A Woman Clothed in Sun

by Jeanne Williams

  “The dogs think they’re sheep, except for their teeth,” Luz continued. “They’re taken at birth and suckled by a ewe, so they grow up with her milk in their bellies and her smell in their nostrils. They are both faithful and valiant, but if such a dog tastes sheep blood once he may become the worst and most cunning of their slayers.” Lolling in his saddle, Luz called to the old man in superior but friendly fashion. “Hola, Inocencio! Your sheep look fat.”

  The shepherd grunted something and gestured toward his hut.

  “Gracias,” declined Luz, “but I must show this señor Tres Coronas, so you will understand we must hurry.” He tossed the shepherd some tobacco and a hard cone of brown sugar. The old man accepted these with delight and carried them off to his shelter.

  As they rode on, Luz said, “Inocencio isn’t halfwitted, though he may sound so. When only a boy, he spoke rudely to Don Celestino’s father, who had his tongue torn out on the spot. Since then, Inocencio has preferred the company of sheep.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Matt said, shuddering inwardly, though he knew a cruel master in the South might treat a slave child so.

  Moments like this made him acutely aware slavery must end, yet how? If the North kept pushing, if those manufacturers and shippers kept squeezing the South with legislation designed to ruin her, the South would have to leave the Union.

  And if such a war came, Matthew Bourne, what would you do?

  It would be his duty to fight for the South, but what of Rachel, their home and the life they were struggling to build? Matt shrugged the threat away. Right now his concern was over fighting Comanches and convincing Don Celestino it could be done.

  They had been moving in a wide half-circle, and were now facing the distant mesas of the Sierra del Carmen.

  “This is the special herd,” waved Luz, pulling up a distance from a long shallow basin that formed a kind of natural pasture, with the best grass Matthew had seen since leaving the valley.

  “Señor, have you ever seen anything like that?” The vaquero gestured with pride and disgust at the animals grazing under the vigilance of half a dozen horsemen.

  Matt turned and gaped. He’d seen cattle similar to these grazing in England’s deep green grass, Durhams and Herefords, and he’d seen some attempts to improve range stock by importing blooded cattle. He remembered how Colonel Tom Shannon, given two fine shorthorns by Queen Victoria from her own herd, had picked them up at New Orleans and brought them to Texas in ox wagons.

  “What do you want in this country with cows that can’t walk?” Matt’s father had asked his old friend Colonel Shannon.

  “Good beef,” answered Shannon, eyeing his royal treasure with pride and some ruefulness, for he still had a long way to go.

  The cows had thrived and produced calves, but neighbors didn’t want the short-legged, pampered breed to “ruin” their own hard-foraging stock, and most of the shorthorn bulls that weren’t killed or walked to death by the tough native bulls were shot out on the ranges. It was a shock to see them here in Mexico.

  “Don Celestino had some of these brought all the way from England,” said Luz. “He’s mixed in the best from Tres Coronas stock, for shorthorns die of fever that doesn’t bother our cows. Don Celestino wants an animal with shorthorn meat and the hardiness of Spanish cattle. So they graze over here, so far behind the sheep that Comanches have never seen them.”

  Staring at the chunky creatures who looked so out of place in this austere land, Luz brightened suddenly, raised a hand to the nearest vaquero, who waved back but didn’t ride to meet them.

  “That is Quil,” said Luz, gazing speculatively at Matt. “Quil is a Seminole-Negro. He hates gringos, for he was the slave of one before he killed him and ran away. He’s our best man with horses and can throw bulls to the ground by their horns. And he’s better with his knife than any of us at Tres Coronas, though we are not slow, señor.”

  “Interesting,” said Matt, starting to rein away, but Luz caught his arm.

  “Not like that, señor! Not so easy!” His teeth showed, very white, but ground down by chewing cornmeal containing flecks of volcanic rock from mortar and pestle. “You wanted to see Tres Coronas! We want to see you! It takes more than talk to kill Comanches.”

  Matthew reined in, fighting his anger. “Did Don Celestino plan my—test?”

  Luz shrugged and grinned. “The Don left it to me,” he admitted cheerfully. “But it was clear that I should establish your valor, if any. Can you do more with a knife than skin rabbits?”

