A Masque of Chameleons

by Joan Van Every Frost

  No stimulation she had ever felt, even that of a first night in a good part, had so much as approached this tingling, almost drunken state. Colors were brighter, objects clearer, smells more pronounced, taste increased. The prospect of playing with death had brought her to life as nothing else ever had.

  She rode early to the theater, telling everyone she wanted to mend a costume she was wearing that night. She was the official mender of the troupe, so it was easy to put her hands on a pair of Guy’s dark trousers. Jason had kept the outlaw leader’s black hat, shot from his head at the Desierto de los Leones. She changed the black leather hatband with its silver conchas for plain black ribbon, and took it with her along with her riding cloak. She filled a small jar with Will’s Othello makeup and cut from an old piece of backdrop cloth a mask that covered half her face like that of Cristiano’s outlaw chief. Her own riding boots completed the costume.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She jumped a foot and turned to find Jason standing there. She could talk to him now, convince him of the importance of the meeting, and from now on he and Cristiano could work together, a perfect team. “What does it look as if I’m doing? I’m collecting clothes to be mended.” She admitted to herself then that she simply had no intention of allowing Jason to horn in on her project. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the hat thrown carelessly on the dressing table she always used. “When is the meeting?” As if anyone cared anymore about his meetings.

  “I tried for tonight, but too many of them had previous engagements, so I made it tomorrow night.”

  “You’ve been busy, you look tired.”

  “I am. I must have ridden fifty miles at least.” He smiled faintly. “I must be getting used to it — I need no bath or cosseting tonight.”

  She was going to ask him if he had heard Toby’s voice again, but he looked so wrung out that she hadn’t the heart. His blue eyes gazed after her thoughtfully as she turned and walked away.

  *

  Zaragoza was in one of the boxes that night, dressed showily in a wine-colored charro outfit, presumably a gesture toward his being considered a horseman here among other horsemen. In Mexico he would have been impeccably attired in black tie and tails. As soon as The Robbers' Roost was over, Roberta closeted herself in one of the backstage cloakrooms and waited for the rest of the company to leave. At last all seemed still, and she hastened through the gloomy back corridor to get ready.

  Quickly she applied a light coating of Will’s makeup to her face and hands, so that with her dark hair she would appear Mexican. She put on Guy’s pants, a shirt of Jason’s, and her boots, then wrapped herself in her cloak. With eyebrow pencil she outlined a small neat mustache, the kind worn by delicate-featured men of the type she was impersonating. She pinned up her hair securely and jammed the hat down over it, then turned and regarded herself in the full-length mirror back-stage. Grinning back at her was a rather handsome young man with a mustache. As she left the theater, the velador touched his forehead in a salute and wished the young gentleman goodnight.

  She trotted Fada to the shadowed portales in the plaza, and as she approached put on her mask and buried her chin in her cloak. With any luck Cristiano might not notice the substitution until too late to do anything about it.

  “Whitney,” Cristiano stated rather than asked. “Come on, man, we're going to be late.”

  They clattered at a brisk canter through the empty streets into a part of town Roberta had not yet seen. They pulled up at a wall that appeared to encompass the entire block and knocked, two long and two short, on a huge carved wooden gate that creaked open for their passage. Just as they were through, they heard another clatter of hooves behind them, and six or eight other horsemen swept in. Roberta was glad to see that some of them had masks as well.

  They found in the large courtyard some twenty small boys who were holding horses, swearing happily at each other, and kicking any shin that came within reach. Cristiano flipped the ragged boy who took their horses a silver real.

  Inside, they found an enormous patio surrounded by planting. On the pillars of the galena running around the patio were flaming torches that gave in reality not a great deal of light, but a great deal of drama. The paved patio itself was filled with crude wooden benches around which stood clumps of men mainly in variations of ranchero costume, some masked and some not. They needn't have worried about being late, for there was a steady stream of arrivals later than theirs.

  “Pedro!” Cristiano hissed suddenly, digging her in the ribs. “I thought you had a beard.”

