During his time on the plains and in Utah, Michael had gotten used to the paradox of being in the army of the West. Over the years, he had come to know many Indians well. He had traded with them, raced them, and a few times had been privileged to enter one of their homes as a welcome guest. Many cavalrymen did this, of course, but Michael’s Lakota and Crow friends intuited a certain openness and sympathy that went beyond his fellow soldiers’. He was truly interested in who they were as a people. He had never forgotten that it was money collected from Indian people that had saved his family. He had never discovered what nation it was that had reached out to another suffering people, but that only made his sympathy broader.
Being in the army had brought him what he had dreamed of years ago when he had enlisted. But it also meant that after months of getting to know some of the Lakota or Crow well, a fragile peace would once again be destroyed and he would find himself riding out after people who may well have been friends and acquaintances. He hated the fighting, although he was good at it, and thank God he had never been involved in an all-out war, only in isolated skirmishes.
He was looking forward to meeting the Navajo today. All he knew of them was that they were cousins to the Apache. They had vast herds of sheep and horses and had been warring for years with the Mexicans. Who were now New Mexicans and citizens of the United States. Which was why Fort Defiance was here. To protect the New Mexicans from the raiding and slave-taking of the Navajo.
* * * *
Anyone who was looking for war-bonneted warriors trailing eagle feathers down their backs would have been disappointed, thought Michael as he watched the Navajo ride in. The men wore buckskin knee breeches studded with silver conchos and blankets around their shoulders and only a feather or two stuck in the bandannas that covered their foreheads. Silver hoop earrings were their only other ornaments. The women wore blanket dresses gathered at the waist with a woven sash. At first glance, they were not impressive. But Michael wasn’t looking for beads and war bonnets, although he couldn’t deny that his first sight of the Lakota and Crow warriors had thrilled him, for they matched the image he had carried in his head since he was a child. Today, he was watching how these people rode, and looking closely at their faces.
Although they were coming in slowly, every now and then a young man would ride ahead and then, pulling his horse in a tight circle, would gallop back to the main band. These riders looked like part of their horses, and their mounts responded as though they were indeed one creature. And as the people got closer, Michael began to notice distinctive decorations: silver disks flashing from breeches and belts, and the distinctive blanket patterns on both men and women.
One horse and rider caught his eye. The horse was a blood bay and smaller than Frost or Trooper. His coat burned in the sun and he seemed to carry the sun’s energy inside him as his rider held him down to a fast walk. The rider himself looked to be only a few years older than himself, thought Michael. His face was still except when he turned to say something to the woman at his side, obviously his wife. Then it came alive.
“Tell me, do ye know who that man is, Elwell,” Michael asked.
“That’s Antonio, Manuelito’s nephew.”
“Manuelito?”
“One of the headmen who’s been trying to keep his people to the treaties he signs. He and his nephew are muy rico—they own many sheep and horses.”
“Good horses, by the look of that bay.”
Elwell grinned. “Do I hear a little competitive interest, Sergeant?”
“I’m still planning to watch for a while, Private. But I must admit I’m feeling a wee bit restless, watching that bay prance by.”
The racing took place in the valley north of the fort, where distances of half, three-quarters, and a mile and a quarter had been measured off. While the riders rode out to the starting points for the first races, the Navajo women spread their blankets in front of them, hoping to trade for bilagaana trinkets like mirrors, brushes, buttons, needles and thread, and foodstuffs like coffee and “sweet salt,” as they called sugar.
Elizabeth loved it when the women came in. They sat with great dignity, surrounded by striped weavings of red and black and white and yellow. The geometric designs drew her eye, and she had a few months ago traded for a small blanket which she had hung on their wall. Today she walked slowly, her eyes down on what was spread before her, until she reached one of the women near the end. Here was a weaving different from all the others. Not radically so, but original enough to speak the word “fellow artist” to Elizabeth’s soul. She knelt down and examined the zigzags and diamonds, running her hand lightly over the wool. She had a pocketful of silver buttons with her and two books of needles, but it seemed insulting to offer those in return for the beautiful piece in front of her.
