He glanced up but went back to his swinging without missing a stroke. Sunlight glinted in a silver arc with the rhythmic rise and fall of his axe. She sat on a stump, propped Henri’s battered, leather case beside her, smoothed out her dusty walking skirt, and prepared herself to wait. Gently, persistently, Man had shown her how to be patient.
At last, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, he propped the axe against one of the ramada’s cedar posts and crossed to sit on his haunches before her. His hooded eyes roamed over her face, then delved inside and looked. “What anger makes you walk?”
She opened the case. Henri’s mandolin lay inside. “Henri would have wanted you to have this.”
His gaze appreciated it. “Much beauty.” His voice was low, soft with awe, so genuine no matter how many times he viewed something of beauty.
She cleared her throat and plowed ahead. “Like your drum, its song is the result of its creator’s hard work. Your drums are allowed to speak with their own voices and whatever voice they use is the right one. Man, I want you to use your voice . . . to join Henri’s song. And now mine.”
For the first time, she saw surprise on his noble face. It passed quickly. “You have decided to take up Henri’s place?”
“Amazing, isn’t it.” She smiled ever so slightly. A dry smile. “As much as Henri resisted, as much as I have only dallied until now . . . something about you Indians arouses our passion.” Out of words, she shrugged.
For an answer, he reached for a small, pincushion cactus within arm’s distance and plucked one of its red flowers. “Some not suited for life in your society bloom here. Others, those people you call brave, they are least able.” He paused. “Which are you?”
His question caught her off balance. Which am I? A new perception of herself and others was forming. She rallied and challenged. “Which are you?”
“I am. That is enough.”
“No!” She snatched the flower from his hand, crushed it in her fist, then shook it in his face. “‘I am’ is not enough. Simply being is not always enough. Sometimes one must do.”
Gently, he pried open her fist, splaying her fingers to reveal the crumpled petals. They had stained her palm blood red. “Is this what happens when will uses force? When it does instead of be’s?”
She withdrew her hand. Unfailingly, his touch set off confusing and exciting sensations, as if electricity arced between them. She never remembered that happening between her and Brendon.
“Exactly,” she said flatly. “It makes way for new life.”
Trembling, whether from anger or that other unidentifiable emotion she didn’t want to do battle with, she rose and stared down at him. “When are you going to stop being an observer of life, Man? Twelve years is enough time to grieve. When are you going to participate again?”
He rose, towering over her. Filling the sky. Filling her. “You know about my wife?” His voice was too quiet. Like the eye of a hurricane.
"Henri told me." She saw the pain in his eyes and knew she had struck out unfairly. "Oh, Man, I'm sorry.” Her hand reached out to clutch his forearm. “This time she was prepared for the inevitable shock of electrical current and held fast. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. But I desperately need help. I want your help.”
His gaze glanced at her hand, still clutching his arm. Her hand hand fell away. “Please. You understand me. And you understand your people. You can bridge the two worlds for me. Will you help me? Will you help your people?”
Although his lids dropped even lower, concealing his soul’s deliberation, his full lips eased their stringent line. “You make good warrior, Alessandra.”
At least, he used her given name. That was encouraging. “I should be. I come from a long line of soldiers.”
“Those soldiers trained for combat. Not you. You will do much riding. Many miles. Much talking. Bad weather. Little sleep. You are sure this is what you want?”
She handed him the mandolin case. “You warned me once of the loss of my soul’s identity. Well, I’m reclaiming it. This is what I want. If you want to help me, Man . . . I don’t have to tell you, it’s going to be damned dangerous.”
* * * * *
She could cope with danger. After all, she was dying. What difference if a weakened lung took her out . . . or a well-aimed bullet?
But discomfort was another issue, discomfort aided and abetted by a lack of stamina. She had overestimated her health and its capacity for endurance. With Man serving as interpreter, she met far into the night with elders of the various Pueblos rimming Taos, explaining to them the inner workings of Washington behind-closed-door committees – the power wielded in the United States capitol by its éminence grise.
