Comanche Dawn

by Mike Blakely

  “We will improvise,” Jean replied. “One never knows what the office of the viceroy will send. It seems no one is in charge down there. The right hand knows not what the left hand does.”

  “Salúd!” Durazno said, as if Jean had just made a toast.

  “I am more interested in what our caravan will send south, Governor. Is the inventory complete?”

  “Yes, Juan, and we have done well. Better than the caravan of three years ago, and twice as rich as the one three years before that. Thanks mostly to you, we have greatly increased our trade among the Norteños. Over one thousand deerskins have been baled. We have already loaded three hundred fanegas of piñon nuts, and almost five hundred buffalo robes. The haciendas and missions have produced well, also. Six hundred pairs of wool socks, fifty cowhides, two hundred oxen, seventy mules, and a large herd of surplus sheep. Your hacienda is now first in the breeding of mules, my friend, and third in overall production, according to the assessor’s office. Thanks to you, and a few others, we will send quite a caravan south.”

  “How many slaves?” Jean said.

  A tense silence fell abruptly into the middle of the conversation.

  “What do you mean, Juan?” Governor Del Bosque said. “You know slavery is illegal.”

  “They are genízaros, not slaves,” Fray Ugarte blurted. “They have been converted.”

  Jean smiled. “I only meant that they were slaves before—among the Indios, though I doubt many were made to work as hard among the so-called savages as they will be made to work among Spaniards.”

  “There is nothing wrong with hard work,” Ugarte insisted.

  “True, but without pay?”

  “They will be paid.”

  “None of them will ever earn more than a peso, and even then, the overseer who hands them the coin will be holding a whip in his other hand. They spend all their earnings on vile drink anyway, and I don’t even blame them. It is their only escape. Those poor devils will be worked to death in fields and mines. Most will look back fondly on their days as slaves among the Indios.”

  “What are we to do?” said Captain Lujan. “Tell the savages we won’t ransom them anymore? And see them tortured to death before our very eyes?”

  “We should continue to ransom them, of course, but we must become better negotiators. We must take the profit out of the slave trade until it dries up. It is a matter of simple economics.”

  “How do you propose to do this?” Governor Del Bosque said, a curious smirk on his face.

  “First we must recognize that the trade in Indio slaves is our fault. The Tiwa elders tell me that in old days, slavery indeed existed, but the slaves were eventually adopted into the nations of their captors. But now the Apache make regular slave raids on the Pani, and sell the women and children to Spaniards here. The Pani, meanwhile, are raiding the Apache rancherías and selling their captives to the French across the plains.”

  “It is the fault of the French,” Lujan said, without offering to explain his observation.

  “Get to the part about negotiations,” the Governor said, trying to keep the debate on track.

  “We must simply offer less for the slaves, and at the same time, offer more for other trade items—buffalo robes and beaver pelts, deerskins and wild honey. We must make it understood that we have enough slaves, and we will pay but little for them. At the same time, we must convince the Indios that we will trade items of much higher value for robes, skins, and furs.”

  Alcalde Durazno snorted. “That would be fine, if we had anything of value to a barbarian.”

  “We have escopetas.”

  Lujan straightened in his chair. “You would trade guns to our enemies?”

  “The old escopetas are as worthless to them as they are to us with this shortage of powder. Even your own soldiers won’t use them, Capitán. They prefer the bows and arrows captured from the Indios.”

  “Even if it were legal,” Governor Del Bosque said, “we have only so many escopetas to trade.”

  “A valid point, Governor. That is why our primary item of trade must be something we can renew—mules and geldings.”

  “You would arm and mount our enemies!” Lujan growled.

  “They are already armed and mounted. They have horses, and their horses will breed more horses. But mules and geldings will not. First, we must get the mares and stallions from them by offering two mules or geldings for each mare or stallion—three if necessary. Since they cannot breed up their herds without stallions and mares, they will be dependent on us for their mounts, which we will trade to them for hides and furs and honey, but not for slaves.”