She looked up into the face of the weaver, her eyes beaming her appreciation.
“You like it?” said the Navajo woman.
“You speak English!” said Elizabeth, without thinking to keep the surprise out of her voice.
“You speak Diné?” the woman asked with dry humor.
“Why, no,” Elizabeth replied with a blush.
Serena was ashamed of her impoliteness: “My husband’s uncle has had dealings with the bilagaana for years. He speaks both Spanish and English and taught his nephew and his nephew taught me.”
“I don’t think I have seen you here before.”
There was an awkward silence and Elizabeth fingered the buttons in her pocket. “All of the blankets I’ve seen today are well made and beautiful,” she said hesitantly, “but this one is special.”
Serena’s face softened with the pleasure of having her work recognized.
“I have the usual things to trade with,” Elizabeth continued, “but somehow they don’t seem enough.”
Serena just sat there in silence.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You have painted a design with wool. I am also a painter. Will you keep the blanket for me? I have something back at my quarters….”
Serena nodded. She wondered what the bilagaana woman was going to offer her. Perhaps a fancy mirror? A hairbrush? She had to admit that while she had no use for a mirror and in fact felt very uncomfortable gazing into one, she liked the bilagaana brushes.
Elizabeth was back, slightly out of breath and holding a rolled-up piece of paper in her hands. She knelt down and unrolled it in front of Serena.
“Since your blanket is a work of art, it seemed only right to offer you a piece of mine in return.”
The paper had colors on it. After a few minutes of looking at it, Serena realized what it was: a representation of the cliffs near the Ojo del Gallo. The bilagaana woman had almost captured the colors of the rock…but who could ever capture the colors of those rocks? It was interesting, though, and even a little shocking. Presumably this was a part of a ceremony and here the little bilagaana was trading it?
She remained silent as she looked at the painting.
It was hard for Elizabeth not to receive a reaction and she rushed into the quiet between them. “I go out as often as possible to paint the cliffs.” The Navajo woman had a frown on her face. Maybe she didn’t like the painting? Elizabeth rushed in again to apologize. “I know I haven’t gotten the colors right…or the blue of the sky.”
“You do this often? It is an everyday thing, not part of a ceremony?”
Elizabeth was puzzled for a moment. And then she remembered something the post commander’s wife had told her. The Navajo had medicine men who painted with sand as part of their curing ceremonies.
“Oh no, this is nothing very special. Well, it is special to me, but not religious. Although”—Elizabeth hesitated—“I never thought of this before, but I do feel closer to God out by the cliffs than I do at services sometimes.”
Serena knew a bit about what the bilagaana called religion. They seemed to be a very odd people, these “new People.” They had one God and they only thought about him, it seemed, on one day of the week. And
here was one of their women, who had considerable power if she could capture the cliffs as well as she had. And yet she seemed to have no sense of this power. But she felt very good about what the bilagaana woman had done: she had regarded her weaving in a way no other bilagaana had: as work done by an equal.
“I would like you to have the blanket as a gift,” she said.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Elizabeth protested.
Serena pulled back into herself. Really, these people were like children, impulsive and impolite.
Elizabeth felt the distance between them instantly. She knelt there quietly and rolled up her painting.
“I would like to accept your gift,” she said after a moment.
Serena smiled at her and folding the blanket carefully, handed it to Elizabeth.
“And I would like to give you a gift,” Elizabeth said, praying that she was doing the right thing. “I would like you to have this, if you like it. From one artist to another?”
Serena nodded and placed the rolled-up painting in her carrying bag. “Thank you.”
“My name is Elizabeth Woolcott. Mrs. Woolcott,” said Elizabeth, holding out her hand.