  “I shaved it off for a new part,” she whispered back.

  Cristiano stared at her with dawning horror. “Madre de Dios” he exclaimed in a low cracked voice, “you can't be - ”

  In answer she picked a cigar out of his vest pocket and lighted it, puffing wildly for a few moments to get it started, but careful not to breathe the smoke. He was speechless. She grinned, enjoying herself thoroughly.

  “I am so happy you brought me, Cristiano,” she whispered hoarsely. “You’ll never know how happy.” She felt as if she were drunk, gloriously, hilariously drunk.

  Just then three men stepped up on a wooden platform at the front of the patio, and there was a general stirring as everyone was seated. Roberta sobered immediately, for of the three men, two were masked, but the barefaced one she recognized at once as Jason’s old friend of the brutal jaw, Pepino. Worse, she recognized almost as quickly the wine-colored charro costume even though its owner’s face was hidden. The third man was tall for a Mexican, as tall or taller than Jason, and he had a wide jaw and a flowing gray mustache. Other than that she could tell nothing, for his mask came down over his nose, leaving only his mouth free.

  Zaragoza held up his hands, and the hum of conversation dropped off to silence. “It isn’t often that we have the chief of us all here,” he began, “not since Santa Anna returned to office a few years back. However, tonight we have a major change of policy to put before you, which our chief wants to explain to you all himself.” He gestured to the third masked man, who slowly rose and came to the front of the platform. Even before he opened his mouth there was a feeling of force, of intense vitality about him, that made even the most blase of them lean forward in their seats, breaths caught to hear every word.

  “As you all know,” the chief began, “your bands have always appeared in the same territories and as a result there continue to be complaints that some of the territories are richer than others. I do not quarrel with the complaint, though we have attempted to compromise by dividing the spoils evenly among you no matter where you come from. We probably would have continued to do that were it not for the fact that lately several bands have been caught by the soldiers, obviously turned in by informers. The only reason informers become informers is that they lose the fear of punishment. And the only reason they've lost that fear is because you have become too friendly with them. I’m not complaining about it,” he said conversationally, “it's only human nature to Find it difficult to stay isolated. Instead of complaining about it, I am doing something about it.” Roberta noticed that his editorial “we” had become a more honest “I.”

  “Ten days from today there will be a meeting outside of Guadalajara at which I will hand out lists of leaders and territories. You won't all be moved — we've taken into consideration individual circumstances — but most of you will be. The reason we're having the meeting in Zacatlan is because in many cases your territories are overlapping those in Guadalajara. For example, the Zamora-based bands have been reported ranging as far northeast as Lake Chapala. Now that makes for bad feelings, so we've got to redefine your territories as well. We're not singling any of you out — this is being done all over Mexico. Some of you will like your new assignments and some of you won't. Some are even being transferred to the Guadalajara area. Since we plan to do this every year, you'll know that if you've got a poor assignment, it won't be forever. One last thing: I don't want to hear any complaints or special request
s until after you know your new assignments, is that understood? You’ve all done a magnificent job so far, and I'd be proud to lead you to hell itself.”

  As well you might be, Roberta thought acidly as the audience whistled, stamped, and shouted their acclaim. It suddenly occurred to her that this must be Santa Anna himself — built-up boots and a false mustache were easy enough to acquire. Zaragoza's referring to him by name earlier would only be a ploy to make identification more difficult. Certainly the force and magnetism, the sheer charisma, emanating from that lone figure, combined with a ringing voice that would have delighted any actor, explained only too well how a figure as corrupt as Santa Anna kept rising to the forefront of Mexican politics.

  *

  Cristiano insisted upon accompanying her back to the granja. “But I still can’t see why you insisted on taking such a risk,” he persisted. At last he gave what he felt was a telling argument. “It — it wasn’t ladylike,” he announced.

  “I keep telling you, Jason had business elsewhere so that there was no way I could talk to him about all this in time for him to disguise himself and go. The general had better believe me,” she added darkly. “I’ve done enough for him.”

