The Star in the Meadow (The Spanish Brand Book 4)

by Carla Kelly

  “I had another wife before Eckapeta and those two awful women you already know about,” Toshua said.

  Marco opened his eyes, startled at the nearness of Toshua’s voice, then realized that the Comanche was sitting right beside him now. Good God but the man is silent.

  “I paid twenty ponies for her because she was so beautiful,” Toshua said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. Or maybe Marco only imagined that, considering that he felt lightheaded now. Toshua was not a man to dream. Or was he? Marco said nothing, unwilling to interfere with a flow of words from someone he assumed never dreamed.

  “I was on a raiding party against the Apache. May they rot while still alive and wander Texas as their skin slips from their bones,” Toshua continued, his eyes closed.

  “We are both men of misery,” Marco whispered. “Tell me.”

  “Other Apaches came while we were gone. When we returned, victorious”—he seemed to spit out the word—“what did we find but death all around, and in ways even more horrible than we had perpetrated.”

  Marco bowed his head.

  “It seemed to take days to gather up all the little pieces of my wife,” Toshua said, his voice low and filled with pain. Marco knew that feeling. “Sometimes I still dream that I missed something, and that she wanders in the shadow land, with parts gone—a toe, a breast.”

  “We live in a hard place, do we not?”

  “We do. Let us sit here and howl, and let the great spirit know how we feel,” Toshua replied. “When we are done with this, we will cover our shed blood with good earth and ride on. Wolves will howl in their turn, and dig in this spot.”

  They howled to whatever god they chose, then mounted and rode through wide empty plains appearing mostly level, but full of ridges and gullies, a little water here and there. Marco forced himself to think of nothing except what lay immediately ahead of him, rehearsing what he thought Governor Anza would ask for in a peace treaty: trade rights, return of enslaved settlers, and freedom from deadly Comanche Moons. He remembered his experiences last summer with the ever-helpful Utes, and wondered if the governor would insist upon Comanches allying themselves with Utes (if Utes would agree), colonials, and other friendly tribes to go against the Apache, their common enemy.

  So it was that they rode to the Río Napestle two days later, exhausted and wearing their dried blood of mourning. They traveled along the river lined with cottonwoods on either side until they found the encampment. Marco couldn’t help his gasp of surprise at the size of the gathering. The dull, undecorated tipis of The People seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon.

  “How … how many?” he asked, eyes wide with fear.

  “Maybe three hundred warriors, and that’s not counting women and children,” Toshua said. “Afraid?”

  “You can’t imagine how terrified I am,” he said honestly, his eyes on the warriors who gathered as they came closer.

  “I will do what I can to protect you, but my friend, you are so white,” Toshua said.

  Marco felt paler than goat’s milk, riding beside a friend who could only do so much, circled about by warriors gifted in the art of torture. He tried to duck the rocks thrown at him, but one still slammed into the back of his head and dropped him to the ground.

  When he opened his eyes, Kwihnai sat beside him, looking down at him with a frown. Nearly three years had come and gone since Marco and Paloma, named Tatzinupi by Eckapeta, had ridden away from the sacred canyon. Only last summer Kwihnai and his warriors had saved his life when Great Owl had nearly killed their foolhardy little band of mismatched soldiers. Now the Kwahadi chief was an old man. Marco looked past the wrinkles and furrows and scars to see the same kindness in his eyes.

  “Kwihnai, will I find my wife?” Marco asked, certain that while he was unconscious Toshua had told the man everything.

  To his sorrow, the chief shook his head. Marco closed his eyes.

  He opened them quickly enough when Kwihnai smacked his face, took him by the chin and gave him such a shake that his teeth seemed to loosen.

  “I have asked my gods this very thing while you were sleeping with a rock,” Kwihnai said. “They told me to tell you, oh foolish Spaniard, to trust Paloma to find herself. Don’t you know the woman you give your seed to when the mood is on you both? She can look after herself. Let her.”

  Marco realized he lay on a buffalo robe and that he felt comfortable, except for the knot on the back of his neck. He also felt sudden relief at the old man’s scold, which sounded very much like the truth. “I trust she knows this, too,” he said and held up his hand. “Help me stand.”

