by Carla Kelly
“That should do the trick,” Joaquim said. “My own bowels get loose just thinking about it.”
David Benedict had joined his hands together in bare pleading. “Very well,” Marco said. “Let him know that if something happens, he will be two or three days dying.”
Joaquim translated. Benedict nodded. Marco had never seen eyes so desperate. “We all want to live,” Marco said. “Tell him that, please.”
They galloped into the dusk, Toshua in the lead, ranging ahead. Marco and Joaquim rode side by side, with David Benedict next and the Ute warriors bringing up the rear.
“This could be a disaster of monumental proportions,” Marco commented to Joaquim.
The royal engineer shrugged. “I hope not. I’d like to build those bastions for you at the Double Cross, and—you won’t believe this—I’ve even been thinking of ways to make the Santa Maria garrison a spit and polish outfit.”
Marco threw back his head and laughed, loud enough for Toshua to turn around and make an obscene gesture. “I’d better be quiet,” Marco said, dabbing at his eyes.
“It can be done,” Joaquim said, sounding more than a little defensive. Marco had to bite the inside of his mouth to resist commenting on his partner’s transformation from regimental disgrace to San Miguel the Archangel himself, complete with sword and halo.
“Marco, what do you want to live to do?”
“Sit beside Paloma when she gives birth to the next Mondragón,” he said, with no hesitation. “And see our three children grow old.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Joaquim said. “We have a colony to protect.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
In which plans must change
Thank God for the Ute warriors. When Marco shook his head at the narrow path so high above the Rio Conejos, the one called Deer Bones dismounted, took hold of Buciro’s bridle, and led the way. He kindly told Marco to close his eyes. “There is no shame in this fear,” Deer Bones told him. “You are not a Cloud Ute.”
“I am a terrified ranchero from Valle del Sol far away and below,” Marco told him with a shaky laugh. Deer Bones just patted his leg.
Marco closed his eyes as directed and found himself leaning toward the rock wall. Embarrassed, he managed another laugh as Buciro plodded steadily on, led by the Ute on foot. “Go ahead, call me a coward! I am earning it.”
“I would never call you a coward, not the man who shrouded my mother for burial when my father Rain Cloud could not bring himself to do it,” came the quiet reply. “We will always be in your debt.”
“She was good to me at a hard time in my life,” Marco replied. “I did not know she was your mother.”
“Then do not call yourself names that are not true. We’re nearly through the worst part.”
In Marco’s opinion, they were through only the first of many worst parts, as the little army threaded its way into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He had spent his lifetime nearly in the shadow of their comforting bulk, and he traveled the well-known passes as a matter of course. This was different; these were trails only Indians or desperate men would use.
Think of something pleasant, Marco told himself, and he did, remembering the birth of their first child, his and Paloma’s. In the hardest moments, Paloma had fixed her blue eyes on his light brown ones, bearing down in agonizing silence until he told her, for the Lord’s sake, to cry out if it might help.
“Only if Soledad is far from the house,” she had gasped, a mother already to another woman’s child, and tenacious in her love for her small cousin.
When Buciro stumbled and then righted himself, Marco closed his eyes even tighter, thinking only of Paloma. How she cuddled close to him on cold winter mornings, flung her arms wide in the summer, usually taking more than her share of their bed. Paloma nursing Claudio, and leaning back in relief when her milk drew down. Paloma teaching Soledad how to walk like a lady. Paloma with her hair spread on their pillow, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Always Paloma. If he had to die on this mountain pass, or fighting a renegade intent upon scuttling Kwihnai’s tentative peace overtures, Marco wanted Paloma’s name on his lips. Others could petition saints or El Padre Himself; Paloma was his life and light.
“Open your eyes, señor. We are through the pass.”
Marco opened his eyes to see the kind smile of Deer Bones, shy almost, much like his father, who was even now making his own precarious way toward Great Owl’s village. Or perhaps Rain Cloud had been surprised and his little army lay dead. If only there were some way to know these things.
Marco looked around, grateful to be alive. He lifted his eyes toward the plains, where the sun was rising. To some, it was only Thursday, with nothing out of the ordinary in store. Here, in this isolated colony, it was a day when a victory might make his homeland a safer place. He chose not to consider defeat.