Today Taos Pueblo, then tomorrow San Juan and Santa Clara Pueblos, both much farther apart, necessitating a full day’s ride each way. On the return portion of the campaign, she and Man were to finish with a stop at the Picuris Pueblo.
Autumn’s change commanded the land that second week in October. Its orange leaves reflected the blood heat, electrical storms, and unbearable tension of summer. Fire and color still ran riot through the countryside, just as they had in the 1680 Puebloan revolt against their Spanish conquerors.
The conquistadores had enslaved the Puebloans, stripped the land of its resources and its people of their religion. Revolt echoed through its mesas, canyons, and mountains. The peaceful Puebloans had been like Nuevo Mexico’s thousands of dormant volcanoes, ready to spew their molten madness. Pushed beyond human endurance, the Pueblo Indian Popé had united the Pueblo tribes across the Southwest from his headquarters at the Taos Pueblo and had driven the Spanish interlopers from Nuevo Mexico.
Could the tribes be united again?
In 1876 the United States had declared the Pueblo tribes with their advanced culture were not wards of the government like other Indian tribes. As a result, they were not entitled to federal protection and ultimately had to accept the Anglo and Hispanic homesteaders, the squatters and trespassers on Pueblo lands. They could not fight nor would the government fight for them.
Alessandra struggled with the complexities of Bursum’s draft. How could anyone logically explain that, after much tinkering and revision, it would settle claims in favor of non-Indians living on the valuable irrigated land of the Pueblos? How could she explain something so powerful and formidable as the American political machine? How could she explain the only promise America would keep to the Indians would be the one to take their land?
None of this the Indians could understand. Though they had never entered into a treaty with any of the foreign governments occupying their land — Spain, Mexico, or America — the Indians had lost through the 1846 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo between Mexico and United States over 334 million acres, leaving them a scant two million.
Now the squatters taking bits and pieces of that two million acres represented an important bloc of votes, while the Indians had no power at the ballot box since they were denied the right to vote. How could she explain to them their powerlessness?
Now, Secretary of Interior Fall, the bureaucrat who supposedly represented their interests had chosen to side with non-Indian claimants.
How could she explain that fairness and justice were irrelevant concepts to politicians? How could she warn the Puebloans without taking all hope?
Even so, Alessandra disdained defeat.
At Taos Pueblo, she kept her words simple, hoping the maxim “Simplicity has more impact” proved true.
Because she was not allowed to descend into the ceremonial kivas, meetings were held at the Taos chiefs’ homes. The old men, as wrinkled as cedar bark, sat on the bench ledges girding the walls and listened as Man translated. The whitewash on the walls smeared off on the blankets of the governor, the war chiefs, the lieutenant governor, the kiva chiefs, the fifty or so male elders . . . and on her gray wool, double-breasted Chesterfield.
Man had an authoritative presence about him, a Truth and inner power that spoke more stro
ngly even than her words he translated. The old men of the tribes moaned, knowing the Bursum Bill was a sentence of death.
“Ai, ai, ai, what can we do?” one of them asked.
“How can we hold our own against powers like the United States and its government?” another demanded.
“What good was the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo with its empty promises?” questioned still another.
“In 1680,” she tried, “your Puebloan tribes united to defeat the Spanish and drive them from your land. You must unite as your people did then. But this time you must unite politically, not militarily, not with violence as before. Only one small part of the great American military machine would be needed to defeat you and all your Puebloan brothers and sisters.”
Man talked next. He explained the need to send delegates to an All-Pueblo meeting, to be held at Taos, where the newly formed Indian Defense Association, made up of local artists and concerned citizens, would also be in attendance. These non-Indians were people outside politics and government who would let more and more people know what was happening. All these people could then cry out to stop the government.
