Daughter of Fortune

by Carla Kelly

  She took another tentative step, then drew back quickly. She had trod on someone’s hand, the fingers curling around her bare foot as though still alive. She shrieked and raced to the river, scattering buzzards as she pounded toward the water that glimmered in the starlight. All the ghosts of the dead men pursued her. She screamed “Saint Francis!” and leaped into the water.

  The shock of the freezing river woke her completely. She sank to the sandy bottom up to her knees. The water was frigid and fast moving, but it was clean. She took her hands away from her face and spread them over the surface of the water in a benediction of her own. She leaned forward and drank.

  She drank until her stomach gurgled, then she washed her face, scrubbing at the dirt and dried blood. With numb legs she forced herself to leave the water and struggle up the riverbank.

  There were no buzzards at the water’s edge, but no sheltering protection of trees, either. Instinct told her to go back to the trees and tall grass, but she knew nothing could ever force her to enter that grove again. If the Indians returned, then they would find her.

  Maria slid back down the riverbank and crouched by the water again. The bank offered some shelter and she leaned back and stared at the stars. Sleep was far from her, but even if her eyes did grow heavy, she kept them open. The terror of her dreams was too real to chance again in this lonely spot.

  She willed the sun to come up and hours later it did, slowly topping the hulk of the mountains. She reminded herself that somewhere over there in the shelter of the Sangre de Cristos, her sister and other citizens were now rising, lighting kitchen fires, preparing for morning prayers.

  How far away were they? Could she walk there? Would people begin to suspect the supply caravan was overdue? Or did this community function like all the other small villages in King Carlos’ domain that they had plodded through on their tedious journey, the villagers moving slowly through the pace of ordinary days and nights, not suspecting that caravans ever came in any fashion except late.

  Chapter 2

  Diego

  She must have slept then, hugging the side of the riverbank, shivering in the cold that rose off the water. The sound of a fish leaping woke her hours later and she sat up with a start, nearly sliding into the river. She dug her feet into the sandy soil and crouched, watching the water. Another fish jumped and fell back with cascading sparkles that reminded Maria of jewels.

  Jewels. In her fright, she had not thought once about her little wooden cask hidden in the bottom of the oxcart underneath her clothing.

  Maria stood slowly and climbed the riverbank. Her dress clung to her in wet, muddy folds and the glorious hair that Mama had so prized was stringy on her back. She had left her shoes behind in that tainted grove, but she was not going back for them.

  The buzzards still roosted in the floodplain, huddled together like the Indians of yesterday, waiting for the sun to warm them. The trees of the grove were so full of the scavengers that the branches bent close to the ground.

  She looked around her. The bodies, which might have been recognizable yesterday, had been picked over by the buzzards. They bore no resemblance to human beings anymore, but were only so much rotting meat now, bloated and stinking. Maria retched, spitting up water and bile. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then covered her nose and breathed through her mouth. She approached the burned wagons slowly, watching where she stepped, determined this time not to tread on anything that might once have been human.

  Most of the wagons had been destroyed by flames. She approached the few that remained. There was the smallest chance that the jewelry had gone undetected, she told herself, scrupulously keeping her mind on the wagons and not on the death around her.

  She walked carefully among the wagons and came upon her own. Young Miguel was slumped forward over the wagon box. An arrow driven completely through his back had pinned him to the wood beneath. He had been scalped and his head picked clean by the buzzards.

  As Maria stepped over the body to get into the wagon, her foot accidentally struck the corpse. Evil-smelling gas wheezed out of the arrow wound and a cloud of flies rose and then settled again. Maria leaned over the edge of the cart and retched until she felt that her stomach would turn inside out.

  She trembled as she knelt in the wagon. The fire had gone out before it consumed everything. She found her bundle of clothing, ripped and shredded by knives. She burrowed deeper in the pile. Nothing. The cask was gone.

  Maria sagged against the wagon bed, blinking back tears. She had been foolish beyond all reason to hope that the Indian raiders would not find her prize. That pitiful handful of baubles represented her only chance, her entire future. They were gone now, and she was left with the muddy dress she sat in.

  She remained in the wagon until the stench of death forced her out, then she clambered over the side of the high cart and shinnied down the partially burned wheel, unwilling to pass Miguel again.

  She was thirsty again, hungry and dirty—but not alone. When the sun was higher in the sky, the buzzards drove her out from among the wagons. They flew back to yesterday’s banquet and continued feasting where they had left off, ripping and tearing at the corpses. Maria ran back to the river. By now, the smell was no better there, but at least she would not have to watch the scavengers or hear the dreadful noises they made as they fought over the scraps remaining.

  Her stomach rumbled and ached. Earlier Maria had told herself that she could never eat again, not after witnessing the buzzards, but here she was now, holding her middle and rocking back and forth. The jerked meat and hardtack that she had only tolerated for six months would have tasted like the best food her mother had ever prepared.

  She unbuttoned her dress and took it off, shimmying out of her petticoat and chemise. Perhaps she could wash her clothing and rid it of the smell of death. It could dry on the banks of the river. Then, in clean clothes, she could start walking toward the Sangre de Cristos. She had no idea what waited for her beyond the circle of death, but it could not be any worse.

