by Scott O'Dell
In a short time we came to the defile and found to our relief that the entrance was open. Rocks piled on either side of it had not been moved. The dark figures, which earlier we had seen moving at the foot of the bastion, had disappeared.
Mendoza pointed to where, with a fleece over his back, Zuñiga ran along the path. I saw him stop to pick up the second fleece and move on.
"If he gets here," Mendoza said, laughing, "I will send him back for another."
Zuñiga had traveled more than halfway, to a bend in the stream, and to a second bend, when the wind lessened. Like an animal at bay, the flames moved in one direction, then another. Slowly the wind shifted, gained strength and blew hard from the south.
Zuñiga was not yet within hearing, but Francisco shouted for him to drop the fleece. "Run, hombre. Run for your life," he cried.
Fed by the wind and the bone-dry grass, the flames twisted, veered sidewise and in a wide curve swept down upon the stream.
Perhaps Zuñiga failed to see that the wind had changed. Perhaps he thought to outrun the fire. Whichever it was, he did not drop the fleece. He came on, stumbled under the heavy load, picked himself up, again slung it on his back, and started toward us.
Francisco, knowing he did not mean to leave the fleece behind, once more shouted a warning. Zuñga looked up. I could see his face clearly. Then a wall of flame roared over him and he was lost to view.
The flames forced us back into the mouth of the defile. The four of us stood there in the darkness and looked out at the blazing fields. There was no sign anywhere of Zuñiga and the fleece.
The Fortress of San Juan de Ulúa
Vera Cruz, in New Spain
The seventh day of October
The year of our Lord's birth, 1541
THE COURTROOM, on the third day of my trial, is the same as before. The three old judges sit at the long, oak table, dressed in black, fur-trimmed robes, more like zopilotes than ever. The clerks sit primly in their places. Counsel Gamboa and the royal fiscal talk together. Don Felipe stands behind me, shuffling his feet.
The courtroom is the same, except that in the part held for spectators there are more of them than before. Judging from their clothes, the newcomers are from Vera Cruz. My fame has spread, or rather the news of the treasure that lies hidden in the Land of Cíbola.
After I have taken the oath, the royal fiscal says pleasantly, as if we were acquaintances meeting in the plaza, "Do you find prison fare to your liking? Is it cooked well? Is it plentiful?"
"Often I have eaten worse and also less," I answer.
"And the bed?"
"Many nights I have slept on the ground."
"Then you like our prison? It is a place where you could spend many happy hours?"
I do not answer. The fiscal takes a sheaf of papers from the table, which he studies while pulling at his lower lip. He puts the papers down and looks at me.
I expect him to begin where he left off on the first day of the trial. But he takes a different tack and asks me to tell the Audiencia in my own words (whose words would I use if I did not use my own?), about the battle of Háwikuh.
"What was your part in that battle?" he directs me.
I start at the beginning, at the place when I followed Captain Mendoza into the city. I describe how we reached the first terrace and how the Indians hurled rocks upon us.
I have the feeling, as these things are recounted, that the fiscal has heard them before, from someone else. I tell of the attack by the young Indian and the struggle that followed and how we both lay wounded on the terrace.
Here the fiscal interrupts me. "How bad were the wounds you suffered?"
"Bad, sir."
"Will you describe them?"
I do so.
"The wound on your head. Was it the worst?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long did it take you to recover from this wound?"
"Several weeks. Three."
"Not longer?"
"No, sir."
"You have recovered from this wound?"
"As far as I know."
The royal fiscal glances at the judges. "As far as you know," he says, "you have recovered. But you are not certain."
Aware of my mistake, I say, "I am certain."
"One moment you are not certain. The next moment you are."
"I am certain."
"But is it not true that for a month after you left Háwikuh you were troubled by pains in your head and by poor vision?"
"I did have trouble."
"The trouble is gone?"
"Yes, sir."
