“You’re supposed to be a wealthy woman,” Jedediah Duvall said. “That wouldn’t work.”
“Besides, the ring isn’t really valuable, and you know it better than anybody,” Ham put in from the other side of the buckboard. “You told us Chaco probably sold Dan’s wedding ring, and I think he only kept this one because you spoke up for it.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Jesse agreed. “Take it. We have to do everything we can to keep you safe. We look after our womenfolk.” Jesse touched Maeve’s hand, then swept away back to the house. Maeve slipped the ring back on, blushing to think of herself as under the protection of such people.
“And that’s what we’re trying to do for you, Miss Collinswood,” Jesse’s father said. “Sending John with you will accomplish two things. It’ll be proof of your reason for having gone away so suddenly, and hopefully keep Chaco at a distance, but also interested and nearby, therefore away from Zachary. And if John has to, he can defend you.”
“I can’t believe it’ll come to that,” Maeve assured him. “Chaco will fume because I didn’t let him know personally why I left but he’ll calm down. I still don’t see how you’re going to rescue Zachary, though. Just knowing where he is and luring Chaco away isn’t enough. His men know they have to keep a prisoner secure if Chaco has to leave. They’ll be extra cautious.”
“It’s better if you don’t know that part of the plan,” Jedediah replied. “You can’t reveal what you don’t know.”
“I’m going to ride along too,” Ham said suddenly. She knew he had talked with the men a long time before and after they had made their plans and had thought that he was going to stay in Parmenos. Angelita stood beside him, along with Hermes.
“Ham, you don’t speak any Spanish,” Maeve protested. “What would you do?”
“Consider me a backup plan,” Ham shrugged. “We’ll see what happens when we get down there, and if I can do anything to help, I will. Angelita wants to come too. You can try to talk her out of it but she’s very determined. And by the way, so am I, and so is Hermes.”
Unfortunately for Zachary, it wasn’t one person who came through the skin-covered doorway. It was five men, four carrying clubs, and one with a rifle. Zachary threw down the knife and straightened, putting up his hands. They still knocked him down and kicked him around briefly. They put shackles on his wrists and his ankles and drove a four-foot stake into the iron-hard dirt floor to pin the ring in his ankle chains. Mia came back in and cleaned up her cooking things. She stole a glance at him one time, and Zachary saw a big bruise under her eye. He got up slowly, cautiously, watching the guards.
“Chaco?” he demanded, pointing at her eye. She bit her lip and said nothing, mindful of the guards who stood around him, looking as if they would relish an excuse to shoot him, even if it they weren’t allowed to kill him.
“What’s happened?” Zachary demanded. “Why did he hit you? Has he gone after Vienta?” He stopped himself. She didn’t understand, just cried. “Mia, que paso?”
“Espia,” Mia spat.
“What? No!” Zachary protested, trying to stop her as she went past. Someone jabbed him in the side and he cried out and went down on one knee. “Cazador. Cazador. No espia.”
Mia studied him. She flinched as one of the guards chopped a hand in her direction as if to hurry her up. She dropped some things and bent down beside him to pick them up. “Povrecito,” she said softly, looking up at him, and started to cry again.
“I’m sorry you got hurt on my account,” Zachary said honestly, letting his real concern for her show plainly. She looked intently at him, and then went out. The guards followed, leaving Zachary alone.
Pacing was out of the question with a two-foot chain. Zachary’s side smarted fiercely from the guards’ tender caresses, and his other injuries started to throb again. He stood up a little while, then squatted down, then stood up again. Sitting down was difficult because of the awkwardness of the chains on his ankles. His boots had been missing since the beginning of his ordeal and the shackles were too tight, probably Mexican size. His restlessness had begun to make them rub, but he ached, physically and mentally, and couldn’t be still. Then he realized he had probably been awake more than a night and a day. Zachary remembered when his French grandfather had lived with them before his death. The frail old man had always sat and slept on a sheepskin. Zachary had often snuggled beside his Grandpere on the peau de muton. It smelled of lanolin, peppermint rub for Grandpere’s arthritis, and tobacco from his pipe. He stretched out and closed his eyes. All manner of verses about sheep and shepherds came flooding into his mind, and he slept.
