Teresa

by Les Savage, Jr.

  His face was ruddy and perspiring with anger. Teresa saw the blue coats of the dragoons in the hall outside. It made her realize the true danger of the situation. When she had sought to influence Amado before she had usually been given more time, had been able to see him alone, to set the stage. But now she saw that there would be no playing for time. Whatever she did had to be done now. He was like a child in his rages—unreasonable, blind, explosive—and if he wasn’t halted he would pull them all down. She could not afford to stall or intrigue now. It had to be direct, jarring.

  “Nicolas,” she said. “Don Biscara has offered us a way out of our dilemma. Would you still expel him if you could get twice as much money elsewhere?”

  It checked Amado momentarily. He looked in surprise at Biscara, then in suspicion at Teresa. Don Gomez had moved in from the hall behind Amado. He was the Secretary of the Assembly now, resplendent in embroidered jacket, blue velvet trousers, and shiny mitaja leggings. He had undoubtedly been trying to restrain Amado, for his brow was beaded with perspiration and he sent Teresa a harried, helpless glance.

  “Where can I get more money?” Amado said. “The people aren’t paying half the taxes I levied.”

  “What about the American traders on the Santa Fe Trail?” she asked.

  She saw Gomez give her a surprised glance. Teresa and he had discussed this before, but he had vetoed the move. Much of Gomez’s financial strength in the Upper River came from his contacts among the American traders and he feared they would remove their support if he antagonized them.

  Amado made a disgusted sound. “They’re already overtaxed.”

  Gomez nodded. “They wouldn’t pay more. We couldn’t risk losing the trade on the trail. It’s one of our biggest assets—”

  “Bribón,” swore Amado. “Is not my own opinion enough?”

  Gomez flushed, turned away. Teresa leaned back in her chair, grinding out the stub of her smoke. “The trail trade is one of the quickest ways to get rich. The Americans wouldn’t give it up because of a rise in custom duties. They estimate that a hundred and thirty wagons will come over the trail this year. What would that mean if we added a derecho of five hundred dollars a wagon?”

  Biscara looked at her wonderingly, quickly added it up. “Sixty-five thousand dollars.”

  Gomez wheeled, a hint of panic in his face. “It will cut down the trade. Taos will be the first to suffer—”

  Teresa saw a way to divert Amado’s anger from Biscara. “Must you always think of your selfish interests?” she asked Gomez. “There is more to this country than the Upper River.”

  “Keep out of this, Gomez,” Amado said. “I’m tired of your drunken conspiracies.”

  Pouting like a child, he walked to the window, staring out. Teresa saw Gomez look at her with a pale fury in his sagging face. He was caught between two fires. He knew the danger of expelling Biscara, yet was unwilling to sacrifice any of his own strength to maintain the status quo. This was the constant problem in maintaining such a precarious balance of power. Things had happened too fast today. Somebody had to be thrown to the wolves, and Gomez was in the weakest position. Couldn’t he see there was nothing else she could do?

  Even though Biscara knew their weakness, Teresa hated to admit it with him in the room. Yet, with Amado now in doubt, she knew she had to lay her cards on the table.

  “If you expel Don Biscara the whole Lower River will rise against you, Nicolas. You’ll never be able to hold things together without them. When Mexico City hears that they’ll send a new governor up here with troops to back him.”

  Now that some of his rage had been diverted and dispelled, Amado could appreciate her logic. They were things she had tried to hammer into him before. She saw Gomez start to protest again, then check himself, fearful of turning Amado’s wrath more fully on him. The governor was scowling and pulling at his lip. Teresa had used his vanity before, his ego. But he had greed, too, and now she played on that.

  “This way you get twice the money you asked of Biscara—and save your neck in the bargain.”

  She saw it reach him, saw a shine come to his eyes. His massive head finally swung to Biscara.

  “Very well. I’ll give it a try. But if it fails, there will be nothing between you and exile.”

