by Ward, Marsha
~~~
At dawn James put the team on the road for Pueblo. He popped the whip and cursed the mules, and said nothing to Hilbrands for miles. The mangy demon was back in his belly, rending and tearing, and the young man regretted having to be in the employ of a man who would try to force his ways on another.
Hilbrands sat quietly on the seat. Every fifteen minutes his mouth would open as if he were about to say something, but then he would clamp it shut and bite his lip.
About mid morning, he finally asked James, “Were you warm enough under the wagon?”
James swiveled his head to look at the man. “It was about tolerable.”
“Do you bear me ill will now?”
James considered. “Some.” They went back to silence.
At the nooning James spoke up as they rested under the oaks on the bank of the river. “I reckon I better head for Denver City once I get this team back home.”
“You’d leave me after driving only one day?”
“My time’s up. Every day I stay on rubs salt in Danny’s wound. I don’t want to kill the man, but it would come to that if I stayed.”
“But James, my boy, I need you. Not just for these two weeks, but for steady work. If you don’t like driving the team, why, you can run the office or the store, and I’ll do the hauling.”
“It isn’t the mules I object to.”
“I won’t push my daughter at you.”
“It’s no good, Randolph. I’ve got to dig out that tunnel.”
“That’s your final word?”
James expelled a lungful of air. Then he nodded. “I’m pressed for time.”
Hilbrands subsided, lounging back on the grass.
He spoke again at the middle of the afternoon, as they bounced along in the empty wagon. “Maybe you’d be interested in a letter I got a few days back.”
James grunted.
“Angus Campbell has work. He’s got some colts he needs broke, and he wondered could you do the job.”
“News travels fast for such a far flung country.” James squinted toward the sun.
“It does.” Hilbrands shifted on the seat.
“Where’s he located?”
“Down south on the Cuchara. Nice country, I been told. He sent a map.”
“I’ll give it thought.”
At twilight, as they came into the final bend of the road before they reached Pueblo, James said, “It’s late in the season to start mining. I can go north come spring. Will you give me the map?”
“Are you dead set against staying in my employ?”
“Rand—”
“I shouldn’t have tried to push Annie on you. She wasn’t in a good mood, anyhow. You can have the map.”
Hilbrands was silent again until they caught sight of the lights of the town. He cleared his throat. “I’m obliged that you didn’t holler at Maybelle. One thing about you Owen boys. Your ma reared you up courteous like. Even when you get temper struck, you’re kind to the ladies.”
James wanted to tell Randolph Hilbrands how Carl had cursed the man’s daughter when his pride got bent, but that was low of him. Hilbrands wouldn’t believe it anyway, so he sat on the wagon seat, drove the mules into town, and let the older man speak his piece as he listened to his own bent pride cursing his older brother.
There had not been too many such spells in his life before, but a black, mean mood was on him now, and he said nothing as he put up the animals and stowed away the harness. This ain’t good for your soul, he told himself, but the meanness stayed, and the pain in his belly twisted and turned all the long night as he lay on the hard bed in the back room of the hotel, remembering the glowing look on Ellen’s face when Carl got up from his sick bed to marry her.
The two of them stood in the meadow having the marriage words said over them. James had seen how Ellen’s shining eyes spoke of the love she gave to Carl but not to him. Carl—only half a man, with a broken leg, a bullet hole big as a fist in the meat of his hip, and a furrow above one ear—ended up with a grin of triumph and a bride. It hardly seemed like justice that James—victorious, whole, and sound, while the family’s battle with the kidnappers had robbed Carl of so much vigor—had no scratch on him, yet he had lost the battle for Ellen’s hand.
Hilbrands tried to keep him, but before dawn the next day James strapped on his gun belt, saddled his animals, and took the road south, following Angus Campbell’s map. When the way led too close to the homeward path, he headed for open country, breaking his own trail and making a dry camp or two to avoid meeting any of his kin.