He doubted King Carlos would ever hear of the day’s events. He would never know about a juez de campo charged with making peace in a dangerous place. Suddenly, as though a cosmic fist had slapped his head, Marco understood clearly that his allegiance was not really to some distant king. It was to his colony alone. He was a New Mexican, not a Spaniard. He felt a swell of pride, followed by humble gratitude. What had just happened? He watched the sun rise over his country, his home, his mountains and streams, his loved ones, New Mexicans all.
“Señor, if I must say, you look like a man suffering from either advanced epiphany or unspeakable indigestion,” Joaquim joked, guiding his horse alongside Marco’s, as Deer Bones raised his hand in greeting and edged away.
“Nothing so profound as indigestion,” Marco teased back, too abashed to tell anyone except Paloma about his advanced epiphany. He gestured to Deer Bones. “This excellent man got me through the mountains. I was as poor a leader as you can imagine. I’m surprised I did not foul myself. Now, Joaquim, it is your turn to lead us. Tell us where to place ourselves, and what to do.”
Joaquim nodded and sat a little taller, even though Marco knew he had to be as tired as all the rest. The royal engineer gestured the others into a tight circle, where they dismounted, stretched, turned around to relieve themselves, then looked at him, ready for orders.
He spoke to a small man, unusually short for a Ute. “Tall Grass, here we are between the Two Brothers, the rendezvous. We have trees to shelter us, but we are still so high. What should we do?”
Marco smiled to himself. Whether he knew it or not, Joaquim was conducting a council of his officers, asking advice and actually listening. He had the makings of a fine leader, provided he could keep his breeches up.
“Tether our horses here among the trees, and move down the mountain,” Tall Grass said. The Ute pointed to clumps of faraway sumac bushes. “We can hunker down behind those and wait.”
Joaquim looked at Marco and raised his eyebrows in a question.
Those bushes might shelter someone the size of Soledad, Marco thought, appalled. “It’s not enough shelter.”
“It is for me and the Utes,” Toshua said. “Marco, you eat too much.”
“Guilty as charged,” Marco said. “I’m also taller than any of you, except David Benedict.” He looked at Joaquim, a question in his eyes.
A little smile played around Joaquim’s lips and his eyes were bright, almost as if he were enjoying their predicament. Marco couldn’t help but think that such an expression was a natural fit for a man who raised hell in Cuba and Mexico City before being broken down from teniente to soldado, the lowest of the low. Damn the man; he was probably enjoying this.
“We’ll manage,” Joaquim said, licking his lips in anticipation, if the gleam in his eyes meant anything. “Toshua, you and the Utes will get as close as you can to the valley floor behind those sumac bushes. Marco, you and I and David Benedict will prepare another little surprise. Marco, get out those bottles. I pray God that parfleche of black powder didn’t bounce off your horse.”
As Joaquim’s plan began to unfold, Marco had no doubt that El Teniente Gasca could manage the presidio at
Santa Maria, given the opportunity. Luckily, Lorenzo’s rum bottles had survived their jostle in his saddlebags, probably because he had wrapped them tightly in the horse trader’s foul shirt. Some of the black powder had spilled out, but Joaquim just shrugged.
The scheme faltered immediately. Joaquim swore in disgust. “I need a funnel,” he said. “In God’s name, just a funnel!”
Marco felt in the inside pocket of his doublet. He fished out the letter Paloma had written to him and given to Lorenzo. He twisted it into a funnel and Joaquim slapped his forehead.
“A scoop, a scoop,” he said next. “Make that appear now, will you?”
Marco chuckled and reached into the same pocket, this time pulling out the little note Paloma had tucked among his clean socks. He handed it to Joaquim, who read it and rolled his eyes. Marco felt his face grow hot.
“I had a wife once, Marco, if you can believe that,” Joaquim said. “After a year or two, she never wrote me any love notes. What power do you have?”
“This is not the time,” Marco mumbled, still the reticent Hispano.