  Kwihnai helped him to his feet, turning him over to Kwihnai’s old woman, who washed his face and gave him something to eat that tasted like bugs, but which he was not about to question, because it tasted so good. When he assured her he could stand by himself now, she gestured toward a circle of warriors.

  Seeing his hesitation, she chuckled and gave him a push. “No one has rocks now, but sit by Toshua, just to be sure.” She added in a whisper, “I personally do not trust Yupes and barely trust the Yamparika.”

  He knew those tribal names, names mothers in New Mexico told their children to get them to behave and not wander away and fall prey to The People. He took a deep breath and did as the woman said.

  “Kwihnai says I may translate for you,” Toshua said. “We have talked and talked all winter. Now we want you to listen and take these words to the short, bearded man who defeated Cuerno Verde so many years ago.”

  “I will do that with pleasure,” Marco said. He looked toward Kwihnai, because he knew no other chief in the circle. “Please know that when I have stored your message in my heart I must return home immediately. I mean no disrespect by a sudden departure.”

  “You will find Paloma waiting for you,” the old chief said. “She will not be happy that you left her lost to come here, so good luck.”

  The Comanches in the circle chuckled and Marco felt his heart slow down until it beat nearly at normal speed. I am not the only husband here, he thought, with something close to amusement.

  With Toshua translating in a low voice, Marco heard even more names of Comanche tribes than he knew existed, marveling that some had come so far from the east. He ate from the basket of dried buffalo meat that passed from man to man, happy when it came around again.

  “This is Ecueracapa, a Cuchanec of The People,” Toshua whispered when a warrior maybe at middle age stood up. “He came with good ideas and we have listened. Now you listen to him.”

  “We are tired of war, and suppose that you are, too,” Ecueracapa said, speaking to Marco as though no one else sat in the circle.

  “Haa,” Marco said, wishing he knew more of The People’s tongue. “We are tired, too. Tell me what you want me to tell that short, bearded man.” He waited for a translation.

  “He listens to you?” Ecueracapa asked.

  “He does,” Marco replied, and felt a quiet pride, the kind that was the fruit of years of hard labor and diplomacy and carrying forth when everything seemed to point in other directions. I am just a juez de campo, he thought, but I am the law in my district, by the grace of God.

  He listened with his whole mind and complete heart as Ecueracapa spoke of moving Comanche settlements closer to the colony of New Mexico, where they could trade in peace. Marco smiled to himself when Ecueracapa insisted on stabilized currency rates so no one of The People would be cheated by New Mexicans. He had known for years just how monetarily clever The People were—stabilized currency rates, indeed. He knew he had never been able to cheat one of The People.

  His listened as Ecueracapa and others added their requests for freedom to attend the great trade fair at Taos, and perhaps to include another one in mountainous Pecos to the east, a preferred site. He heard nothing that Governor Anza would not welcome, even a request for military aid against the Apaches. Marco glanced at Toshua at the mention of Apache and saw a cloud cross over his normally impassive face.

  Ever
yone looked at him. He was ready. “I believe Governor Anza will welcome your conditions,” he said, speaking slowly and allowing Toshua time to translate, even though he was well aware that many of The People could speak his language, too. “He will have conditions of his own, but I know him to be a fair man.”

  The men in the circle nodded and passed around the dried meat again. Marco turned to Ecueracapa. “I also think the bearded one would prefer you to name one spokesman to talk for all of you. Spaniards are strange that way.”

  Again the men nodded. They looked to the other men who sat beside Ecueracapa and Kwihnai, probably chiefs as well.

  Ecueracapa cleared his throat and the murmuring stopped. “We would meet with your chief in yubaubi mua, the Heading-to-Winter-Moon, in this place of much wood.”

  “You call the Heading-to-Winter-Moon November,” Toshua said.

  “Whether my leader will be there with me, I do not know,” Marco said. “I do know I will be there with … with my wife and children and we will have magic marks on paper from the governor, with his conditions. You have my word.”