Chapter 8
Sunrise fanned golden rays into the eastern sky as the horses ridden by Don Enrique Olmedo y Landa and Amparo Garcés y Martínez cantered into the Cuchara River Valley near Leones. The Don had pushed on through the night to get the girl to the mission priest on this, the twenty sixth day of October. Although the girl was weary, Don Enrique’s sense of honor and the memory of his friend, Tomás Garcés y Vega, demanded that he discharge this duty before he continued with his own business.
Covered with dust and chilled to the bone, the girl blinked her eyes to clear them, and a shudder ran through her slender frame as she reined in her horse on a flat section of the river bank. An icy breeze blew, causing the bare branches of the cottonwoods along the river to rub together. Hundreds of birds twittered in the trees, greeting the new day. The river was as dry as Amparo’s mouth.
Santa María, we are nearing the place of my sacrifice. Please, Holy Mother, petition your Beloved Son that He will accept my dear papá into His bosom.
Don Enrique wheeled his horse and came back for the girl, a frown drawing his moustache-covered mouth downward into his beard. “Señorita, what is the trouble? Why have you stopped?”
Amparo turned her anxious face toward the tall, gaunt man. “Please, señor. Permit me a moment to compose myself. Today this place marks the beginning of my new life. I need a little moment.”
The stern face softened. “Poor girl. I understand. However, we must still ride a small distance to arrive at the village. We can stop before we meet the priest, if you like. Be quick, señorita.”
“I am now ready.” The girl sighed, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “We will continue, Don Enrique.” Amparo lifted the reins and clucked to her horse, and it moved up to follow the caballero and his pack mules.
All along the road, dust lay thick upon the brush. The trees thinned out as they went upstream, until, when they entered the village, there were no trees in sight.
Don Enrique led the way through the square to the whitewashed mission. There he dismounted and tethered his horse and the mules to a post embedded in the ground in front of the church. Amparo sat stiffly on her mount, trying to keep wisps of hair loosened from her braid from blowing into her face.
“Wait here, señorita. I will rouse the holy Father.” Then he was off, around the back of the church, where Amparo presently heard him pounding the knocker on the door of the priest’s lodgings.
The girl shivered as the sound died away. A large flake of whitewash drifted to the ground from the wall alongside the church door. Off to her right a rooster crowed. A barking dog chased a shadow into the square, then retreated to raise its leg against the side of a house.
Blessed Mother, are the people friendly in this village? Is my bridegroom truly a good man? I wonder if he will receive me kindly.
A pair of voices exchanged messages at the rear of the church. Then Don Enrique came around the corner, followed by a round-shouldered priest who carried a large key.
“Is this the señorita?” The priest gestured toward Amparo, then continued talking to Don Enrique. “I know nothing of her plans. The convent you speak of is quite a distance away, and I do not have any connection with the Sisters there.”
Don Enrique plucked at his beard. “This is most extraordinary. The señora said I was to bear the girl to you and deliver her upon this date, and that you would have made arrangements for her.”
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br /> The priest approached Amparo’s horse and looked up at her. “Little daughter,” he said gently, “I am Father Gallegos. Can you explain? I was expecting that a bride would arrive from Santa Fe by today.”
“My Father, this talk of a convent is foreign to me. Señor Fuentes made arrangements to send me here. I am the bride whom you seek.” Amparo’s hands gripped the reins, yet she could not feel them for the numbness in her fingers from the cold breeze blowing through the square.
Satisfied with her answer, Father Gallegos nodded and reached up to pat her hand. “Good. I look forward to the arrival of Don Julio this afternoon. He is anxious to meet you.” He gestured toward the church. “He has had the banns published, and all is in readiness for the ceremony.”
“Listen, what is going on?” queried Don Enrique. “You both talk as though this child is going to wed a stranger.”
The priest turned his head. “That is the case, my son. You may be at ease. Don Julio is a fine man, and will take good care of the señorita.”
