by Carla Kelly
“Claudio is my brother-in-law,” Marco said in his most conversational tone, when the Frenchman stopped screaming. “I wouldn’t advise any more hard words about him. My wife loves him. And Graciela? She has some standing in this tribe, as you might have just learned. Certainly more than you have. Do not try to impress me.”
The other Utes had gathered around, probably happy enough to take their minds off their own miseries. Looking as terrified as his two companions now, Jean Baptiste knelt in the dirt beside them.
Marco turned to Rain Cloud, who had wiped off his knife and returned it to its sheath. “My friend, before we do anything else to these upstanding citizens of one country or another, I would like to know just what they are doing here.”
Rain Cloud nodded, suddenly the perfect host. “We could all sit down right here and discuss this.”
“Please, before God, I am bleeding to death!” Jean Baptiste said, but softly this time. Possibly he could see that he had no more standing than an earthworm. Lesson learned.
“It won’t come to that,” Marco said in his most cajoling voice. He pointed to his cheek and its lengthy scar, put there nearly two years ago by Kwihnai himself as a reminder to stay away from the sacred canyon of the Kwahadi. “It’ll give you good stories to tell. At least, it will if you live much longer than today.”
Jean Baptiste sobbed out loud. Rain Cloud shook his head. He gestured to one of his warriors, who threw down what looked like an old rabbit skin. Jean Baptiste pressed it against his wound.
“Good. Rain Cloud, let us just sit here in a circle and find out a few things.”
They sat down, Marco next to Rain Cloud, and Toshua next to Marco, who couldn’t help noticing how Graciela and Claudio seemed to find each other and sit close. Lorenzo and Rogelio squatted by the prisoners.
Marco turned to Lorenzo. “Señor Diaz, tell us how you found these worthless men.”
“We were north of the Double Cross, on our way to find you,” Lorenzo said. “I honestly think they were lost.”
“Imagine. And you took them to Paloma—Señora Mondragón? I own that I am surprised, Lorenzo.” He couldn’t resist. “Could it be that you have designs on my housekeeper?”
He had to give the old scoundrel credit. Lorenzo drew himself up, two spots of color burning in his cheeks. “I never met a better woman, excepting your own wife, of course.”
“Of course.” Marco stared hard at the prisoners. All three had gone pasty white. The Englishman was even beginning to drool. Paloma did that before she had to find a basin, but he thought the inglés could just vomit in his own lap. “I do hope they were polite to my wife.”
Lorenzo tisked his tongue. “There was a fourth one, another Englishman, who thought he would be insolent to so fine a lady.” Lorenzo nodded to Toshua. “Your wife dispatched him with one stab.”
None of the prisoners would look up. Toshua grunted his approval. “She would do that.”
“I hope my children did not see any of this,” Marco told Lorenzo, who shook his head, and continued his narrative.
“I asked la señora what to do, and she told me to find you.” He laughed and clapped his hands, which made the prisoners start. “And here we are!”
“I commend you, Lorenzo,” Marco said. “You could have taken those guns and I would have been none the wiser.” He leaned toward the horse trader. “Paloma will be proud of you, too, and more to the point, so will Sancha.” He assumed mock anger. “Do you mean to deprive me of my housekeeper?”
“If I can,” Lorenzo said cheerfully.
“We shall see,” Marco said, quietly pleased, even as he wondered about Sancha’s taste in men. You’re a fool, Marco, he scolded himself. Paloma decided you were the man for her. Who can know what an otherwise rational woman thinks?
He kicked Jean Baptiste’s boot. “Attend to me! Where are you from and why have you come to sell guns to Great Owl?”
Marco looked at Toshua, then back at them. “I advise you to tell me the truth.” He looked next at Rain Cloud. “I have certain resources here.”
Jean Baptiste drew a long, shuddering breath. “We are from the Mandan Villages.”
“Which are—”
“Far to the north, on the Missouri River.”
“A long way to go for mischief,” Marco said. “Are you French?”
“From Canada.”
Toshua snaked out his hand and yanked on Jean Baptiste’s bloody arm. “Señor Mondragón to you!”
