Refugio danced with Pilar, a swift bolero that he executed with passion and grace. His dark gray gaze was intent as he watched her, but he smiled seldom and his touch was impersonal. Afterward he permitted Charro to claim her with no more than a mild protest, a token expression of regret.
Pilar and Charro promenaded around the courtyard, speaking at random of his home, the guests of his parents, the pleasures of the fiesta.
“I had not known how much I missed all this,” Charro said with a wave toward the musicians and his friends and neighbors. “I wasn't anxious to go when my father suggested it; still, I thought it would be fine to see great buildings, listen to learned men, meet elegant women, do great things. I've seen and done enough. I'll be content to marry and raise little Huertas, and stay here all my days.”
“In spite of the Apaches?”
“There are dangers everywhere. If it was not the Apaches, it would be something else, yellow fever, fires — bandits.” He gave her a droll smile. “But what of you? What will you do now?”
They were walking near the fountain. She reached to trail her fingers along the deep, damp stone basin surrounding it. “I don't know. Much depends on my stepfather, whether he is coming here and, if he is, what he intends to do. Even if he doesn't try to harm me, what he may say of me could make me unwelcome.”
“Impossible,” Charro declared.
She gave him a grateful smile. “If all goes well, I thought I might find work, sewing, perhaps.”
“Sewing!”
“I was well taught in the convent.”
“So were most of the women here; they make their own clothing. But you were not meant for menial tasks.”
“I have to do something!”
“What of Refugio?”
“I — Who can say?”
He watched her a long moment. “Yes, I understand. But . . . you know that if it were not for him, and if you were one of the daughters of our neighbors, that walking like this with me would be considered a prelude to betrothal?”
She sent him a swift glance. His gaze upon her was warm. She smiled a little, “I've grown so used to being without a duenna that I hadn't thought how it might look. Shall we rejoin the others to save your reputation?”
“To save me from my mother's wrath, maybe. But you might think about it.”
“A duenna?”
“No, Pilar, a betrothal. There will always be a place for you here.”
Behind them the music was gay and the shuffling of the dancer's feet light as they moved in time to it. Charro's slender face grew serious as he slowed his pace, moving with a horseman's grace in his close-fitting rider's clothes, which on this occasion were sewn with buttons made of Indian silver.
“That's a . . . very kind gesture.”
He grimaced. “It isn't kind at all; I'm thinking of myself. I will say no more because Refugio is my friend. But you will remember, please?”
The declaration, oblique thought it might have been, was warming. She had no idea of taking advantage of it, but she was grateful. She smiled at him in the dimness of the courtyard as they turned and strolled back toward the loggia.
It was when the music was at its loudest, the dancing at its fastest, and the merriment at its highest, that a pounding was heard at the gates.
Charro ran to the wall and swung up onto the guard platform beside the wide entrance to take a look. When he reported back that there was a squadron of soldiers outside, Señor Huerta ordered the gate opened. The soldiers marched inside while Indian servants ran to hold their mounts.
Señor Huerta stepped forward as the military unit dismounted and drew up in formation. “Welcome to my home, gentlemen. You come upon us during a time of rejoicing, as you can see. We celebrate the safe arrival of my son from Spain after a long absence. It would give us great pleasure if you would join us and also accept our hospitality for what remains of the night.”
The leader of the squadron, a young captain, bowed. “You do us great honor, señor, and my men and I are most grateful for your kind offer.” He stopped to clear his throat. “However, I fear my errand is not a happy one. I am here on an official assignment at the request of his excellency, Governor Ramon Martinez Pacheco.”
“How is this?” Señor Huerta's stance had grown stiff.
“You have staying with you, I understand, a man by the name of Refugio de Carranza y Leon, and a woman who is traveling with him, the Señorita Pilar Sandoval y Serna. Is this not so?”
Behind Charro's father the music had come to an end with a flourish. The captain's words rang out loud and clear, so that the dancers turned to stare as avidly as those who had not been dancing. Charro's father answered simply. “It is.”
“Then I must ask you to produce them.”
“For what purpose, may I ask?”
“The governor orders that they appear before him to answer questions concerning their activities in Spain and Louisiana.”
“But they have only just arrived,” the older man protested. “How has their presence come to the governor's attention so quickly?”
“Information has been brought concerning them by a traveler, one Don Esteban Iturbide. There are charges, I fear, of grave import. I must ask you again to give up your guests into my custody. If you refuse, I have the authority to take them by force.”
It was a formal arrest. The soldiers, armed with swords and muskets, were blocking the way to the gates. To escape, Pilar saw in a swift glance, they would have to fight. It was possible that many of those gathered inside the courtyard would be injured. She saw Enrique exchange a long look with Refugio, then look to where Charro was standing just under the guard platform. He was watching Pilar with his hands balled into fists. Enrique turned back to Refugio, but their leader slowly shook his head.
Moving with a firm tread, Refugio walked forward. His voice was quiet yet carried as he spoke. “There will be no need for force or violations of hospitality. I am Refugio de Carranza y Leon, and I place myself at your disposal. As for the lady, there is no possible blame that can be attached to her, therefore no need for her presence. You may leave her here.”