  “Indeed,” Lujan said, a jeer in his tone.

  “The Apaches and Yutas are raiding the settlements for mounts, anyway. Why not legalize the trade in mounts in a way that gives us the advantage.”

  “We already have the advantage,” Lujan insisted. “The savages are either too stupid or too clumsy or too cowardly to fight from the backs of their horses.”

  “It is curious,” Jean admitted, “that the Indios have not yet adopted our cavalry tactics. They use their horses only as transportation, preferring to fight on foot. But this only means that they are slow to change, not that they are not slow to learn. I have seen some marvelous riders among the Norteños, especially the Apaches and the Yutas. When they start to fight from the backs of their horses, they will be a devastating force. That is why we must take control of how many mounts they possess, before it is too late.”

  “Your idea seems to have some merit,” Del Bosque said. “Unfortunately, the Crown forbids the trade of mounts to the Indios whether they are mules or geldings or jackasses. Besides that, mules and horses represent a good part of our export economy to New Spain. We cannot afford to trade all of them to the Indios.”

  “We would continue to send the best animals south, or sell them to Capitán Lujan’s soldiers,” Jean said, though he could tell by now that his whole proposal, which he had thought out carefully for some time, was futile. He added one other observation: “We are a long way from the Crown.”

  The governor looked at Fray Ugarte, who had remained silent during Jean’s discourse. “Padre, what say you about these issues of slaves and horses?”

  Slowly, almost ceremoniously, the friar placed his cup on a glazed saucer. “The slave trade is the work of God. We should encourage the savages to continue it. The more slaves we ransom, the more souls we save.”

  Jean scoffed. “Encourage the Indios to enslave one another? Even when the slaves are mistreated? Some are beaten or burned—occasionally to death.”

  “Better for one to suffer and die that ten may know eternal life.”

  “The ratio is more like ten deaths for one salvation, Padre.”

  “You think too much of worldly things, Juan. It is better for ten to die violently that one may know the grace of God, than for all eleven to die peacefully in their sleep of old age, in ignorance and sin, their souls fated to drift in oblivion.”

  Jean sighed, sensing the uselessness in arguing with the Franciscan. “If they are going to be ransomed, at least they could be set free instead of marched south to die in mines and fields.”

  “There is no work for them here,” Governor Del Bosque said. “They must be taken south where there is work.”

  Jean shook his head. “Set them free and give them land to colonize on the northern frontier. Give them weapons to fight with, and let them serve as a line of first defense against the Apaches who enslaved them in the first place.”

  “If set free,” Fray Ugarte argued, “they would either revert to their heathen ways among their own people, or they would linger around here, falling into temptation.”

  “They would become misfits and thieves,” Captain Lujan said.

  “Then they would make good soldiers,” Jean mumbled.

  Alcalde Durazno burst into laughter, until he caught Lujan’s angry glare.

  “At least they have God on their side,” Jean said, failing to hide t
he sarcasm in his voice, “for, as Fray Ugarte assures us, the friars have splashed them with holy water, which I am sure lends great comfort to their hearts as the whip lashes their backs.”

  “Careful, Juan,” Governor Del Bosque warned.

  Jean frowned. He knew the governor was right. To criticize the clergy too severely was to tempt the powers of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. “I’m sorry, Father. I mean no disrespect I understand the need to save souls, but is conversion a matter of the heart, or a matter of the skin sprinkled with holy water?”

  Jean found himself locked in Fray Ugarte’s powerful glare, until a glob of molten wax fell from the chandelier and thumped onto the back of Ugarte’s hand, making him flinch. By reflex, the priest started to fling the hot wax off the back of his hand, but caught himself. As if in some ritual of penance, he watched the wax congeal, the heat reddening his sun-browned skin.

  “Sorry, Father,” said Governor Del Bosque. “I must send that chandelier back to the forge and have the herrero fix that problem.”