Jean Baptiste sobbed out loud. “I was born in Montreal and I work for the North West Company, señor,” he babbled. “It is a British company.”
“The British? They are going to great lengths to foul things so far south.”
“There are agents among the North West Company,” Jean Baptiste said, his face even whiter than before. “Agents of the crown.” He looked at the Englishman. “Some of the ingleses aren’t yet certain which side of the fence they belong on. Tell them where you are from, David.”
“David Benedict, sir. I am from St. Louis, Missouri.”
Jean Baptiste translated. “David is British, I think, and American when it suits him.”
David Benedict said nothing. Marco already saw death in his eyes.
“All of you are working so hard to keep the Comanches busy in New Mexico,” Marco said. “Why? We are a poor colony. I will admit that Spain is on the decline here. What could we offer you?”
Jean Baptiste gave him a sharp glance, then he looked into the distance. Perhaps he saw his own puny influence coming to an end. But he had to try, apparently. “Blame the British. Think how much they lost last year when the Treaty of Paris was signed.” He made an elaborate gesture. “A whole continent!” He sidled closer until Marco wanted to back away in disgust. “They want to cause as much trouble as they can for you Spaniards.”
I don’t think like empire builders, Marco told himself, but I can try. “Let me guess: you have been selling guns all along the way from the Mandan Villages. On the Missouri River?”
Jean Baptiste nodded.
“How, if I may ask?”
He tried to sidle even closer, and Marco put up his hand.
“The British crown sent agents among all the tribes, promising muskets for money,” Jean Baptiste said. “Some came here. And there are Frenchmen in Canada willing to play the game, too. Anything to disrupt the Americans.” He made a sorrowful face. “I fear Spain is just in the way.”
Marco wanted to laugh at the Frenchman’s obvious attempt to turn himself into a valuable resource, the kind who was kept alive to sing his self-serving melody to the viceroy in Mexico City and not left to die in some dry canyon in poor New Mexico.
“How did you do this?” Joaquim said, looking like a man interested and friendly. “You must be clever, indeed.”
Jean Baptiste turned his attention to Joaquim. Marco glanced at the other Frenchman and saw nothing on his face but disgust. Marco smiled inside. I am the hard man and Joaquim is the kind man. And you are a fool to fall for that, Frenchman, he thought.
“We started out a year ago with guards and eight wagons of muskets,” Jean Baptiste said. “We dropped off guns, and some of the guards rode to St. Louis with the money.”
“What a clever plan,” Joaquim said.
Jean Baptiste seemed to relax, which made him the only happy person for miles around.
“Ah, St. Louis! Nature’s perfect city,” Joaquim said. “I congratulate you on finding a place that I would consider a den of thieves. I have to wonder if any money ever got into the proper hands.”
Jean Baptiste’s eyes clouded over as he realized the ragged man in the ill-fitting uniform was playing with him. He turned his attention back to Marco.
Marco had no plan to make the man comfortable. “So here you are, with no guards, and one wagon left. Why no guards?”
“Smallpox, señor,” the Frenchman said mournfully. “The rest ran away.”
“Wise of them,” Joaquim said.
Marco shook hi
s head. “You are at the end of the line. How exactly do you plan to get back to St. Louis?”
“We plan to ask Great Owl to provide us with an escort north to the land of the Pawnee,” Jean Baptiste said.
Joaquim burst into laughter. “The Comanches? You think they will help you?” He slapped Jean Baptiste on the back, then doubled over as mirth rendered him helpless. “Oh, my! Helpful Comanches? Marco, have you now heard everything under the sun?”
It wasn’t funny, but it was. “I would almost give a year of my life to watch you ask Great Owl to assist you,” Marco said. He laughed until tears came to his eyes. “Don’t you know anything about Comanches?” he managed to gasp.
Rain Cloud’s laugh started as a low rumble in his throat. The other Kapota Utes looked at one another and shook with silent laughter at first. When they laughed, Jean Baptiste turned deadly pale. Everyone was making fun of him.
Marco held up his hand, and the laughter stopped. “You will not sell guns to Great Owl.”
