by tiffy
ʺIt is not strange, Santiago, little brother . . . for we are brothers. Conal Quinn is father to me as well as to you.ʺ He watched the boyʹs face blanch in incredulity.
ʺBut he sold you into the mines when you were a boy! Hoarse Bark was there with you!ʺ
ʺYes, and I would have had my vengeance on him through you. When I took Orlena, it was you I soughtto make into a warrior who would kill white men.
That was to be my revenge on our father.ʺ
Santiago digested this in confusion. Part of him was horrified at Conalʹs perfidy, part of him overjoyed that his idol was also truly blood kin. ʺThen perhaps . . .
perhaps if you are my brother, there is hope that my blood is not tainted . . .
unless having a Spanish mother makes it so. Is that why you do not want me with you and Orlena?ʺ The hurt and entreaty in the boyʹs face was plain to see.
ʺNever say it! I am proud to call you brother. It matters not who your mother wasor who Conal Quinn is,ʺ he added darkly.
ʺThen why, why can I not live with you?ʺ the boy persisted with the singlemindedness of adolescence.
ʺBecause the life I embark upon is dangerousa road I would not have you travel.
The men who ride with me are like Hoarse Bark and Cloth Fox, and now these few Jicarillathey have no family, no one left depending on them.ʺ
ʺBut you have Orlena and your baby,ʺ Santiago said. At once he sensed a change in Night Windʹs demeanor, even though his face quickly hid the tension.
ʺMy child is the reason I ask you to return to the whites. Orlena is no longer at the stronghold. She has returned to the City of Mexico. Fray Bartolome was to escort her as far as his mission in Chihuahua City,ʺ Night Wind said. The bitterness and pain in his voice were unmistakable.
ʺBut why? I do not understand. Orlena loves you. She carries your childshe is your wife!ʺ The boyʹs world was being turned upside down.
ʺYes, Orlena is my wife. Fray Bartolome married us before Conal brought me to Santa Fe in chains. But she chose to return to Ignacio to live the life of a lady. She would put her shameful mixed‐blood baby in a convent orphanage.ʺ
ʺI do not believe this!ʺ Santiago cried as he jumped up, but before he could run away, Night Windʹs words stopped him.
ʺShe told me this herself. We were alone together.ʺ He watched the boy crumple to the ground in bewilderment. He faced his younger brother and said, ʺI have given her reasons, perhaps. I kidnapped her and seduced her.ʺ
ʺI already knew that, but you married her among your own people. You love my sister and she loves you,ʺ Santiago said doggedly.
A look of anguish passed over the dark, chiseled face of the renegade. ʺIt is finished, Santiago. She will tell you the rest of it when you rejoin her. Promise me you will go to Chihuahua City to Bartolome.ʺ At the boyʹs hesitation, Night Wind entreated, ʺYou must protect my child until its birth. Then you will send word to me. I will make some plan about what to do after that. How I do not know. Only promise you will watch your sisterʹs babe and protect it from Conal.ʺ
ʺYes, I swear that. None of us will ever live with him again,ʺ the boy replied with a catch in his voice. ʺBut what of you?ʺ
ʺI go to end it with Conal. If he is dead, he cannot harm you or my child.ʺ Or touch Orlena? some insidious voice inside Night Wind added.
ʺIt will be dangerous. You are hurt. Will you at least let She Who Dreams attend your wounds first?ʺ
Smiling at the boy, he reached out and held him firmly by the shoulder. ʺYes, I too, make a promise.ʺ
When Santiago arrived at the mission, he was surprised at its rude simplicity.
This was scarcely the lap of luxury Night Wind had bitterly told him his sister had chosen. He bade farewell to the two Jicarilla scouts who had accompanied him and dismounted uncertainly.
Before he could knock, the heavy wooden door swung open and a tall man with dark hair and piercing gray eyes looked him over as he motioned him inside. The Franciscanʹs face was wreathed in smiles, and the boy knew immediately that this must be Fray Bartolome.
ʺWelcome! Thereʹs no mistaking you, my son, even with those fiery locks shorn like a sheepʹs.ʺ
ʺI have my brotherʹs eyes,ʺ Santiago replied defensively, not wanting to dwell on his father.
Bartolome assessed him shrewdly. ʺSo, he told you, did he? Orlena knew naught of this.ʺ
ʺIs she here? I was not certain,ʺ Santiago said, relief flooding him as the priest ushered him and his weary mount into the courtyard.