“This is incomprehensible! Totally impossible!” Don Enrique’s voice rose a notch in both pitch and volume. “The señora told me the girl was to enter holy orders.”
“Is there any order holier than matrimony, my son? She will have a fine home, servants at her beck and call, all that she needs or desires.”
“I cannot permit it! I was her father’s closest friend! ¡Ay! He would not approve of such a ridiculous plan!” he sputtered. “Don Tomás would turn in his—”
“Don Enrique, please,” Amparo broke in. “I do this thing of my own free will.” She brushed a strand of wind-blown hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.
“Child, you cannot know what you are doing.” Don Enrique’s face creased in a frown of solicitude.
Amparo sat up straight in her saddle. “Believe me, señor. It is what I wish. Please do not interfere.”
The caballero threw his hands into the air. “I see that the girl has made up her mind, but when I return to Santa Fe, the señora will bear the weight of my most strenuous disapproval. The woman misled me!”
Father Gallegos laid his hand on the Don’s arm. “We cannot know her mind, my son. You must be guided by charity when you speak to the señora. Peace be unto you.”
Don Enrique turned abruptly and strode to Amparo’s mount. “In view of your coming marriage, I will leave you the mule that bears your equipage as a gift, señorita. I cannot delay my departure longer.” He helped the girl to the ground, then turned to the pack mules and separated one from the bunch. He put the lead rope into Amparo’s hand, untethered and mounted his horse, and settled himself into the saddle. “If I had more time, I would not permit this travesty to take place,” he said gruffly, then, leaning out of his saddle, said to the priest, “As I am behind times, it must be as the girl wishes.” He turned back to Amparo and doffed his great embroidered hat. “Adiós, little one. Go with God.” Then Don Enrique re-covered his head, wheeled his horse, and rode out of the village in a great amber cloud of dust.
Father Gallegos took the lead rope from Amparo and tied the mule to the hitching post. She got her horse by the bridle, tugged it to the post, and tied it alongside the mule. The priest put his key into the lock of the church door, turned it, and threw wide the portals. “Come with me, my daughter. I will get a boy to care for your animals and bring in your luggage. You can rest in the chapel until Señora Clara arrives. She is my housekeeper, and I have no doubt that she can find you a place to wash and change your clothes.” He moved into the darkness of the doorway, then returned when Amparo did not follow him directly into the church. “Come in, little one. The Señora will be here soon. Now I must go prepare for the mass.”
“Gracias, my Father. Is there a place where I can sleep? The señor was anxious to conclude my journey by today, so we were obliged to ride all night.”
“Poor little one. Señora Clara will know such things. I will send her to you the instant she arrives. In the meantime, please sit in the chapel and rest.”
The priest escorted Amparo into the little church, and she bent her knee before the Host. Soon she was seated in a dark corner of the chapel, and before long, her head nodded until it touched the enclosed side of the pew, and the girl slept.
~~~
Amparo awoke with a start as a hand shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes wide, yawned, stretched, and looked around. The church was shrouded in darkness. Only one candle kept away the gloom, and that was carried in the wrinkled hand of the tall old woman who had awakened her.
“Señorita, I am Señora Clara.” The voice was soft and gentle. “I tried to awaken you before but could not rouse you, and you have slept for many hours. Come. The Father wishes to speak with you.”
Amparo quickly got to her feet. “Is the good Father angry that I missed the mass?”
The old face creased into a smile. “No, muchacha. He is a kind man, and you had the look of one who had traveled far. Come, little one. Follow me.”
The woman moved toward the rear of the chapel, along a passage, and up the side aisle, and Amparo followed her into a small room where the priest sat at a table.
He rose, smiling, and took her hand. “My daughter. Our Lord looked down on your weariness and smiled, for you dreamed undisturbed.”
“You are kind, Father Gallegos. Where are my things? Where may I ready myself for the ceremony? It must be very late.”
The holy man’s face grew pensive. “My daughter, I fear that something is amiss. Don Julio—Señor Rodríguez—has not yet arrived. Perhaps he was delayed at his rancho, but I thought he would have sent word.”