Pilar moved then, slipping through the crowd to stand at Refugio's side. Her chest was tight with the terrible sense of irony she felt for being caught by Don Esteban at last, here where they had thought they might be safe; still, she did not hesitate. “I do not ask for such consideration,” she said. “The governor has demanded my presence also, and it is my stepfather who has attached blame to me by involving me in the charges which require our appearance. I would not disappoint either gentleman.” They were received in the study of the governor's palace. They had set out at dawn, reaching San Antonio during the siesta hours. After a short period to refresh themselves from the ride, they were brought before the official representative of Spain in the province.
The governor's palace was a grandiose name for a low-built, whitewashed building which faced the military plaza of San Antonio de Bexar, with the church of San Fernando nearby. Governor Pacheco's private quarters were in the house, for there were domestic noises coming from beyond the study, perhaps out in the walled patio at the rear, the sound of a woman scolding, the clatter of pots around a cooking fire. The shutters of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the governor's study stood open to catch the evening air. They looked out over the square where the last rays of a red sunset streamed through the trees around the plaza, casting long, vermilion-edged shadows across the dusty quadrangle. People were just beginning to gather there in the first hint of evening cool, young women with their duennas promenading in one direction and the soldiers in faded uniforms walking in the other, so that they met twice each time they made a complete circuit.
Governor Pacheco sat behind a heavy table of dark oak. His chair, cushioned in red velvet and with velvet padded arms, rose up behind him with a back incised with crude carvings of the lions and castles of Spain. Besides him, standing with one hand resting on a corner of the table was Don Esteban. His features were b
urned by the sun and wind and his clothing lacked his preferred degree of richness. The expression in his small black eyes, however, as he watched Refugio and Pilar take their places in front of the governor with their escort of soldiers around them, was one of malignant satisfaction.
That look turned to wariness as he discovered that they had not come alone. Crowding into the room behind them was Charro, Baltasar, and Enrique, with Señor Huerta and a good dozen of his best horsemen behind him. Though Refugio was unarmed, the others were not, and their stances as they positioned themselves about the room were bellicose.
The governor rose to his feet. “What is the meaning of this intrusion, Señor Huerta?” he asked. “You were not summoned.”
“The two who were are friends of my son. But for them, he might now be dead. Therefore, they are friends of mine who deserve whatever I may be able to do to aid them. For the present, I offer only my support.”
Don Esteban, his face suffused with dawning rage, brought his fist crashing down on the table. “This is insupportable! I will not have such interference! I demand these people be removed.”
The governor turned his head deliberately to give the nobleman a hard stare. In that moment it could be seen that there was some slight friction between the two men. Perhaps Don Esteban had been too demanding since his arrival, or else had tried to overawe the governor with his court connections. Either course must have been unwise. The governor, an austere gentleman with a proud nose, did not look like a man easily impressed by threats.
“I must remind you, sir,” the province's highest official said to Don Esteban with icy politeness, “that I am conducting this interview. You will allow me to set the conditions.” His lips snapped shut and he turned back to Charro's father. “Since you are an old and respected member of this community, Señor Huerta, I will permit you and your followers to remain.”
Charro's father bowed in acknowledgment of the gesture. “I thank you, your excellency, and my son also thanks you.”
“Yes,” Charro said, bowing in his turn.
The governor dropped back into his chair. “Now that we have that settled, let us proceed.”
He shuffled through several sheets of foolscap which lay before him, reading over an item here, an item there. Don Esteban fidgeted at his side, but the governor would not be hurried. Finally, the official placed the sheets aside in a neat pile and folded his hands, resting them in the exact center of a large blotter of Cordoban leather.
“There have been a number of charges made here today. The most serious ones are against you, Refugio de Carranza. Don Esteban Iturbide claims that you are, in fact, the notorious bandit wanted in Spain under the name of El Leon. You are accused of committing a number of crimes against Don Esteban personally. According to him, on a day in December of this past year, you abducted from his keeping his stepdaughter, Señorita Pilar Sandoval y Serna, and made off with her into the mountains, where you kept her against her will.”
“That is totally untrue,” Pilar interrupted. “I asked Refugio to remove me from my stepfather's household because I was in fear of my life, for I suspected he had murdered my mother. I was forced to stay with Refugio because Don Esteban had my aunt knifed in her bed so I would have no place else to go.”
“Preposterous!” Don Esteban exploded before she had finished speaking. “She is deranged from being forced to live with cutthroats and scum such as Carranza and his men. They have totally destroyed her mind as well as her morals.”
“Who,” Señor Huerta said, taking a step forward, “are you calling cutthroats and scum? I take leave to inform you that my son has been with Carranza, and he is neither!”
“Gentlemen, if you please!” the governor said.
“Señor Huerta is right,” Pilar insisted. I have never seen any of Refugio's followers do a vile or unjust thing, which is more than can be said of my stepfather.”
“Thank you, señorita,” the governor said in exasperated tones. “May we continue?”
“I assure you it's so!”
