by Carla Kelly
To Marco, Santa Maria looked much the same, a weary little outpost of brave people who deserved better than to be guarded by nincompoops. He noticed some burned outbuildings, much as he and Toshua had seen at the Calderón hacienda. The fire had taken a small grain field, too, damage so minimal that Marco wondered what game Great Owl was playing. He remembered Comanche raids from his childhood, ones that gave him nightmares. This was small pickings, indeed.
The great gates of the garrison were open, with two guards looking more curious than alert. We have been lulled into complacency, Marco thought.
He asked that they be taken to Sergeant Lopez, and the guard wasted not a minute, mainly because Marco already knew everyone was terrified of Toshua. He glanced at the Comanche, who sat tall and glared at the soldiers who were casually trying to flatten themselves against walls and disappear through doorways.
“You could look a little less frightening,” he told his friend.
“This is not my frightening look,” Toshua replied.
“Have I ever seen that look?” Marco joked.
“No. The only ones who will ever see that look will be those who attempt to harm Paloma or your children.”
Marco took a deep breath, grateful down to his stockings that Toshua was his friend. “If someone tries to harm me?”
“You can take care of yourself, Little Brother,” Toshua told him.
I may have just received the greatest compliment of my life, Marco thought, suddenly humbled to the dust. “Thank you, my friend.”
Claudio appeared to recognize the private who ushered them to Sergeant Lopez’s office.
“Do you know him?” Marco asked as they walked down the portal to a room Marco had visited many times. In earlier years, there was a lieutenant to serve the garrison, but not in recent memory.
“Yes. He was the only soldado who showed any initiative when my compadres and I were set upon by Great Owl.”
“I don’t think he recognizes you.”
“How could he?” Claudio asked. “I look less like a tumbleweed and more like a Spanish gentleman now.”
“More Spanish than I, certainly,” Marco replied.
Sergeant Lopez surprised Marco by his sobriety. He sat behind his desk, a shrunken man with bags under his eyes and his nose deeply veined, testimony to too much drinking. Marco wondered at the state of his liver, and saw illness now, not drunkenness.
He rose unsteadily when Marco entered the room, and somehow managed a short bow without toppling over. Marco reached across the desk to steady him. “You need a doctor,” he said.
“Where would I find one, señor?” the sergeant asked. “Here we are on the ragged edge of our sovereign’s domain. Do sit down.” He leaned closer, his eyes on Toshua. “Does he need to be here?”
Marco tried not to smile. “You could ask him to leave, Sergeant.”
“Oh, no, no.” The sergeant’s pale face reddened. “He’ll be fine. And señor, you are—”
“This is Señor Claudio Vega, my wife’s brother,” Marco said. “You might remember him as Diego Diaz, who came to your attention a few weeks ago after that skirmish with the Comanches.”
“I don’t recall ….” The sergeant looked away. “I … may have been ill.”
Marco heard a sound behind him like someone turning a laugh into a cough. He looked and there stood the soldado who had shown them into the sergeant’s office, at attention by the door. To Marco’s further amusement, he gave the juez a slow wink.
“I’m certain that was it,” Marco said smoothly. “Perhaps that was why no one from this garrison made any effort to visit my hacienda to see how my wife and children were, when you knew I was in Taos. And why you didn’t visit the Calderón hacienda when Comanches burned some of the outbuildings. I certainly hope for the sake of this district that you feel better soon.”
The sergeant passed his hand in front of his eyes. “Señor, I have fifteen men in this garrison, where there used to be thirty.”
Marco remained silent, watching the sergeant shrink even smaller. The man ran his hand around his dirty neck cloth, eyes darting here and there as if searching for an answer in a corner of the untidy room.
“The Comanches are gone now, and nothing much of consequence happened,” the sergeant said at last.
“I am grateful,” Marco said, “but I can’t help but think that Great Owl was curious to know what you would do, if he attacked with any warriors. Obviously he has his answer by now. What will you do when—I do not say if—he returns to Valle del Sol with more warriors?”