“Vienta!” Chaco strode up to the buckboard as it pulled into town and grabbed one of the horses to halt it. “Where have you been?” Vienta hauled in the reins and put a hand protectively on the arm of a rumpled, strange-looking fellow sitting beside her on the seat, between herself and Chaco, twiddling a thick, gnarled walking stick. He wore scuffed leather boots and ordinary white lower class Mexican garments.
“Muchacho,” he said firmly, tipping an enormous sombrero at Chaco.
“This is my brother Herve,” Vienta said. “And I have brought my father from Chollo. A messenger came while you were in your meeting and told me my sister had died. She was taking care of my father and my brother, who is, as you can see, simple. I had to go at once. And I have this girl, Angelita, who can watch my father while I’m at the cantina. She’s deaf and cannot speak. I told Mia where I was going. Didn’t she tell you?”
“That stupid fat vacca,” Chaco growled. “She was probably walking in her sleep. She said she forgot you came to their house.”
“I was so afraid for my father, and my brother can’t even take care of himself,” Vienta went on. “I buried my sister and I brought them right back. Chaco, please don’t be angry. This is all that’s left of my family. I have to take care of them. My father’s very sick. He won’t last long. And my brother won’t be any trouble.”
“Muchacha,” Herve said, patting Vienta on the cheek. Vienta caressed his face and he beamed beneath a huge, ragged mustache. Then he stiffened and his hands went to his head. He rocked and groaned.
“He has spells sometimes,” Vienta sighed. “He hit his head when he was a young man, and the doctor said there is a bad headache. Put the bandage on, Herve,” she said to her brother. Herve opened one eye, spied a roll of cloth on the seat, and snatched it up, slowly wrapping it around his already wild, grayshot hair. He pushed his sombrero around at crazy angles and covered one glaring brown eye as Chaco watched. He drew back in disgust.
“He gives the eye,” Chaco growled. “Make him stop looking at me like that.” He glanced momentarily at the motionless form of an elderly man in the back of the wagon. “Are you sure your father is alive now?” Chaco sneered. “Vienta, never, ever leave without telling me again. Me, not a stupid girl who forgets. You understand?”
“Of course, Chaco,” Vienta nodded. “Let me get my father home, and I’ll open the cantina.”
“You two, go with her and help,” Chaco belatedly ordered the men who had come with him. Vienta drove off and the men trudged after her.
Inside her house, Vienta got her father into bed with the help of Chaco’s men. Herve found a corner, stood with his face in it, and raised and lowered his hat, bowing to the wall. “Muchacho,” he said gravely. “Muchacha. Muchacho. Muchacha.”
Vienta sent the men away and pulled “Herve” over to the kitchen table. She rifled the cupboards and found plates and cups. “I heard your stomach growling,” she said with a little smile. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember. But I’m more thirsty than anything,” Ham said softly. Maeve lifted a small panel in the floor and brought up a pottery jug of cool water. Ham and Angelita drank greedily. “So that’s Chaco. Maeve, I’m not going to tell you I’m not afraid of him. He won’t try to move in, will he?”
“Not if you keep up a good drooling idiot act,” Maeve giggled. “Chaco hat
es anything that isn’t macho. He’ll stay away from a sick old man and a slobbering fellow with fits. Especially if he thinks you’re putting a curse on him with that staring of yours. People here call it ‘giving the eye’ and they’re terrified it will make them sick or kill them. So far you’ve been splendid.”
“I’m not overly fond of drooling, myself,” Ham admitted, “but to keep your lieutenant at arm’s length I’ll learn to love it.” He stuck his face deep into the cup and water dribbled on the table. “Go give something to John. He must be stifled, riding all that way under that wool blanket.”
Maeve brought water into the darkened bedroom and John accepted it gratefully. “Make sure that Ham fellow understands that we’ve got to be careful,” he murmured in Spanish. “I heard you two talking, and we never know when someone might come by.”
“Then Ham will never know what we’re saying,” Maeve sighed. “He’s been saying the only two words in Spanish he knows. John, why did we bring him?”
“Because Jedediah trusts him,” John answered, “and when the time comes, we’ll know what he was told to do.”
When Vienta started off to the cantina half an hour later Herve trotted after her. “Go back,” she said in Spanish, waving him away. He grinned and continued to follow her, walking pigeon-toed, poking his stick into the road, and staring at his feet with utter absorption. He carried his roll of bandage under his arm and kept one eye shut and one wide open, making a droning sound. Vienta gave up trying to shoo him away and went in the back door of the cantina with Herve shuffling after.