  Teeth chattering, her skin dimpled with cold, she scrubbed with river sand until her fingers ached. Then she spread the garments out on the bank and sat down to wait.

  The cold defeated her. When she couldn’t stand another minute of the breeze on her body, she pulled on her chemise. Damp as it was, the skimpy covering reached to her knees and afforded some protection. She waited another hour, then tied on her petticoat. She was walking toward her dress when she heard the horses.

  At first she wasn’t sure. She stood still and listened, her fists clutching her petticoat in tight bunches. She still couldn’t be sure, so she crawled up the side of the bank and looked. The buzzards were beginning to move around restlessly. Some flew off, and those that could not fly flapped and waddled back and forth, squawking.

  Then she saw them, a small group of horses and riders coming from the north and west where the Indians had disappeared.

  Maria whirled around, looking for shelter. She knew she had to make a run for the grove again, but she hesitated at the horror. By the time her instincts cancelled out her fear, the horsemen were crossing the river. Without stopping to see if they were Indians, she hiked up her petticoat, turned and ran east.

  Her bare feet flew over the ground and for one crazy moment she remembered Mama’s tales of the giants in seven-league boots who could cover ground in enormous strides. She became that giant, her legs moving in swift motion across the plain. But the real giants were behind her and pounding closer. “Saint Francis,’’ she gasped, “Saint Francis!” Spittle dribbled down her chin as she stumbled over rocks and thorns. She ran and ran, her breath coming in noisy croaks.

  She heard someone shouting to her but kept running, not daring to look back. Perhaps death would not hurt as much if she did not see it coming. She soon heard only one horse following her. The others must have dropped back, content in their curious Indian way to let one go alone. She thought of Carmen de Sosa and the ripping cloth and whimpere
d in terror.

  The horse pounded closer behind her. Again she heard a man yelling at her, but what he said did not sound like the language the Indians had spoken.

  As the horse closed the gap between them, she shrieked and changed courses, darting like a rabbit, now toward the river, now toward the plain. Her feet were bloody from gashes, but she refused to stop running. She could not. The rider would have to kill her first.

  The horse was almost breathing in her ear when a hand reached down and grabbed the back of her chemise, jerking her off the ground. She cried and struck out with her hands, struggling to get away. Her eyes closed, she fought and scratched until the man flopped her over his legs and clamped his hand on her windpipe. She choked and gagged and finally acquiesced, draped over his lap like a sack of meal.

  “By all the saints, chiquita—young one—will you be still?” The rider’s voice was soft and low, but she could hear him clearly above the pounding of his horse, which was only beginning to slow down after its race across the plain.

  The man loosened his grip on her throat, and Maria lay across his lap coughing, her eyes shut tight. She opened them slowly. All she could see was his leg, booted and leather-covered.

  The man reined in his horse, his hand resting on her back. “Here, let me help you,” he said, pulling Maria into a sitting position in front of him. “Why did you not stop running when I called to you?” he asked in the same quiet voice.

  Maria could only shake her head, not trusting to words. If he did not know already, she could not tell him. He didn’t sound like a man who knew anything of fear.

  When she said nothing, the rider gathered up the reins around her. “Pues, no le aflige,” he said in her ear. “Never mind.”

  They rode slowly back to the other men who were grouped together on horseback a distance away from the wreckage of bodies and wagons. Exhausted from her race, Maria wanted to lean back against the horseman but would not. She still had not seen his face, but he did not sound like an old man. She could almost hear her mother’s voice: “Daughter, there has been no introduction.”

  They joined the little troop between the river and the grove of trees. The men, some of them soldiers, dismounted and came close. The rider tossed the reins over his horse’s head and dismounted. He held up his arms for Maria and lifted her down.

  He was a short man, not much taller than she. His hair was curly and black and stuck out from under the red silk scarf he wore stretched tight over his head and under his flat black hat. His face was deeply tanned, his eyes like pools of chocolate. His beard, cut close to his skin, could not hide the tiny weather wrinkles around his eyes and lips. He was a young man, perhaps twenty, but the country had already made him old.

  She looked around her, relieved, yet disquieted to see the living again. All the men had the same young-old look. She shivered in spite of the afternoon’s heat. This was a hard country. She could see it in the faces around her and confirm it in her soul. The nightmare of the past day had made her old, too.

  Once begun, she could not stop shivering. Her rescuer took off his short cloak, leather—like everything else he wore except his shirt—and swung it around her shoulders. She continued to shiver, the cold coming from deep within her.

  “I have ...” she began, then stopped in confusion. She had not spoken in more than a day, and her voice was strange to her ears. “I have a dress ... down by the river.”

  The man tied the cords of his cloak around her neck and gestured with his head toward the river. One of the soldiers walked to the water, making a detour around the wagons.

  “What is your name?”

  “I am called ...” She hesitated again, and panic pushed the cold deeper into her bones. Dios, Dios, who was she? Was she a person anymore, or did she wander now in some curious fashion between the quick and the dead, who lay in a thousand pieces around them.

