Allegiance

  Vicente shrugged as he took a seat. “You promised to keep me informed about the militia. Are you making soldiers of those indios?"

  Alizar grimaced. “Most of them are barefoot. Only a few brought weapons. I think altogether there are five flintlock muskets, twelve swords, a couple of dozen lances, and bows and arrows. Some carry nothing but clubs."

  "Well, at least Santa Fe has a militia.” Vicente sighed. “After disbanding the garrison for lack of funds, the governor is sadly lacking in federal troops."

  The liquid fire of the brandy burned a path down Alizar's throat, matching the burning anger inside. “What does he expect? You,DonVicente, offer your services for free. I, too, receive nothing. But most peones cannot supply their own weapons, horses, and food for long."

  Vicente tapped the ash from his cigar, his face impassive. “He asked me to discuss with you the possibility of joining our militia with what is left of his federal troops."

  "What? You are joking, no?"

  "Throughout Río Arriba, men are making inflammatory speeches against Pérez. They are saying he invented the new constitutional laws in order to rob the people of New Mexico with an appearance of legality. They fear he will tax them out of half their property, their labor, water, wood, pasture, and, God forbid, even their wives and children."

  "He is paying for Santa Anna's foolishness as well as his own.” Alizar chuckled. “That is amusing."

  Vicente did not laugh. “He is putting his military commander in charge of both civil and military forces."

  Alizar sobered at once. “No! Let him assemble his own volunteers. Half the militia is comprised of my own caballeros. They would not follow another officer. Unlike Pérez, I have provided them with food and supplies. I pay my men, Don Vicente, and they will fight the bandidos, the Texans, the Apaches, any enemy of New Mexico if I tell them to. But I must remain in command."

  "Don Alizar, you are a very noble man to give so much. I will discuss this with the governor. Perhaps he will allow you to lead your own men into battle, providing you will, in turn, put yourself at the service of his lieutenant colonel."

  After a moment's thought, Alizar decided the arrangement might work. He would have access to any tactical plans the governor and his commander made without losing control of his own militia. “Sí, I will agree to that."

  "Bueno.” Vicente looked past him toward the entry, a welcoming look on his face. “Ah, Señorita. Enter. We have a visitor."

  Alizar glanced around to see Amy standing in the doorway. She wore his favorite blue gown which brought out the color in her eyes. Her hesitant smile touched the most tender spot of his heart. He rose from his chair and walked over to kiss her soft hand. Looking into her eyes was like gazing into a bottomless lake in which the sky reflected its vivid hue.

  The alcalde gave Alizar a knowing smile. “The two of you may visit together in the patio. It is private there."

  Aromatic potted herbs infused the air of the inner courtyard. Squash vines crawled up the walls along the irrigation channel at one end; bees crawled on the large golden flowers.

  Amy took a seat on a bearskin-covered bench under the portal, hoping Alizar had come to discuss military secrets and not just wheedle her into marrying him.

  He removed his hat as he sat down beside her. Sable hair fell softly across his brow. The warmth of his intent gaze made her squirm inside.

  She'd never intended to make more of their alliance than what it was, a friendship and a business arrangement. Why, then, should she feel guilty?

  She hoped her smile wouldn't be taken as anything more than hospitable. “Have your responsibilities kept you busy? I haven't seen you lately."

  He sighed. “Forgive my negligence, querida. The demands of my hacienda and those of the militia keep me chasing back and forth. But I come today to warn you of the growing hostility against Americans. It has me concerned."

  "What have the Americans done? The ones I've met don't want trouble. In fact, they dread upsetting the trade they have going with Mexico."

  "Armijo is to blame for it. He has convinced people that an invasion from Texas, aided by Americans, would mean rape, pillage, and massacre."

  Her jaw dropped. “Why would he say such a thing?"

  "We need an army badly, and perhaps he thinks if the citizens have something to fear, they will gladly join the governor's ranks.” Alizar leaned closer, placing an arm around her shoulders. “But it is your safety that worries me most. Marry me, Amy. No one will touch the wife of Alizar de Agustin y Federico. Let me protect you."