Again the fiscal looks at his papers. "When you left Háwikuh," he asks, "how much gold did you carry?"
"None, sir, because none was found there."
"The first gold. Where did you find it?"
"In the City of Nexpan."
"Will you tell the Audiencia how it was found and in what amounts?"
In detail I recount the story of the stream and of the fleece, of the fire and how Zuñiga was consumed in it. Once more I feel that, like that of Háwikuh, he knows this story. Who could have told him? Who surely but Torres, the armorer, the blacksmith, the thief?
"This was the first gold," the fiscal says. "What did it weigh?"
"It filled one helmet by half. And there were three fleece."
"Enough, then, for you to quarrel over," the royal fiscal says.
"There was no quarrel," I reply.
"None?"
Before I can answer Counsel Gamboa is on his feet, trying to talk for one reason or another. Meanwhile, the fiscal glances through his sheaf of papers.
I notice for the first time that on the outside of the sheaf he holds is a red seal. These are not his own papers, therefore, but papers sent to him from somewhere, possibly by the Viceroy or from the frontier in Guadalajara. And in them is the testimony of a sworn witness. The testimony of Guillermo Torres? Yes, of Guillermo Torres, the thief.
My counsel is told politely by one of the judges to sit down, which he does.
"About this matter of the quarrel," the fiscal says, "after you found the gold...?"
"There was no quarrel," I repeat.
"About anything?"
"Well, one between Captain Mendoza and Father Francisco."
The fiscal glances at the ceiling in despair. "First there is no quarrel. Then there is a quarrel. Remember, Señor Sandoval, that you speak under the oath of the cross. Tell me what the quarrel was about."
"About the fire. The cause of the fire. And the death of Zuñiga."
"During these quarrels..."
"There was only one," I break in.
"During these quarrels," the fiscal continues, "which side were you on?"
"On neither side."
The fiscal turns and speaks to the judges.
"Your Excellencies, we have a fire which caused the death of one Baltasar Zuñiga. The priest, Father Francisco, accuses Captain Mendoza of starting the fire. Captain Mendoza, denying the accusation, says that it was caused by an accident. The young man who stands before you was present at this quarrel. And yet he claims that he favored neither one side nor the other."
The fiscal faces me. "You had no opinion in this matter?" he asks.
"I had an opinion."
"But you did not express it. Why?"
"Because Mendoza was our captain."
The fiscal smiles. "In other words, you were really against Captain Mendoza in this quarrel. You thought him guilty."
I see my error, but it is too late.
The fiscal goes on, "And because in your mind he was guilty, you actually threatened his life. What did Captain Mendoza say when you made this threat?"
"I made no threat." The trick of putting words in my mouth I am now familiar with. "None, sir."
"Let us see," the fiscal says. "You were recovering from a severe wound at this time. You were, in fact, suffering from pains and poor vision. Is it true?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then it is possible, is it
not, that what you did at this time is really not clear to you now? That you have forgotten what took place?"
"There are things I do not remember, but I remember this."
"You remember that you did threaten Captain Men doza?"
"No, sir."
"You have forgotten that you threatened Captain Men doza?"
"No sir. I mean..."
The royal fiscal strolls to the window and looks out at the sea. It is silvery and calm, the color of hot lead. I am confused by all his questions. Since I have pleaded guilty to the charge of defrauding the King, why does he ask them?
He leaves the window and crosses the room towards me. He has an odd way of walking. He puts his toes down first, then his heels, and then as his heels strike the floor, he bounces up on them, with a little jerk. It is the walk of a man well satisfied with himself.
He stops within a pace of me and says in a soft voice, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I shall prove to the Royal Audiencia that the threat against Captain Mendoza's life, which we have discussed, is only the first of many such threats."
He glances at the onlookers in the back of the courtroom. They have been restless throughout the questioning, disappointed, I believe, that little has been said about the treasure.