Marco had to give David Benedict a silent bravo. The Englishman knew it was over, but he was going to die with dignity. He stood up.
“Others will come after us, señor,” David Benedict said quietly, in Spanish so poor that even Toshua winced. “We are the first.”
Why us? Marco thought. We live a hard life that your kind will make harder. “I no longer doubt you, Señor Benedict. But right now, and in this place, you will not sell those guns to a terrible man.” What he said was complex, so he waited for Jean Baptiste to translate.
David Benedict nodded and knelt in the dust again, done. You’re a brave one, Marco thought.
He looked the prisoners over. He was a man of honor, kind when he could be. He watched three pairs of eyes trained on him, knowing that a lesser man might get some thrill from such power over life and death. Marco felt nothing but distaste at what he had to do, but he was not a man to shrink from duty.
“Stand up, you three,” he said, with Jean Baptiste continuing to translate. Of the prisoners, Jean Baptiste had no fear in his eyes. He knew he was safe because Marco needed him.
He reached forward and took David Benedict by the arm. “You will stay alive. Translate, Jean Baptiste, damn you! I know a priest who lives where the Chama joins the Bravo. He speaks English. I will take you, David Benedict, to the governor and you will tell him about the English and especially the Americans.” He looked at the two Frenchmen, staring at them long and hard. “I have no use for the French.”
Both men sank to their knees again, then farther, pressing their foreheads against the dirt, groveling. We want so much to live, Marco thought. God help me, I do not want to do what I must.
He took out his dagger. “Tomorrow there will be a battle. We are few, compared to Great Owl, but he cannot have those guns. You are an encumbrance because I cannot trust you.”
“Spare us!” Jean Baptiste pleaded.
Here is the dilemma, Marco thought. I am Christian gentleman. I cannot order other Christians to their death. God help me, I cannot.
Toshua grabbed Marco’s arm. “Let us remove them for now. We must decide soon, but another hour will not matter.”
Marco nodded.
“You need me!” Jean Baptiste cried out, as Rain Cloud took his arm in a surprisingly gentle grasp and started pulling him from the circle.
“No, I don’t,” Marco said. “Spain is fading in this land I love so well. But face this fact: so is France.” He pointed to David Benedict. “This is the real threat. However, I am a Christian man, and cannot deal out justice so readily.”
Chapter Thirty-One
In which Joaquim Gasca finally uses the education his parents probably paid for
When Toshua returned, he laid a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “The two Frenchmen are dead,” he said simply.
When Marco opened his mouth to protest, Toshua added, “I knew you did not have the heart for it, but it had to be done. I did not want you to return to Paloma with their blood on your hands. For me, I don’t mind.”
“You didn’t torture them?” Marco asked.
“No,” Toshua said. “I did as you would do. Chaa! Am I becoming a Spanish man? They died quickly.”
“Now what will we do?” Joaquim asked.
“Patience, my friend,” Marco told him. “Graciela, in all of this, I never asked why you are here, and even you, Claudio.” He peered closer at his brother-in-law. “I had not thought to see you anytime soon.”
“I brought him back to Paloma with a noose around his neck,” Lorenzo growled, sounding remarkably like an injured parent. “Some people don’t know when they are well off.”
“You, Graciela?” Marco asked, not wanting to laugh at the stubborn look on Claudio’s face. She swallowed and he saw the fear in her eyes. “I won’t hurt you,” Marco added.
“It’s not you, señor,” she whispered. “I am so afraid of Comanches.”
“She came anyway,” Claudio explained, pride in his voice. “Tell him, Graci.”
Marco noted the little endearment, and the way Graciela moved closer to Claudio. “I understand what it is to be afraid of Comanches, whether you can see them or not,” he said gently. “That is their greatest power over every Spaniard in New Mexico. Please, Graciela.”
She took heart and stood straight. “I can show you where Great Owl’s village is. I told Señora Mondragón and she said I had to tell you. None of you will find it without me.”
Marco could have kicked himself then. Great God in heaven, why had he not demanded that Jean Baptiste tell him where Great Owl planned to meet the French arms dealers? Great Owl would never bring them into the village, with his women and children.
