by Come Sunrise
"It will take time," Diego whispered. "I need to plan. "
"There is no hurry."
Diego struggled to his feet and stumbled into the street. He spoke to no one else and set out at once on the long ride back to the ranch. He was returning to Santo Domingo charged with the duty of killing Tommy Westerman.
21
ON NOVEMBER ELEVENTH, THE DAY THE ARMISTICE was signed in Europe, Tom Junior was born. Tommy stood beside his wife's bed and grinned at her and their newborn son. He looked and sounded like the boy he'd been when Amy first knew him.
"You're marvelous, memsahib, and so is he. We'll have a big party to celebrate as soon as you're feeling up to it. Invite everyone. I know a guy in Albuquerque who has plenty of French champagne, war or no war."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Amy almost asked if he planned to invite Rosa Mandago too.
But she had decided never to mention Tommy's mistress, and she bit her lip and stuck by her resolution.
Tommy was pleased to have a son and heir, but his daughter had captivated his heart. A year old when her brother was born, Kate was a beautiful child whom everyone said resembled her father. It wasn't wholly true.
Like Tommy, Kate had gray eyes, but hers did not have his steely glint. They were mother-of-pearl eyes, luminous and iridescent and shadowed; the kind that are said to have been "put in by a sooty finger." Her hair was thick and curly like his, but lighter. More like Luke's, Amy sometimes thought.
When her father was home Kate followed him everywhere, first crawling, then toddling. Often Tommy would scoop her up and carry her around the ranch for hours, as if unaware that she weighed anything at all. It was to Tommy that Kate lisped her first baby words, and for him she pined during the days and weeks when he was out on the range. "Uncle Rick" was another familiar figure. Kate gave him affection, and an equal amount to her mother, but it was for Tommy the child reserved her adoration. He knew it and basked in it.
"Don't let her get jealous of the baby," he told his wife. Tom Junior was two weeks old, and Kate had shown nothing but indifferent curiosity toward him.
"That's up to you, not me," Amy said. She softened the comment with a smile. Amy was not bothered by her daughter's worship of Tommy. "As long as she remains number one with you, Kate doesn't worry about anything."
"Yeah, well I'm going to be gone for a while. Got to check the new south range."
That was one of the pieces of land he'd recently acquired. Amy preferred not to think about how. "Will you be gone long?"
"A week, maybe ten days. When I get back we'll have that party I talked about. Meanwhile you'd better make arrangements to have the baby baptized." He performed some quick calculations. "Set it up for the second Sunday in December. We'll have our party the same day."
Amy nodded. She wasn't sure how to do what he asked, but Rick would help her. "Are you taking the crew with you?" Visions of herself alone with the children, the new maid, and Maria flitted through her mind. She liked it when the hacienda was given over to only the gentle life-cadences of women and children.
"No. There's a lot of work to be done here and on the other ranges. Diego and I are riding out alone."
Tommy surveyed his land with satisfaction. "Good grazing," he told his foreman-as if it were a new discovery, and he'd not known how good it was when he contrived to acquire it.
"Yeah, it's ok."
He glanced at Diego. The Indian rode hunched into his saddle as if some weight pressed down on his shoulders. "You all right? You've been acting funny lately."
"I'm all right."
Tommy said nothing more. He'd allowed himself to become fond of Diego because the boy was no threat. Besides, he was an excellent foreman. All the same, he was an Indian. He has funny ideas about some things and a queer way of looking at the world. Tommy accepted their differences as a fact of life.
On the third day of the tour they made camp later than usual. Tommy had been anxious to cover a lot of ground. Now they hurried to get a fire started before the night chill penetrated their bones. Tommy watched Diego hacking with his short-bladed knife at the mesquite they'd use for firewood. He worked quickly and the blade flashed blue in the dusk. "You like that knife of yours, don't you, Diego?" He'd seen the Indian stroking and fondling it all day, like some kind of fetish. "What's so special about it?"
Diego looked up quickly. "Nothin'. It's just a knife, that's all."
"Yeah? I thought maybe it was something special," Tommy repeated. He enjoyed getting Diego to talk about the pueblos and the beliefs of the Indians. His earlier, academic world sometimes called to Tommy. Occasionally he thought about writing a book on New Mexico and the different cultures that had created it. Perhaps when he was old and retired. Meanwhile he had Diego and Rosa to study first-hand. He grinned to himself. Different aspects of the Indian character, riding hard and screwing. That could be a chapter title.
Later, over the thick bitter coffee they'd brewed, he probed a little more. "I heard a weird story recently. Been meaning to ask you about it."
"What story?"
Tommy noticed that Diego didn't look at him when he spoke. He kept staring at the earth and the fire. And fondling that damned knife. Something was definitely eating the kid. "About Indians handling poisonous snakes," Tommy said. "Picking them up and petting them. And nothing ever happening to them. Is it true?"
"Yeah, it's true."
"How's it done?"
Diego shrugged. "They don't let them coil. Snakes can't strike unless they're coiled."
"I know that. But according to what I heard that's not all there is to it."
"The snake god protects them," Diego said quietly.