"I shall prove," he says, raising his voice, "that the accused made many threats against the life of Captain Mendoza."
A suspicion crosses my mind. Since the questions I have answered had nothing to do with my crime against the King, they were asked for a different reason. Something that Guillermo Torres has accused me of and which I know nothing about.
"I shall prove," the fiscal says, "that these threats, repeated over a period of time, in the end led to a fight. And that this fight resulted in the death of Captain Bias de Mendoza at the hands of the accused, Estéban de Sandoval."
The courtroom is silent. I hear Don Felipe whispering over and over, "Madre de Dios," like an old crone, and the onlookers muttering among themselves and Counsel Gamboa on his feet with a shout and one of the judges rapping on the table.
The royal fiscal walks away with his self-satisfied step. I watch him while he stops at the table to drink a cup of water, while he thumbs through the sheaf of papers which are stamped with the official seal, which hold the testimony of Guillermo Torres. Torres, who once was a thief and now is a liar. I am calm, if memory serves me, much calmer than at this moment as I sit here at my bench.
After Counsel Gamboa has spoken, one of the judges announces the end of the session. The trial will begin again in three days, on the tenth day of October.
"What a misfortune," Don Felipe says, while we are walking back to my cell. "And just when things were going well for us, or as well as could be hoped for."
I say nothing in reply. It is another hot day, with waves of heat rising above the leaden sea, but chills run down my back, thinking of the charge that has now been brought against me.
Before Don Felipe can ask about Mendoza's death, we have reached the cell, and there Counsel Gamboa is waiting. Gamboa insists upon speaking to me alone, so Don Felipe is forced to leave. This displeases him because he thinks of me, or so he says, as a son, and therefore should be privy to all that I do.
Gamboa waits until the jailer's steps fade in the pa sage. "The Royal Audiencia," he says, "will bring the charge the fiscal has requested. May I ask, before we go further ... did you murder Bias de Mendoza?"
His question has an ominous sound, even here in my cell.
"I am innocent."
Judging from his expression, Counsel Gamboa does not believe me. "It is best to tell me the truth," he says.
"This is the truth," I answer, and not too patiently, I fear.
"As I thought," he says to calm me down. "But I wish to be certain. The royal fiscal will call a witness in an attempt to prove the charge of murder. His name is Guillermo Torres. At this moment, I have learned, he is in Vera Cruz."
Gamboa watches me closely, waiting, I suspect, for me to change my mind at this news and admit my guilt. I am silent.
"Who is this man?" he asks. "Since you are innocent of the charge, what is his purpose in coming here to testify against you?"
Torres, it is. I am surprised and not surprised. Anger tightens my throat, yet I manage to tell Gamboa all that I know about him from the time we met on the ship until I saw him last in the winter of '40.
"Why he wishes to accuse me of murder, I do not understand."
"Did you have the gold when you saw him last?"
"Only what would fill two helmets."
"The sixty thousand onzas were found later?"
"Months later. The next spring."
"Could Torres have heard of the treasure?"
"They have heard of it in the City of Mexico. On the frontier, in Guadalajara and other places."
"Then we can assume that he knows about it," my counsel says. "Do you suppose that he would testify against you if he thought that by so doing he would receive a share of the treasure? Is he capable of such an act."
"Torres," I answer, "is capable of any act."
My counsel gets up from the bench and straightens the frayed cuffs of his doublet. "Sixty thousand onzas of gold," he says. "One could do much with that amount. I have a father, who is crippled and cannot work, and three sisters and three young brothers to support. If I had two handfuls of the treasure, it would..." He pauses, looks at his frayed cuffs, and takes his leave.
I have more faith in him than before, yet I still have doubts, mostly about his youth. It is one thing for him to defend me on the charge of defrauding the King, especially since I have plead guilty to this crime. It is something else for him to defend me against the charge of murder, facing a man as cunning and experienced as the royal fiscal. It is as if I were to compete in the subject of cartography with Mercator or Amerigo Vespucci.