“You promised us that Kwihnai would keep us safe,” the sergeant whined.
“I promised you that Kwihnai would not attack us, and he has not,” Marco snapped. “Great Owl needs to be rooted out and destroyed before he can turn more warriors to his path. I need men from this garrison to help.”
Another silence, one longer than the first, told Marco everything else he needed to know. He stood up, put his hands on the desk, and leaned across it, which made the sergeant lean back until he was in danger of toppling from his chair.
“Will you give me anyone to help?”
“I dare not,” Sergeant Lopez whispered.
“I will go with you.”
Marco turned around to see the soldado looking at him, his gaze level and in no way subservient. “You? One soldier?”
“Sí, Señor Mondragón,” he replied quietly, but with a certain flair that did not hint of subservience. “If I may say, this looks like one of those campaigns that either needs hundreds of troops, or maybe four or five.”
“What makes you so wise?” Marco asked. “You, a mere soldado?”
“It’s not wisdom, señor,” he replied, still calm, still unfazed. “It’s logical common sense.”
“We’ll take this one,” Toshua said.
“You can’t just take …. I have to give permission and I won’t,” the sergeant said, in his first show of strength in the whole dreary interview. “Private Gasca, leave now! I will deal with you later, you rascal!”
Toshua turned to face the sergeant. He stared at him like a rattlesnake would watch a pack rat, and then walked closer, never taking his eyes from the sergeant’s face. Slowly, slowly, Toshua took out his knife. His eyes wide and staring, Sergeant Lopez watched the knife. He closed his eyes in what Marco interpreted as a close approximation of mortal terror.
“We want him,” was all Toshua said.
The room suddenly filled with a fierce odor that made the sergeant bury his face in his hands. “Take him! Only leave!” the sergeant said, unable to raise his face to the other men, humiliated.
Toshua nodded. “I think this one is truly ill. He reeks of something, but it is not—what is that you call it?—ah, he is probably not contagious.”
“Sergeant Lopez, I will take very good care of my army,” Marco said. “Go change your pantalones.”
The four men walked from the room and out into the clean air of the courtyard. “Toshua, you have a disturbing effect on this garrison,” Marco said, which made Private Gasca tug on his upper lip, his eyes merry. “And you, soldado, do enlighten us as to just who you are. Soldado seems to be a misleading rank.”
Private Gasca drew himself up and saluted. “Soldado Joaquim Gasca, formerly Teniente Gasca of the Royal Engineers.” He grinned. “I build things.”
Wonder of wonders, Marco thought. “And you somehow got in trouble, lost your commission, and ended up in my backwater district?”
Private Gasca nodded, his expression dreamy. “She was a lovely woman, so willing in bed, or on table tops, or rugs, but, ay de mí, the wife of my coronel.”
Toshua shook his head. “If you had been one of The People, you would be minus those parts that make you a man. And the colonel’s wife would have no nose anymore.”
Marco looked at his brother-in-law, whose mouth was open in amazement. “Will he prove useful, Claudio?” he asked.
Claudio shrugged. “Who can tell?”
“I can
tell,” Marco replied, suddenly hopeful that this visit to Santa Maria’s garrison had not been in vain. “You’re bored, aren’t you, Private?”
“To pieces,” Gasca said. “You’ll promise me adventure?”
“We’re on the prowl for a Comanche, who now that I think of it has some money of mine. I overpaid him for a slave. We’ll tell you more as we ride.”
“And this gentleman?” Gasca asked, indicating Toshua.
“I’d rather lose you than him,” Marco said frankly. “In or out?”
“In. This garrison is far too slow.”
It came as no surprise to Marco that the corporal in charge of all matters equine issued Soldado Joaquim Gasca—a Catalonian from his name, and they were always trouble—a nag that looked like it would be walking on its knees soon.