The first and most important thing to know about a person for the Diné was the name of her clan. With a Diné woman, Serena would have shared that. But she knew that to the bilagaana, names were important, and so she gave the name she had been called by Mexicans. “And I am Serena,” she said with a smile. “I am married to Manuelito’s nephew.” She did not reach out her hand, so Elizabeth just let her own fall to her side.
“Does your husband race today?” Serena asked.
“Oh no, he is a little too old for horse racing. There he is, over there.”
Serena saw a gray-haired, heavy-set officer. She was surprised and felt sorry for the young woman. She was probably considered pretty by the bilagaana, and here she was, married to a man much older. It happened among the Diné sometimes, it was true, but she had always felt sorry for those women.
“Is your husband racing?” asked Elizabeth.
“Yes, and I think it is getting close to the time for the first race,” said Serena. She seemed to be waiting for Elizabeth to do something, although she sat there quietly enough. Then Elizabeth realized she was waiting for her to leave, to join the other women of the fort so that Serena could stand on the sidelines with the Navajo. It seemed strange to go off without her, for she had felt very close for those few moments, but she only uttered a quick good-bye and hurried off.
Chapter Five
Antonio was not in the first two races, which were only a half mile. He knew that the bay did best with distance, although he still wondered if the leg would hold up. He had kept the bay to a slow trot on the ride out along the valley, and the fetlock was still cool, so he hoped he had nothing to worry about.
Manuelito was in the first race, riding his chestnut mare. Lieutenant Greasy Hair, who was riding in that race too, kept glancing over at the headman. He hadn’t been able to beat him yet, although several times he had come close. Antonio didn’t think that Lieutenant Greasy Hair was going to win today, either. Antonio smiled to himself. He enjoyed coming up with insulting names for the lieutenant, for whom he had no respect. Although he had to admit the man was a good horseman, and presumably a competent warrior.
When they started off, he could see that the race would be close, but from a distance it was hard to tell who had won, especially since they looked nose-to-nose. But he could not see a mass of bilagaana soldiers milling around the lieutenant’s buckskin, so he was sure that Manuelito had beaten Lieutenant Bony-Ass again.
One more half-mile race and then it was his turn. He turned the bay to ride out to the three-quarter-mile mark. There wasn’t much competition from the soldiers in this race. But he was a little worried about Haastiin Ntl’ aai. He had a new gelding, a black who looked pretty fast.
And the man was a reckless rider, willing to risk his neck to win.
Antonio decided to hold his horse back a little. He was in the longer race because of the bay’s endurance, after all. Let Haastiin Ntl’ aai whip his horse up to full speed for the first quarter mile. Antonio suspected that his clansman had chosen the wrong distance.
As indeed he had. As they neared the fort, Antonio could hear the soldiers shouting. Those who had bet on the black were sure they were going to have heavy pockets that night. But in the last quarter mile, the horse began to fall behind, and Antonio called on the bay’s reserves.
* * * *
Michael had made no bets. He wasn’t stupid: he was too new to the horses and riders to know who was likely to win. But his eye had been caught by that blood bay and he wasn’t surprised when he found himself screaming as loud as the men who had their money on him. He came from a good three lengths; behind, his rider settled down with the reins slack, just letting the horse bring him in. He overtook the black three hundred yards from the finish and passed him as if he were standing still. The Navajo were silent, but the soldiers went wild.
“Did you see that, Sergeant?” said Spratt, who was pounding Fisk on the back. Even Mahoney had lost his air of indifference and was tossing his hat up in the air.
Michael grinned. “Next time I’ll put a little of me own money on that bay,” he said.
“How about putting up more than money, mick,” said a voice behind him. It was Lieutenant Cooper. Mahoney grabbed his hat up and jammed it on his head as they all stood to attention.
“At ease, men. My horse was too tired to take his race after patrol yesterday,” said Cooper, “but I’d like it if some trooper beat one of these little savages.”
Día, the man couldn’t admit that the Navajo’s horse was better, thought Michael.
