Allegiance

  Amy leaned through the open window on her side. “Should we get out and walk?"

  Alizar veered his horse to her side of the carriage, wheeling to keep pace. “Walk, Señorita?"

  "Remember when we forded Cottonwood Creek? The carriage sank down to its hubs. I'm afraid the mules will fall again and thrash around in the mud."

  He grinned. “Not this time."

  "I guess if we have trouble, I can always hitch my oxen to the carriage."

  When he laughed, she couldn't restrain a smile. Ever since Council Grove, she and Alizar had kept up a running argument about whether mules or oxen made better draft animals.

  The carriage lost momentum in spite of the teamster's curses and rolled to a stop at the brink. Amy craned her head out the window. “What's wrong?"

  The mules eyed the layer of willow sticks suspiciously as Alizar spurred his mount forward. He shouted encouragement, but the mules’ hooves remained firmly rooted on solid ground.

  Amy swung the door open and climbed down. After unhitching Sugarfoot from the rear of the carriage, she jumped astride and, thumping her heels against his ribs, urged him into the stream. He had too much sense, she was sure, to throw a tantrum because of a little mud.

  The obstinate mules, wringing their tails under the driver's whip, entered the water behind her. Snorting and rolling their eyes, they followed Sugarfoot, pulling the carriage across the quagmire without mishap.

  Alizar loped his horse across after her, throwing a muddy spray.

  Amy reined her horse around to meet him. “Are we camping here?"

  "Sí. Los indios will not surprise us where the valley is wide. And there is feed and water for the stock."

  Amy pointed at the hillside. “I'm going to ride up where I can get a view the country, perhaps to that bluff."

  "Está bien. If you will wait a moment, I will ride with you."

  After Alizar directed the carriage driver toward the camping spot and gave instructions to his men, he accompanied Amy to the sandstone ridge, the only obvious landmark around. A winding trail led to the top where the ridge ended in a blunt rocky face overlooking the river valley. A cool northwesterly breeze dried the perspiration on her skin. She slid off her horse, threw the reins over a scraggly plum bush, and walked to the lip of the cliff.

  The Great Bend country formed a beautiful panorama through which the sluggish Arkansas River flowed in a big horseshoe-shaped curve with the shanks stretching away to the south. Beyond the river, the white sand dunes jutted up from the desert like the gilded domes of churches. While the wide, shallow river could not compare to the Mississippi, the sight of it brought her joy. It meant the long journey to Santa Fe was nearly half over.

  "Méjico at last!” Alizar joined her, quietly smoking his cigarrillo and squinting his eyes against the westering sun. “Look at the sand hills. They could be one of the seven cities of Cíbola, no?"

  "It does look like a city.” According to Tyler, the river formed the northern border of Texas, running west to the Rocky Mountains, but Amy didn't bother to correct him. Alizar considered Houston's claim frivolous, and her job was not to antagonize him, but to learn all she could from him about rebel activities.

  Alizar's eyes sparkled with mischief. “You know, mules have an instinct about quicksand. An ox will walk right into it."

  She hid a smile. “Didn't I see one of your mules run away this morning with all his harness on—scattering the horses in every direction and stomping through your campfire?"

  He sighed. “Spilled my pot of coffee, too. But mules are still superior. Your brother wraps his oxen's feet in rawhide, while my mules’ hooves remain hard as rock."

  "Still, our oxen will keep going long after your mules have dropped in a heap from exhaustion."

  "Oxen may be enduring, however they will starve before they will eat buffalo grass."

  "It takes more mules to pull the same load as an ox."

  Alizar grinned and fell silent. Amy smiled to herself, pleased at having the last word. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat, and a somber look replaced the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “How well do you know O'Donnell?"

  Coming from an unexpected quarter, his abrupt question threw her off balance. She blinked at him dumbly. “Why—why do you ask?"

  He shrugged. “I don't know. Is he an old friend of your family, or perhaps a compadre of your brother?"

  Alizar must know Tyler wasn't either one. West Point graduates weren't likely to choose their best friends from among poor Missouri farmers or traders. Was Alizar trying to trap her?