Private Gasca gave the animal a sorrowful pat when he returned from gathering together his few possessions. “Could one of you take my bedroll and someone else my gun and clothes?” he asked. “If I climb on Old Ancient of Days here with anything more than my own weight, he’ll drop dead.”
Claudio obliged, and Marco took the gun. “We’ll go slow,” Marco said. He stopped their peculiar expedition with a motion of his hand.
“One thing more, Joaquim,” he said, “and make no mistake about this: I have a lovely wife and she adores me. If you even look at her funny, I will gut you myself from throat to genitals and blame Great Owl’s warriors.”
“Only if you get to him before I do,” Toshua said. “I have better methods to make him suffer. He’ll plead to die before I am done.”
“And imagine what I have learned, riding with horse traders for twelve years,” Claudio said. He shook his head. “Not pretty.”
Gasca looked from one man to the other. “It appears to be unanimous that I must behave myself. Very well, señores, if that is the price of adventure ….”
Chapter Eighteen
In which Paloma becomes the perfect hostess to more smelly men
“Señora, Emilio does not know who these riders are.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, Paloma looked up from her contemplation of the basin, her great companion these days, where she had discarded a wonderful noon meal of turkey and posole. She wondered why there had to be trouble, when she was feeling aggravated that Marco the juez had so thoughtlessly got her with child again.
“Sancha, all I want to do is die, and we have visitors?”
“I am not certain what they are, but Emilio is worried.”
Paloma put aside the basin. “I had better check then,” she said. She rinsed her mouth and wiped her lips. Deciding it was uncharitable to blame Marco entirely for the state she was in, she went outside. After all, no one had forced her to take off her clothes and cavort naked.
Emilio motioned her to the parapet. She felt some small appreciation for that same rascal husband, who had insisted that the ladder be replaced with a shallow staircase, just for her, since as he put it, “You like to know what is going on.” She climbed the steps, grateful for the handrail.
“You’re pale, dama,” Emilio said. “I would not have bothered you, but look.”
He pointed to the west and handed her his telescope. Paloma propped her elbows on the ledge and looked. First she saw only a cloud of dust and felt the familiar tightening in her belly that meant Comanches.
“You have called everyone in from the fields, have you not?”
“Ah, yes. Can you tell …. My eyes are old, señora.”
She handed back the telescope. “Just keep the gates closed. We’ll know more when they get closer, although I do not think they are Comanches. The People never create clouds of dust.”
“No, they do not,” Emilio agreed.
She stayed where she was, and looked into the courtyard below, where the field servants had gathered. Graciela sat close to Claudio and Soledad as they played with blocks on the porch. They were building walls, which touched her heart. Someday, if Marco continued working his quiet diplomacy with the Comanche through Kwihnai, perhaps there would be no need for walls.
She rested her arms on the parapet, watching the approaching men. In another minute she sighed with relief. “These must be the horse traders, Emilio, probably looking for Claudio. We will open the gates to them.”
And so it was that Paloma was standing in the courtyard when the gates opened and the rough men rode inside. She stood there, her hands folded in front of her, watching them.
“Do get down, señores,” she said with a gesture.
They remained in the saddle, looking around at the guards on the parapet. “Where is Diego?” the older man asked.
At least she thought he was older, but who could tell with all the hair and beard? She remembered his broken-down sombrero and the red bandanna pulled tight around his hair, which spilled out anyway, from her last look at them in the cemetery at Santa Maria, where they buried the one killed by Comanches. Her stomach began to churn because she could smell them from where she stood. What have you horse traders against a good wash, now and then? she thought.
“He is not here.”
The traders looked at each other. “I told you,” the younger man said to Red Bandanna. “He’s taken the money and run.”
“He has not,” Paloma said. “And he is not who you think he is.”
“How do you know so much?” Red Bandanna asked, his voice rising, belligerent in tone. He edged his horse closer to Paloma but she stood her ground. “You, just a woman.”
All it took was a glance at the guards on the parapet, who to a man nocked arrows in their bows and aimed them at the horse traders.