  Again there were nods all around, even some smiles. May I never forget this moment, Marco thought. It is worth my lifetime in this dangerous place I love so well.

  Kwihnai spoke in Ecueracapa’s ear and the younger chief helped him to his feet. All the men in the circle rose. Kwihnai reached across Toshua and tapped Marco’s head, but much lighter this time. “Make sure you bring Tatzinupi. I like her.”

  “And she likes you. I will bring her,” Marco said without a flinch. “I know you will celebrate now and I should celebrate with you, but I need to find that woman of mine, even if you tell me she can save herself.”

  “Not yet,” Kwihnai said. “Your head is too big. My woman will put some hot dung on it for the swelling.”

  “Then may I leave?”

  Marco’s heart sank as the chiefs consulted. Ecueracapa spoke to him. He listened, pleased to hear words he knew, then less pleased when he understood.

  “I am to accompany you on a buffalo hunt?” he asked Ecueracapa in Spanish, then turned to whisper to Toshua, “Please tell him I am honored, but I can’t. I must find Paloma.”

  “You will go, once you have hunted buffalo,” Toshua said. “My friend, this is an honor. Don’t fail New Mexico.”

  There it was again. After years of living in the most dangerous place in all of New Mexico, patiently planning for peace, the whole enterprise finally demanded more than he was willing to give. He had a wife who needed him, but as he looked around the circle of dark and serious faces, he knew he had no choice. Had he ever had a choice?

  But no. A man can only bend so far, even in the service of a greater cause. “I cannot go with you,” he said simply. “I must find this wife of mine.”

  His eyes nearly shooting sparks, Ecueracapa had harsh words for Kwihnai, who listened patiently. Marco stood as tall as he could, wondering whether it would be more rocks to his head this time, or a quick stab in the back, if he was lucky. Maybe I should have agreed to hunt their damned buffalo, he thought in misery.

  “Toshua, I …” he began, but Toshua put a finger to his lips and mouth-pointed to Kwihnai, engaged in earnest conversation with the man who obviously held the power already.

  Moving closer, Toshua motioned Marco to stand beside him as Kwihnai spoke loud enough to include all the warriors. “He is telling the ones who do not know about your Tatzinupi, your little Star, who helped keep The People safe from smallpox.”

  Marco closed his eyes, remembering his Star and that dangerous journey.

  “ ‘Now he begs to go look for her, she who has been taken by bad men,’ ” Toshua whispered, translating Kwihnai’s compelling words. “ ‘He must have this woman in his tipi again.’ ”

  Kwihnai lowered his arms and turned to Ecueracapa. “ ‘He came here, a brave man, to speak for Spain and a king far away. Now he wants to leave because he is a husband,’ ” Toshua whispered.

  The circle of warriors was so silent that not even a bird sang or the air moved in the trees. “Haa,” Ecueracapa said at last. “Let him go,” he finished in Spanish.

  “What should I do, Toshua?” Marco whispered.

  “You could kneel,” his friend said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Barely breathing, Marco knelt before Kwihnai and Eckapeta. He knew how poor his Comanche was, but he had to try. “Hunt buffalo later?” he asked.

  “Hunt buffalo later.” Ecueracapa repeated the same words but with a smile, telling Marco just how imperfect his Comanche was. “Go on.”

  Marco staggered from the pain in his head, but righted himself and left the circle, Toshua beside him.

  “Wait!”

  Marco stopped. What now? he asked himself.

  “How many horses did you pay for this Star of yours?” Ecueracapa asked.

  “Tell him the dowry was one pair of bloody sandals,” Marco told Toshua quietly.

  Toshua spoke and even Kwihnai gasped.

  “Good God, what did you say?” Marco asked.

  “Fifty horses,” Toshua whispered back. “I’m not an idiot, even if you are.”

  It didn’t take remarkable intelligence for Marco to know Toshua was disappointed in him. “I will hunt buffalo with them later,” Marco said as they walked away. “I promise.”

  “I know, but Marco, do not underestimate your woman.” He grabbed Marco’s arm and spun him around. “You did not see the terror in her eyes when she stared at me in that horrible shed where I had been chained for months! Did she leave me to die?”