  Amy's head whirled. “I—your news is most alarming! I must think."

  Alizar pulled her closer. “Don't wait until it is too late. Marry me and come live at my hacienda. I will protect you with my life."

  His passion touched a chord within her. He truly cared! In his dark eyes, the promise of sensual pleasures lurked as always. The temptation to surrender had never been stronger.

  As though sensing her confusion, he stroked her back, pulling her closer. As she slumped against his chest, she wished she could give in to the lethargy. How wonderful it would be to leave the decision-making to others for awhile. So long she had struggled, waiting and waiting, while nothing ever happened. She ached with weariness and discouragement to the depths of her soul.

  He murmured in her ear, “I know you want to love me. Why do you fight it?” He cupped her chin and lifted her lips to meet his. She made a sound of protest, but his arms clamped around her. He seemed in no hurry to let her go; his kiss was long and thorough. When Amy opened her mouth to beg him to quit, he slipped his tongue inside. Why wasn't she trying harder to stop him?

  At some level, as his fingertips traced the shape of her breast, she analyzed her feelings. It was as if she were outside looking in, untouched, unaffected. Alizar had his appeal, but something was missing. His kisses were not exciting, they were just ... wet.

  He is not Tyler.

  She pushed him away. “You're wrong, Alizar. You are a dear friend, but I don't love you. Not like that."

  His eyes narrowed as raw pain replaced the fire of passion in their depths. His expression settled into rigid lines. “How is it that you respond to me, so warm and yielding, if you do not love me?"

  She searched her mind, wondering how to make him understand. Her eyes teared. “Sometimes ... I feel so alone."

  * * * *

  Jeb sat hunched on a weathered log, his swollen feet dangling in the shallow stream under the log, and let his fancies drift free to carry him beyond his weariness and pain. The small valley that surrounded him, with its acres of lush grass and free-running water, would make a dandy spot to raise horses and cattle, he thought. The towering red canyon cliffs on all sides would shelter it from the rank weather and make it easier to defend against marauding Apaches. Someone else must have thought so once, because across the creek near a grove of quaking aspen stood a deserted farmhouse made of adobe with a pole corral attached. A man could settle down in a place like this and ask nothing of anybody for years at a time.

  A sleepy voice startled him out of his reverie.

  "We ought to camp here a couple of days at least. Give our feet a chance to heal up some.” His traveling companion, Remy LeDuc, lay on the grassy bank nearby with his arms folded under his head.

  "I'll go along with that. How about we set some traps and collect a few pelts? A good pair of moccasins might get us clear on home.” Jeb lifted one foot out of the cool water and squinted at the festering sores that represented a couple hundred very hard miles of walking. The boots had long ago fallen to pieces. The makeshift sandals he'd made from rawhide had been barely worthy of the name, and now they too were beyond salvage. He dropped his foot back in the water.

  "We could do that. But I'd rather call this home and end the journey right here. It wouldn't be a bad place to live."

  "I was thinkin’ the same thing. My sister, Amy, always wanted a farm. She'd love this."

  "You ever done any farming?" />
  Jeb nodded, grimacing. “I grew up on a hard-scrabble farm in Missouri. Swore I'd never pick up another shovel or fill another corncrib as long as I lived. Miserable way to live. But Amy, she's set on raisin’ livestock somewhere. I don't know why."

  "I can understand that. I'm partial to the idea myself.” Remy glanced around the verdant meadow. “This would make a dandy place to raise a family."

  Jeb noted the wistful expression on his friend's face. “Do you have kin back home?"

  "A wife and son. Haven't seen them since...” Remy cleared his throat and glanced away.

  After a long moment, Jeb gave up waiting for him to finish. “I've got a girl waitin’ for me. Rosa. Plump and soft as a dumpling, she is. I think I'll bring her back here. Amy, too. We'll plant us a vegetable garden, but mostly we'll just run cattle. Let ‘em fend for themselves and make as little work of it as possible.” He glanced at Remy. “What're your plans? Care to join us?"

  "We'll see."

  "I had another partner once, a major in the army. I don't suppose he's ready to settle down yet, though."