“You are always grooming that wild-eyed gray of yours, Burke. You obviously think she has something. I want you to prove it. Or have you gotten too used to riding mules?”
“I hadn’t thought to race today, sir, just to watch,” Michael answered quietly.
“And if I ordered you to, mick?”
“Then of course I would ride, Mr. Cooper.”
“Consider yourself ordered then.”
“Yes, sir.” Michael saluted and was off to the stables. There was one more three-quarter-mile race, which he wouldn’t make, so that meant he was in the mile. It was Frost’s distance, it was true, but he hadn’t had the time to do any training these past few weeks. And the damned lieutenant would probably put money on him and then keep him on wood detail for the rest of his career if he lost!
* * * *
Elizabeth had been standing with the other officers’ wives for the shorter races. She had been thrilled to watch Serena’s husband come from behind and win. How proud his wife must be, she thought as she tried to find her in the small knot of Navajo women gathered near the finish line.
When the colonel’s striker brought out a pitcher of lemonade for the ladies, Elizabeth drank two glasses greedily. Standing still in the heat and dust dried her out even more than her walking and riding did.
“Oh, look, it is that handsome new Sergeant Burke,” said Mrs. Gray, the colonel’s wife. He must be riding in the mile.”
“My, he is a handsome man, isn’t he,” commented the doctor’s wife. “And look at him, he is riding like an Indian.”
Elizabeth didn’t want to look. She wanted to ignore him and forget how it felt to have had her arms around his waist. But her eyes were drawn to him, as indeed all the women’s were, and as he rode by, he took off his cap and waved to them before riding down the valley.
“He’s a charmer too, that one,” said Mrs. Gray.
Elizabeth watched him trot down the valley. He rode only with an old saddle blanket and girth. And she was almost sure it was a hackamore, not a bridle he was using. His oddly colored gray must be well trained indeed. She looked like a quiet and steady mount, but did she have both the stamina and speed for this race?
“Good afternoon, ladies,” said a voice behind them. It was Mr. Cooper. “I se
e you all have your eyes on my sergeant. We’ll see if the mick and his mare are any good today. He’s up against Antonio in this one.”
Mrs. Compton used to call them micks and Elizabeth had sometimes had the phrase “dirty little micks” run through her mind when she would see a bunch of ill-dressed, boisterous Irish children on Boston Common. And she didn’t trust Sergeant Michael Burke’s Irish charm. She was sure it was all on the surface. But she also did not like Mr. Cooper, whose own brand of charm was…well, oily and less charming. Right away, she felt herself shift into a defense of Sergeant Burke. “I would assume that the sergeant has confidence in himself and his horse if he is entering the last race of the day, Mr. Cooper.”
“Oh, he wasn’t intending to race today, Mrs. Woolcott. He is in the race because I ordered him to ride. I’ve lost to Manuelito too many times, and Burke won that horse of his in a race. I have a hunch we’ll beat the Navajo in this one.”
Her Thomas would never have abused his power that way, thought Elizabeth proudly. He might only be a second lieutenant under this West Point bantam rooster, she thought angrily, but at least he was someone to be proud of.
“In that case, Mr. Cooper,” she said with cool politeness, “I hope Sergeant Burke and his mare come through for you.”
* * * *
Michael was halfway out to the starting point when the next-to-the-last race began. He watched the four men gallop by. He could hardly see them with all the dust they were raising, but he was pretty sure the blood bay was not among them. Two races in a row would be too much, he thought as he rode on. But the gelding might be in this last one.
Indeed, and so he is, Michael thought, and only one other and him nothing to worry about atall. The blood bay was not quite the bundle of unspent energy as he had been when he entered the fort, but Michael could tell that his first race had merely acted as a warm up. The other horse was one ridden by a second lieutenant whom he knew by sight. The officer’s horse was high-strung and looked fast, but Michael could tell by looking at his narrow chest and long legs that he was not made for distance.
Desert Hearts Page 5