  Their arrival at the granja was the only way the argument was going to end. “Now that I’ve gone to one meeting,” she gave him as a parting shot, “I fully intend to go to the Guadalajara meeting as well. What wouldn’t I give to get my hands on those lists!”

  Cristiano threw up his hands in despair. After helping her to put away the horse, he watched her into the house with a worried look. He found it hard to believe that things had gotten so far out of hand.

  Carrying her hat in one hand and wiping her face with a towel with the other, she opened her door and found herself face to face with Jason. The smell of the cigar smoke should have warned her.

  “Would you like to tell me where in the hell you’ve been?” She hadn’t seen him so angry since the drunken Spaniards shot the bird on the ship.

  “You won’t believe this, Jason, but I can’t tell you - ”

  “What do you mean, you can’t tell me? You show up here in the middle of the night dressed in men’s clothes - ” He stopped suddenly. “By God, that’s my shirt, isn’t it? What the devil have you been up to?”

  She stood there shaking her head defiantly.

  “It’s that damned Olmedo again, isn’t it?” he guessed shrewdly.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said wearily, “Cristiano was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Cristiano, is it?” There was no sweetness in the smile he gave as he contemplated the end of his cigar. “Did he persuade you to join his band and go out murdering defenseless travelers?”

  “Jason, you’re bound and determined you’re going to put me in bed with someone, aren’t you?” she said, trying to deflect his attention. “Well, you can just stop the heavy-handed father scene because it’s none of your business.” She felt safer as she took the initiative. “As a matter of fact, I had a very good time this evening, as good a time as I’ve had in years.” She looked at him steadily. “You have no idea how refreshing it was to have someone who paid attention to me, who assumed that I could carry on an intelligent, amusing conversation, who didn’t leave me to go running off to bed with another woman.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Gavin would - ”

  “Gavin!” she broke in. “Always Gavin. Does that salve your consciences, you and that hypocrite Will Castle? Gavin is a sweet boy, and that’s all he is; is that why none of you get so possessive where he is concerned? Well, let me tell you something, Jason Whitney: Cristiano is a man, and worth more than the whole lot of you conceited actors put together. You and your self-righteousness make it awfully easy to chuck this whole silly game and look out for myself for a change.”

  He stood up, started to say something, then left abruptly, slamming the door after him.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The day they left Morelia, they got off a little before noon, the horses shying and snorting because it was a nice day and they felt good. She saw Jason ride by her on his rawboned bay without a word, and smiled ruefully. Silently he had taken her to the meeting of Alarcón sympathizers the night after the outlaw conclave, and just as silently brought her back. She found the meeting not only an anticlimax but a bit of a bore. The only amusing thing that happened was seeing a number of the same faces she had seen the night before. Apparently ranching in this area was neither a full-time activity nor a sufficiently lucrative one.

  Roberta was glad to spot Ephraim once again and dropped back to where he was tailing the procession with his mules.

  “Why didn’t you stay with us?” she asked him.

  “Waal,” he replied, seeing that no one was within earshot, “it’s like this. I’m supposed to be an arriero, and arrieros don’t live with the folks they works fer. Anyhow, I met this li’l gal in town, and one thing led to another... You know,” he finished lamely, grinning.

  “Why, Ephraim, you certainly are a man of parts. I’m not surprised you have ladies interested in you.”

  “Say, what happened to old Jase whilst you was there? He acts like he’s got a hot poker up his tail, begging your pardon.”

  Roberta laughed. “It’s just that the world isn’t running to suit him, Ephraim, that’s all.”

  Ephraim eyed her shrewdly. “Now, was I to be around as handsome a gal as you be, I’d see to it the world did run the right way, tell you that.”

  She laughed again, harder this time. “Jason isn’t playing the lover, Ephraim — he’s playing the father. Like most fathers, he gets awfully angry when his daughter doesn’t do exactly as he says.”

