʹs face, the hated enemy who had given him life and then so brutally taken it from him again. And now a second time. In the mines, concentrating on his hate and eventual revenge kept him sane. He learned to work in the dark, confining tunnels and to avoid the worst abuses of the drunken guards. He had survived a living death. He had escaped the beast.
But now, caged in the tight black confines of the sweatbox, the beast was again seizing hold of him. The old tricks he had usedpain and hateno longer worked.
Instead, a vision of his golden Spanish wife floated before him. But the look of love in her bright amber eyes quickly turned to burning contempt. Then Orlena evaporated, and the old clawing terror began pulling him down the twisting, writhing tunnel, dragging him to the bowels of hell . . . to insanity.
He knew he had screamed several times when the fear won out. Yet he persisted in recalling Orlena, her rich warm laughter and soft silken skin, the deep gold her eyes turned as they smoldered with passion. Each time she would bring him back from the abyss. Why she should be the instrument of his salvation, the thin thread connecting him to sanity, he did not know. She had ultimately betrayed him. And her betrayal was even more cruel, more devastating than that of his father.
As the guards unfastened the clasps and swung the heavy iron lid of the coffin open, he looked up at the twilight sky and squinted his eyes. After a full day in the blackness and heat, the soft light and cool air were a shock to his system.
They dragged his dazed body up from the box. Staggering behind them toward the prisonʹs interior, he was struck by a blinding realization. I see Orlena because she has taken Conalʹs place! Now he understood that his need to punish her exceeded even his need to kill Colorado Quinn.
They chained him to the wall in a small, filthy cell and doused his body with fetid water to revive him. He shivered in the chill evening air as his bloody skin dried. Several hours must have passed, for he lapsed into unconsciousness until a noise awakened him. A guard carrying a bowl of thin corn gruel opened the cell door and set the bowl before the prisoner. With the manacle chains barely long enough for him to reach it, Joaquín struggled to pick up the noisome food.
He debated whether to throw it at the smirking soldier or bolster his strength by consuming the liquid. Living to face more days in this private hell held little appeal, but then he thought of Orlena and it stayed his hand. He raised the bowl to his lips, held his breath against its stench, and drank the slop.
Just
as the guard reached down to retrieve the bowl, a thudding noise caused him to turn. Joaquín shoved his manacled leg out with every ounce of his waning strength, tripping the startled soldier, who went crashing to the hard stone floor.
A scuffle was going on in the narrow passageway beyond his cell door. Suddenly two men burst into the dark chamber. Before the stunned guard on the floor could rise or sound a warning cry, he was dispatched with a knife by a Jicarilla scout whom Joaquín recognized in the flickering torchlight. He was Juanitoʹs brother, Manuel. Several other Jicarillas were with him, moving swiftly and silently as they dragged soldiersʹ bodies into the room and threw them against the wall. One, who had searched all the corpses, had the key to the manacles and had begun to unlock them when a thin, youthful figure slipped into the cell.
At first, Joaquín could not discern his identity in the poor light, but he sensed the boy was not Apache. His hair was shorn nearly to his scalp and looked dark at first. Then he stepped closer and Joaquín recognized him. ʺSantiago! What are you doing here?ʺ
ʺWhat does it appear I do? I have brought friends to free you and Juanitoʹs children. It seems my father just received word that a red‐haired boy was seen riding along the Taos road this afternoon,ʺ he said with a boyish chuckle. ʺHe and half the soldiers in the presidio are scouring the countryside searching for me!ʺ
ʺHe is free. Let us go quickly,ʺ Manuel said as he helped Joaquín stand. Without the heavy chains, he moved with more ease, but the agony of his stiffened muscles impeded his normal speed.
ʺHe was whipped before they placed him in the box. Look you at the blood!ʺ
Santiago whispered in horror, all traces of his earlier adventuresome enthusiasm gone from his voice as he took Joaquínʹs arm and placed it across his thin shoulders.
