by Ron Schwab
She had left him speechless. Her coffee brown eyes were fixed on him now, obviously waiting for a reply. He signaled to the waiter. "Of course," he said. "I'm hungry, too. And I'll concede to an ulterior motive, but I hope we can enjoy each other's company a bit as well."
"We'll see," she said noncommittally.
They both ordered steaks and fried potatoes with apple pie for dessert. Marty noted Tara had a healthy appetite. While they ate, he steered the conversation to the mundane and was surprised to learn she already knew a considerable amount about him, including the fact that he had been a Confederate officer, was a University of Virginia graduate, and had lost a wife and child. "Court gossip," she had explained. "We know more about you than you know about yourself."
He learned she was an army brat, whose father, a now retired colonel, had been commandant at Fort Union before he returned to the East. Resisting her parents' protests, she had remained behind. She loved the Southwest, she had just turned nineteen, and she didn't deny that her father's influence had helped her find a position in the Territorial Court office. Her present work was temporary, as she hoped to carve out a future in some kind of business, yet to be identified.
After she took the last bite of her pie, Tara said, "Very good, Marty. Thank you. Now you may proceed, as the judge would say."
In spite of their uncomfortable beginning, Marty had found Tara to be an engaging and funny dinner partner. He hated to destroy the light mood that had eased its way into their evening. "I'm embarrassed that you caught me at my deviousness. But before I talk business, would you give me another chance? There is a play at the Teatro Santa Fe next week. Perhaps we could have dinner again and then attend the play."
"What if I get mad because of the questions you're going to ask me?"
"Then I'll hope you forgive me and accept my invitation anyway."
She smiled mischievously. "You can be charming. I'll accept . . . tentatively."
"Very well. I'm going to gamble that you will be discreet about our conversation"
He explained about the suspicions of his partners regarding George Hatter's behavior. "I haven't been with the firm long enough to be privy to all the details, but Danna seems to think this leak has a relationship to attempts on Josh's life."
"I don't see what this has to do with Judge Robinson."
"I admit it seems difficult to make a connection, but you say Hatter's been visiting the Judge regularly?"
"At least weekly for the last three months or so. They often will be together for as much as an hour."
"What do you think of Judge Robinson?"
"I think he's a pompous ass. I'm not fond of him. He's made advances to me on several occasions . . . brushing his grubby hands against my breasts, patting my bottom, that sort of thing. Never overt, but I know it's not accidental. He scolded me once about not being friendly, whatever that means. I'm the only female in the court's offices, so I'm his only target, I guess. He is engaged, you know?"
"Yes, Constanza Hidalgo. She comes from a prominent Spanish ranching family, as I understand it."
Tara hesitated. "I'm going to sound like an old gossip, but I don't know if you're aware of something."
"What?"
"Constanza was once Josh Rivers's lover. It was assumed by many they would be married."
"I wasn't aware of that. I suppose that would not endear him to the judge."
"Not likely."
"My guess, though, is that money is at the root of this. I can't see where the judge would be profiting from any information Hatter would be feeding him."
"Judge Robinson conducts a lot of non-judicial business from his office. He seems to have a lot of financial interests. Bankers and local ranchers and businessmen call on him all the time." She frowned and was silent for some moments. "There is someone else who is a frequent visitor."
"Yes?"
"Simon Willard. He's the General Procurement Officer for all of the military operations in the Southwest. He's not uniformed or anything, so I suppose he's civilian. Tall, skinny guy that looks like a starved hound. He's always wearing a different suit when he comes in, boots perfectly clean and polished . . . how he does it when we walk in nothing but dust and horse dung around here, I don't know. He shows up every few weeks, and sometimes he'll spend several hours with the judge. Now if I wanted to play detective that's somebody I'd take a look at."
"And I suspect we will. I can't thank you enough for your help. Do I still have standing to take you to the Teatro?"
"I think you have that much standing."
"Then I'm forgiven?"
"No, but you're making progress."
35
The sun had crawled half way across the cloudless skies, and its searing rays were filtered only by a few scrub willows and cottonwoods clinging to the banks of the near-dry creek bed that wound around three sides of the temporary village. She Who Speaks, formerly Jael Chernik, sat in front of her tipi, her son, Flying Crow, facing her and sitting only a few paces away, fidgeting impatiently while they went through his English lessons.
He was a Comanche boy through and through, and the mother knew she could not make a five-year old understand why he had to undergo these daily exercises where he learned new words from another language and was allowed to speak only English for several hours at a time. And twice a week they went through the same process with Spanish. She did not think she was deluding herself when she concluded he was extremely bright and quick. She thought he had her natural affinity for languages, but she reminded herself that it could not have been inherited from her. Nonetheless, it pleased her greatly and she was confident it would stand him in good stead in the new world that was on the horizon.
"Mother," Flying Crow implored, his green-flecked brown eyes pleading, "We are hunting buffalo today. My friends are waiting. May I go now?"
