Death Rattle

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Another Mexican name I don’t understand,” Magpie commented.

  Her father grinned and slapped her rump as he stepped around her to reach his horse. “The more Mexican names there are to hills and creeks, the closer we are to Taos, little girl!”

  He remounted and took up the lead to the first pack-horse. “This stream is where we turn east. The village isn’t far now.”

  Hours later the sun had sunk to the last quadrant of its trip across the sky. For suspended moments the Sangre de Cristos took on that vivid crimson hue so familiar to travelers in the Southwest. Far over their heads, the remnants of an early winter storm was exhausting itself among the high peaks and granite escarpments. But down here along the Fernandez no more than a few gentle flakes swirled on those breezes crossing the valley floor.

  “Will we sleep in Ta-house tonight?” Waits-by-the-Water asked.

  He could tell she was weary already, the children too. It had been an exhausting journey for them all: the longest Waits had taken in more than ten winters—unquestionably the longest their children had ever endured. Far better for them to reach Taos and the doorstep of old friends when they were all fresh.

  “We’ll ride on a little farther. Find a place to make camp. We can wait to ride into the village till morning.”

  It had snowed overnight, but no more than a dusting of light flakes that would shake right off of their buffalo robes when he prodded the young ones from their communal bed where Jackrabbit lay sleeping between the two older children.

  Titus had found it hard to sleep himself, despite how weary he had become from unloading the horses, or helping the children drag in wood for their fire and water from the creek for his wife. What had brung him satisfaction was that throughout all their preparations in making camp, little Jackrabbit was at his older brother’s side. It made Scratch proud, even though he felt a sense of regret that neither of his younger brothers had ever bonded themselves to him in this way. Scratch turned and rolled through the night, hopeless at finding comfort for the aching hip, no matter how much of the blanket he shoved beneath it.

  Eventually he had slipped quietly from her side and left the warm robes to stoke the fire before dragging the dented coffeepot to the edge of the coals where he could reheat the remains of last night’s brew.

  He had always liked this time of day the best. As good as eventide was with its varied textures and hues of light, these moments when night had grown exhausted and was prepared to give way to day … such were the most dramatic moments of the day. There Titus sat, sipping at his coffee this last morning on the trail, staring into the dancing flames when he was not studying the eastern sky, harkening back on fond memories of those squeaky boots and the way Josiah had cinched up that worn leather belt around those store-bought canvas britches threatening to fall off his skinny hips. How testy the lad had been in those first days as they gradually came to know one another, day by day, mile by mile on that early-summer crossing from the Wind River Mountains to Pierre’s Hole.

  Lo, the times he had grown disgusted with Paddock, ready to ride off on his own, leaving the boy behind—or just as soon let Josiah stomp off by himself with no more than a call of good riddance … Titus was grateful for every moment they had shared. As much as Paddock might have needed a hivernant to take him under his wing and teach him the way of the mountains, Titus Bass had needed a companion—needed a friend—all the more. They had been there for one another, at the very moment when one had to give what the other needed most.

  Titus stared up at the sky a long time, dazzled at the countless stars in this early-winter sky—and realized once again he could not deny the presence of something far greater than himself at work in the lives of man.

  He had crossed paths with Josiah Paddock at a crucial juncture in both their lives. That following winter Titus had returned to the Crow with Josiah, at just the moment when a young woman was ready to take herself a husband. Not to mention how the Grandfather Above had blessed him and Waits with these three beautiful children who amazed and stunned their father without fail every day.

  With all the people, the trials and the joys that he had encountered in his own inconsequential life … Bass knew he could never deny the hand of the Creator in all that had transpired. While most young men more often than not saw their lives in terms of their own accomplishments—the older Titus got, the more easily he could admit that the crucial turnings in his life had been guided by another’s hand.

  It was clear as sun that, for some reason he did not fully understand, he had been granted redemption more times than a man might have the right to expect.

  “Morning is coming soon.” Her soft voice surprised him at his back. “We can finally reach Ta-house, to see our old friends again.”