ʺWe must hurry before the sentry on the wall returns from his rounds,ʺ one of Manuelʹs cousins said, ushering Juanitoʹs wide‐eyed children with him.
Silently, the group evaporated into the shadows beyond the light cast by the torch on the wall. The corridor was narrow and short. Soon they were outside in the chill night. A coyote yipped in the distance, but no other sound broke the silence as they moved swiftly across the prison courtyard, keeping to the wall, out of the light. They flattened themselves against the rough adobe bricks as the guard paced slowly by on the wooden walkway overhead. When he had turned the corner, they climbed one by one up the rickety ladder and dropped silently to the earth on the opposite side.
Joaquínʹs whole body screamed in protest as he followed the others. Gradually, as they moved along the brushy ground, circulation began to return to his cramped arms and legs. He ignored the rippling pain of his lacerated back. They finally reached a thick stand of trees over a mile from the prison where a number of horses were tied. Among them was Joaquínʹs big piebald.
ʺHow did you get him? Surely one without Lipan blood cannot steal a horse such as Warpaint,ʺ Joaquín said as he stroked the animalʹs muzzle, mustering his strength to swing onto his back.
Santiago grinned again, his elation once more returning. ʺI did steal him, trulyyesterday, late in the night. It was simple. The stables were almost deserted when the governor and his soldiers rode out. Conal has already lost his son.
When he returns, he will find he has lost his prisoner and his prize horse as well!ʺ
That Santiago no longer called Conal father was not lost on Joaquín. Swinging up onto the big piebaldʹs back, he said, ʺYou do not wish to return to your father?ʺ
ʺNever. I am Lipan now. I would return with you to the stronghold where my sister awaits us.ʺ
Joaquínʹs face darkened, but he held his peace. ʺThere will be time enough for you to rejoin Orlena. For now, come. Let us ride from this place of death!ʺ
Chapter 19
ʺWhat do you mean, heʹs escaped! I left him half dead, manacled to a wall in that prison!ʺ Conal was livid. He had ridden all night to Taos and back, scouring the countryside for Santiago. It seemed the redheaded boy reportedly seen on the road had simply vanished. Now, dusty and disheartened, he returned to the governorʹs palace, hoping for a good dayʹs rest for his weary bones. Instead, the smirking Ignacio awaited him with this unbelievable news.
The courtier seemed as pleased as a Persian cat. He now had Quinn precisely where he wanted him. ʺMayhap you were negligentfirst you let Orlena be abducted, then your stripling vanished, also abducted you say.ʺ He paused with patent disbelief on his face. ʺNow a dangerous renegade has escaped from the prison in the dead of night while you and your soldiers were off on some highly improbable chase to retrieve your younger son. . . .ʺ Conalʹs hand stopped in mid‐course as he reached for the decanter of brandy on the cabinet in his office.
ʺWhat do you mean, younger son?ʺ
Ignacio waited a beat, letting the implication sink into his enemyʹs gut. Then he twisted the verbal knife, answering softly, ʺWhy, only that you had two cubs here in Santa Fefor a while. An interesting coincidence, is it not? Joaquín Quinn being the fearful Apache raider Night Wind? Your bastard has conveniently escaped while you were away.ʺ
Conal took the decanter and poured a generous portion of the harsh local aguardiente, swallowing it in one burning gulp. Then, replacing the glass on the cabinet, he turned to the satin‐clad fop before him. ʺAt least my sons, born on either side of the blanket, are men!ʺ His eyes raked Ignacioʹs soft body and pale face, now flushed with anger at the insult.
Conalʹs green eyes were as hard and cold as glass. ʺNight Wind is one of many whelps I have got on Indian women over the years I have served in New Spain.
