by Mike Blakely
He turned away from the fire and waited for the ghostly images of the flames to melt from his eyesight. When he could again see clearly in the predawn gloom, he began to make his way through the camp of Spanish soldiers, Pueblo scouts, and Apache allies, weaving among smoldering fires, passing Lieutenant-Governor Pedro Villasur’s blue tent, and cautiously approaching the horses and mules picketed at the edge of camp. The eastern sky glowed with the promise of another sultry day, as stars clung tenuously to the west. Already, the air felt warm and muggy, as well it should in August on the plains.
He stopped, so as not to spook his mules, for they watched his approach with apprehension, their heads high and ears forward. Jean might have expected them to be gentle as house cats after two months on the trail, but frontier mules could revert to heathenism at the slightest provocation. Perhaps they had snuffed an old lion track or a snake skin down in the tall grass of the river bottoms. They were tied to a picket line stretched between cottonwoods, but Jean knew they were strong enough to set back and break something. Mounted guards were tending most of the expedition’s horses and mules up on the grassy riverbank, but Jean had tied his animals to facilitate fitting the pack saddles this morning. Soon the guards would be herding the loose animals into the river bottom, breaking the pleasant calm of the sleeping camp.
As he stood still to let the mules settle down, he noticed that the river seemed to be making more noise than it had last night when he retired, and he wondered if rain had fallen upstream, causing a rise. Probably not. Dawn just had a way of amplifying things.
Lieutenant-Governor Villasur and Fray Ugarte had argued last night about what to name the river, for no Spanish party had ever camped upon its banks. Villasur wanted to call it El Rio Del Bosque, in honor of the governor. Ugarte preferred to name it for a saint or a pope. As far as Jean was concerned, the river already had a name. The Pani called it Filthy Water, for it was often made rather foul by large herds of buffalo. It ran purer than usual this morning, but Jean could think of other places he would rather be.
The secret trade he had begun with Governor Del Bosque years ago had made him wealthy in land, gold, and influence, but sometimes led to inconveniences like this. He thought perhaps he should have sent his son, Juanito, on this expedition. The young man had become quite an entrepreneur, and had even begun to understand Indios, but still knew virtually nothing of the wilderness. It would have been dangerous to have sent him, and so Jean L’Archeveque, a newlywed at forty-nine years of age, had decided to make the trek himself.
His young bride had wept admirably upon his departure, and he had begun to miss the sensation of her flesh upon his almost immediately. Now he had been gone over two months, and was growing weary of camp life. He dreamed constantly of the children he would have with Teresa. He was getting old for this campaigning life. It was time to let Juanito take over the rigors of the trail, and settle back to enjoy his hacienda outside Santa Fe. This, he had decided, would be his last trip onto the plains.
He sighed and took a few more casual steps toward the nervous mules. Before the soldiers could break camp, all sixteen beasts would have to be packed with the trade goods he had brought with him at the governor’s insistence. Captain Villasur had failed to find or engage the French menace and would begin the return to Santa Fe this morning. Jean was anxious to get started.
Stepping close to a robe, in which Paniagua lay sleeping, he nudged it with his boot and heard his servant’s breathing change.
“Hungry?” Jean said.
Paniagua smacked his lips, and his voice came muffled from the robe. “I only want some corn mush.”
“No meat?”
“Just some corn mush fried in marrow.”
“Good,” Jean said. “Start packing the mules. I will cook the corn for you.”
He heard Paniagua grumble as he emerged from the robe, but he knew the servant only made this noise to settle the mules. Animals listened to Paniagua.
This expedition had seemed like a good idea two months ago. Jean and the governor had hoped they might make contact with some French couriers de bois and trade for more guns, hence the sixteen mules laden with gold, silver, blankets, and other things the French traders wanted. The mules themselves would be much in demand, though half of them would still be needed to carry the guns on the return trip. Yes, two months ago, this had seemed like a fine opportunity to make some money under the protection of forty-two soldiers and sixty or more Indio allies, yet the expedition had failed to make contact with anyone but hostile Panis.