  * * * *

  Don Biscara left before the others, by the entrance that opened into Burro Alley. In a sense he had won today. He had blocked Teresa’s attempt to force a compromise, had made her reveal weaknesses he had only speculated upon before. But he took little pleasure from it. For he realized what he had missed by withdrawing so completely from the politics of Santa Fe. He had heard rumors of Teresa’s growing influence. But he had never dreamed it had gone so far. The Assembly was apparently little more than a front for the conferences held in that sumptuous room.

  Most of the important decisions of the new government must have been made there, guided by Teresa’s complex maneuvering, her power over Amado. She had uncanny knowledge of the man. He was no dolt; he was shrewd enough in his own right, and a woman depending upon her body or her feminine wiles alone would have lost her grip on him long ago. It took a remarkable skill to maintain such a constant influence over him—a delicate gauging of his moods and tempers of the moment, an unceasing manipulation (now subtle, now obvious) of his vanities, his pride, his fears, his appetites and weaknesses.

  But Biscara had not been unaware of the other undercurrents in the room. He knew that Gomez’s veil of bored cynicism had always hidden a vague frustration which seemed to underline the man’s whole life. His rise from peasant to landholder had not given him what he wanted. He had lost identity with his own people and was still not accepted by the gente fina. It was a subtle, insidious kind of isolation that could corrode a man. His marriage had not helped any. An old man, a young wife, a familiar story. Biscara had seen him on the streets with Doña Beatriz, and had seen the helpless look in the man’s eyes. Apparently Gomez’s recent rise in politics was as hollow a triumph as everything else. He was caught between Teresa and Amado, and they had bled the power from him till he was merely a figurehead, a front for their maneuvers in the Assembly. This afternoon Biscara had seen the flames of humiliation added to the old coals of frustration. He wondered how much longer Gomez would stand it.

  He waited on San Francisco Street till the man came out the front door, alone. Then he joined him, offering his copper flask of tobacco, his bundle of cornhusks. They rolled smokes together as they walked toward the plaza, and Biscara murmured, “When Villapando was installed as governor, it was whispered that you were the real power in the Palace. It is a pity to see a woman usurp the throne.”

  Gomez would not look up from his cigarette. His voice was thin and trembling. “She is a bitch.”

  Biscara realized he had gauged Gomez right. Teresa was not the only one who understood men.

  “It is sad,” Biscara said, “to see one as capable as you losing the governor’s favor.” He blew out smoke, looking at the ruddy Jemez Mountains rimming the town. “I have always thought that should the people of the Upper River and the Lower River unite, they would make the strongest single faction in the department.”

  Gomez looked up at him, sneering, “Do you forget that you are supporting the governor now?”

  Biscara smiled. “A matter of policy, Don Augustín. Is it not a shame to have our province ruled by an illegitimate Apache and a power-mad half-breed woman?”

  Gomez licked his lips. His hands shook as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. “I am tired of conspiracies.”

  “This is not a conspiracy. It is a crusade. Perhaps we are not in a position to do anything now. But sooner or later our chance will come. We should have a man on the inside then. I’m sure you could regain favor if you stopped opposing Amado and forgot your jealousy of Teresa, if you bowed and scraped and licked your chops like the servile dog Amado wish
es. And when our time came, we would be standing shoulder to shoulder, you and I, leading the gente fina of the province back into the Palace.”

  Gomez’s eyes lifted. “The gente fina?”

  “Of course. I was asking Don Escudero only the other day why you never paid a call to any of us.”

  Gomez moistened his lips. “I was never invited, señor.”

  Biscara looked surprised. “And we thought it was pride. We thought the Upper River had become so powerful in Santa Fe that you chose to ignore us.”

  Gomez shook his head. “You are mistaken, completely mistaken—”

  Biscara clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we must take steps to rectify such a tragic misunderstanding. There will be a baile at my hacienda on the fourteenth. Some of the biggest men in Rio Abajo will be there. Would you and Doña Beatriz do us the honor?”

  A flush crept through Gomez’s veined jowls and clear to the roots of his hair. The glazed frustration left his eyes and they began to shine. He inclined his head.

  “It would be our greatest pleasure, señor.”