The Pueblo men listened intently, all the while nodding gravely. When he finished, they sat deathly quiet. One by one, each man spoke his feeling. Not his knowledge, but his feeling; because with its unerring instinct, when one followed the heart truly, it was always right.
Santa Clara and San Juan Pueblos reacted the same way. The old men held council upon council.
Alessandra could see there was no more fight left in them, just resignation. She had not been able to give them hope or to motivate them. If she was not defeated, they were.
That night, Man stayed with the tribal elders, she at one of the Ranchitos trading company’s back rooms, because no white person was allowed to remain in the pueblos overnight.
At Picuris, the last pueblo stop on the return trip the following day, the hair stood up on her nape when she and Man passed the bend in the road where Henri had been shot. Even the horses whinnied.
Man sensed her concern. “You are safe. Henri’s life-taker is not here.”
She flicked him a sideways glance. “How do you know that?”
“I listen. My heart says so.”
His certainty amazed her. “Do you know who murdered Henri?”
“No. Not yet.”
She would not tell him about her suspicions. She didn’t want Man boxed into some kind of confrontation with Potts. Then again, Man was not the type of individual anyone could be boxed in anywhere. A shape shifter, this fearless yet peaceful man with whom she had fallen in love. Exactly when, she wasn’t sure. There was no defining moment when her heart knew. Perhaps she had loved him always. Before this lifetime, as she would in lifetimes to come.
The Picuris elders appeared more resilient than those of San Juan and Santa Clara, perhaps influenced by, and spilling over from, the fierce spirituality of the Penitentes in the nearby Mexican villages. Scourged with their self inflicted exorcisms, their flaying of their own bodies, the Penitentes’ Catholicism was violent, like their politics.
She and Man rode within sight of a Penitente morada, one of those private, windowless chapels ensconced near remote mountain tarns, where unfathomable spiritual anguish was transformed into physical pain. A great, gaunt cross stood outside. Each Easter week, a member of the secret Penitente Order was hanged by ropes here, despite commands from the Vatican to halt the fiesta of agony.
Man described to her how, in the dark of night, little lanterns would swing erratically through the trees and then suddenly come together in two rows. The weird chants of eerie anguish could be heard, followed by the rhythmical and heavy thudding on solid flesh, bloody flesh, the heavy thong and ball of cactus, driving in its needles.
Am I not like one of those submissive Penitentes by taking painful pleasure in Man’s flagellating passion that scourges my love-starved flesh?
He paused when she held up her palm to ward off his descriptive words, then added, “I do not understand this need for pain. My people, dance in spring. But with joy.”
“As King David must have danced,” she murmured. “Naked and with great joy in the streets.”
* * * * *
The ride back to Taos from Picuris Pueblo proved the most grueling through treacherous terrain. She still had to carry the warning later to fifteen more pueblos further south of the Rio Grande and as far west as Arizona. Thanking God, she contemplated a few days rest before she tackled those remaining pueblos.
Man had warned her of the long rides, so she had insisted on the convenience of a saddle. At least she could stand in the stirrups to relieve her aching back and legs. Still her thighs became chafed and barely recovered before enduring more hours of rubbing skin to cloth to leather.
Rain drizzled throughout that late afternoon. Despite her hooded yellow slicker, her hair plastered her cheeks and neck. The bridle reins stuck to her leather gloves.
And she coughed, frequently.
Riding along side of her, Man eyed her with concern. Unlike Brendon, he did not say “I told you so.” For this, she was grateful.
Again she was demonstrating her lifetime habit of foolishly tackling large-scope projects she hadn’t the inner strength to win. Like organizing the Women’s Suffrage and Red Cross local groups in Washington. A great idea, but failing health and sarcastic criticism from her father, husband, and brother had often worn her down. How she hated the suppression of authority.
A Woman of La Mancha. Will I ever learn?
As the dreary ride toward Taos went on and on, she began to think how marvelous a highball would taste . . . and feel. Maybe a bourbon and grapefruit juice with mint leaves freshly picked from the acequia banks, shaken up with ice cubes. Instead, she settled for icy cold water sluicing from a mountain stream.