“That may or may not be. For the moment, we are enumerating the charges against Refugio de Carranza. Please remain silent.”
Pilar swallowed her protests, though anger rose inside her.
“Where was I? Yes. While holding Señorita Sandoval captive, Carranza, it is suggested that you seduced her into immoral and sinful ways. This was done with malice, because of your vendetta against Don Esteban, one of long standing. This gentleman further claims that you followed him to the Louisiana colony, where you consorted openly with his stepdaughter for the purpose of discrediting him in his new position. You then broke into his house with the help of his stepdaughter, whom you have suborned to your will. While there, you searched out the hiding place for the small bag of emeralds that represented the fortune he had amassed over the course of a lifetime, and also tortured him into revealing the hiding place of his ready gold.”
“Emeralds?” Pilar said, the word drawn from her by disbelief.
The governor turned his gaze upon her. “A highly portable form of wealth, one to which Don Esteban had reduced a rather large estate.”
“And Refugio is supposed to have taken these emeralds?” she said slowly.
“That is the charge.” The words were dismissive, as was the way the governor turned away from her. He continued, “Don Esteban also is ready to swear that Refugio de Carranza attempted to murder him in a highly irregular altercation with swords, and when that failed, deliberately set fire to a private chapel for the purpose of making his escape with the stolen goods. This fire subsequently caused the virtual destruction of the town of New Orleans, a result also laid at the door of the accused.”
Pilar barely listened to these last charges. She turned her head to look up at Refugio. Was it possible? Was it? Could he have found the emeralds and pocketed them during his search of Don Esteban's house?
But if he had, surely he would have said so. Surely he could not have failed to mention gems of such value when he knew they could only represent what Don Esteban had stolen from her, the reason she had followed after Don Esteban to Louisiana in the first place.
It was impossible to think that Refugio could have had them with him all this time, and yet it made a terrible kind of sense. Why else would Don Esteban have followed them at such risk and effort? Why else, except for that one thing he valued, wealth?
Refugio, as if drawn by her stare, swung his head slowly to look down at her. He met the warm brown of her eyes, and his own were bleak with painful self-derision.
Abruptly, Pilar's doubts left her. Refugio had stolen the emeralds. He had taken them, then had deliberately kept the knowledge from her. He had betrayed her and their joint quest, betrayed every tender moment they had shared for the sake of a handful of gems. He had taken the emeralds, had had them all along. And he had them still.
21
“I AM GOING TO PUT a question to you, Refugio de Carranza,” Governor Pacheco said, his voice even, yet with a hard note underneath it. “Are you, or are you not, known in Spain as El Leon?”
Refugio's lips twisted in a smile. “I am no lion, and never was,” he answered, “though I may have been, on occasion, a jackal.”
“There!” Señor Huerta said. “What you have here is one man's word against that of another. This entire examination has been a disgrace, based on charges brought out of spite, and with the intention to wound.”
Don Esteban flung up his head. “Are you accusing me of lying, señor? If so, I tell you the liar is there.” He flung out his arm to point at Refugio. “The examination has been too weak, if anything. Carranza should be put to the test.”
The governor turned his hard stare from one man to the other. “I see no need for torture to get to the bottom of this affair. It has been conducted with all due regard for both the gravity of the accusations and the welfare of the accused. If, gentlemen, you do not approve of my handling of it, I suggest you take your complaints to Mexico City. Or to Madrid.”
Señor Huerta was unabashed. “Carranza is the friend of my son, and a man of great honor and courage. Not one claim made by this nobleman from Spain can be proven against him. Don Esteban Iturbide's actions are nothing more than an attempt to use the official machinery of this province in a private vendetta, one of long standing between his family and that of Carranza. I say it should not be allowed!”
“And who are you to say anything at all?” Don Esteban demanded. “You, señor, can know nothing and less than nothing of this matter, stuck here as you are in this provincial desert. I would advise you to allow Carranza to fight his own battles, or you may find yourself in a war not of your choosing.”
Charro's father drew himself up. “Are you threatening me?”
“Take it as you will. As for proof of what I say, there is my stepdaughter at Carranza's side. What more is needed?”
Charro moved forward. “What if Pilar is here with us?” he asked. “A fine care you have for her, when you stand there blackening her name before the world.”
Don Esteban sneered. “You ride with Carranza so must be one of his bandits. What possible weight can your opinion hold? Of course you support him, since he may save your skin by saving his.”
“A vicious lie!” Señor Huerta cried.
“Come, we are straying from the purpose at hand,” the governor said, his expression harassed.
“I must speak,” Charro insisted. “Have you never heard, Don Esteban, of the affections of the heart? Your stepdaughter would not be the first women to consort, as you so elegantly put it, with the enemy of her family.”
The governor tried ineffectually to call them all to order. Don Esteban ignored the official as he gave a harsh laugh. “Affections? Is that what you call it? You mistake Carranza's sentiments, my friend. He knows nothing except how to hate. He has kept my stepdaughter with him solely to make me look foolish, because her shame is my shame, and it pleases him to have it so.”
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