Marco and the Devil's Bargain

by Carla Kelly

  “You have cast aspersions you cannot prove upon the whole Moreno family.”

  “It’s the truth, Alonso,” he said, finally looking his former friend in the eyes. “Your wife’s father somehow acquired a brand that belongs to Paloma Vega, and her land near El Paso del Norte, after the death of her family in a Comanche raid. She was but eleven years old and had not an advocate in the world. Eleven, Alonso, eleven.”

  “You have no proof,” Alonso replied, his tone less certain.

  “You are correct,” Marco agreed. “I stand by my accusation, though.”

  “Go!”

  Marco wheeled Buciro around and gestured to his outriders to precede him. He followed, sick at heart at his own foolishness. Any yet …. Before he passed through the gate, he looked back at Alonso.

  “Tell me something. Among your wife’s jewels and trinkets, have you ever seen a little star and a V on a chain? A child’s necklace?”

  The look on Alonso’s face told Marco everything he needed to know. “That’s what I thought.”

  Alonso surprised him them. With a glance back at the hacienda, he walked to the gate. He put his hand on Buciro, patting Marco’s horse in an absentminded way. “I would be your friend again, Marco. Perhaps when la viruela has passed, we can discuss this brand.”

  “If you survive,” Marco said. Maybe brutal words would sink in; a juez could hope.

  “Yes, if we survive. I would be your friend again,” Alonso repeated.

  “And I, yours,” Marco said, reaching down to touch Alonso’s shoulder. “Vaya con Dios.”

  “Y tu.” Alonso backed away from Buciro and held up his hand, after another glance at his house.

  Relieved—after all, who likes to lose a friend?—Marco rode through the gate, his head high.

  His dignity lasted until he was out of sight of the hacienda. He blew out his cheeks and slumped in his saddle, which made his outriders frown and look at each other, uneasy. He managed a weak smile and a joke. “Sometimes I do not shine in this juez de campo business,” he said to the nearest man.

  “If I may, señor, I have heard that no one shines, who comes from the Castellano holdings,” the man said, looking at Marco with some sympathy. He laughed. “Maybe you should receive a commendation from the governor for not murdering them both.”

  Marco managed a chuckle, because it was expected of him. “You have it, Pablo. Perhaps I did show remarkable restraint.”

  He didn’t get home a moment too soon. The Castellano holdings were not quite a league away from his own, but Marco felt the growing reality that the only thing that was going to make his debacle of a visit even slightly palatable was his wife’s sympathy. Maybe she could kiss away the hurt to a man’s pride, like a mother with a child.

  When they arrived at the Double Cross, he didn’t argue when his men told him they would curry his horse, Buciro. “Only this time, and gracias,” he said as he hurried to his house.

  Kitchen smells could wait. He tossed his cloak and hat on a bench in the hall and hurried into their bedchamber. Paloma sat there with her knitting, which she put aside at once. She held out her hand to him, and he saw that she was pale and fine-drawn in that way of someone recuperating, leaning back against her pillow and his. Her eyes were on his face, and they were full of concern.

  “Paloma, I blundered so badly with the Castellanos. What I said! O Dios mio.”

  “Take off your boots,” she said as she patted the space beside her and raised the blanket.

  He did as she said, tossing his belt and knife after the boots. Without a word, he lay down beside her and rested his head in her lap. He closed his eyes, home again.

  “Your ears are cold, my lord,” she told him quite formally, the way she always spoke when she was ready to scold him for some infraction or other. Her mild admonition turned into a gentle croon when he started to cry. She put her hand over his ears as though to shelter him from the sound of his own failure, if that’s what it was. Heaven knows she had never measured up in Maria Teresa’s eyes.

  “Poor man, did you try to convince them to be inoculated?” she asked when he was silent.

  “I failed. I thought perhaps if only Alonso were inoculated, that would be some protection, at least. She wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Then you have done all you could. No tears over that, my love,” Paloma said. She took the pillows out from behind her head and inched down closer to him.