  Father Ugarte pulled the solid lump of wax from his hand, tearing hairs out by the root.

  “And as for you, Juan,” the governor continued, “I know you mean well, but we cannot solve all the problems of the world this evening. However, there is one issue you can help us to decide.”

  Jean raised the brows above his tattooed eyes.

  “I have discussed it with Fray Ugarte and Capitán Lujan, and we are at an impasse. We need your council.”

  Jean shifted, making his chair squeak. “I’m listening.”

  “A messenger arrived from Tachichichi this morning, having ridden his horse to exhaustion. He told a peculiar story. He claims a large invasion force of Frenchmen and Pani allies is now marching on Tachichichi from across the plains. The Pueblos at Tachichichi are requesting Spanish troops.”

  Jean stroked his chin, the tips of his fingers seeming to paint the tattooed lines that descended from the corners of his mouth. “And what do you say of this, Capitán?”

  Lujan waited until the mestizo girl had refilled his cup with strong black coffee, as though he were too dull to watch her and answer Jean at the same time. “I say the report is preposterous and should be ignored. The Pueblos at Tachichichi are fugitives. They are probably laying a trap for us.”

  Jean grunted. “Padre?”

  “No matter what their motive, any time the Tachichichis request our presence, we should go there and bring back genízaros.”

  Jean spooned sugar into his coffee cup, measuring the rare treat carefully. He took his time thinking about his response, enjoying the fact that these Spanish officials needed his advice—he a Frenchman with heathen tattoos.

  “Well?” Governor Del Bosque finally said.

  “I both agree and disagree with Capitán Lujan,” he said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” replied the soldier in an irritable tone of voice.

  “I agree that the report is preposterous. It is not the way of Frenchmen to send a large force into the wilderness.”

  “That’s exactly what happened with La Salle’s Fort St. Louis,” Del Bosque argued. “You have told me about it yourself.”

  “And it was a miserable failure—one reason it is no longer the French policy. The French have realized more success sending independent couriers de bois to live and trade among the Indios. So, I agree that the report of a large invasion force is quite preposterous. However, I disagree that the report should be ignored. If the Tachichichis made up the story, they did so for a reason. Obviously, they want us there. We should find out why.”

  “So they can overwhelm and massacre us,” Lujan suggested. “Or lure the soldiers away so that they can attack Santa Fe.”

  Jean nodded. Despite Lujan’s narrowness of mind, the man understood military strategy. “Perhaps. On the other hand, they may simply need protection from their enemies, the Pani. They could have fabricated the part about Frenchmen simply to get our attention.”

  “So you agree that we should mount an expedition immediately?” Ugarte said, hopefully.

  “Not necessarily. How many regular soldiers have you at the presidio, Capitán?”

  “Only eighty-three. To march on Tachichichi would mean exposing Santa Fe.”

  “I agree. Militia and Pueblo scouts might triple the size of your force, but we are still short-handed compared to the hundreds of warriors the Tachichichis might muster if this turned out to be another uprising.” He turned to the priest. “No, Padre, it is not a good idea to mount an expedition until we know what we are up against at Tachichichi. I have a better idea. I will find out what is going on. I am trusted at Tachichichi. If I have to, I will ride all the way there myself.”

  Lujan scoffed at the offer. “Tachichichi is eighteen days’ march. We might have been overwhelmed by that time.”

  “Tachichichi is eighteen days for a company of soldiers,” Jean said, “but only seven days for me.”

  Lujan snorted.

  “At any rate, the trip will probably not be necessary. I will speak to the Tiwa messenger who arrived this morning. He will probably tell me all I need to know. Where has he gone?”

  “¿Quién sabe?” Del Bosque grumbled. “He has disappeared.”

  Jean nodded knowingly. “He will find me.”

  “How do you know that?” Lujan said.