  "There are lots of these abandoned old farms around. You can pick ‘em up for next to nothing. Ten cents an acre, something like that."

  "Is that a fact?” Jeb pulled his feet out of the water and propped them on a warm rock in the sun. “That cinches it, then. I'm comin’ back. But I think I'll ride a horse next time."

  * * * *

  In Fernando de Taos, Tyler walked into a cantina in search of food and water and realized right away he'd made a mistake. The crowded room, dark and smoky, buzzed with conversations in several tongues: Spanish, Indian, and a patois that included a mix of those plus some broken French and English. None of it made sense to Tyler. What he did comprehend—and what caused the hackles to raise up on his neck—came by way of instinct. Most of the patrons wore long black braids and hand-woven plaid shirts: Pueblo Indians with little tolerance for light-skinned foreigners. Or so he thought, because his entrance through the low-set door seemed to trigger their animosity. He couldn't mistake the sneering, albeit unintelligible, insults. Three men appointed themselves the welcoming committee and intercepted him inside the door.

  They began with some impolite cuffing and shoving. Before Tyler managed to get his back to the wall, he lost his pistol to them. When he drew his knife, a well-aimed club disarmed him instantly. He sustained several vicious blows from fists and clubs as the belligerence gathered force. One challenger turned the fracas into a rooster fight by flipping himself upside down and, balanced on shoulders and elbows, lashing out with the long wicked rowels on his spurs.

  Desperate, Tyler unhooked the prong of his U.S. Army buckle and whipped off his belt. He held it in both hands, the tongue in his right, and his buckle—a rectangular slab of brass weighing about six ounces—in the other. In a rapid motion, he flipped the buckle end down with his left hand so that it swung freely across to the right. Tightening his grip on the tongue-end, he carried through with the motion, swinging the buckle in a swift arc up and over. The heavy brass came down with whistling speed, like a stone out of a sling, and chopped the rooster-fighter behind the knees. The man yelped as he flung himself aside and rolled out of the way.

  Another man jerked out his knife and foolishly lunged into range of the lethal windmill action of the belt. With a force nearly equal to the speed of a fusil ball, the whirling buckle caught the attacker's elbow. The man dropped the knife, screaming in pain.

  Tyler kept the three bullies at bay, swinging his buckle in a vicious ever-moving arc until they gave up and withdrew to nurse a number of bloodied cuts. Having won their grudging respect and a measure of peace, Tyler retreated to an obscure back corner to order a meal and recuperate.

  His swollen cheekbone throbbed with a dull ache, and his tongue probed a loosened tooth. For just one of the copper coins on the monte table, he would forget the mission altogether. After the reception they'd given him, he was convinced that all Americans—Major Tyler O'Donnell in particular—should mind their own damn business and let Mexico steep in its own manure.

  Tyler gulped at the cup of tepid water the proprietor brought him, wincing when the rim touched his split lip. He looked up as the door opened and a man entered wearing the more conventional vest, trousers, and white shirt of a well-to-do Mexican trader. However, his round flat face and dusky skin identified him as at least half Pueblo Indian. He exchanged pleasantries with a few men sitting near the door, then glanced toward Tyler's corner.

  The stranger wended his way back to Tyler, smiling genially. “I am Rafael García, at your service. You chose a bad time to get thirsty, eh?” He pulled up a stool and sat down.

  Tyler looked the man over, grateful for an earful of English. “You might say so."

  "What business brings you here?"

  Tyler pondered an answer, not wishing to alienate the only friendly face in the room. “Just passing through."

  García nodded and lapsed into silence as though digesting important information. A black-eyed girl brought a clay jug to the table, and García uncorked it. After taking a long swig of the contents, he offered it to Tyler.

  To refuse would be an unpardonable offense, Tyler knew. He accepted the jug, but the smell of the fumes gave him pause. Aguardiente. Taos Lightning. The local brandy of questionable origin—he'd run into it before at Bent's Fort. He sampled the liquor, allowing only a trickle to run down his throat. Molten lava couldn't have burned worse. He fought back a cough and blinked the moisture from his eyes. The native liquor, starting out pure spirits, often suffered additional “refinements,” such as steeping in chili peppers, chewing tobacco, and ox gall—or so Tyler had been told.