"Do you believe that?"
The boy turned to him and his black eyes burned in the fire's glow. "I don't know what I believe," he said fiercely
"Yes, that's your problem, isn't it?" Tommy nodded and poured them each more coffee. "You live in the twentieth century in a white man's world, but you aren't sure you're ready to give up the old superstition and magic. Not just you. All your people."
"My pueblo doesn't do the snake dance," Diego said. There was a note of desperation in his word. "It's mostly the Hopi pueblos west of here." He got up and walked away into the dark.
Tommy slept fitfully. Usually he had the best sleeps of his life out under the open sky, elated by his conquest of the one challenge that had eluded him in the past. He wasn't just clever, not any more. He was master of his physical surroundings as well. Tonight that fact didn't bring him peace. Instead he tossed and turned, and some primordial instinct made him feel fear without his knowing its source. A coyote bayed in the distance. He jerked awake and looked around. In the dying embers of the fire he could see Diego's empty bedroll.
Tommy sat up, conscious of the weight of his built-up shoe. Out here he didn't remove it at night. Now he got to his feet and looked around. The horses were tethered some distance away, grazing peacefully. About fifty yards to his right loomed the clump of mesquite scrub that had provided their firewood. He thought he saw some movement in that direction. "Diego, you out there? What the hell are you doing?" There was no reply. The echo of his voice died quickly in the vast silence.
He moved toward the mesquite and called again.
"Diego! Are you ok?" There was still no answer, and he wished he carried a gun like some old-time cowboy. There was a rifle strapped to his saddlebag, of course, in case he had to deal with stray coyotes or game. Maybe he should get it. But he'd have to walk back to the fire and turn his back on the mesquite. It didn't seem a good idea. Tommy was aware of the weight of his shoe and the fact that his leg ached. Then, while he stared into the darkness, he saw Diego approach.
The boy moved stiffly, as if drugged or sleepwalking. His torso was naked and his arms outstretched. His head was thrown back in a contorted, unnatural way. It was like some parody of crucifixion. Tommy peered hard into the darkness. "Oh, Jesus," he whispered. "Oh, sweet Mother of God ..."
Die
go was carrying a snake. In the starlight to which his eyes were now accustomed Tommy recognized it. Crotalus Ademanteus, the southwestern rattler. The diamond markings became clearer as Diego approached. He held the creature in both hands, one at each end, and the four feet of its slender venomous body were stretched against his chest.
The thing twitched and hissed and writhed in its struggle to break free. The muscles of Diego's forearms bulged with effort. His grip did not weaken. Tommy exhaled through clenched teeth. As long as it was held thus the snake was impotent.
Diego recognized that the other man was watching him. His head jerked forward, and they stared at each other across a few yards of desert. "Ok, Diego," Tommy said quietly. "I see your point. But it's you doing the protecting, not any snake god. You keep holding it like that, and we're both safe."
"The old ways are strong," Diego said.
It sounded like an old man's voice coming from his young throat. Strange notions of possession flicked at the edge of Tommy's mind. He rejected them. Self-hypnosis more likely. "Men are strong," he said. "They decide what they'll do. God gives us free will, Diego. You know that." He wanted to laugh. He, of all people, quoting theology to a half-savage in the desert. "Get rid of it," he commanded. "You don't owe the old ways anything, Diego."
"I am one with them." More like his own voice now. And tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Not unless you choose to be," Tommy said.
Silence was the only answer. Tommy counted the seconds by the loud beating of his heart. He calculated how swiftly he could jump out of the way if the snake was flung in his direction. Not too fast, because of his leg. But fast enough probably. It would take the thing a few seconds to coil. If he'd been sleeping, Tommy realized, he'd have had no chance at all.
The two men waited on opposite sides of an abyss older than time. Suddenly Diego broke the tableau. He shouted into the night, a wordless cry of agony. Then he turned and ran into the darkness, still carrying his lethal burden.
When the Indian returned Tommy was sitting by the fire. He'd stirred it up and added more wood. And he'd made fresh coffee. He offered Diego his hip flask of whiskey first.
The boy took a long pull, then handed it back. Tommy didn't drink. He'd had his share earlier. Now the trembling in his limbs had subsided and his mind was clear. "You want to tell me about it?" he asked after a few minutes.
Diego shook his head. "No. If you want me to leave, I'll pack my gear soon as we get back."
"No reason to do that," Tommy said. He'd figured out most of the mystery while Diego was gone. The only thing he didn't know was who was behind it. The why would be related to that, and the how was obvious It had to do with playing skillfully on old fears and loyalties. Maybe that in itself was a clue to the question of who. "Like I said, Diego," he continued, "you're the one with the choice to make."
"I ain't never goin' back to the pueblo," the boy said.
"Ok. I'm glad. I'd still like to know whose idea it was," Tommy said softly. He was half afraid of the answer, and half grateful when Diego only shook his head.
"All I know is that I'm never goin' back."