  She forced a casual smile. “I barely know him. Last spring he introduced himself to Jeb and asked to travel with us. Jeb needed a driver, so he agreed."

  "Were you aware he once served in the U.S. Army?"

  She shrugged. “He might have mentioned it to Jeb. I never paid him much attention.” Her heart began to knock in her chest. “Why?"

  He shrugged.

  Amy bit her tongue to keep from changing the subject too hastily.

  Below, the dragoons milled around the creek as the last of the ponderous wagons straggled toward the crossing. The caravan—twenty-five wagons, eighteen carts, and a hundred and fifty men, women, and children—inched across the vast wilderness like a small town on the move.

  Alizar broke the silence. “I hear your brother will marry Rosa Orlando."

  "Yes. Wonderful, isn't it?” She glanced at him sharply, doubting that his interest was as idle as it sounded. Parrying with him had become a test of nerves. “I know of others who gave their hearts away on this trip."

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?

  "You would be blind not to see that Toluca and Felicité care for each other."

  He gazed steadily at her, his eyes hooded. “You travel without your parents. Why?"

  "Jeb is my only male relative."

  "From him, then, I would request permission to court you.” He dropped the stub of his cigarrillo and ground it out under his boot, then took her hands in his. “Perhaps I should first ask you. How long I have searched for a woman of your qualities, your beauty."

  "Truly? There must be many fine women in Mexico."

  "I want a woman of refinement, culture and education. I wish to produce strong intelligent sons. I want you.” He pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth, his lips muffling her protests. Arms like steel bands held her captive; his hard thighs pressed against hers. “Querida mía."

  "Alizar, let me go!"

  Slowly, he released her. “Forgive my eagerness.” The amused and wicked gleam in his dark eyes told her he was anything but sorry.

  She headed for her horse. “I'm going back. People will wonder..."

  Seething with indignation, she rode Sugarfoot down the winding trail without waiting for Alizar. It was a dangerous game she played, and the situation was getting out of control. How could she investigate a man she couldn't trust to keep his hands to himself?

  Chapter 21

  Damn the sun! Siesta hour and no trees in sight, but from under every wagon, someone's feet protruded. Tyler decided he'd better sit out the white-hot afternoon—or risk a heat stroke. Perspiration trickled down his back as he joined Jeb under one of the Bakers’ wagons.

  After mopping his neck and face with his handkerchief, he spread out his large map. A puff of air straight from a furnace riffled the paper before he could secure the corners with stones.

  Jeb heaved himself up on one elbow. Stripped to the waist, he looked cool and comfortable. “What are you doin'?"

  "Other than baking my brains in the sun?"

  "Why can't you sleep during the nooning like everyone else? Is it contrary to West Point code or Yankee custom?"

  "Damned if I know.” Tyler pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. “Jeb, could you help me with something here? The trails all seem to criss-cross along this river."

  Jeb squirmed closer on his elbows and knees. “Let's see ... Pretty sorry lookin’ map. Is this all
the army had? I thought they surveyed this country—"

  "They did. But the survey report is turning to dust in some cubbyhole in Washington—nobody remembers where."

  Jeb grunted. “If they'd once publish the dang thing, men wouldn't keep gettin’ lost down on the Cimarron."

  "I know. Anyway, this is the best Jackson could find on short notice.” Tyler traced their route with his finger. “Independence, Council Grove, Big Bend country..."

  "I don't see any of those little Indian reservations they stuck along this side of the Missouri border."

  "I'm not concerned with the civilized tribes right now. Which ones out here are hostile?"

  "We started out on the Osage stompin’ grounds back here, and we'll get into Apachería at the other end. Between the two, we might scare up anything: Cheyenne, Wichita, Pawnee, or Comanche. Here lately, we've been seein’ an occasional Sioux or Arapahoe. They're mostly just thieves, though, and proud of it. They'll sell you horses one day and steal ‘em back the next. The Kiowas, on the other hand, don't mind liftin’ a scalp or two."

  Memories of the Black Hawk campaign flitted through Tyler's mind, triggering a wave of foreboding. He wondered how strong the caravan's defenses needed to be. “How far to the Cimarron Crossing? What's it like?"