Joaquim directed Marco to put the paper funnel in the bottle opening. He creased the other paper and carefully scooped black powder into the funnel.
“How much powder?” Marco asked.
“Enough to make a very loud bang. One more scoop. That is good. Fill the other two bottles. Set them upright. We need wicks now.”
“Part of Lorenzo’s shirt?” Marco asked.
“Takes too long to burn.”
As Joaquim stared at the rum bottles, his chin in his hands, David Benedict picked up the paper funnel. He tore it in half, rolled it lengthwise, and stuck it in the first bottle. With a grunt of interest, Toshua unwrapped a length of sinew from his lance. He handed it to Benedict, who backed away from him in terror at first, then took it, careful not to touch Toshua’s hand. He fastened the paper wick inside the mouth of the bottle. He repeated the operation, using Paloma’s smaller note on the last bottle, then sat back and folded his arms, satisfied.
“Muy bien, David,” Marco said.
Pleased, Benedict spoke to Joaquim. “ ‘I can throw a long distance,’ he says,” Joaquim repeated.
“We need fire. Here is my flint and steel,” Marco said, pulling out a small pouch.
Joaquim took out his own, and David Benedict shrugged. He jumped and cried out when Toshua tapped his arm and handed him a flint and steel.
“I think he will never like The People very much,” Toshua remarked.
“Toshua, no man likes to have his privates toyed with,” Marco said.
Toshua astounded him by bursting into laughter. “Tell that to Paloma!”
If his face was red before, it was on fire now. David spoke to Joaquim, probably demanding to know what was so funny. He laughed, too. The Utes spoke Spanish, and they gave up any pretense of solemnity. Deer Bones even flopped back on the grass, wheezing as he laughed. Joaquim had a snort-laugh that sent them all into more helpless paroxysms of mirth.
“Maybe we needed that,” Marco said, when the laughter died down to a weak chuckle, and finally just a snort here and there.
Then it was all business. They shared their carne seca and bits of cactus. Marco gave the rest of his dried meat to Deer Bones, pleading a full stomach, and the Ute did not argue. Out of the corner of his eye—no sense in humiliating the man—Marco watched him share with the other warriors and wolf down the rest of the meat. It’s going to be a hard winter, my friends, Marco thought, remembering the ruin of the Ute village, and their winter preparations destroyed or stolen. Better you do go west with Bear.
The sun was nowhere near high overhead, but they all knew better than to wait around. Joaquim gathered them again. “Go with Toshua to the sumac bushes,” he directed the Utes. “Just wait. Lorenzo will come and make the deal for firearms. If they demand a demonstration, he has two good muskets.”
Two working muskets, Marco thought, aghast at their flimsy plan. It seems we had one good brain among the eight of us, to think up that scheme.
But the time to second guess had come and gone. He listened with the others.
“I told Lorenzo to stay where he is when the deal is over,” Joaquim continued. “Above all, not to move forward. At any time, if—pray God if—Rain Cloud has attacked their secret stronghold, we should see someone riding toward Great Owl for help. That’s when we attack them.”
“Suppose that villain Great Owl decides to kill our horse traders?” Toshua asked. “I could not watch that without attacking Great Owl right away rather than later.”
The Utes nodded. Everyone looked at Joaquin.
“Then we will throw our bombas and fight.” He turned to Marco. “Use your flint and steel to light your bomba at the last moment. Throw it immediately, or you will become a distant memory to Paloma. If there is time and we are still alive, fire your muskets. Ah, good, Marco, you have your bow and arrow, too.”
Juaquin translated his instructions for David Benedict, who appeared as intent and serious as the others. Toshua shook his head. “I have heard sillier plans, but I do not recall when that might have been.”
“We are working with what we have,” Joaquim said with a smile.
David Benedict raised his hand. He spoke slowly and in earnest to Joaquim, who pursed his lips and then nodded. Turning to Marco, Joaquim said, “Is there any powder left in your parfleche?”
Marco lifted the flap, now powdery with black residue. “Several good-sized handfuls. Why?”
“David wants to sow it in the field like grain, just beyond the farther of the Two Brothers. A well-placed shot will set it on fire. Think of the added confusion.”