Amy spun faster and faster. Her white chiffon gown floated around her legs, and her gold slippers were incapable of missing a beat of the senuous music. Rick's arms held her tight, and their bodies moved in perfect harmony. The flickering candles and the other people were the edges of a whirlpool. They receded further away as she was sucked into the vortex. She sensed the rhythmic clapping of the crowd as something in tune with her heart. It was no intrusion on this moment of pure and private joy.
"Ole!" someone shouted. "Ole! Ole! Ole!" a chorus of voices chimed in. The violins, guitars, and flutes climbed to their crescendo and then, with one last spin, it was over. Applause and laughter replaced the music.
"Fantastic!" Rick said. "I thought you didn't know this dance."
"I don't, I just followed you." She was flushed with a heat greater than that generated by the crush and the warm room. I'm so happy, she thought. Then Tommy's voice snatched it all away.
"You'd better check with Maria. The ham's running out. "
"Yes." She disengaged her arm from Rick's and saw the look the two men exchanged. "I'll go right away."
The truce she and Tommy established at the birth of their son had evaporated. He had returned from the south range bitter and silent, and his eyes accused her at every turn. After Tommy got home Amy wanted to cancel this party, but it was too late. And if she had she wouldn't have experienced the precious seconds she'd just known. She hugged the memory close as she made her way through the crowd to the kitchen.
"It's like the old days," Rick said to his host.
"That pleases you, does it?" Tommy asked. He had to look up slightly because the other man was taller. He could hate him for that alone.
"It pleases me and everyone. As I've told Amy, this used to be the heart of the ranches hereabouts. These old walls have seen many fiestas like this. Maybe not quite so sophisticated," Rick added with a nod to his champagne glass.
"And the ranch wasn't as big." Tommy flung the challenge in Ibanez's face. He knew what the locals thought of his recent acquisitons.
Rick refused to be baited. "It wasn't the same," he said easily. "There was less concern with boundaries. The size of the herd was more important. Santo Domingo had the biggest and the best."
Tommy smiled. The doctor was clever and very cool. "Personally I am concerned with boundaries," he said. "What's mine is mine."
"A man keeps what he has as long as he cherishes it," Ibanez said.
Tommy's smile faded. "That's one way. There are others." The music started again. The dance floor created by clearing all the furniture out of the living room filled with couples. Moving out of their way gave Tommy a chance to recover his poise.
"Enjoy yourself, doc. I have to see to my guests. Truth is, I don't now who half of them are."
"Amy said you wanted to invite everybody." Rick drained his glass, eyeing Westerman over the rim.
"Indeed I did," Tommy agreed. "Noblesse oblige, and all that sort of thing. Just like the old days."
Ibanez watched Westerman limp away. It must hurt, a leg like that, but Westerman never let on. It was courage of a sort; the kind that congealed into a hard lump of defiance, and spread until every part of a man was hard. A vision of the couple alone together in their bedroom, as they must be later, came into Rick's mind and stayed to haunt him. What must Amy endure at the hands of her husband?
"You have not danced with me, Don Rico."
Beatriz's voice interrupted his thoughts. Ibanez hastened to erase his scowl. "It will be a greater pleasure for being postponed," he said gallantly. Beatriz took his hand and they began the first steps of the fandango. He felt no familiarity, no warmth at her touch. That they had once been lovers made no difference now.
Ibanez knew a moment of guilt about his indifference to a woman who had given him much, and his eyes sought hers. "How have you been, Beatriz?"
"I have been well, Don Rico, but lonely."
He was glad when the formal movements of the dance separated them for a few seconds. Unwittingly he scanned the room to see if Amy had returned. When he and Beatriz came together again he read in her face that she had noticed his preoccupation.
Beatriz held herself in strict control. They parted and came together in the measured ritual of the dance, and she made her expression a polite mask which betrayed nothing. Behind it her thoughts were seething. If she'd needed confirmation, she had it now. She'd come reluctantly to this fiesta, but it was making clear many unwelcome truths. They made a tight band around her heart and caused her to breathe with difficulty. When the fandango ended she curtsied gracefully and drifted toward the patio.
Outside it was cold, and her breath hung frosty in the air. Beatriz pulled her gray wool shawl closer. Like her black dress, it did nothing for her mouse brown hair and sallow skin, and disguised her beautiful body.
After she made up her min
d to come here there had been a moment when she considered wearing one of the gorgeous gowns from her shop. Her hands had flitted lovingly over brightly colored silk and taffeta. She could wear a dress that lifted her breasts, hugged her waist, and clung to rounded hips and buttocks, one that ended in tiers of ruffles swaying around her ankles. She could pull her hair back into a coil and pin flowers behind her ear. She could carry a fan and wear a fringed shawl. What would they make of her then'? But no, she had decided, it was not yet time for such revelations.
Now she was glad she'd resisted temptation. She had only to look at Diego and see the friendly intimacy between him and his employer to know that Eustaquio had failed her. The Indian boy worshipped his Anglo boss. The sight saddened her. The sadness mixed with fury when she saw the longing in Don Rico's face. He gazed at Amy with hunger, and Beatriz trembled with rage that it should be so, and because of the way her people mingled with the Anglo guests. It was not friendship between them; how could it be when they did not meet as equals?