  "You must forgive my friends for their lack of manners.” García retrieved his jug, lifted it to his lips for a swig, then wiped his mouth. “They are proud men who love their country. But I tell them, don't judge a man too quickly. Are you from Texas, Señor?"

  Tyler shook his head, wondering again whether he was going to be allowed to walk out of the cantina with all his teeth. Was every white man considered an enemy?

  "Texas is rebelling, you know.” García handed him the jug again. “As are Zacatecas, Sonora, and five other provinces."

  Tyler dampened his lips cautiously with the aguardiente. If he was to escape with his head and limbs intact, he'd need all his wits about him. “New Mexico one of them?"

  García grinned. “Not yet. But soon ... Soon. My countrymen gather now in La Cañada: almost two thousand of us."

  Tyler waited patiently, trying to appear impassive. Why was García telling him all this?

  The man continued without encouragement. “I am a good friend to General Juan José Esquibel, so I know. Soon, it is all over for Governor Pérez."

  "Interesting.” Tyler masked his curiosity. So it was true after all: The rumors of a revolution were turning into reality. But what did it have to do with Tyler? An ominous feeling tightened his gut.

  "Too bad you are not a scout for Texas. We could use their help.” García gazed at him with a hopeful expression, eyebrows quirked.

  "What kind of help?"

  "Ten thousand fighting men with firearms and cannons.” García's solemn expression didn't match the dark humor lurking in his eyes. “Or anything less.” He grinned suddenly. “We do not ask for much, do we?"

  Tyler debated. It was an opening he could fall through and never hit bottom. His habitual discretion kept him from blurting out what he could do for García and his countrymen, but reason told him he'd never be in a tighter spot than he was in right now. With luck, he might get his mission completed and maintain his health in the bargain. “I think I can help you with the firearms."

  Chapter 28

  Amy left the Estados Unidos Hotel and stepped out into the midsummer afternoon. Hot and discouraged, she reflected on the entire year she'd spent in Santa Fe without making much headway on Tyler's mission. Nor had she gotten a step closer to achieving Jeb's release from prison. Even trying to
unite the other Americans in town had turned out to be a lesson in futility: few of them showed interest in aiding a revolution; the very mention of disturbing trade between Mexico and the U.S. made them fidget uneasily.

  According to the proprietor of the hotel, a Missourian, the chances of seeing a revolution develop were pretty low. “This territory is caught in a four-way game of tug-o'-war between Mexico, Texas, America, and the Apache Nation. The damn peons have no backbone. Over generations, they've been bred to surrender."

  Amy gazed up at the sky where a rumbling in the gray-blue clouds overhead warned of a thundershower on its way. She wondered whether she should give up and head back to St. Louis with the next caravan. If there would be no revolt, what was she doing here? Clearly, Houston had no power in New Mexico to grant her any favors—she would never get a land grant here. More than ever, she repented of her decision to get involved in him in his futile scheme. She also regretted letting Tyler leave the territory without her. Perhaps it wasn't too late to remedy that situation. In spite of Alizar's dire warnings against traveling alone, she might have to just load her belongings in one of her wagons and head for Bent's Fort. If Tyler was not there, it would at least be a place to begin searching for him.

  Rosa Orlando intercepted Amy trudging wearily toward the Lorenzo home. Two youths flanked the girl, armed with bows and arrows.

  "Amy, a terrible thing has happened. Muy malo!" Rosa's eyes looked huge in her sickly face.

  "What?” Amy went cold inside.

  "Mateo and Benito just arrived with the news. The federales have captured Tío Domingo and my brother!"

  Amy recognized the two grim-faced Orlando cousins—more than boys, yet not quite men. “But why? What happened?"

  According to Mateo, it had begun with the arrival of a detachment of troops at the Orlando farm. Benito had spotted their approach in time to spread the alarm and to turn the rancho into a fortress. To Amy, the two youths, standing barefoot in their loose cotton shirts and pants, didn't look as though they could put up much opposition to armed troops.