Marco handed the parfleche to David. With a nod, the man started down the hill. They watched him walk with a purposeful stride toward the plain.
Toshua motioned to the Utes to start down the hill toward the sumac bushes. He looked back at Marco, then walked toward him. Marco watched him, remembering the desperately thin man tethered in the henhouse of a madman, so close to death but saved by Paloma. He thought of the Comanche brave stepping in front of him when they reached the wintering quarters of The People in the sacred canyon, protecting him and Paloma from sure death. His heart full, Marco thought of Toshua sitting cross-legged on the buffalo robe in his old office by the horse barn, singing to little Claudio and Soledad. All of a sudden he wanted to grasp every fleeting moment and hold it close for just another second or two.
“I don’t want to die today,” Marco said frankly.
“I don’t, either. We are close to some sort of peace between your people and mine. I feel it. I’d like to see it, same as you.” Toshua put a gentle hand on Marco’s shoulder. “But we will die bravely, if we must.”
Toshua was not a tall man. Marco bent down and kissed his forehead, then each cheek. “Go with God, my friend. May you always have a horse to ride.”
He had never seen tears in Toshua’s eyes before. As Marco watched in silence, his heart too full to speak, Toshua wiped the tears spilling from his eyes and touched their wetness to Marco’s forehead like a benediction.
“And may Paloma and your children be forever with you.”
Marco swallowed. He clapped Toshua’s shoulders and gave him a little push down the hill. Toshua gave him a backhanded wave and joined the Utes.
“Look there!” Joaquim said, pointing to the first of the Two Brothers on their left.
Marco took a deep breath. Lorenzo and Rogelio bounced along in the wagon carrying the faulty firearms, right on schedule. Marco looked down at the sumac bushes. Nothing. The Indians had vanished.
By now, David Benedict was back beside them, breathing heavily, the empty parfleche in his hand. In silence, they each loaded their two muskets, and made sure the flints were securely in place. Marco rested the muskets on his shoulder and picked up the bomba. Joaquim pointed down the hill to the last sheltering trees.
Without a word, Marco moved into place. He sank down, making himself as small as he could, and
watched Joaquim, that worthless soldier, and David, an agent for a foreign power, settle themselves at equal distance from each other.
A million doubts ran through his tired brain, tugging on his mind like little impatient children dancing about, demanding and whining. What if this doesn’t work? What if Rain Cloud is already dead? What will I tell Paloma if Claudio is dead? Who will tell my darling if I am dead? What if Great Owl chose a different rendezvous?
He leaned against a tree and looked across the valley. Lorenzo and Rogelio had stopped the wagon. He watched them get down and stretch, then look around. Marco knew they would never see the Indians by the sumac bushes. He prayed they would know everyone was in place, then he turned the matter over to God and San Miguel. He had done all he could. The faulty and foolish plan was ready. He settled down to wait, keeping his eyes on the low hills to the south, knowing that sooner or later, Great Owl and his warriors would come out of a pass—which one Marco did not know—and the dance of death would begin.
The sun reached its height and began a slow descent, with no sign of Great Owl. Marco felt his heart plummet into his boots. He leaned forward to see Lorenzo and Rogelio lounging in what shade the wagon provided. Toshua and the Utes were still invisible. For a small moment he felt alone and afraid. The terror passed; perhaps Paloma had just said his name out loud.
The smile died on his lips. He took a deep breath and watched Comanches, so many Comanches, file out of a pass. Even from the distance, he saw Great Owl’s headdress. “Good God,” he whispered, and started counting. He stopped at twenty, but there were twice that number. His face went cold and then hot and he felt a great pain beyond anything he had ever known.
“Paloma, if our baby is a son, name him after me, and tell him I was a good man,” he whispered to the ground that he knew would soon claim him. “If a daughter, name her Maria Rosa, because I like it. And you? Oh, Paloma. No red shoes. Forgive me.”
He took another deep breath and the panic passed. He looked at the sky, then at the aspens farther up the slope. He would like to have heard water flowing one final time. A hawk wheeled high above and he thanked God for one last pretty sight.