  “Daughter, eh? Jase must be losing his wits. He wasn’t never backward like that before. Appears to me he needs himself a steady gal. Sweeten his temper.”

  “Oh, I think he probably enjoyed himself enough while he was in Morelia, all right. As you say, he was never backward in such activities.”

  As the days passed, the country unrolled before them, hills furred with yellow grass and green brush, oak woods here and there, mesquite trees standing out in lonely fields.

  They finally came to a large body of water that stretched as far as they could see to the west, like an inland sea the color of a silver coin. Across the lake were green, brush-covered mountains, ancient dead volcanoes that had thrust themselves up when the world was still young to form this pocket cradling the endless lake.

  “Lake Chapala,” Jason said. “We’ll be going around the western end of it.”

  The next day they rode through a fertile valley brooded over by an imposing mountain Ephraim called the Cerro Grande. By the middle of the afternoon they had ridden as far as Zacatlan, where Jason said there were a number of natural hot springs.

  “Oh, Jason,” Daphne wailed, “couldn’t we stop and take a bath? It seems like a year since I was in anything but a small tin tub.”

  The pools when they reached them lay in the middle of an open meadow. The travelers looked at each other helplessly. With no sheltering trees they would have to wear clothes in the water and take turns besides. Jason stood there laughing at their discomfiture. Even Ephraim seemed put out.

  “Come now,” Jason laughed, “surely we’ve come to know each other well enough to take a bath together. Why, we’ll all take an oath not to look at anyone else.”

  The men grinned sheepishly and the women looked uncomfortable, even Josefina. There was, after all, something a lot different between being naked with a lover or husband and being as good as naked in front of a whole group of people. Roberta thought that maybe she could solve the whole business for herself at least, and she headed across the meadow toward the distant trees muttering about a call of nature.

  Not long after entering the trees, she saw a glint of water and found herself on the bank of a deep, slow-moving channel. She dipped her fingers in to find that the water was deliciously warm. With a quick glance behind her, she took off her clothes and tossed them over a bus
h back near the trees. With a sigh of contentment she lowered herself gently into the water, trying not to be too conscious first of the pleasant warmth of the sun on her bare skin and then of the pleasant warmth of the water, which somehow seemed to bear no resemblance to the tame water in a bathtub inside a house.

  She was splashing happily when she heard masculine shouts, and just had time to conceal her head behind some overhanging vines and ferns. Out of the trees burst the men, laughing and chaffing, and before her horrified eyes they proceeded to shed their clothes. Had they been only some ten yards closer, they would have come upon her clothes draped over a bush. Even so, she wondered whether they had noticed them.

  Helplessly she watched them shove at each other good-naturedly and pass ribald remarks about one another's anatomy, remarks that made her turn hot and cold behind the concealing vines. Jason as always stood a little apart, finishing his cigar while he watched the others horsing around. She was reminded of a day years before when she had seen eight or ten young stallions in a field. They tossed their heads, kicked, pranced, and held mock fights, their hides shining in the sun, and the exuberance of sheer animal spirits in every move. She remembered thinking that she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

  The men were different, of course, pale and awkward-looking, with that unlikely arrangement of hair and flesh between their legs, but about their movements was that same exuberance and sheer masculine high spirits she had seen in the young horses. Though everything in her instinct and upbringing told her to look away until they had finished and gone, she found herself unable to take her eyes from them. Had they been furtive or embarrassed in any way, or had they even been standing about quietly like Jason, she would probably have fastened her attention modestly on the bank beside her. However, there was something positively magnetic about the vitality of the scene before her.

  She saw Sid, looking like a furry Buddha, slip around behind Jason and take a run at him to tip him into the water. Jason must have heard something, however, for without relinquishing his cigar he deftly leapt aside at the last moment, put out his foot, and sent Sid tripping and windmilling with a mighty splash into the water. Jason threw back his head and laughed, the sun bright on his face and shoulders and chest. For that one moment she was suddenly able to see the wild young man who had ridden so eagerly off to the Texas war.