  He peered at her over his shoulder and smiled. “Yes. Finally, after a long, long time.”

  “You did not sleep well: restless to have the journey done?”

  This woman never ceased to amaze him—how perceptive she could be at times. “Once the journey itself was enough to hold my heart. But—I am growing old. As my allotted days grow fewer and fewer, I have come to think my travels need to have some purpose. When a man realizes he has less and less days ahead of him, every single one of those days becomes all the richer in meaning.”

  Scooting over behind him where she could wrap her arms around Titus and lay her cheek against that notch between his shoulder blades, Waits-by-the-Water said, “You and I will grow old together, watching our children become men and women. We will see our grandchildren born, hold them in our arms and prop them on our knees to tell them marvelous stories of a bygone time.”

  He felt tears sting his eyes as he cradled her arms across his chest. “I pray it will be so, woman. I only pray it will be so.”

  When a graying light finally swelled along the horizon, Scratch left her at the fire and went to the nearby rope corral. Two-by-two he led the horses to the creekbank where they drank their fill, then he picketed them on a patch of short-grass until he was ready to pack them one at a time for the last miles of their long journey to Taos.

  Jackrabbit was already awake, cuddling with his mother, when Titus returned to the fire. Scratch put his finger to his lip, then knelt by the other two children and gently rubbed their heads, speaking low. Eventually all three sat in their blankets, chewing on cold meat left over from last night’s supper as Bass set off to bring in the first of the packhorses. Each one stood patiently as he strapped on its saddle, loading it with their camp equipment, then returned the animal to the grass so it could continue grazing until all were prepared for the trail, when he could string them together with long leads of hemp rope.

  This matter of the lead rope was something different that morning. For most of their journey south, he had let them follow on their own, giving each trail-savvy animal its own head. But now that they would be nearing a concentration of strange men and even stranger beasts—squawking chickens and bleating goats, not to mention noisy brass bells and tin horns the Mexican herders used—the long lead rope was a precaution against the trail veterans becoming startled and bolting.

  The sun had risen, making its trek low across the southern horizon, where it hung at midsky when he stopped them late that morning. “Children—look.”

  He watched their faces for a long moment, studying their eyes now that they were seeing this valley for the first time. Off in the distance at the far side of the valley lay Los Ranchos de Taos, a small village. But what truly caught the eye was the large maze of low buildings nestled beneath a shroud of grayish fire smoke, a far, far larger community. With that new dusting of snow and those whitewashed adobe walls—most every object reflecting the brilliant winter light—it was difficult for his tired old eye to discern that cluster of huts, hovels, shops, and—then suddenly he made out the cathedral’s tall bell towers. Even more impressive after this absence of more than ten years.

  “That big village, it’s Taos,” he announced, a dry lump suddenly clogg
ing his throat. “W-we come to Taos.”

  Titus watched their eyes grow as they raked over the scene before them. Against all the white of that new snow, he spotted an orderly line of horsemen just then appear from the cluster of huts and houses, no more than a couple dozen of them emerging on their left, riding two-by-two down that road that would lead a man to Santa Fe. A small flag popped and quivered in the winter breeze above one of the front riders. Soldados, he thought, his hackles going up. After all these years, Bass thought he was done with Mexican soldiers.

  Little chance any of them would recognize him after all this time, he thought warily. Nor would any of these soldados remember his face from far younger days when he had done his fair share to raise hell and shove a chunk right under it. But just to be sure he pulled up the furry collar on his coat and tugged the coyote-fur cap down to his eyebrows.

  He squinted at the short column now in the bright, reflected glare of the sun as the horsemen loped closer and closer. Scratch held up his arm and instructed his loved ones to halt with him a safe distance back as the soldiers approached.