  “I know. If they need help at Tachichichi, they will come to me.” Jean reached for a cube of chocolate on the silver dish. He studied it from various angles, thinking about nibbling on it. Instead, he decided he would rather devour it all at once, letting the experience hit him like a blast of wind whipping over a mountaintop. He tossed the confection into his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. As the sweet, rich chocolate melted in his mouth, he could feel the stares of his dinner companions suspiciously regarding his painted flesh.

  31

  When Jean returned to his hacienda, he found Paniagua waiting in the stable, a candle burning. The stable man had a peculiar look on his face.

  “What is it, Paniagua? I told you not to wait for my return.”

  Without pointing, Paniagua glanced toward the door to his quarters. The door was ajar, and the light of the fireplace flickered through the crack. Jean guessed what it meant. The messenger from Tachichichi had indeed sought him out.

  “May I?” Jean said, though he didn’t need Paniagua’s permission to enter his stable man’s quarters.

  Paniagua merely led the stallion away.

  Jean crossed the tiny placita, pausing in the middle of the open square to look up at the countless stars visible over the high adobe walls. The normal nightly chill had crept out of the mountains, so he proceeded quickly to the door of Paniagua’s room. Peering inside, he saw a young Indio man wearing a mix of traditional Tiwa and Apache dress—deer-hide moccasins and leggings, white cotton shirt under a woolen blanket. He recognized the young warrior, having traded with him at Tachichichi.

  “Welcome, Coyote Man,” he said, in Spanish. “You have had a hard trip.”

  Coyote Man glanced toward Jean, but did not meet his eyes. “Only for the horse.”

  Jean chuckled. “Under how many suns did you ride?”

  Coyote Man held up six fingers, the sixth being the thumb of his left hand, the tip of which touched the tip of his right thumb, in the Indio way of enumerating in signs.

  “You must carry much wisdom to ride so swiftly.”

  “The spirits order it.”

  Jean crossed Paniagua’s tiny room, to a chair made of leather stretched over a frame of crisscrossed pieces of cedar wood. It squeaked like a saddle as he sat in it. “One must obey the spirits,” Jean said to Coyote Man. “Tell me, what wisdom of the spirit world do you bring?”

  “There have been visions among the elders in our village.”

  “What kind of visions?”

  “Fearful visions of a new nation.”

  “What nation?”

  “A nation of Horse People.”

&nb
sp; Jean sat silently for a few moments, thinking about this. He believed every vision a valid message from the spirit world. It was only in the interpretation of the vision that mortal men sometimes failed. The Indios were much better at receiving and interpreting visions because they were closer to the spirit world than white men, but Jean was trying to overcome his lack of spiritual sophistication. Of course, he could never speak of these things among his Spanish friends, who might accuse him of practicing sorcery. Even now there was the risk that Coyote Man had been recruited by some enemy of Jean’s—perhaps a rival trader—to report to the Holy Office of the Inquisition. Such were the risks of a frontiersman in the Kingdom of New Mexico.

  “What do the visions of the elders tell us about these Horse People?”

  “They are coming from the north.”

  “When will they arrive?” Jean asked.

  Coyote Man seemed to be staring at nothing on the wall, but Jean understood that it was considered impolite to look into the eyes of a respected person.

  “The first have arrived already at Tachichichi,” the messenger answered. “They are coming here.”

  “Why do they come here?”

  “They seek horses.”

  Jean felt a pang of dread in his chest, but could not say why. “How many are they?”

  “Four warriors.”

  “Only four?”

  “They are like twenty.”

  Jean pondered what Coyote Man might mean. Were they fierce? Large? Strong? Why had Coyote Man ridden a horse nearly to death to bring this news? Why were the elders at Tachichichi inventing fanciful stories to lure Spanish troops onto the plains? What was going on out there?

  As if to answer all of Jean’s questions, Coyote Man said, “They ride. Their leader is a very young warrior, and he rides even better than the others, who are like riders of the spirit world. His mount feels what is in his heart, and obeys him. This warrior scalps his enemies without touching the ground with his own moccasins.”