My supper is fulsome, made up as it is of delicacies from the officers' table. Though I have no hunger, I make a show of eating to please Don Felipe, who hovers over me as if it is to be my last meal.
A wind has sprung up. The sky is cast over with rain clouds, which hide the star I have seen each evening. It is difficult for me to put the trial out of my thoughts, but I shall try. Before I again face the Royal Audiencia, it is necessary to write of those events that took place in the winter of '40 and the spring of '41, so they will be fresh in my mind once more.
19
THE SUN SHONE HOT in a clear sky as we started our climb out of the Abyss. But when we reached the rim, where Torres waited with the animals, the air was gray and heavy and smelled of snow.
Although our hoard of gold now filled two helmets brimming full, Mendoza decided not to return to Háwikuh.
'I think that Chief Quantah spoke the truth," he said, "about the stream that has much gold and flows into the stream at Nexpan. But I do not recall how far it is."
"He did not say," I answered.
"It is called Tawhi," Roa broke in.
"We know that," Mendoza said.
"The Cloud City," Roa continued. "It is a journey of eight suns into the northwest."
"How is it that you know so much," Mendoza asked, "when I know nothing?"
"I talked to one of the Indians."
Mendoza glanced at Zia, who nodded her head, agree ing with Roa.
"The Cloud City is eight suns away," she said.
Without further talk, the conducta set off, moving fast for we feared a storm.
We traveled all day, under cloudy skies, until we could see no longer. That night, powdery snow began to drift down through the pines. At dawn it was ankle-deep and still falling. But the horses were fresh, the Abyss lay behind us, our way trended into lower country, so we had good hopes of outriding the storm.
We would have escaped had the blue roan not lost a shoe.
Mendoza discovered the loss a little after midday. Because iron shoes were of great value, being scarce, and the snow had ceased, we retraced the trail to where the roan had stumbled over a hidden ro
ck. The shoe was not found, and we lost two hours. By this margin the storm caught us.
Snow began to fall again late in the afternoon, softly at first, then in wind-driven flurries. Between flurries we caught glimpses of an open mesa about two leagues away and below us, where the sun was shining. We spurred our horses into a pasotrote.
Near this time, while crossing a meadow and a small stream fringed by willows, Zia pointed out a cave high on the face of a cliff. On the way from Háwikuh we had explored several of such caves and had found pieces of turquoise and silver, besides fine earthen pots which were of no use to us. But it was now a race against the storm and we did not tarry.
We had gone no farther than three hundred varas before the wind burst out of the north. Soon the air was thick with snow, blinding both rider and horse, so thick that I, at the rear of the conducta, could not see our captain who rode in the lead.
Shouting, Mendoza pulled aside under a pine tree and waited for us to catch up.
"We cannot go on," he said, "though an hour's ride will bring us to the open mesa. Nor remain long where we are. We shall return to seek shelter in the cave which we have passed."
He himself took the halter of the mule that carried the gold.
"And hear me," he said. "Do not straggle. Keep together. Be quick. A more monstrous storm I have not beheld since the days of the Sierra Nevadas."
The trail we had just made was now covered by drifts, yet we safely reached the meadow, and by following the stream, the cliff. At its base was an overhang of rock, which formed a long gallery, large enough to protect the animals. By a series of handholds cut into the cliff, we clambered aloft to the lower lip of the cave.
Snow lay there, but within, the cave was dry, possibly thirty paces in depth and width, twice the height of a tall man. In one corner was a pile of half-burned logs, sifted over with dust which might have been the dust of centuries, and beside it a pile of faggots. Ranged neatly against the wall nearby was a row of earthen pots.
The cave was similar to those we had already seen, even to the wood and utensils. It was as if, long ago, those who had lived here had suddenly left, from hunger or fear of enemies. The bones we found, as in the other caves, belonged not to humans but to deer and coyote.