  “I might try you,” said Matt dryly, “but I think you’re too rotten to skin!”

  Luz’s eyes sparkled. “Will you try Quil, señor?”

  Matt was no knife man, but this was the test. If he refused it, he could not hope to rally Tres Coronas men against the Comanches. His mind shot back to the army and an unusual knife fight he’d once seen. It offered a chance—if he could hold steady.

  “It’s your fiesta.”

  Luz motioned to Quil, who rode over. He wore no spurs and seemed to exert no pressure on the bit to control his compact bay mustang.

  “Quil,” said Luz, eyes glowing, “Don Celestino wishes to test this gringo’s courage. Por favor, entertain him with your bowie!”

  A broad-faced handsome man with long straight hair, Quil had such massive shoulders that Matt was surprised, when Quil dismounted, to see he was only of average height.

  As Matt swung down, Quil spoke slowly in a tone that was perfectly flat, a means of conveying and receiving information.

  “You need a knife to match my bowie.”

  From a brass-tipped belt scabbard, Quil drew a twelve-inch blade almost two inches wide at the guard, running straight till it began to curve several inches from the tip, where it ended in a startling saberlike point. The original had been burned with its owner at the Alamo, but as a type, the bowie ranked first among fighting knives, far above the “Arkansas Toothpick,” and could split skulls and decapitate.

  “It’s quite a blade,” Matt said. “I’ve never used one.”

  Quil turned to Luz, who watched eagerly, his hands resting on his saddle horn. “It’s no contest, my bowie against this man’s, if he’s no knife fighter.”

  “All the better,” said Luz. “Today we test spirit, not training.”

  The Seminole-Negro responded in that expressionless voice, “What use to prove spirit if he dies?”

  “One dead gringo,” Luz shrugged happily.

  “I appreciate your concern,” Matt told Quil, whose face, black warmed with copper, was unreadable. “But I know the risks. I’ll take them.”

  Quil gave a short, sharp nod. “Don’t try for my head,” he warned. “And remember, there’s bone in the chest.”

  The main target, Matt knew, was hips to throat, ripping upward, or slashing sideways and down, keeping one’s own knife low to parry strokes while waiting for a chance to drive the blade home. Experts could duel for hours without doing each other real harm, but the loss of a thumb or finger could open the way to swift, bloody death.

  Luz held the horses and raised his hand toward the other vaqueros to halt them at a distance. Matthew took the bowie, shifted it in his hand until he got some sense of its shape and dimension, narrowed his eyes against the glittering length and breadth of the bowie which flashed in Quil’s hand as he pointed it out and upward.

  When Matt refused to be drawn to attack, Quil feinted high and thrust low, keeping head and body well back. Matt caught and turned the strokes, getting the measure of his man. In spite of quickening breath and thudding heart, he felt detached from the fight, detached even from his body.

  Quil plainly meant to fight to some end, either Matt’s death or surrender or a signal from Luz. He used neither surprise tactics nor especially savage onslaughts, but dueled away in a cool workmanlike fashion which suggested he was bored with his opponent but bound to see his job through.

  Matt took a long breath. Now—

  Shielding himself with his left
forearm, he took Quil’s blade in it, between the bones, twisted his arm to hold the bowie trapped. That was when he could have slashed Quil’s throat or belly. Instead, he dropped his own knife, relaxed his arm, stood almost fainting with pain as Quil, trembling, worked the blade free, ripped off his shirt and bound it on the savaged arm.

  “Lord God, why do that crazy trick?” he demanded in English. “Crazy damn fool! Crazy—”

  Matt made it to his horse, leaned against the saddle a minute, drenched in cold sweat, his teeth chattering.

  “Did I pass your test?” he flung at Luz.

  Luz swept off his sombrero and bowed from the waist. “Señor, you are beyond testing and beyond belief! Can you ride?”

  “Yes,” said Matt. But he was glad of Quil’s strong hands that boosted him into the saddle.