  The packhorses were clattering to a halt beneath a thick wreath of their gauzy breath smoke when Titus suddenly stared at that snapping flag—completely dumbfounded. Why, if he didn’t know better … damn, if there weren’t red and white stripes. And that broad field of blue dusted with four rows comprised of twenty-seven gilt stars. He had seen such flags, the last one many years ago above the wide double gate of Bents Fort. These soldiers, were they countrymen?

  “Americans!” he cried out loud as the leaders came within hailing distance.

  Now he could see these wool-wrapped horsemen weren’t Mexican at all—they had American faces and dark blue American uniforms, leather belts strapped across their shoulders, gaudy red sashes tied around their winter coats. Emblazoned on the arms of those blue wool coats were gaudy stripes of gold.

  “American soldiers,” he repeated, but this time in all but a whisper as the first of them streamed past.

  The eyes of every dragoon turned momentarily to regard Scratch’s strange procession, even though the soldiers’ heads never moved. All of them stiffly facing front as they headed south for Santa Fe—

  From the village came the surprising peal of a solitary bell, its first loud clang drifting across the snow and sage, piñón and cedar. After it rang twice, a second bell joined in with a faint chorus. Back and forth the two iron bells clanged in concert for a half dozen heartbeats, then faded into the sunny midday light as silence replaced their joyous, jarring song.

  “W-what was that, Popo?” Magpie asked, her voice a bit tremulous in fear.

  Bass saw the surprise and apprehension in Flea’s eyes too. He grinned to show them there was no reason to fear. “Among the Mexicans—sometimes the Americans too—they have a place where they listen to their holy men. It’s called …” and he searched for a Crow word to call those buildings. There was none. He had to speak that one word in English. “In my language it’s called a church.”

  “That sound is a ch-herch?” Magpie did her best to mimic the word.

  “No, the sound is a pair of big bells,” he explained. “You have small bells of your own. I have bought them for you children ever since you were babies.”

  “Bells?” Jackrabbit repeated.

  “Yes,” Titus said, turning to him. “But these are big bells, son.” He held out his arms wide. “Big, big bells.”

  “They make that much noise?” Flea inquired.

  “Giant bells, up there in those two tall …” and he was stumped for a second time, searching for how to describe a steeple or tower. Instead, he explained, “The white man builds a tall house for his holy men. And at the top of each tall house is a bell. This Taos church has two bells, one in each of its two tall houses. One bell for each. The Mexicans in this village ring those bells at dawn. Again at midday. And a last time at dusk.”

  “Must be midday,” Waits suggested.

  “The beautiful lady is right,” he responded with a wide grin, a shiver of anticipation shooting up his spine. “Come on. Let’s go find Josiah Paddock.”

  As they set off, he led them onto the road the dragoons had taken in the opposite direction.

  Waits-by-the-Water came up to his side, riding knee by knee. She said, “I wonder how many children Josiah has given his wife.”

  Looking at her with an evil grin, Titus asked, “I haven’t given you enough with these three already?”

  Waits returned his gaze from beneath those thick lashes. “Perhaps there are more babies for us to have, you handsome American.”

  He winked at her as they reached the western fringes of San Fernando de Taos. Into the mouth of a narrow street their horses clattered over the frozen, rutted ground compressed between two rows of low-roofed mud buildings, their fading, whitewashed walls like prairie skulls pocked with narrow wood-doored nose rectangles and empty eye sockets of tiny, lightless windows. Snarling at every inquisitive dog, Ghost and Digger drove off the Mexican curs with their tails between hind legs. These new arrivals reined this way and that around every crude, wooden-wheeled carreta shoved empty and forlorn up against its owner’s house, or rumbling noisily behind a burro pulling it from the center square.

  Titus drank deep of the air—light and dry—as only winters in the Rocky Mountains could be, filled with the sharp tang of another snow soon to follow on the heels of last night’s. On that air his nose recognized the fragrance of burning piñón and the heady perfume of cedar—each clear and distinct in the cold that brought a rose to their burnished cheeks.