He had been reasonably patient, and he had put in his time. She smiled. "Go my little warrior and bring back much meat for our fire."
He leaped up and snatched his tiny lance and disappeared quickly in the dust. Soon, he and a half dozen other boys would be killing phantom buffalo and trying to convince some of the little girls to come and do the skinning. Let them savor the moments that remain, she thought. The end was near. No more than a year at most, and the Kwahadi would be trekking to the reservation. And then what?
She guessed there would be a concerted effort to repatriate white captives. Quanah would help her shield Flying Crow, but she doubted that would be enough. Someone would tell when it became profitable to do so, if it even came to that. Her husband, Four Eagles, had brought Flying Crow home from a raid when he was little more than a year old. She had not borne him any children, although he had three by his other two wives. She Who Speaks had been taunted subtly by the other wives for her failure to produce a child, mostly, she knew, because she was Four Eagles's favorite. She had been ecstatic when her husband presented her with the baby boy, who quickly became her life. Her affection for her husband had grown in response to the gesture, and she was more passionate in her lovemaking when he came more often to her robes during the hours of the night.
Her immediate concern was the boy's father. She had known instantly when she saw Josh Rivers's eyes. It was not just the distinctive hue and color, but the way they seemed to focus and burrow into one's soul. She hated that she had deceived Josh. She liked him and respected him and felt something more for him, although she could not have placed a label on it. She knew there would be hell to pay when he learned that Flying Crow had once been known as Michael Rivers. She truly hoped she did not have to kill Josh because, of course, she would if that was the only way to save her son.
There was a stirring in the sleepy village that quickly grew into a racket. She Who Speaks recognized the hubbub instantly. One of the war parties was returning. She hoped Quanah had returned with this one. The Comanche bands had multiple chiefs, but she was convinced that Quanah was the sole chief with sufficient versatility to bring the Kwahadi through
this time and ultimately salvage a tolerable life for The People.
There seemed to be an unusual clamor, and, curious now, she got up and wound her way through the tipis, following the sounds of laughter and yelling. She stopped suddenly when she reached the mass of people surrounding Quanah and the war party, but her eyes quickly passed over Quanah and his warriors and froze on the bedraggled captives that trailed behind them. She saw a massive Negro trooper sitting erect in his saddle, his eyes defiant. The two other soldiers seemingly tried to shrink out of sight, and their faces betrayed terror. Rightly so, she thought sadly. At first She Who Speaks thought the other was a smaller white man, perhaps a civilian scout, but then she realized she was looking at a young woman attired in male garb. The woman seemed to be studying the village and its occupants with more curiosity than fear.
The soldiers and the woman were pulled off their horses, and the squaws and children and a few old men began beating on them with fists and sticks. A few had leather straps with which to administer their blows. The soldiers had their hands secured behind their backs and were helpless to defend themselves. The woman raised her arms to deflect blows from her face but refused to scream or cry, she noted. The beatings would not be life threatening. This was just entertainment, a showing of contempt for the captives. The poor devils would endure anguish they never in their worst nightmares would have dreamed of during the next few days, less if they were lucky.
Quanah caught sight of She Who Speaks and dismounted, and the Comanche taunters parted as he walked toward her. When he approached and stood before her, he towered over her. "Greetings, She Who Speaks," he said in Comanche. "You see there is a woman among the captives, and the others are of the buffalo soldiers. A strange collection of prisoners, are they not?"
"Yes, my Chief, but I think you must think very carefully about their fate."
"I have thought about the buffalo soldiers. They shall die screaming for their mothers just like the white eyes who have suffered Comanche deaths. But the woman is another matter. I have not yet decided. She is not a promising wife for our warriors. She is given to disobedience."
She decided now was not the time to open a debate with him about the torturing of the buffalo soldiers. "What was the woman doing with them?"
"At first I thought she was one of their whores who follow the camps. But she was armed and not dressed like I have seen these women. I tried to speak with her, but I did not deliver my words so she could understand them. One thing worries me."
"And what is that, my Chief?"
"I believe she told me her name is Rivers."
A shiver raced down her spine. "Do you think she is related to Josh Rivers?"
"I do not know. And if she is, I am uncertain what I shall do about it. I fear this is a captive we should have left behind. I want you to find out about this woman. Everything we should know."
She tossed a look back at the melee which seemed to be subsiding. The soldiers were blood spattered and the woman slightly less so, and the tormentors were getting bored. "If you will have someone bring her to my tipi, we will talk."
36
She Who Speaks waited in her tipi for the mysterious white woman. The tipi walls had been rolled up several feet from the earth, and a nice breeze whisked through her living space and made the refuge from the sun comparatively comfortable. She pondered the conversation she would soon have with the woman. Female captives, of course, were not uncommon in Comanche villages, especially young ones selected by raiders for wives or slaves. But almost all were bounty from attacks on settlers or travelers. This woman, however, had a military connection of some kind, and Quanah had obviously identified her as someone who warranted scrutiny.