But mark me, I hate him and one day I will kill him. If you get in the way of my vengeance, you will pay with your life, viceregal favor or no. I am still governor of the province. Leave me now. I have much to do if I am to capture the renegade and his savages.ʺ
He walked past Ignacio, but the younger manʹs voice stayed him. ʺYou will not be governor in a fortnight.ʺ
Conal turned with narrowed eyes. ʺYou overestimate the political power of a royal lap dog in New Mexico, Ignacio. I have rescued Orlena and sent her south to Nueva Vizcaya. You would do well to return to the City of Mexico and await her. The north is not safe for you.ʺ
Ignacioʹs face twisted with hate. ʺYes, you have rescued my sisterwith her belly filled with your half‐caste bastardʹs child! If word of her dishonor reaches the capital, I shall never arrange a marriage for herand do not think such scandal will help your prospects either. They are dim enough now, I warrant. You are being recalledfor corruption. It seems you have been most remiss in the matter of tax collection. I have found witnesses, documentsʺ He raised his hand to halt Conalʹs menacing steps toward him. ʺIt is too late! Harm me now and your headnot your bastardʹswill hang from the presidio gates! I have sent full documentation of your misdeeds to the viceroy, along with a letter in which I pleaded for protection, lest you take reprisals against me for exposing these irregularities. You may try to clear your namebut harm me and the wrath of his majesty, the viceroy, and the Council of the Indies shall descend on you!ʺ
ʺI will not kill youyet, Ignacio, but mark me well. When I have dealt with my bastard son, I will turn my attention to you. The Blessed Virgin and all Godʹs angels will not be able to protect you from me. They do not live in New Mexicobut Satan does.ʺ
As Ignacio quit the room, he felt a shiver of fear slice through his gut. He must leave Santa Fe at once!
The escaping renegades rode through the night and all the next day, stopping only to relieve themselves and water their lathered horses. Food, what little there was of it, was consumed while riding. When they reached the foothills of the Guadalupes the following evening, Night Wind signaled the exhausted group of riders to stop by a stream and make camp. ʺWe are in our own lands now. The Spanish soldiers do not know this place,ʺ he said simply as he slid from Warpaintʹs back.
Santiago had been watching the half‐caste ride in the lead all through the day, seemingly impervious to his bloody back
and battered body. The boy himself was aching and exhausted, dejectedly feeling that he could never be a Lipan warrior. How can he endure such pain and continue riding? he had wondered again and again.
Now as they dismounted, Santiago rushed over to catch Night Wind as he began to silently slide to the ground. ʹʹBring water, quickly!ʺ he cried to Manuel as he laid their leader on the ground.
ʺHis back must be cleansed and packed with a poultice lest he get the poison fever that kills,ʺ Manuel said. ʺWe must ride for the stronghold as soon as our horses can stand to travel.ʺ
ʺShe Who Dreams will know what to do,ʺ Santiago assured himself, remembering her miraculous healing skills. ʺBut how can he ride through the high passes? He is unconscious now.ʺ
ʺYou will tie me to Warpaint,ʺ Night Wind whispered through cracked lips.
ʺNow, give me water that I might revive myself, then tend the horses. I would speak with Santiago.ʺ
When Manuel walked away, Santiago turned to Night Wind. ʺI go with you to the stronghold. I will learn to be a Lipan warrior,ʺ he said with dogged determination.
ʺOnce that would have given me the greatest pleasure, little brother,ʺ Night Wind said sadly as he sat up and drank from the fresh cool water of the mountain stream, then poured the icy libation over his head and shoulders to clear his mind. He must explain very carefully to his brother, once the hated supplanter, now the rescuer to whom he owed his life.
Santiagoʹs face held a puzzled expression. ʺWhy say you, once it would have pleased you?ʺ
ʺOnce I saw you as an enemy.ʺ ʺBecause I am white? Conalʹs son? Orlena told me he did a terrible thing to you long ago. I would be with my sister and you now, Night Wind. You, not Conal, are my family.ʺ His earnest green eyes locked with Night Windʹs. ʺIs it not a sign that you and I share such strangely colored eyes?ʺ the boy asked, not wanting to hear what he feared the half‐caste was going to say about his living among the Lipan.