  XI

  Matt rolled up a last thin round tortilla, dipping it into the succulent mingling of roast kid, beans, rice and thick chili sauce. He smiled unashamedly at the Don, who watched him with amused interest and clapped for María who brought them silver bowls of caramel custard. Doña Anatacia had sent her excuses, probably, Matt thought, because he was a gringo.

  “You have a good table, Don Celestino,” Matt complimented him. “Worth crossing the Rio for.”

  “It’s pleasing to see a guest eat with appetite,” returned the Don. He pushed back his carved chair and led the way to the veranda, where María brought them crystal goblets and a tall amber flagon. She stole a glance at Matthew and scurried away when he thanked her, though at the door she glanced back and smiled.

  “If Luz saw that, you might get worse than a wounded arm,” observed the Don, pouring brandy. “And by the way, Don Mateo, what happened to your arm?”

  “What do you suppose?” asked Matt, sitting stiffer and narrowing his gaze.

  “Perhaps you caught a steer’s horn?”

  “A two-legged steer with a bowie knife?”

  The Don nodded appreciatively, stroking his lean hard jaw. “So you found Quil. Did you bury him?”

  “No. He bound up my arm. I’m surprised Luz didn’t tell you how faithfully he carried out your orders.”

  Don Celestino laughed, sipping the richly colored thick brandy. “I only told him to make sure you were strong as your words, señor! When you came back alive, I knew you must be!” He sobered, and his dark eyes fastened on Matthew with a grip like an eagle’s talons. “If you’ve found my hospitality a little strange, please know that I defended my country against invading United States troops in 1848 when you took much land from us, and my only son died in that same war. He was sixteen, a cadet, and when he and his classmates could defend Chapultepec no longer, some of them jumped from the parapets rather than surrender.”

  “I’m sorry,” Matt said slowly, “but where does it all end? You’re of the blood of conquerors who put Aztecs to the sword, and they had conquered the earlier Toltecs. My people have driven many peaceful Indians west, but that won’t keep me from fighting Comanches who want my scalp. We are where we are and we do what we must—if we can.” He finished his goblet. “This is fine brandy, Don Celestino.”

  “It is made from my peaches. When—if—you go back to your place, I will give you some young trees for planting.” The Don filled up their glasses and settled back. “Now, having established our philosophy, how shall we act?”

  Next day, escorted by several vaqueros, Don Celestino drove off in a wagon to Chihuahua. He would, he said, point out to the Governor of that Mexican state, who was his friend, that Tres Coronas was assuming the responsibility of the army and was entitled to weapons; also, more to the point, if Tres Coronas rebuffed the raiders, Chihuahua would escape much harassment.

  Matt, accompanied by all the men who could be spared from work, rode toward the Rio. A wagon rattled behind, drawn by mules and driven by Luz’s mother, Carmen, whom they called Madrecita, a fierce-tongued, leather-hided woman of indeterminate years and great bulk who addressed all the vaqueros as if they were feeble-minded children. She was to cook for them, and the wagon was full of her gear, supplies, shovels and axes.

  “Andalé!” she shouted continuously at the mules. “Fornicators with your own mothers, stumbling stubborn estupidos!” And when the mules stepped fast enough to placate her, she turned her adjurations on the men.

  “Don’t think to loaf on this job and make it a fiesta while I toil to stuff your greedy bellies!” she told them as they made camp by the Rio that day at dusk. “Don’t loiter till Comanches swoop down and scalp us all, though, Valgamé Dios! the lice in your hair would make even those Indios wish they had left you in your corruption!”

  “Poor Madrecita,” said Luz tenderly. “Let me make you a nice cigarette.” The tough, leather-clad vaquero carefully shaped a corn husk around strong black tobacco, lit it from the cook fire and handed it to her.

  Her exasperation faded with the stingingly aromatic gusts of smoke, and soon the men were dipping tortillas into a bubbling iron pot of reheated beans she had brought cooked from the ranch.

  “No meat, Madrecita?” asked Luz’s younger brother, a supple, handsome boy called Changa because of his monkeylike tricks and agility. Even when the saddle-hardened older men had grown weary, Changa had skylarked about, swooping from his saddle to pick up sticks, playing with his rawhide rope, trying to ride down and lasso anything that moved, from a horned toad to an Inca dove.