  Biscara looked beyond him at Teresa Cavan’s sala. He was smiling balefully to himself.

  17

  In June of 1839 the wagon trains arrived from the Santa Fe Trail. It was a big event in the capital, for a great part of Santa Fe’s prosperity depended upon this trade. As soon as the wagons appeared outside of town it seemed that everyone in town began running for the plaza, shouting excitedly.

  “Los Carros…le entrade de la caravana—”

  The first to reach the customhouse would get the choice goods brought in by the traders, and Teresa always had a hundred things she needed. She hurried down San Francisco Street, dressed in a fresh camisa and a bright yellow mantón de Manila with red roses splashed over it and a fringe that swished saucily at her bare ankles. Behind her came her bodyguards and a Navajo slave stooped under the burden of an almuere, the standard measure for a thousand doubloons.

  The Conestogas were parked in a double line before the customhouse. They were huge wagons with wheels as high as her shoulders, yellow-spoked, iron-tired, with bright red beds that were sway-backed as a ship. The gringos stood awkwardly around in new suits, hands in their pockets, gawking at the unfamiliar chatter of Spanish all about them.

  There was the usual crowd of inspectors and interpreters and traders before the customhouse. Experienced traders had already paid the diligencia and had started selling. The men new to the trail were arguing heatedly with the sweating officials, protesting the graft and the opening of their bales and crates for inspection.

  As Teresa approached the first wagons she heard John Ryker’s voice raised above the babble. “I had fifteen wagons. Valdez was cross-eyed if he counted any more.”

  She saw him standing in a knot of men a hundred feet beyond. Beside him was Cimarron Saunders, towering above Ryker, scratching irritably at his louse-ridden red beard. Captain Perea faced them, and beside him Captain Uvalde, of the militia. Perea’s handsome sharp-featured face was flushed. He spoke in a snapping voice, making nervous gestures with his sinewy hands.

  “Twenty-three wagons were counted in your train at San Miguel. And Valdez said that four of them were loaded with crated Yager rifles.”

  Captain Uvalde smiled crookedly, trying to placate Perea. “There must be a mistake. Maybe Valdez was drunk.”

  Perea spoke to Uvalde without looking at him. “Keep out of this. The militia has no jurisdiction here.” Teresa saw an ugly light leap into Uvalde’s Indian eyes. But Perea went on, speaking to Ryker. “Either you produce those guns or I’m going to search every wagon you’ve got.”

  Teresa was but ten feet from them now, yet they were all so intent on the argument they didn’t see her. Ryker’s elbows nudged aside the edges of his cinnamon bear coat. The butt caps of his Ketland-McCormicks winked like brass eyes in a hot sun.

  “Lay a hand on those wagons and you’ll lose a commission, Perea.”

  Perea’s face went taut; he turned to call to a corporal by the customhouse door. “Cabo, gather a squad—”

  Ryker lunged forward and grabbed his arm, trying to whirl him back. Eyes bright with anger, Perea shoved him away and tore free. It pushed Ryker stumbling against the wagon bed. He recovered and started to pull a gun. Perea saw his hand dip down and whipped out his saber. Cimarron Saunders lunged at Perea.

  The captain made a half-turn away from Cimarron and thrust out his boot. The red-bearded man couldn’t stop himself in time, tripped over the boot, and sprawled on his face. Perea was already whirling back toward Ryker.

  He had his saber out and he didn’t even have to move toward Ryker. It had all happened in an instant and the tip of his extended sword punched Ryker in the stomach a split-second before Ryker got his guns free. Ryker stopped all movement, gripping the butts of his useless pistols with their muzzles still thrust through his belt. Cimarron Saunders picked himself off the ground, eyes tiny as a pig’s with humiliation.

  Perea,” Captain Uvalde said, “you are acting like a fool.”

  Perea ignored him. The corporal had already gathered half a dozen dragoons and was converging on the scene. “Cabo,” Perea said, “put a guard on this man. Then I want these wagons searched. We’re looking for crated Yager rifles. If you don’t find any in the cargo, look for false bottoms in the beds. Find those guns if you have to rip every wagon to pieces!”