The fervor that led to this goose chase had begun with Fray Ugarte’s return from the disastrous Lujan massacre, three years ago. Jean had sat in on the council of war, and had seen the strange new look of desperation in Ugarte’s eyes. He listened intently to the friar’s description of the battle, but could only wonder what had really happened out there.
“The Comanches butchered Lujan and his men without mercy,” the friar had said, summing up his report.
“They must have taken mercy upon you,” Jean had replied, “for you are now sitting among us to tell the tale. Besides, do you expect men to take mercy upon those who attack their wives and children without provocation? Lujan followed the wrong trail. I tried to tell him. I told you, too, Padre.”
It was then that Fray Ugarte had blurted out the ridiculous claim that had led to all the trouble. “They had guns,” he said. “Acaballo’s Comanches had French guns. They have made a treaty with the French, across the plains. If they are not soon dealt with and reduced to Catholicism, they will become the vassals of heretical Huguenots!”
Santa Fe had recently received word of the outbreak of war in Europe between Spain and France, and Fray Ugarte’s rash claims had only inflamed fears that the French would make allies of the Indios, march across the plains, and attack New Mexico.
“This is nonsense,” Jean had argued. “The Comanches care little for guns, especially Acaballo’s people. They rely on their horsemanship. Perhaps a few warriors have guns, but they are acquired in raids on the Apaches, not in trade with the French. The Apaches get them from the Pani, and the Pani from the French.” He had turned to implore the governor at this point. “Capitán General Del Bosque, if you please, the nearest French Fort is no closer than the Rio Messipe. Acaballo’s people have no contact with them whatsoever.”
Antonio Del Bosque had given Jean a knowing look at that moment, there in the war council room of the adobe Casas Reales, in the presence of the military and governmental powers of the Northern Frontier. “Yes, but what about the Pani, Capitán Archebeque? Might they have had contact with French troops? Their villages lie closer to Fort Creve Coeur than to Santa Fe. We are at war with France. We have never achieved peace with the Pani. Might the French be making allies of the Pani to mount an invasion of New Mexico? There have been rumors of such an alliance coming out of Tachichichi. Perhaps we should send an expedition to the Pani country to investigate.”
Jean had understood, and replied, “Yes, by all means. Let us find out for ourselves, once and for all, what is going on out there. But I think the rumors coming out of Tachichichi are designed to convince us that the rancherías there need Spanish guns.”
After that meeting, the rumors of the French-Pani hoard coming to conquer New Mexico began to rival the old stories of gold in Quivira. The governor himself was responsible for many of the rumors, as he hoped they would induce the viceroy to order an expedition. The clergy, particularly Padre Ugarte, spread other fanciful tales, for he longed always to convert souls, even if he had to have soldiers kill the possessors of the souls to send them heavenward. And for three years, the rumors continued.
Jean knew the idea of a French-Pani invasion was crazy. Not since La Salle’s disastrous experiment with Fort St. Louis had France attempted to enter Indio land with a large military force. But he was not surprised when, early in this year of 1720, the order came from the viceroy to mount an expedition to the Pani country. In secret, he and Antonio decided
to outfit the pack string of sixteen mules to accompany the expedition. Ostensibly, the string would carry goods needed to treat with nations of Indios. In reality, Jean and Antonio hoped to trade the goods to agents of Fort Creve Coeur and increase their traffic in guns and other French goods. They already had a covert market established at Arkansas post, but Fort Creve Coeur was thought by Jean to be much richer. He had spoken to several couriers de bois who had been there. Even the mapmaker, Goupil, had told Jean of the place, many years ago. It was connected to the Great Lakes of Canada by a river called the Seignelay, and could transport goods to and from Montreal and Quebec.
And so, seven days before his first anniversary of marriage with young Teresa, Jean had saddled his pony and packed his mules to accompany yet another exploratory expedition onto the plains. Two months of hard riding had brought him to the Rio Jesus Maria, where the Spaniards had encountered a Pani village. One of the members of the expedition had a Pani slave named Sistaca. Jean wrote a message, in French, on a piece of paper and gave it to Sistaca to carry to the Pani town. Sistaca returned with a message that consisted of incomprehensible scribblings.