“I have a lot of friends here,” Paloma said calmly. “Back up now, señor, before you get at least one arrow through your throat.”
After a glance around, he did as she said.
“Much better. Please dismount. My servants will care for your horses in the barn.”
With another look at each other, not so aggressive this time, the traders did as she said.
“I can tell you everything you need to know about Diego Diaz. Wasn’t that what you called him?”
“What are you saying?” Red Bandanna asked.
“I know he is not Diego Diaz, and so must you. It could be that I wish to know more,” Paloma said, curious what they could tell her about their discovery of Claudio, found bleeding in a ditch.
“You assume a lot,” Red Bandanna said. “Perhaps we will not tell you anything.”
“Suit yourselves,” she replied. “Do you know whose hacienda’s this is?”
“A cabrón who leaves a pretty wife alone?”
Paloma raised her eyes to the parapet again, with the same results as before. Almost. One of the archers let loose an arrow that landed right in front of Red Bandanna.
The trader froze. “Beg pardon,” the archer called down from his vantage point. “Careless of me.”
Oh, you men, Paloma thought, grateful beyond words for Marco’s guards, who suffered fools no more gladly than did their employer. “Mind your tongue, señor! You are the guests of this district’s juez de campo, Marco Mondragón.” She wondered how such news would affect men who dallied on both sides of the law.
She had her answer in the more tentative looks the men exchanged. “We can leave right now,” Red Bandanna said. “We’ll wait for Diego somewhere else.”
“You’ll wait right here, and while you wait, my housekeeper will supply you with towels and soap.” She pointed to the acequia, wondering where all her bravado was coming from. “When you are washed and clean, I will serve you wine and biscoches in the sala, and you will learn what I know about Diego Diaz.”
Both traders gasped and stared at the irrigation ditch as though it had suddenly turned red, like the Nile of Moises’ tale in Exodus. Red Bandanna glared at Paloma, which meant that another archer had to apologize for accidentally letting loose his arrow, this one coming so close to grazing the man’s hair that he turned pale under all his dirt.
“So careless,�
�� the archer murmured, shaking his head. “What will Señor Mondragón say?”
“Gentlemen? The water isn’t too cold. Possibly there will be more than just wine and biscoches waiting for you in the kitchen when you are clean. Oh, thank you, Sancha.”
Paloma took the towels and bowl of soft soap made from yucca and set them by the acequia. She turned, all serenity, and went into the house, taking her children and Graciela with her. Sancha and Perla giggled by the kitchen window.
“Señora, you are a brave lady!” Graciela said.
“Not really. I cannot abide strong odors right now, but I want to be a good hostess. Their clothes will still stink, but at least the smell of piñon in the kitchen will mask some of that.”
While the horse traders bathed in the acequia—Sancha laughed so hard she had to turn away from the window and sit down—Paloma fed her little ones, sang to them, and left Graciela to lay them down for a nap. She wondered where her courage was coming from and hoped Marco would hurry home; then she prepared a meal that would take some of the sting out of her treatment of rough men unused to civilization.
The traders must have found clean shirts from somewhere deep in their horse packs, and even a comb. When they came through the kitchen door an hour later, the results were evident, right down to their slicked back hair, still damp and now restrained with rawhide thongs.
“Please be seated,” Paloma said. “Here we have turkey mole, posole, tortillas, and Anasazi beans, the best I know.” She gestured to the table and they sat. “One moment before you begin.” Paloma made the sign of the cross and asked a quiet blessing on the food. “And keep these sons of thine safe on their journeys,” she concluded. “There now. Take whatever you would like.”
Red Bandanna looked a little shy, now that he was clean. “We didn’t … didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said in a voice as soft as hers. “We’re not used to this.”
Paloma cast aside her own shyness. No reason they should think that she was such a martinet to all visitors to the Double Cross. “I must be frank, but it is this way, señores: I am with child, and strong odors are difficult for me right now. Thank you for indulging my whim. The juez will appreciate it, too.”