  “It was worse. I was so angry, or maybe I was frustrated, but I accused them of stealing your brand and your family’s land near El Paso del Norte.”

  She sucked in her breath, probably upset with him, but she didn’t draw away. He waited for her to speak, but she was silent.

  “Forgive me for losing my temper.” His apology sounded so feeble to his ears. “She taunted me and I rose to the bait like a trout in a stream. Fool!”

  “Maria Teresa can be provoking,” was all Paloma said. She went to work on the buttons on his shirt. “Why don’t you just get comfortable and go to sleep?”

  “That’s your solution to my stupidity?” he asked, relaxing a little.

  “Well, no, but el médico told me not to exert myself,” she said, sounding most practical.

  Marco smiled at that and did as she said, even though it was only early afternoon and he had much to do. He got into a nightshirt only because he did not know when the little doctor might wander through to check on his patient.

  He composed himself for a nap, nothing more. When he woke, it was dark and someone—something?—was licking his face.

  He sat up, and Trece tumbled into his arms. He patted the space beside him. Paloma wasn’t there, and then she was, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed this time, wearing her robe over her nightgown.

  “I disobeyed you and the doctor,” she said, sounding not even slightly repentant. He heard the sorrow in her voice, and he knew where she had been.

  “Andrés ….”

  “Ah, yes. I walked into the chapel and Trece was whining and sniffing and turning in circles. You won’t mind if he sleeps in here for a few nights? I know I was supposed to stay in bed, but ….”

  Marco rested his head on her leg, as Trece turned around a few times and settled down with a grunt. “I’ll miss the old man. He taught me so much, after my father died.”

  “We all will miss him. Sancha tells me he went peacefully.” He felt her sigh more than heard it. “And Sancha told me to get back to bed before she swatted me.” She put her lips next to his ear. “Are you just a little afraid of her, too?”

  “You found me out, Paloma. Better do what she says.”

  In another moment she was out of her robe and pressed close to him again. “I walked just down to the chapel and back, but I’m tired.”

  He held his wife close until she slept, only a matter of minutes. When her breathing was deep and regular, Marco got up, dressed again and left Trece curled up next to Paloma. When he opened the door, he nearly jumped back, startled, because Antonio was raising his hand to knock.

  “She’s sleeping. Just so you know, she disobeyed us and went to the chapel.”

  “I was there, too. I am sorry about the old man.”

  To Marco’s ears, Antonio didn’t sound sorry. He wondered again why the man had gone into medicine in the first place. Wasn’t it one of those higher callings, like the priesthood? Obviously, he was too naïve for his own good.

  “Let her sleep,” he told the doctor.

  They walked down the hall together, Antonio telling him who was on the path to recovery and who still lingered in what he called “the shadows.” Perhaps he should not judge the little man so harshly, Marco told himself. He looked tired and fine-drawn himself, and still too thin. And he thought he would ride onto the Staked Plains like this?

  Marco said as much to Toshua, who had resumed his usual place in Marco’s office. He lay on his pallet, not entirely awake, his eyes half-closed, looking very much like Paloma and the other recovering patients in the chapel.
“H’mm,” was all Toshua said in reply to his rant, designed to cover up the irritation that still smarted from his visit to the Castellanos.

  Not that Toshua ever had much to say, Marco reasoned. He shuffled the papers on his desk and arranged them into more efficient piles—like the good bureaucrat he was, he thought, with some distaste. Maybe it was time to turn over the thankless job of juez de campo to someone younger. He was thirty-two now and starting to feel it.

  “There are ways we can travel on the Llano and attract little notice.”

  Marco looked up, startled. He had forgotten that Toshua was even in the room, and now the Comanche stood right next to his desk. Damn, but the man was silent.

  “Are you saying we might actually do this thing for the doctor—we must, you know—and even survive?” he asked, when his heart had settled back where it belonged.

  “I will take you on secret paths and you will have to trust me, because one rise of ground looks much like the other. You will be lost.”

  “How is it that you can find your way through such a place?”