  "The map don't show it, but there's several places to ford the river. South of there, unless we get some rain, it could be fifty miles without a water hole."

  Tyler whistled, long and slow.

  "Yep, a long jornada.” Jeb rolled on his back and folded his arms behind his head. “Alizar still think you're a surveyor?"

  "Hope so.” Tyler finished labeling the map, then stoppered his inkbottle.

  "The word got around quick you were workin’ for the army.” Jeb regarded him thoughtfully. “The Mexican's are wonderin’ why you ain't surveyin'. Some of ‘em are even whisperin’ that you're really a spy."

  "Are they now?” Trying to ignore his growing tension, Tyler wiped his ink-stained fingers carefully on his handkerchief.

  "I been tellin’ ‘em it ain't so, but ... Couldn't you pretend? You got survey tools, you said."

  Tyler grimaced. “It takes more than proper instruments. If I'd known I was going to resurvey the trail, I'd have insisted that Jackson track down those early records. Sibley started measuring the distance from Fort Osage. Out here, I've got no bearings—a map maker can't very well begin in the middle of the wilderness."

  "These people don't know that. Can't you put on a show?"

  "Maybe.” Tyler folded up his map as he considered Jeb's advice. “How about helping me?"

  "Sure. I'll do what I can."

  "I don't know how convinced Shoofly and his men will be.” Tyler rubbed the back of his neck, thinking hard. “As soon as we cross the border, his detachment will have to turn back—tomorrow or the next day, right? Let's do something after that. Oh, by the way, I'm sending my report back with Shoofly to dispatch. Have you learned anything more from the Orlandos?"

  "Let me see...” Jeb scratched in his russet beard. “Mexico City sent a new governor to Santa Fe and nobody likes him—he's an outsider. Domingo told me the people once drove all the Spaniards out of New Mexico, and he swears they can do it again. To him, the Pueblos are The People."

  "Interesting. What else?

  "He keeps askin’ me when the Texians or Americans are comin’ to liberate New Mexico. He's expectin’ one or the other. Says almost any government would be better than the corrupt one they've got there now."

  Tyler heaved a sigh. “We'll probably arrive just in time for the revolution."

  * * * *

  Far out on the prairie, dark shapes bobbed across the landscape. Tyler dug his spyglass out of his saddlebag and dismounted. A lizard ran over his boot and scuttled away in the rocks.

  "What do you see?” Shoofly's bloodshot eyes peered into the distance.

  Tyler brought the spyglass to his eye, braced his feet wide for balance, and adjusted the focus. The horizon line shimmered in the blue distance. He swept the glass across, slow and steady, until it passed over a large herd of buffalo galloping west, flanked by horses and riders. “What tribe wears sombreros? And blue shirts with white pants?"

  "Could be Mexican troops coming to meet the wagon train."

  Tyler handed the spyglass to his friend. “Do they often do that?"

  Shoofly shrugged. “Sometimes.” He squinted through the glass. “Yep. Mexicans, all right. If the Kiowas or Comanches have been stirrin’ up trouble, it would account for an armed escort from Santa Fe."

  "Damn!” Tyler took the spyglass from his friend and put it away. “That's all I need: nosy Mexican soldiers."

  "You might end up glad having the extra protection."

  Tyler mounted up. “Let's not explore the Bent's Fort trail today. If you don't mind, I think we ought to get back to camp."

  He and Shoofly crossed to the other side of the Arkansas River by way of Chouteau's Island and came out on the main trail about a hundred rods east of the encampment. On the outskirts, three people stood talking together. It didn't take more than a few seconds for Tyler to recognize Amy and her brother. The third was Alizar, his teeth flashing in a sun-browned face as he laughed at something Amy was saying.

  Tyler kept his expression bland as he passed by, pretending the sight of them meant nothing to him at all. Alizar had a possessive hand on Amy's elbow as he drew her further from the pathway; his smug expression nullified the courteous greeting he offered.

  After putting some distance between them, Shoofly glanced back at the group. “I'll be damned,” he said quietly. “Every one of my men have been makin’ calves’ eyes at that girl the whole trip, and the Spaniard ends up puttin’ a brand on her. Who'd have thought it?"