ʺYour sister is here, but I am amazed to see you without your father.ʺ
ʺIn time he may think to search for me here. We must plan what to do, Father, for I would not have him find me, ever again.ʺ
Many things bothered the friar as he called Fray Alonzo and bade him rub down Santiagoʹs weary mount and stable it with their mules. ʺWhat has passed since I was exchanged for you on the Taos Trail?ʺ He dreaded hearing of Joaquinʹs death, yet felt certain it had happened.
ʺThe Night Wind is free, Father.ʺ As the amazed priest showed him to the small cabin in the rear of the courtyard, the boy explained why he had fled Conal and gave the details of Joaquinʹs escape. When he came to their parting and Joaquinʹs bitter words about Orlena, Santiago faltered.
ʺI feared Conal would not keep his word to her, but it was her only chance to save him.ʺ Bartolome observed the boyʹs confused expression and said quietly, ʺWe will speak of this only once so that you may understand why each of them did such terrible things to the other.ʺ
As he talked of Joaquínʹs childhood, his oath to kill Conal, and the twists and turns his revenge had taken over the years, the priest prepared a simple supper of cheese, bread, and sliced melons for the boy. Finally, after explaining the cruel letter Joaquín had sent to Conal and then Orlenaʹs reading of it, he added sadly, ʺPart of this is my fault. I have never met a Spanish lady who could read. If I had not carelessly left it lying about, she would not have felt such a sense of betrayal.ʺ
ʺSo that is what he meant about her reasons for deserting him,ʺ the boy said glumly. ʺBut still she would not give over her own child to an orphanage and go to Ignacio. I know my sister. She could never do such a thing!ʺ
ʺOrlena loves Joaquín still, in spite of the way he intended to use her, but she parted from him under tragic circumstances not of her choosing, any more than they were of his.ʺ
By the time Bartolome had ended the tale with the death of the baby in the desert, the boy was crying silently. ʺIt is not fair! It is not right,ʺ he choked out.
ʺMuch in this life is unjust, my son. I do not pretend to understand why or to offer platitudes. We must be grateful that Joaquín and Orlena are alive, that is all we can ask now. I do know that your sister needs you. Joaquín was right to send you to her, even if he did so for the wrong reasons.ʺ
When Santiago saw Orlena, he understood what the priest meant. She sat in a small, solitary room, looking frail and wan in a drab black skirt and peasantʹs camisa. She mourned, not only for the child, but for her lost love.
Her eyes, dulled to an eerie yellowish shade, looked up at Santiago, scarcely registering surprise at his unexpected appearance.
For the next week, the priest and the youth tried in vain to bring her out of the lethargic grief that held her in thrall. She felt intense guilt over being duped by Conal into making the bargain that crushed Night Windʹs love for her. Yet she had held doubts about her husbandʹs feelings even before she played out the cruel scene in that mountain hut. The only good thing to come from their relationship had been buried in the northern desert.
Then one afternoon, someone rode in from that northern desert to shake Orlena from her lethargy, if not her grief.
Even after riding all day through driving wind and spring rains, Ignacio looked immaculate and poised as he stood before her that evening in Bartolomeʹs cabin.
He had bathed and changed into a maroon velvet suit before speaking with his sister. ʺYou are well enough to travel.
Either come with me to the City of Mexico or await the arrival of our devoted stepfather and see what he plans for you.ʺ
ʺExactly what do you plan for me, Ignacio? Never have I known you to do a deed of kindness,ʺ Orlena countered wearily. Yet dread of Conalʹs unnatural desire for her battered at the shell she had built around herself.
He smiled pityingly. ʺIf you remained so drab and lifeless, I would not bother, but I do trust you will outlast your grief.ʺ
She looked at him with eyes grown old beyond her scant nineteen years. ʺAnd if I do? I am still wed. You cannot sell me for an advantageous marriage alliance, Ignacio.ʺ
He shrugged philosophically. ʺPerhaps your outlaw husband will die. He came within a hairʹs breadth of it in Santa Fe. I will even take Quinnʹs whelp with us. It amuses me to thwart Conal Quinn,ʺ he said with one thin eyebrow arched as he flicked a speck of lint from his velvet cuff.