  Toshua shrugged. “I just can. And maybe you should ask yourself if you trust that little man.”

  “I trust him not at all, but I made his devil’s bargain for Paloma.”

  “I could kill him for you. Paloma knows how to work the magic to defeat the Dark Wind. You don’t need him.”

  “Don’t tempt me!”

  Toshua gave him that wry look that signaled he did not understand. He walked to the fireplace, added a few more piñon knots and squatted there, facing the flames. He looked back at Marco, and his expression was deadly serious, even menacing.

  “Don’t even think to sneak away to the Llano with me and the medicine man and leave Paloma behind.” He jabbed his finger. “And don’t tell me it has not crossed your mind.”

  I’m guilty as charged, Marco thought, embarrassed. “She must not come.”

  “You know what she would do—she would follow you anyway, all alone on the Llano.”

  Chilled, he looked down at the paper in front of him. Toshua was right. He didn’t pry in Toshua’s life, but he had to ask. “Would any of your wives have done something like that?”

  The Comanche looked around elaborately. “Do you see them here?”

  * * *

  Paloma came awake slowly, still turning her head to test for pain. Nothing. Only then did she open her eyes to see Marco watching her from the chair by the bed, Trece in his lap. She wanted to look out the window, but it was shuttered to keep out winter. How was she supposed to know what time of day it was? Her days had always been regulated by duties, but the inoculation had left her as clueless as a child. A week had vanished from her life, and it puzzled her.

  “Marco, I don’t know if it’s morning or night,” she complained.

  He grinned at her, which made her want to throw something at him. She said as much, and he laughed.

  “You are too easily amused,” she said, her voice crisp.

  “And you are grumpy and therefore recovering, thanks be to God.”

  She wanted to be angry at him, but he reached under the covers and tickled her foot, which meant she could not stay angry at such a man as a husband, especially if he invoked the deity.

  “Señor Gil said two more days in bed, and if the weather isn’t too cold, he wants to take you with him while he inoculates our friends in Santa Maria.”

  “I can’t imagine why. I wasn’t brave enough to make that cut in Toshua’s arm. You will come, too?”

  “He didn’t invite me, but yes, I will.”

  Someone knocked. “Speak of the devil,” Marco said, with no amusement now.

  Antonio opened the door and stood there until Marco nodded. What makes a man so frightened of his own shadow? Paloma asked herself as she folded her hands in her lap.

  “Did you tell her what I want?” he asked, with no preamble, which made Paloma shake her head. Poor man! He would probably never learn the rhythm and nuance of dealing with people like her or Marco. Not for this Englishman or American—whichever he was—the leisurely inquiries about health, general comments and other non-topics that led up to the real reason for the visit.

  From his frosty tone, Marco was having similar thoughts. Or Paloma reasoned that a visit to her obnoxious cousin was going to ruin her husband’s day far beyond the actual visit.

  “I do not tell her anything,” Marco replied. “If she chooses to do as you say, she will. If not, you will find someone else to donate pox.”

  Antonio looked at him, mystified, and then he shrugged and addressed her, after an elaborate bow that irritated Marco further—he was determined not to be cheerful—and amused her. “My dear Señora Mondragón, would you—or do I ask too much?—would you consent to let me scrape your neck for its truly excellent scabs so we can inoculate the village of Santa Maria?”

  “Certainly, you may,” she replied. “I would ask something of you in exchange.”

  “Anything up to one half of my puny kingdom,” Antonio teased.

  “You may scrape away at my neck once you have finished telling me what happened after you married your wife and settled in Louisiana.”

  The smile left his face. “You can imagine the rest,” he told her, his eyes troubled. “Would you be satisfied if I just admitted that I was a fool and the poorest husband in all of North America? We all have our hard stories.”

  “We do,” Paloma agreed. “Still, I would have your hard story, señor.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In which Antonio unburdens himself

  When he finished, Anthony knew the Mondragóns would not look upon him so kindly, as they were doing now. Just wait, he will put down the silly dog and his wife will edge over on their bed and give him room to sit with her. I doubt she would mind if he kept his boots on, spurs and all. Oh, no; he knows better than to try that. I see before me a well-trained husband.