  Tyler tried to swallow his rage. Feelings shouldn't have this kind of hold over him.

  Shoofly chuckled. “Some women hanker after his type, I suppose. I figured she was askin’ for something like that from the start. What do you think?"

  "Goddammit, Shoofly! Shut the hell up!"

  His companion stared at him. “What's eatin’ you?"

  * * * *

  Alizar opened one eye, located the morning star gleaming in the sky, and stretched lethargically in his bed. Usually, he liked to be up and dressed before the night had faded into day. He closed his eyes for a few more cozy minutes, thinking about Amy and the intoxicating effect she had on him. Qué maravillosa! Whenever she came near him, the fever-heat of desire held him in thrall.

  Thrushes started up their monotonous song along the river as dawn touched the wispy clouds overhead with crimson. A mule brayed, and men began to stir. Alizar threw off his blankets and reached for his clothes. There remained much to do before beginning the jornada to the Cimarron River. The armed troops from Santa Fe—all twenty-four of them—had joined the caravan the evening before, drinking pulque and feasting on buffalo tongue. Alizar, anxious to get news from home, hoped they'd sobered up.

  As he dressed, he entertained the notion of checking on Amy and Felicité before rolling the fat capitán Gutierrez out of bed. Seeing their pretty faces and exchanging pleasantries marked the highlight of each day.

  The fire pits, scattered across the campground, glowed in the dim light like the baleful eyes of the waking dead—not only on the near side of the river, but also on the neutral ground of Chouteau's Island to which the U.S. troops had politely retreated. The camp in mid-river lay quiet now—it would be some time before the Yankees had slept off the effects of their own debauchery from the night before.

  Alizar roused his servants and put them to their tasks: building up the fire, cooking breakfast, and carrying water. As he sat in a chair getting his shave, he noted with satisfaction that he was setting a prime example for the insensible and lazy traders around him—if they would only make note of it. Amy Baker was not like other American women he had known. The industrious woman always rose early and occupied herself all day with sewing countless dresses to sell in Santa Fe. He
admired her shrewdness and enterprising spirit. Gracias a Dios, anyone could see she bore little resemblance to the pale, simpering girls who perpetually fought off the vapors in St. Louis.

  At the Lorenzo camp, she seemed glad to see him. It delighted him that she wanted to accompany him to meet the Mexican military escort. When he introduced her to capitán Gutierrez, he enjoyed a surge of pride.

  The paunchy officer from Santa Fe, effusive in his salutations, clung to Amy's hand far too long and babbled like a fool in a language she didn't speak. Much to her credit, she smiled, nodded politely and exchanged amused glances with Alizar.

  Capitán Gutierrez wore a tall white chako hat with matching pompom, a sky-blue jacket, and enormous white trousers held up by a yellow sash. A brace of pistols and a sword hung from his wide leather belt. The power of his rank might have been measured by his girth and the size of his heavy mustachios. The formalities dispensed with, Alizar pressed for the latest news, the sooner to get Amy away from the drooling lecher.

  Gutierrez displayed a melancholy expression and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “The Supreme Council of Finance in Mexico City has sent no money. Again. It is two years now, the troops have not been paid.” He spoke in Spanish, his only language as far as Alizar knew. “Their uniforms are in tatters, and although they are entitled to shelter and food, they get nothing but a few fanegas of grain from time to time. They live in poverty, scrounging for survival. If there was any place to go, they would desert."

  "So?” Alizar snorted with disgust. “The citizens’ militia provides their own weapons, horses, and provisions.” Obviously, Amy understood nothing of the conversation; her gaze wandered far afield, and her expression remained devoid of interest. Whenever he caught her eye, she smiled briefly.

  The captain of the troops leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I overheard at the governor's palace that the militia is to be disbanded. It is now illegal for the citizens to carry arms."

  "What? They cannot do that! How do we protect ourselves from the Apaches and the Navajos?"

  The officer shrugged. “I believe we need the militia. The three companies of federal troops they promised to send from the capital are on paper only—they never did arrive. We are down to seventy presidial troops, and nearly half of them are needed for conducting customs inspections."