Amparo took a short breath and held herself very still. When she spoke, her voice was low and quivered a fraction. “Then I must wait?”
“Yes, my daughter.” The priest frowned. His eyes reflected his concern. “Perhaps you should go ahead with your preparations in case he arrives later tonight. Then we can proceed with the marriage.”
Amparo nodded.
“Go with Señora Clara, my daughter. She will assist you.”
“Gracias, my Father.” The girl bent her head, and the priest moved his hand over it.
“Peace be with you, my daughter.”
Amparo followed the old woman as she led the way to a small, closet like room opening off the chapel. “You may wash, then change your clothes here, muchacha. Armando brought in your valise, and here is a basin of warm water. If Don Julio is delayed much longer, I will have the boy bring in a cot for you to rest upon until the don comes.”
“Thank you, Señora. You are very kind.” Amparo sighed, and began to untie the ribbons that held her blouse together. “Do you know Don Julio?”
“No, but I have seen him on two occasions, muchacha.” The woman’s black eyes twinkled. “You are curious, ¿no? I can tell you that he looked like a fine man: prosperous, and with clothes fit for a grandee. And he smiled once, at a joke the good Father told, so he is not without humor, little one. He is older than you, of course, but not much over thirty years. I am sure you are making a fine match.”
Amparo sighed again, and gave a little shudder.
“Are you cold, querida? No. You are frightened.” The old woman smiled. “Marriage is not so bad. You will see.”
The girl shut her eyes, then opened them and turned toward Señora Clara. “If only—I mean, I wish—” She lowered her eyes. “It is so hard to wait.”
“What do you mean, muchacha?”
The girl hugged one arm with the other. “I have come so far to be a bride. Now that I am here, the bridegroom is not. I almost feel sick.” She put her hand on her stomach. “In here.”
“Yes, you are frightened, and you are anxious to get on with your life. It is understandable that you are nervous, little one, but,” the old woman’s eyes twinkled, “your nerves will pass by and by.”
The girl compressed her lips to still their quiver. She turned to the basin and dipped her hands into the water, then splashed the liquid onto her face.
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The woman patted Amparo on the shoulder. “Of course you have some fears, muchacha. You are very young, and this is all new to you. God will bless you if you obey your husband.” With that, Señora Clara patted Amparo’s shoulder once more and left the girl alone in the room.
~~~
The wind forced cold air down James’s collar as his horse scrambled up the bank of a stream. He’d ridden long, the sun was skidding down the bowl of the sky toward the horizon to the right, and it was time to make camp. James looked for a place to build a fire as the sorrel gelding moved with sure feet along the stream bank with the pack mule following on a lead rope.
Suddenly, the horse’s ears flicked forward, and it stopped and set its forelegs in the path, throwing James against its neck.
“Confounded horse,” he said, regaining his balance and clucking to the sorrel. It shook its head, sidling and whinnying, then tried to back up.
“Something on the trail, boy? Whoa, settle down. I’ll take a look.”
As James dismounted, swinging his leg to the ground, he shivered at the chill touch of a wisp of wind that raised the tail of his coat.
It’ll frost tonight, he thought, and tied his horse to a scrubby tree beside the trail. Coming on dark soon.
James adjusted his gun belt and slipped the loop off the hammer of his revolver as he walked through the fading light toward the place where the sorrel had shied. A twig snapped under his boot, and he started at the sudden sharp noise. Off to the right, across the creek, something scuttled through the underbrush. James stopped, pulled his gun, and swung it in that direction, but nothing menacing appeared.
He peered back into the shadows on the trail to discover what had spooked the horse. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the path, and James started to turn back. Then the wind shifted and he caught a whiff of an overpowering odor.
“Six little beans!” he exclaimed, coughing. He backed up a step, sheathed his gun, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Tying it around his nose and mouth to cut off some of the stench, he advanced again, breathing shallowly through his mouth.