ʺCould it be we are your safe passage away from Conalʹs wrath?ʺ Orlena asked cannily. Observing the tic in his cheek, she knew she had hit on the truth.
ʺConal Quinn is being dismissed as governor of the province for malfeasance. He will have no power to harm me. I have the ear of the viceroy as a royal emissary.ʺ
He paused and considered her. ʺHere in this wilderness he could do with you as he pleases. Who would say him nay? Your fine Franciscans?ʺ he asked scornfully.
Thinking of Conalʹs touch and his cold lustful eyes when he had bargained with her, she shuddered. If he lost his post in Santa Fe, he would be driven and desperate. Blessed Virgin, what form of vengeance might he take on her? Worse yet, what might he do to the son who had rejected him?
ʺWe will go with you, Ignacio,ʺ she replied tonelessly.
Spring 1789
The saddle leather creaked in protest as he shifted his weight. Godʹs Bones, he grew too old for this! Days and nights spent in a hot, stiff uniform, riding all day through dust and sand, sleeping each night on the dry rocky earth. ʺBut I am second in command under the Commandant General of the Eastern Sector of the Internal Provinces,ʺ he muttered bitterly beneath his breath. He took a generous swallow of brackish water and recalled the long, bitter battle he had waged last summer, and lost to Ignacio. His military record and the support of the ricos in the north had kept him from total disgrace. When he was dismissed from his post as provincial governor, he had petitioned the viceroy for the opportunity to hunt down and kill the Apache who had stolen his family.
That was what he had done this past year. His calloused fingers reached up to his sweat‐stained, sunburned neck and caressed the necklace he wore. It fit well with his worn leather armor and thorn‐ripped uniform.
ʺIf you could see me now, my golden butterfly, all safely ensconced in the City of Mexico, what would you think, I wonder?ʺ
Ignacioʹs political power kept her and even Santiago out of his reach. He had turned his back on them, too, cursing the boy who was his mirror image physically, but possessed the heart of a woman. Santiago had embraced that hated half‐caste cur and his Lipan savages. Orlena had lain with the renegade and would have sacrificed her very life to save her lover!
ʺOne day, when the Night Wind is dead, I will meet you again, Orlena. I swear on my oath.ʺ
Sergeant Baca rode up to him as he waited on the promontory, surveying the desolate plains. Not a trace of life stirred below. They had combed all of the Llano Estacado and ridden far south, even into Coahuila. Now they were back in Nueva Vizcaya. And still the Night Wind and his raiders roamed free.
The sergeant waited patiently. Captain Quinnʹs temper was always uncertain at best. ʺWell, Baca, what have you?ʺ He broke the silence without looking at the sergeant.
ʺPerhaps more of those for your adornment, Captain,ʺ he replied with a black-toothed grin at the chain of human ears about Quinnʹs neck. The Irishman was not the only man to wear the trophies. Many of the seasoned field officers who warred against the Apache and Comanche gave a bounty for their ears, some even collected scalps. ʺWe have found a village about ten miles west of here.ʺ
ʺPah! Women and children. I seek the renegade and his raiders!ʺ Conal turned his horse in disgust. ʺLet us finish this task and get back on Night Windʹs trail.ʺ
The mission was quiet at this time of night. Fray Bartolome liked to walk in the garden just after vespers and cleanse his mind with the tranquility of nature. He had books to read, records to tally, many things to do, but tonight he felt singularly restless and lonely. Today a girl had died in the citya casta, a child of mixed blood whom no one valued. She had been merely another Indian servant in a wealthy mine ownerʹs household, unlucky enough to contract a fever. His melancholy ruminations were suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice. ʺStill your habits do not change, Priest.ʺ
ʺJoaquín! I had feared you dead. It has been over six months since last I saw you.ʺ He inspected the nearly naked, bronzed savage who stood in the shadows beneath a spreading cottonwood tree. Now the half‐caste had reverted completely to the Lipan he had been when the priest first encountered him.
When Joaquín had come to take his childthe babe he was so certain Orlena would place in an orphanageand found it had died, the last threads binding him to civilization had been severed.
The Night Wind had listened to Bartolome explain why Orlena and Santiago went with Ignacio to the City of Mexico, but the priest knew he no more believed the reasons for that than he believed Orlena still loved him.