  The man shook her by the shoulders. The movement snapped her head up. She looked at him, staring into his eyes, and he gazed back.

  “I am Maria Luisa Espinosa de la Garza,” she said clearly, wondering why she wasn't paralyzed with the embarrassment of staring at a man, a stranger. “I have come north to live with my sister, Margarita Espinosa de Guzman.”

  The horseman dropped his gaze, and the other men exchanged glances.

  “Is that how it is? Well, I am Diego Masferrer, a landowner from north of the villa of Santa Fe.”

  The soldier returned from the river with her dress. She took it from him, suddenly aware of the glances of the other men as she stood there in her chemise and petticoat.

  “Perhaps you would go over to that grove of trees to put on your dress?” Diego took her by the elbow.

  “No!” she shouted at him, shaking off his hand. He stepped back in surprise. “No,” she said again, this time her voice low and pleading. “Don’t make me go in there again.”

  Maria clutched her dress to her and started to cry, deep sobs that shook her whole body. Shaking her head, she picked her way through the ruined bodies to the only other shelter on the plain. Standing behind one of the charred wagons, she let the cloak fall to the ground and pulled her dress over her head.

  She tried to fasten the wooden buttons, but her fingers shook. Her arms dropped to her sides and she stood there in the shelter of the oxcart, her head bowed, tears falling.

  “You will be well.”

  It was Diego Masferrer. He had followed her to the wagon. He stood in front of her and buttoned her dress. He smiled at her.

  “I have sisters,” he said, “plenty of them.”

  When her dress was fastened, he took out his handkerchief and made her blow her nose. “That’s better,” he said. “Now come away from here. Anywhere you say.”

  She walked to the river and sat down on the bank. The rest of the riders joined them there and sat watching her.

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Could she tell them what happened? Maria was silent, looking at Diego. He sat close to her and she wanted to reach out and touch his face. After living with phantoms for two days, she was deeply conscious of the life around her.

  “First, do you have any food?”

  Several of the men got up and went through their saddles, bringing back hardtack and jerky—biscoche and carne seca. Maria smiled as she took the food from them. Was there nothing in this difficult land but hardtack and jerked meat?

  Between bites, she told the little party of men what had happened, as far as she knew. Once during the recounting she started to breathe rapidly, her voice sounding high and tight to her ears. Diego took her hands and held them in his own until her breathing returned to normal. When she finished, several of the men crossed themselves. They were silent then, all of them, turned inward to their own thoughts.

  “These things are always with us,” Diego said at last, then shook his head. “I do not mean that to sound hard. Still,” he paused, looking across the river to the west, “they have never struck so hard before.”

  “Who?”

  “Apache,” he answered, spitting out the word like a foul taste. “They are our scourge, our special plague. We have good reason to fear them.”

  The other men nodded, speaking among themselves in low tones. Although she could not hear their words, she could tell from the seriousness of their expressions that each man had witnessed the handiwork of the Apache.

  “You were the lucky one. La Afortunada," commented Diego Masferrer. “From now on, that’s what we shall call you. Daughter of Fortune.”

  She smiled faintly at him, then shivered involuntarily. He got to his feet. “Stay where you are, chiquita,” he said. “We have work to do.”

  Silently the men followed Diego toward the wagons. He stopped suddenly and turned to Maria again, his hands on his hips.

  “Tell me. Were the Indians on horseback?”

  She considered. “Not at first. When they left, they were riding the caravan’s horses and mules.”

  The men exchanged glances.
“Now it has come to that,” one of the soldiers said, clapping his hands together in a frustrated gesture that made Maria jump. “They will never attack on foot again.”

  The men went to the wagons. Maria sat with her back to them so she could not see. But she heard them dragging what remained of the bodies together into a heap. The stench was dreadful, and she closed her eyes and covered her ears as the men gagged and retched. As afternoon yielded to early evening, she grew chilled sitting by the water, but she refused to move until the work behind her was done. She could not bear to gaze on all that death again.

  She listened as the men ripped the boards off the unburned wagons and soon she heard the crackle of fire. The sound startled her and she leaped up. For one terrible moment she was back in the grove, hearing the caravan fire for the first time, waking to a nightmare of torture and death. Then she remembered where she was and stood in silence, her head bowed. She could think of no words or prayers to offer for the wretched ones. Their troubles were over. Hers had only begun.

  “It is done now.”

  Diego was speaking to her. She turned to him, then glanced quickly away. His face was lined and drawn, even as she knew hers was. He walked past her to the river where he squatted to wash his hands and face. He was joined by the other men who also sought to remove from hands and clothing stains that could only dissolve slowly, if at all, through the years.

  I can tell you it will not wash off, thought Maria.

  She was seized then by a fierce desire to be away from that place of carnage and death. She could not sleep there again and risk a visit from Father Efrain or Carmen de Sosa, crawling around in search of her scalp.

  Already the sky was dark. She looked toward the grove for a glimpse of those two specters peering at her through the tall grass, waiting for her to sleep so they could claim her again. She sobbed, covering her face with her hands in mortification. Her fingers were ice cold, as though death were already on them. “If you please, Señor; can we not leave this place? Now?”