  “Not tonight, niño,” the woman answered as tenderly as her gravelly voice would allow. She handed him a hunk of hard brown sugar, ignoring Luz’s snort. “But the Don has given permission to kill a beef. Do it early tomorrow and we shall have meat, and tatema later, when the work is finished.”

  “What’s tatema?” Matt asked.

  “You don’t know it?” demanded Changa, his dark brows rising. “Then you have a treat coming! Tatema is the head of a cow, covered in mud and baked in the ground till it is wonderfully delicious.”

  Matt decided the others could have his share, but thought it best not to say so. After supper, the men smoked a while. Changa sang, some of his verses racy and romantic, others about famous vaqueros and bandits. He had a pure, lilting voice, and his wrinkled mother watched him with adoration and pride as if she could not believe this handsome singer was the same child she had borne.

  As Matt couldn’t catch all of the words, he listened mostly for the melody, but suddenly the men began to glance at him and nudge each other.

  Señores, voy a cantar con muchísimo decoro,

  Estos versos son compuestos al gringo valiente …

  Sirs, I’m going to sing with much decorum.

  These verses are composed about the valiant gringo …

  The men listened, intent, while Matthew flushed with embarrassment and wondered how Quil, his face impassive in the firelight, was taking this praise of an outsider.

  Don Matthew held the bowie between his bones.

  He did not flinch for any consideration.

  He did not drive his knife into our comrade’s heart

  But dropped it in the dust

  For this as much as his valor

  We will remember the gringo.

  “It is a good corrido,” Quil said, breaking the quiet. “Let’s hope you’ll soon be composing verses on how Tres Coronas defeated the Comanches.” He looked at Matt, who smiled back. This Quil was a friend worth having, if he would be a friend, not just a scrupulously fair comrade.

  Luz banked the fire, and the men spread their serapes about the wagon, from which Madrecita’s resonant snores issued almost immediately.

  Matt was bone-weary, but his mind reached forward. He’d achieved the first part of his goal to get Don Celestino’s support of his plan. But would it work? And if it did—He thought of Rachel, with a warming in his loins which chilled as he remembered Harry.

  Rachel was Matt’s wife, his love, though his own brother had died because of that love. Still, they had to go on. It was for Rachel he must get the cattle, for her and their children that he mus
t build another home. But if they could be happy, if he could ever hold her without shame and guilt—that was another matter, a more painful one than defeating the Comanches.

  The dozen men went to work the next morning, shoveling and hacking away at the Mexican side of the bank. The river churned away rocks and earth, so the men were soon standing up to their knees. then up to their thighs in water, and the work grew increasingly difficult as the current ran stronger and deeper.

  Changa, who began late after slaughtering a beef, worked hard for a while but then began splashing his companions with water. Several splashed back, swore or shouted good-natured threats, but Changa kept on till Luz and Quil exchanged glances, whooped and grabbed the brash youngster.

  Holding Changa by wrists and ankles, they swung him back and forth a few times and hurled him into the deepest part of the river. When he surfaced, spluttering and choking, he laughed louder than anyone, and he returned to his shoveling with complete attention.

  After a meal of stewed beef and beans, the men began building breastworks on either side of the river where surviving Indians would struggle from the ford.

  “Our shelter must seem part of the banks and rocks,” Matthew cautioned as he moved along the lines of the ambuscade, which followed a slight defile. “Where you have to, pile up rocks, mix and jumble them until it looks natural. But leave holes to shoot through.”

  “When the Comanches come up from the Rio—those who do—they won’t have time to examine our work,” said Luz, brushing dust from his glossy mustache and straightening his back.

  “True,” said Quil, heaving a boulder in place with a smooth motion of his broad shoulders. “But we have to fool them from at least the other side of the Rio or they won’t walk into our little surprise!”

  Changa dug a hole for his mother and lined it with rock so she could make a fire. When the rocks and earth had absorbed enough heat, she put in the clay-covered steer’s head, covered it with hot stones and earth, and built a small, slow fire on top. The tatema would be ready for tomorrow’s noon meal. The men from the ranch all smacked their lips at the prospect, but Matt hoped to avoid his share of the treat.