ʺWhy are you here, my son?ʺ he asked gently. He had feared never to see this child of his heart again. ʺI have letters from Orlena and Santiagoʺ
ʺThat is not the reason I am returned,ʺ he interrupted more abruptly than he intended. ʺI would hear of my little brother later, but first I have somethingand someonefor you.ʺ
The priest walked swiftly toward his small cabin at the rear of the gardens.
ʺWhat brings you here in the face of such danger? You could disguise yourself far better, if you wished.ʺ Joaquínʹs Apache breechclout and the arsenal of weapons he wore proclaimed him an outlaw. His hair was long and shaggy, held from his hard face by a leather band about his forehead. He looked like a killer.
He was.
ʺI do not choose to be a tame Indianor a white manjust now.ʺ Standing by Bartolomeʹs rude wooden table in the cabin, he reached up to his belt and unhooked a large leather pouch. When he dumped its contents on the table, the mound of gold glittered in the dim light like a reflection from the altar in the Cathedral of Mexico.
ʹʹWhere did you get this?ʺ the priest whispered. ʺI do not want your blood money, Joaquín.ʺ
ʺIt is from a mine in Sonora. I do not bring it as retribution for my sins. It is not ʹblood money,ʹ Bartolome.ʺ He paused and looked into the priestʹs face. ʺI have been finding children . . . children like me, in the mines, in the streets. They are castas, abandoned by both races. They cannot read or learn to survive, except by turning into outlaws such as I am. Surely you do not want that.ʺ A quirking smile tugged at his lips.
ʺYou have stolen this gold,ʺ the priest accused him.
ʺYes. I steal from the minesgold, silverand slaves. Children, my old friend. I have a ranch in New Mexico. You know the valley, where I took you after I ransomed you. Well, it is a good place to raise sheep and cattle. I have taken some of the older children and adult slaves there. I pay them to work the land for me. But there are many young oneswith minds as eager as mine to learn.ʺ
ʺDo they, like you, wish to learn so that they can revenge themselves on their Spanish persecutors?ʺ the priest asked with a steel edge in his voice.
ʺNo, they wish only a chance for a new life. Will you deny them?ʺ
ʺWhat have I to do with this?ʺ the Franciscan asked uneasily.
ʺI can supply the gold and silver. Wealth enough to buy books, food, medicines.
But I cannot teach them love and patience. You and the brothers here . . .ʺ He let his words trail away, then added, ʺThere is a widow living outside Chihuahua CityMorena Girón. She has a la
rge ranch and she, too, is a half‐caste who would aid you in this work.ʺ
Bartolome hesitated. For the first time, Joaquín was not on a quest for vengeance but a mission of mercy. Yet the money to pay for it would be stolen. He remembered Joaquín as a beaten, starved child enslaved by those men he now robbed. Then he remembered the half‐caste girl he had buried that day, her dark wide eyes forever closed, her chance for life erased. Perhaps this was a chance for such children as well as a new one for Joaquín.
ʺI will help you,ʺ he replied simply.
Chapter 20
When Bartolome saw the first children Joaquín brought him, he was aghast. If one wounded, abused, and starved boy had touched his heart fifteen years ago, a dozen such, some at deathʹs door, left him stunned by human cruelty.
The first supplies he needed were medicines and clothing. The gardens the friars tilled at the monastery had to be greatly enlarged to accommodate an increase in their food supply. Once the critical needs were met, he secured more books and writing supplies with which to teach the children as he had taught their rescuer many years before. All these things were costly in labor and coin. For the gold and silver that various of Night Windʹs raiders left with him, the priest was most grateful.
He had agonized for quite a while about accepting the wealth. His own Franciscan superiors were far away in the capital, and the bishop in Durango was not sympathetic to the plight of Indians. He finally concluded the best course was simply to apply himself to the myriad tasks that consumed his days from before dawn far into the night. His time was spent hiring paisanos to till their crops and build new shelters and schoolrooms, as well as training Fray Alonzo and Fray Domingo to begin keeping order among their new charges.
Simple things such as convincing a recalcitrant eight‐year‐old boy to bathe could be a knotty problem indeed when that child was a Comanche orphan whose only acquaintance with water had been in crossing rivers while pursued by soldiers.
Eating utensils were often used as weapons at mealtime by many of the missionʹs new boarders. Worst of all, perhaps, was getting the children, raised without clothing in warm weather, to accept the strictures of European modesty in dress.