“I am a fool,” he said bitterly. “I should have asked that miserable interpreter where the trade was to take place!”
“No matter,” Joaquim said in his breezy fashion. He turned to David Benedict and spoke in English. “Where will the trade take place?”
Marco stared at the royal engineer. “I had no idea you could be so useful,” he said. “Where on earth …. How—”
“I began my engineering days in La Florida, where there is a considerable English presence, mostly unsanctioned,” Joaquim said. He twirled his forefingers around his ears. “There was a time a few years ago when England and Spain were allies. War makes me dizzy! I have always been good with languages,” he concluded modestly, which made Marco laugh out loud.
David Benedict folded his arms and set his lips in a tight line. Marco didn’t even bother to glance at Toshua. “Joaquim, you might suggest to our prisoner that this is no time to be stubborn, or think that by holding out he will get better terms than a visit to Santa Fe. He is lucky to be alive.”
Cheerful, Joaquim spoke to Benedict, who ignored him. Joaquim shrugged. He took Graciela by the arm and handed her off to Claudio, who led her away from the circle. Benedict eyed the two of them, his frown deepening. The morning was cool, but beads of sweat slid down his temples.
Toshua took out his scalping knife, turning it over several times, as if trying to figure out which edge was sharper. He strolled casually to a woodpile. As everyone watched, probably not one breath drawn among all of them, the Comanche searched until he found a long splinter. Carefully, he pared it down even further, until the end was needle sharp.
Toshua took his time returning to the circle. A gesture, and two of Rain Cloud’s warriors grabbed Benedict’s arms. Toshua held the sharpened splinter at Benedict’s waist, then slowly lowered it, tapping it here and there as the American started to breathe fast.
A word from Toshua and the warriors pushed Benedict’s legs farther apart.
“No! No!” the American screamed. He spoke rapidly to Joaquim, who held up his hand to stop the Comanche. Toshua turned to Marco, a question in his eyes.
“Joaquim, tell him that we will have the entire truth, or I will not stop Toshua,” Marco said.
A few rapid words in English and Joaquim nodded. “He will speak the truth.”
Despe
rate, Benedict gulped and spoke slower. He lost control of his bowels and his humiliation was complete. Marco felt his heart go out to the Englishman or American or whoever he was. If any of them survived, Benedict would go to Santa Fe, spend some years in prison in Mexico City, then return to St. Louis, or wherever he felt safe from Comanches. He would tell his tale of near mutilation, and shove fear deep into every man he spoke to. Marco knew he was watching the birth of terror. David Benedict would never be free from fear again.
“Toshua has a knack, hasn’t he?” Joaquim asked, his voice not so breezy this time. He spoke to David Benedict in English.
Benedict’s voice was tight and urgent. The words spilled out of him. At a gesture from Toshua, the warriors released Benedict, who fell to the ground in his own filth.
“Should we, um, do something for him?” Joaquim asked Marco.
“No. Just leave him there,” Marco replied, more shaken than he wanted to acknowledge. “This is not a game we are playing.”
Marco felt unexpected pity as he watched the defeated man in the dust. Benedict had drawn himself into a tight ball now. Marco wondered how many nights the man would jerk awake from a terrible nightmare in just that position. Marco looked around at the solemn faces of the others, Hispanic and Indian alike, wondering how long he would call out in fright from the same nightmare. Thank God Paloma would be there to soothe him.
“Where is the meeting?” Marco asked Joaquim. He turned away from the man Toshua had reduced to quivering flan.
Joaquim pointed to Dos Hermanos, two peaks rising from the Sangre de Cristos. “Between those two, tomorrow when the sun is directly overhead.”
Hands on his hips, Marco stared across the valley, toward the Cristos. “We will be there at daybreak, watching.” He called to Lorenzo, who hurried over, giving a wide berth to the sobbing man. Rogelio trotted behind, as loyal as a hound, though probably not as bright.
Her eyes averted, Graciela joined them, Claudio’s arm tight around her waist. Marco thought he would never smile again, not after what he had just witnessed, but here he was, smiling to see them.