  The dog minded no better than most little dogs, whining until Señor Mondragón reached down and scooped him up. He angled the little yellow dog toward the foot of the bed, and although it whined again, it was not allowed to squeeze between the two of them.

  The doctor sighed inwardly. In the last four months of her life, Anthony Gill’s wife was edging away from him, obviously unhappy. On the other hand, Pia Maria always gave him her complete attention—at least all the attention a three-year-old is capable of—which was almost enough to take away the pain her mother was causing. Whether Catalina knew it or not, he couldn’t have said.

  “Pull that chair closer,” Mondragón told him, which gratified Anthony.

  “Where did I leave off?” Anthony asked Paloma, even though he knew full well where he had stopped the narrative earlier that day.

  “You and … and Catalina had a daughter named Pia Maria,” Paloma prompted.

  “Yes, Catalina,” he said, enjoying the sound again. “Catalina.”

  “I used to do that,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Say my brother Claudio’s name out loud over and over, when I knew my aunt and uncle could not hear me,” she told him, her eyes on her hands. “There was Rafael, too, but it was Claudio who liked to put me in front of him on his horse.”

  “You never told me much about Claudio,” Señor Mondragón said.

  It’s my story, not hers, Anthony wanted to say, but they were looking at each other. He watched them, envious again.

  “I’ve wanted to, as you talk about Felicia now and then.” Leaning closer, she gave her husband a kiss, then remembered Anthony, blushed, and drew back.

  Anthony held his breath as Señor Mondragón touched his wife’s cheek and she leaned toward him again. It was a lovely gesture. The juez whispered in his wife’s ear then, and she nodded, her eyes down. “If we have a son,” she whispered.

  There is more here than I know, Anthony thought, wondering, for the first time in a long while, about the lives of others.

  But they were looking at him now, or Señor Mondragón wa
s. “Tell us,” was all he said, but in a peremptory fashion, as though this was a subject that needed changing.

  “We were barely managing,” Anthony said, feeling as though he were trying out the words. “Catalina seemed content enough, but I wanted more.”

  No need for them to know that for some reason, Anthony had always wanted more, a larger slice of bread, a bigger dog, a better education, a grander house. On and on, until there was nothing; that was the trouble with wanting.

  “I had been putting a little by, here and there, and I had the misfortune to listen to a land scheme.”

  That wasn’t entirely truthful. Some of the citizens in Natchitoches talked about large tracts of land for sale to the west, and a man among them who claimed to be a surveyor and an agent. Anthony had sought out the man. He had walked right into the scheme like a particularly stupid fly wandering into a web.

  “He told us of land to the west in Texas, where cattle roamed wild, and mission Indians were tame and willing to work for little. He represented himself as an agent for a Spanish grandee who owned the land.”

  “It isn’t done like that,” Mondragón said.

  “I know that now. I believed him then, maybe because I wanted to.” Anthony thought it might hurt to say that out loud, but he felt a surprising relief. “I wanted more.” He couldn’t help the catch in his throat. “I convinced my father-in-law to join my scheme. I lost all our money and most of his, and he threw me out of town. He had that kind of power.”

  He closed his eyes, remembering the awful scene: Catalina in tears, Pia Maria distressed and moving back and forth between her parents, his father-in-law shamed and reprimanded by those in authority above him. To this day, Anthony wasn’t sure why Catalina had followed him.

  He glanced at the Mondragóns, wondering at their reaction. It was what he suspected he would see: Paloma’s eyes were filled with sympathy, whereas Marco looked skeptical, wearing the thoughtful expression of a man unlikely to be taken in. Anthony plunged on. Better to bare all, now that he had started.

  “I couldn’t go east, because word had spread through official channels that I was a schemer. And the British and the Americans were still slugging it out. There was one more Spanish presidio just west of the French in Natchitoches.”