  “Well, no,” Marco said, hating himself for sounding so feeble. All he wanted to do was lie down again because his head throbbed.

  “She rolled that rotten egg toward me and went for help,” Toshua reminded him, his voice intense and demanding Marco’s full attention. “Do not think she cannot help herself. Besides, New Mexico needs you.”

  “We are different, Toshua,” he said, not certain he could talk without tears, unable to guess if Toshua could even understand him. “My heart cannot break into any more little pieces.”

  Toshua regarded him in silence until his expression mellowed. He pointed toward a smaller group of warriors. “There is a man over there named Toroblanco who does not agree with any of this.”

  “I should beware of him, too?” Marco asked, dismayed.

  “No. He might be dead by morning. We’ll see.”

  “Now you will tell me you can see the future?” Marco said, hating to sound so bitter. He looked around, wondering which of the formidable Comanches Toroblanco could possibly be. “You are a prophet?”

  “I claim no such skill,” his friend replied modestly. “I know The People pretty well, though. No fear tomorrow.”

  They left before the hunters at daybreak, their pouches full of dried meat mixed with bugs. Most of the camp still slept; even the dogs ignored them. Sleeping even more profoundly was a man with hair where his face should be. Horrified, Marco looked closer. Good God, someone had twisted the man’s head entirely around on his neck.

  “Toroblanco?” Marco asked, hoping he had not turned as green as he felt.

  Toshua dismounted and toed the dead man. “No. One of his allies, though. I suspect they will be picked off one by one, until Toroblanco is looking over each shoulder all day long.”

  “Toshua, you and your people are masters of fright,” Marco said.

  “This is news? You are growing more wise every day.”

  High time, Marco thought. The craziness of his situation reminded him that the crown didn’t pay him enough to be juez de campo. Perhaps it was time to ask for a raise.

  “We’ll be home in two days?” he asked.

  “Two days.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In which Paloma learns she is not as badly off as she thought

  Roque’s resolution to sit with Paloma ended when Gaspar brought him another bottle of wine.

  “Pedro!” he hollered. “Come here, you worthless lump.
”

  Their other abductor, the bearded man, appeared in the doorway.

  “Take her to the kitchen,” Roque said, after a long pull on the bottle. “She will cook and you will watch her.”

  Paloma wanted to protest when Pedro grabbed her arm and tugged her down the disgusting hall again, but she knew better and hurried to keep up with him.

  He pushed her into the kitchen. Paloma rubbed her arm and stared in amazement at the filthy, reeking hole with a grease-covered table and a fireplace full of ashes. Turning to Pedro, she gave him her kindest smile.

  “Pedro, do you like cornmeal and chilis and big chunks of pork?”

  She had him there. She watched his eyes grow big. He swallowed several times.

  “And tortillas so light that we have to anchor them to the table?” she added.

  He wiped his mouth. “Start cooking.”

  “Alas, I cannot do a thing until this kitchen is cleaned up,” she said, assuming her most mournful expression. “Good food just won’t cook in a pigsty.”

  She almost heard gears turning in his tiny brain.

  “What should we do?”

  “Are there others here besides you and Gaspar?” Paloma asked.

  “Why do you want to know?” he snarled at her.

  Patience, patience, she told herself. Think of him as a not-so-bright child. “They could help us dust and drag out old chicken bones and—”

  “Chicken bones? We’ve never eaten chicken or any meat from this … hole,” Pedro said.

  “I was just using chicken bones as an example,” Paloma said. For the first time since this man and his equally dim friend abducted them, she felt a kernel of pity. She heard the wistfulness in his voice and it touched her heart. “We can turn this into a room where I can cook good things,” she said. “What would you like to eat?”

  Her soft heart grew a little softer when Pedro, tough hombre, couldn’t think of anything.

  “Mostly it’s just cornmeal,” he muttered, and she heard the humiliation in his voice.

  “If it must be cornmeal, I assure you I can make it taste much better,” she told him. “Do you know anyone who can help us clean?”