“Were there any Frenchmen in the village?” Lieutenant-Governor Villasur interrogated.
“I saw only one white man. Maybe he was French. He did not look like a soldier.”
Villasur had grown nervous, for Sistaca also said that the Pani village proved much larger than at first thought, extending perhaps two leagues down the river. The lieutenant-governor had been commander of some large presidios in Mexico, but knew virtually nothing about plains warfare with Indios. Upon the advice of his junior officers, and Jean himself, Villasur had agreed to turn back toward New Mexico.
After a long day’s travel, Villasur’s party had arrived here at Filthy Water to make camp, having left the Pani village a good ten leagues behind. The Spaniards felt confident that the Pani would not follow, as no Pani war party had ever attacked such a large force of Spaniards. The grass grew so tall here on the Filthy Water that the men had to cut it with swords and run their horses over it to trample it, in order to clear a campground. This action left a ring of tall grass surrounding the camp.
“I do not like this tall grass,” Jean said to Lieutenant-Governor Villasur. “The Pani could sneak through it and get within firing range.”
Villasur had sniffed his reply. “I will post extra guards.”
Now, as he walked over the trampled grass lining Filthy Water, Jean could hear the large herd of horses and mules being herded back into camp. He looked, but could only see the riders and the heads of the horses above the tall grass. The camp was about to come alive with energy and activity. Approaching Villasur’s blue tent, he noticed some commotion going on between the lieutenant-governor and a guard. Jean strode near enough to overhear.
“I saw nothing,” the guard was saying, “but…”
“But what?” Villasur demanded. “Report!”
“The river, sir,” replied the young soldier. “I heard noises. The river seemed to splash more as the night passed. I thought someone was crossing.”
Jean raised his brows over his tattooed eyes. He looked around at the tall grass surrounding the camp, but could see nothing out of the ordinary with the coming of dawn. He glanced at his own cook fire and saw that he needed to add more wood.
“Seemed to splash more?” Villasur railed. “Did you investigate?”
“Yes, sir. I found nothing.”
“Perhaps the river is on a rise from a rainstorm upstream,” Jean said. “I should have marked the water level on the bank last night, but I did not think of it. I, too, thought it was making more noise this morning.”
Villasur sighed. “Take an order to the Pueblo scouts,” he said to the guard. “Have them circle the camp looking for signs of enemies. Capitán Archebeque, give the order to break camp. I want to cover no less than twelve leagues today.”
Jean looked again at his cook fire and thought of Paniagua’s breakfast. But now he would have to give the order first, then tend the fire, then cook. Then he would help Paniagua pack the mules. There was much to do. Much to do.
Suddenly, all the details of the day ceased to matter. The noise of a hundred bowstrings whispered from the grass and arrows came arching into the camp, thick as quills on a porcupine. One of them caught the young corporal in the back, and he cried out as he sank to his knees. A horse screamed. Muskets began to roar in a full circle around the camp, and Jean saw Lieutenant-Governor Villasur gawking stupidly at nothing.
The Pani war cry rose and men began to run toward the center of camp, where Villasur’s blue tent stood. The lieutenant-governor dove into his tent and reemerged with his sword and pistol. Now Jean forced himself to look around the perimeter of the camp, and he saw the first of the Pani—their bodies painted white with fantastic patterns of red dots or stripes. They came wielding war axes, lances, and clubs, French swords and muskets. They charged into camp and overtook the fleeing Spaniards from behind as they tried to gather at Villasur’s blue tent. Many of the soldiers had been caught without weapons, and were easily slaughtered.
“Form a circle!” Villasur ordered, but his cry was lost amid shrieks and powder blasts.
Jean picked up the musket dropped by the corporal with the arrow in his back. He poured another measure of powder into the pan, using the soldier’s horn, for the prime charge had been shaken out. His eyes swept the fearsome scene. He thought of Teresa, and his sons. He saw a mule running through the timber on the opposite riverbank, and recognized Paniagua on its back. Good! But the Pani seemed to number hundreds around the camp, and Jean saw no way out for himself.