The drizzle changed to softly sifting snow. A little over fifteen miles away, Taos shone like gold coins in the faint light of a dying sun striated with gray clouds. Blue smoke from many chimneys curled over the houses. Just beyond, the Pueblo rose like two timeless terra-cotta pyramids.
In the gloaming, Man removed the bulging packs from the horses, built a small fire, and cooked a beefsteak he held in a crotched stick. The acrid black coffee and sizzling steak, the fragrant nostalgia of autumn fires and burning leaves eased her sour mood.
Her damp and smelly horse blanket wrapped around her, she held her palms to the fire. The sun dropped and disappeared rapidly, as it always did in the mountains. The cold squeezed in. Their horses whinnied in protest, then went back to munching oats from their nose bags, their crunching loud in the silence of the darkened foothills.
“Will we reach Taos before midnight?” And my cozy home with its soft wool mattress and warm eiderdown comforter?
Across the fire, he hunkered down on his heels. The soiled white of his moccasins, leggings, and blanket blended with leisurely drifting snowflakes. Smoke eddied between them, lending him an indistinct, supernatural appearance. Is it a trick of firelight or is he incandescent?
“Snow covers hidden holes horses don’t see. Better to wait.”
She nodded but dreaded the prospect of sleeping on the frozen ground. The coffee and hot food warmed her somewhat. This night would be no different than the others of the political expedition . . . Man would not mate with her again until she took back her magic, as he called it. And that meant confronting and openly defying her father and Brendon. Just the thought . . . well, it was unthinkable. A monster of fear that stole her breath and stole her courage. Wrapped in now-dried blankets, she lay upon the bed of twigs prepared by Man and fell into an exhausted sleep.
Later, her coughing rattled her very bones. Sometime deep in the night, she awoke, freezing. Far away, coyotes yapped. Her hacking joined their plaintive howls.
Man, shrouded in his white woolen blanket, bent over her, his beautiful face dark with concern. Behind him danced the orange tongues of the fire’s darting flames. He held out a cup of steaming liquid that
smelled strongly of camphor. “Boiled sagebrush. Good for cough and cold.”
Alessandra stared, astounded that he would leave the warmth of his bed to scour for sagebrush and then prepare its tea for her. Brendon would have complained that she was disturbing his sleep.
Overwhelmed by Man’s solicitous gesture, she propped herself on one arm to sip the steaming elixir. Its strong, bitter aftertaste made her shiver. She returned the empty cup and retreated into her blanket.
“I’m co-cold.”
He rose, blending with the cloud of perfumed wood smoke, and faded from her drowsy view. Moments later, her blanket was peeled away. He enfolded her within his wool one, drawing her against his length. His warmth enveloped her. She snuggled closer, feeling a kind of vibration run through him.
The wood smoke had permeated his skin with its oriental incense, a narcotic-like odor she inhaled deeply. She submerged herself, drowned in his potency. The lethargy of surrender swirled through her chest, into her belly, changing into a sudden passion, a burning from the inside out, a blood heat. She pressed closer to him. Felt his response hard against her belly. Her heart swelled, its rhythm shifting to throb in unison with the deep, strong beat of his.
He said something in her ear. Spanish, English, Tiwa . . . she wasn’t sure. But the low, husky utterances from his throat became an ancient, magical incantation. The vitality of his singing filled the night and filled her. Rousing her. Inciting her. Designed to transfigure her into a flow of light somewhere between the limited known and the infinite possibilities of the unknown.
How can I become so inflamed, so utterly seduced by the wild, primeval power of his chant? How can my body flow so easily and readily with its natural juices?
Then, a muffled roar erupted like a wellspring and spewed electrically charged air throughout her lungs. As if he had poured out his living force into her. She floated. Hands supported her, stroked her into life.
Indian Affairs (historical romance) Page 19