  As his heart rose to his throat in anticipation, he suddenly found himself worried—brooding that something could surely go wrong. Josiah might have pulled up stakes and lit out. Why didn’t he think of that before? After all, it had been four years since Mathew Kinkead described just how successful Paddock had become.…

  Don’t fret, he scolded himself as they approached the placita.

  The end of the street they were on disgorged them onto the crowded town square where their animals clattered to a halt in the midst of adults and children, burros and dogs, carretas and a blanket of wispy smoke from many open fires … and lots of discordant noise. Such deafening noise. Braying mules, women yelling at their children, boys and girls crying or laughing or screaming at the top of their lungs. The only thing anywhere like it was the racket of a Crow village setting out on the tramp. Right behind Titus, his three children stared incredulously at this strange and raucous scene.

  An empty cart stood nearby, resting at the corner of an adjacent street, its stubby double-tree plowing up a pair of short furrows in the frozen, snow-crusted earth. He tapped Waits on the forearm and pointed at the carreta.

  “We’ll tie up the horses over there,” Bass explained. “Then go looking for some word of Josiah.”

  Minutes later she was walking behind him, clutching Jackrabbit’s tiny hand, while Magpie and Flea both held on to their father’s hands as they melded into the bustling cacophony of the market square, where Indians from the nearby pueblo rubbed shoulders with straw-hatted peons, farm laborers, and house servants too. In this rigid society built upon a strict adherence to separation of the classes, the wealthy landowners and their bold, leather-clad vaqueros strutted and preened like nobility, parting those of lower stations as they moved from vendor to vendor.

  In those first moments as he struggled to take it all in at once, Scratch saw how the dark eyes of the Mexicans or blanketed Pueblo Indians were trained their way … how quickly those hostile stares turned away as the strangers ebbing and flowing around his family went back to what had occupied them before they had noticed the newcomers in their midst.

  Stopping at the center of the square, Titus turned round and round again, gazing upon it all, a riptide of memories battering him suddenly: a journey here with Hatcher’s outfit and their pursuit of Comanche raiders, recollections of that tiny booth Bill Williams set up to sell off his extra trade goods, memorable visits h
ere with Asa McAfferty … and that fateful visit to Taos thirteen winters gone now.

  His gaze was drawn to his daughter, perhaps seeing her with new eyes in this moment—recognizing how tall she had grown, how much older she appeared now that he realized she stood on the verge of womanhood.

  Suddenly Bass reached out and grabbed the arm of an older man with a kind, furrowed face—clearly a poor pelado.

  “Señor, do you know Josiah Paddock?” he asked in the Spanish he had not used in more than four summers.

  With frightened eyes the man glanced down at his elbow. Titus let him go. “Paddock?” he repeated the name with his Mexican flare.

  “Si,” Scratch replied, sweeping his arm in a half circle around the market square. “Dónde esta Josiah Paddock?”

  This time the old man’s face softened, and he took hold of Bass’s elbow, turning him a quarter circle, leading the American trapper two steps toward that side of the square.

  “There—that is the store of Josiah Paddock, señor”

  “A st-store?”

  “Si,” the man replied, then gave the Indian woman and their children a quick, cursory glance. “Josiah Paddock. Americano—like you.”

  A handful of dark-skinned Indians from the pueblo moved past, slowing to give Bass and his family a brusque appraisal, then hurried into the narrow mouth of a street that took them out of the square and into a maze of lanes and courtyards.

  When Titus turned to speak to the old man, he found the pelado already stepping into the crowd. “Gracias, gracias!”

  “What did he tell you?” Magpie inquired.

  Grinning at his wife, Titus said, “He has a store! Josiah has a store now.”

  “Which one?”

  “There—that one!” And he started them toward the western side of the square.

  “It is his alone?”

  “Just look! It’s plain he’s done very, very well,” Scratch said, proud enough to bust his buttons.

  Arrayed above the brick-red clay tiles of that porch running the entire width of the building was a wooden sign, its paint beginning to show years of sun and weathering. The four of them stopped out in the sun with Titus as he translated its words to them.