Turning, he saw Padre Ugarte kneeling over a dying Pueblo scout, making the sign of the cross. A Pani warrior descended on the friar, and Jean leveled the musket. The powder flashed, and the gun bucked as it roared. The Pani fell dead at the friar’s side, dropping his war axe—a French weapon with an iron head and wooden handle that doubled as a trail pipe. Fray Ugarte glanced back, a smile on his face, to meet the gaze of Jean L’Archeveque. He made the sign of the cross on the painted Pani, and continued to mutter his prayers.
A cloud of black smoke passed, and a figure appeared in its place. A grotesque bald head, one eye squinted shut, shoulders burly and muscled. Jean dropped the musket and rushed forward with his knife, too late to save Fray Ugarte. Henri Casaubon brought his cutlass down on the kneeling Franciscan, beheading him before he could have known his murderer stood there.
Jean threw his knife and saw the blade sink into Casaubon’s rib cage. The slaver staggered back, but pulled the knife out as if it were a mere thorn. Now he caught sight of Jean. “You cannot kill Henri, traitor.”
Jean did not honor him with a reply. He scooped up the battle-ax dropped by the Pani and advanced on Casaubon. His rage consumed him as he leapt over the dead bodies of the Pueblo, the Pani, and the friar, the latter’s head standing upright in a lake of his own blood. Swinging the axe, Jean backed Casaubon into an iron tripod that stood over a fire. The slaver stumbled over the tripod, giving Jean the opportunity to strike just as an arrow pierced his thigh.
His leg buckled, and he found himself on one knee. He slung the axe backhanded to ward off Casaubon’s blow, but the blade of the cutlass sliced through most of his two smallest fingers. Jean roared, sprang to his feet, and remembered the ferocity of the Raccoon-Eyed People he had once seen defending their village from a Pani invasion. He passed the axe to his sound hand and made Casaubon duck and roll. Before the slaver could find his feet, Jean crushed one of his ankles with the blade of the axe. All he saw of the cutlass blade was a flash as it got him in the stomach. He humped his back to get away and struck blindly with an overhead blow, feeling the battle-ax crush something.
Staggering back, he saw Casaubon fall to his knees, a slack expression on his bloody face. A musket went off nearby, engulfing the slaver in black smoke and fire. The cloud blew quickly away and revealed Casaubon, lying on his back, eyes open, and staring upward.
Jean fell forward, pain shooting through his innards. He turned his head to see the blue tent fall down, Villasur and the few soldiers he had rallied screaming as they fought to the death. Jean knew he would be dead himself in moments, and he found his eyelids hard to hold open, as if the tattoos weighed them down. He looked again at Casaubon. Dead. This time, surely dead. Horseback had not been here to save him again from the slaver, but Jean had fought well and lived the longest.
He was fifty years old now, and had traveled far, conquered much, loved well. And Teresa? Ah, well, she was young and wealthy. C’est la vie.
He did not want Casaubon’s ugly dead face to be the last thing he beheld in this life of earthly trouble, so he found the strength to roll himself over. Dust and smoke parted overhead, and Jean saw the morning’s first rays of sun beaming through the leafy cottonwoods. It was quite beautiful. The sounds of the battle faded as he thought of Paniagua riding away on the big mule. Riding … Riding … Riding …
Jean L’Archeveque thought of meeting the good mapmaker, Goupil. And the Jesuit martyr, Father Membre. And Maria. Especially Maria. Sweet Maria, mother of his sons …
66
Since the strange and painful thing happened to his leg, Noomah had begun to hear the big river speak to him. Like the river of his old home place, this stream possessed terrors in its quicksands and swirling eddies. Yet, the old river had never spoken to him, called his name in gurgles and laughing trickles. He had been too busy running to hear before. Now, Noomah could no longer run, and so he heard things he had missed in other times.
Since the big fight, when the pain lashed his leg and made his hoof flop piteously ahead of him, Noomah had not known the pleasure of speed. Each movement of his wounded leg brought agony. His two-legged, Hair-Like-a-Mane, cared for him, treating his hurt leg with strange-smelling things, but the sorrow of his forced lethargy made Noomah’s spirit sink.