  A pair of dragoons loaded their carbines and took their places by Ryker and the others. Perea let his saber drop and trotted with the other dragoons to the first wagon. They clambered into the dusky beds and began throwing out bolts of calico, ripping into crated hardware, prying open boxes of nails and barrels of dried fruit. Teresa saw that Ryker’s face was dead white with rage.

  Ryker saw Teresa and started walking toward her. “What about the wagons?” she asked.

  “So I had twenty-three,” he said. “I emptied eight and put the cargo in the other wagons. Every trader’s doing it. This new tax of five hundred dollars a wagon will break us.”

  “And the guns? I want the truth, Ryker.”

  He moved closer, speaking in a low, vicious tone. “All right. I’ll tell you the truth. Perea’s been nosing around too much. That’s the truth. If you don’t stop him, he’s liable to uncover something that turns this whole town upside down, and you with it.”

  “You aren’t that big,” she said.

  “It isn’t what I’d do. It’s just what will happen. The only way you can stop it is to stop Perea—now!”

  In his coal-black eyes she saw the man’s adamant refusal to explain further about the guns. She knew he was a man who did not throw his weight about idly. There must be some truth in the danger he hinted at. If it went as deep as he implied, it went to the Palace. The truth would be easier to get from Amado. If he didn’t have it, she could always come back to Ryker. In the meantime—she had woven too careful a fabric to have it ripped wide by Perea’s hotheadedness.

  She gave Ryker a last glance, then walked down the line of wagons to Perea. She called him aside. “You must stop this, Hilario. Ryker’s too important a man to antagonize over a few hundred dollars.”

  “But the guns—”

  “I have them.”

  His face turned blank with surprise. She smiled, wisely.

  “Do you think something so big would be hidden to me? Pablo reported it yesterday. Ryker wanted to smuggle the guns down the Chihuahua Trail without duty. We overtook them north of Albuquerque. He’ll pay his duty.”

  “It goes deeper than a few smuggled guns, Teresa. Something is going on. You can feel it at the Palace. Something is wrong.”

  “Why don’t you come to my sala and tell me what you know? Captain Uvalde can take over.”

  She finally convinced him. Leaving Uvalde in charge, he accompanied her home. They went to the familiar p
rivate room behind the sala, with its black and white tile floor, its red hangings. She let the mantón slip from her shoulders onto the table, poured him a drink. She asked him what he had found out. He said that in a skirmish with Apaches the week before he had killed three and found that they were using American Hall breechloaders. If somebody was selling guns in any quantity to the Indians it could prove lethal.

  “It’s the sort of thing that fits Ryker,” Perea said. “We know he made his fortune smuggling furs.”

  “You have proof?”

  “You told me what happened to Kelly Morgan. How else could Ryker have gotten so big? None of the other traders are half as rich. And Amado let him get away with it.”

  “Amado had nothing to do with it,” Teresa said angrily.

  “He must,” Perea said. His face grew red and he spoke sharply. “The customs inspector at Taos claims Ryker doesn’t pay duty on half the furs he ships out. Everybody knows how close he’s become to Amado—”

  She turned her back on him, pacing spitefully across the room. She hated these clashes. No matter how much surface sophistication he acquired, this part of him would always remain untouched—naïve, romantic, idealistic—making him seem forever like a little boy to her.

  It was his weakness, and she had used it. Had used his romanticism, his rigid ideas of honor, his intense patriotism, his worship of her—all to blind him to the true state of things. Had used it in self-defense, knowing that he was one of the keystones in the fortress wall she was building. His military duties kept him out of the capital much of the time, scouting the frontiers, doing duty in the outpost garrisons. But even there he could not fail to hear the rumors of discontent, of bribery and graft in Santa Fe. She had known that sooner or later the wool she pulled over his eyes would grow thin.

  And now she had lied to him again, about the guns, and would have to perpetuate the lie. Suddenly it gagged her; suddenly she could not do it. Her lips drooped as she turned to him, and the light went out of her eyes.