She heard a scuffle outside her entryway, and a moment later the white woman catapulted through the opening and landed face-down on one of the skins spread out on the floor. A warrior followed and asked if he should remain. She Who Speaks dismissed him and instructed him to wait outside and said she would call if she needed assistance. The woman was making no effort to get up, and her face and arms were smeared with blood and covered with welts. She did not appear a physical threat in her present state, and what would she escape to?
"Sit up while we talk, so we may see each other," she said softly but firmly. The body stirred and the woman turned her head toward the speaker who sat half a dozen feet away. The white woman's face was scratched and swollen, and she had a cut above her eye. She would look worse in the morning, but there was no reason they could not talk.
The woman twisted her body awkwardly as she drug herself to a sitting position, never taking her eyes off her host. She did not seem inclined to speak.
"I am She Who Speaks. Quanah has placed you in my custody for the time being. It is in your interest to answer my questions truthfully. Your life depends upon it."
"I can't think of any reason why I wouldn't answer truthfully. But I'm confused. You speak English perfectly and with no accent. Still you appear to be Comanche."
"I will ask the questions. What is your name?"
"Tabitha Rivers. My friends call me Tabby, but I guess we're not friends . . . yet."
She Who Speaks hoped she was not showing the anxiety she felt at the confirmation of the white woman's surname. "And where are you from?"
"Santa Fe. I'm a reporter for The Santa Fe New Mexican."
"A reporter? A writer for a newspaper? What are you doing in the middle of the Llano Estacado?"
"I am riding with the army as a civilian correspondent. I'm reporting on the Red River War."
"Red River War? A war? That's what the whites are calling the hundreds of soldiers in the field chasing ghosts?"
Tabitha returned a bitter smile. "The Comanche will not always be ghosts. General Mackenzie is a seasoned ghost catcher. All that remain of the Comanche and Kiowa and other tribes of the southern plains are the Kwahadi band, and they are outnumbered by the American forces by more than ten to one. They will soon run out of places to hide, and if they do not make peace, they will be slaughtered and disappear like the buffalo."
She knew Tabitha Rivers spoke the truth. And Quanah had come to that realization as well. He was hoping to hold out long enough to negotiate favorable terms. "Your soldiers didn't fare so well against the Kwahadi or you wouldn't be here . . . along with the buffalo soldiers. The troopers will start the journey toward a terrible death tonight. You may go with them. That remains to be seen."
"If you torture and kill the soldiers, you will certainly have to kill me."
She Who Speaks was shocked at Tabitha Rivers's words, even more so at the matter of fact way in which she spoke them.
"I don't understand."
"Because if you allow me to live, someday I will write of the torture and killing of the captives. My stories appear in newspapers throughout the country. Do you think this will help the cause of the Comanche? Even if you kill us all, the Comanche will pay a huge price. I am the only woman war correspondent in the Southwest, possibly the first female battlefield reporter. My publisher has written that I am very well known . . . he says famous, but that's probably overstating it. Are you familiar with the phrase 'public relations'? It's a fairly new term."
Somehow this beat-up pup had taken control of the interrogation, but she was saying things that struck a chord within her. "Explain."
"Public relations are things that people do to make others look upon them favorably. This is something planned to obtain favorable results. Businesses might donate money to the poor or spend money for community projects, not necessarily because they want to be charitable, but because they want the public to look upon them with admiration or appreciation and, thus, be more inclined to patronize the enterprises. Politicians are constantly using public relations to curry favor . . . often by taking the money from the people and then giving it back to them in a way that the recipient thinks the politician has made a gift. The strategy is used very cleverly by some, and it may not always be done with honesty and sincerity, but it of
ten accomplishes its purpose. And then there is the other side of that coin."
"And what is that?"
"Poor public relations. This happens when someone does something looked upon with contempt or disdain by others. If a merchant is known to beat his wife, other wives will likely avoid patronizing his store. It is not only wrong in our culture, it's not good business. A politician who is a drunk or who fails to show up on time for public events is also engaged in poor public relations and may jeopardize his election."
"I can understand that."
"And Comanche who torture and kill captives . . . particularly a well-known woman . . . are not setting themselves up for kind treatment by the politicians who will decide their fate. The politicians will find it good public relations to please their voters by punishing the Comanche."
"Everything you say is very self-serving."
"Of course it is. I want to live, and I want to write about this experience. My stories could be good public relations for the Kwahadi . . . if you think there is another side of the story to be told. Keep in mind that I am a reporter, and my first obligation is to report the truth as I see it. I will not write that cruelty is kindness."
She Who Speaks found the words of Tabitha Rivers very troubling. She guessed the white woman was about her own age, not much past twenty, but she was well practiced in cleverness and the skills of manipulation. And her words rang true. It was one thing to kill enemies in open warfare, but the killing of a female writer and torturing of captives, if it became known, would not advance the cause of the Kwahadi, but could Quanah prevent it even if he wanted? He was a war chief, one among at least four chiefs within the band. The decision would be made by a council of the chiefs and elders.