Things were busy moments after Vienta opened the cantina. Mia arrived and Vienta was shocked to see her bruised eye. She had no chance to ask about it. Drink orders flew at her and she scrambled for bottles. Herve dusted off a space on the floor, set his sombrero down, placed his bandage roll carefully on top of it, and then got between her and the stores and nodded his head up and down in exaggerated fashion, switching to opening his other eye and expertly mixing drinks. He listened gravely to what they ordered, plain beer or whiskey or tequila, and then created a cocktail that made their eyes light up appreciatively. Vienta stared at him in disbelief for a moment, and then threw up her hands. Men paid whatever she asked for the new “drink menu” items and threw tips into the small pot Herve ostentatiously placed on the bar with a pat and a “Muchacho.”
“If he is an idiot, how can he make the drinks?” Chaco demanded, leaning against the bar and taking in the spectacle of Herve tossing a whiskey bottle into the air and catching it behind him, then leering at Chaco and saying, “Muchacho,” with the utmost gravity.
“My father owned a cantina in Chollo,” Vienta explained. “Herve used to tend the bar before he was hurt. This is the only thing that Herve can still do. We’ll give the customers something better than just tequila and whiskey now. It’ll be good for business.”
The customers loved Herve, and once the word got around people came into the cantina just to watch him juggle bottles and chop limes with an enormous cleaver. He had a bow and a “Muchacho” for everyone.
Day Three
By the time midnight came Herve had his bandage around his head in a hideous state. Chaco had left an hour before, grumbling that he had business to attend to and would see Vienta in the morning.
“Mia, go home,” Vienta ordered as she locked the front doors. “You look exhausted. Herve will help me clean up.”
“Muchacha,” Herve said with one eye fixed on Mia, bowing low.
“I have such a headache,” Mia whimpered.
“No wonder, with that eye,” Vienta said. “What happened to you?”
“It’s nothing,” Mia said, but tears fell as she put a hand to her head. “Vienta, why are you the only woman any man cares about? Is it because I’m fat?”
“Mia, you’re not fat,” Vienta insisted, hugging her. “Go get some rest.”
“Your brother is so funny,” Mia giggled, as Herve placed a cold cloth delicately on top of the girl’s head. “I like him.”
“Muchacha,” Herve said with another bow, switching eyes. He took her hand and patted it very gently.
“Vienta, I have to tell you something,” Mia said suddenly, grabbing the older woman’s hands and pulling her close. “That handsome gringo who came to the cantina, the one you sent the message in the tortilla to -- Chaco has him at that old fort, and – oh –he’s hurting him so much. Chaco says he’s a spy, but he keeps telling me he’s just a hunter. We have to help him somehow. Chaco will never let him go.”
Vienta kept her expression neutral. “What can we do?” she asked, shrugging.
“But Chaco kept asking him about you, Vienta,” Mia said. “I think he thought you were in love with him, and tried to go away with him. It’s your fault Chaco’s doing this to him.”
“It’s your fault if it’s anybody’s. I told you to tell Chaco I was going to Chollo because my sister died,” Vienta retorted. “Maybe Chaco wouldn’t have bothered about the stranger if he wasn’t angry about me. Besides, if he thinks that gringo’s a spy you know what Chaco will be like with him. Chaco hit you because of this gringo, right?’ Vienta demanded.
“Yes,” Mia admitted.
“And he’ll kill us both if we try to interfere. It’s just a gringo, Mia. Go home, go to sleep, forget him. There’s nothing you can do.”
“I should have known you wouldn’t care,” Mia spat. She stormed out the back as Herve swept off his hat and called, “Muchacha,” after her.
Maeve sank down onto the floor and hugged herself. Ham tossed his sombrero and bandage aside and knelt beside her, hesitated, then put an arm around her shoulder.
“The ice maiden thaws,” he said softly. “I understand just a little more Spanish than I speak. Lots of gringoing in there. She was telling you about Zachary, right?”
“Oh, Ham,” Maeve shuddered. “Mia said Chaco thought I was trying to run off with him.”
“Well, if we convinced him that was wrong, maybe it’ll be all right, then,” Ham said encouragingly. “Maybe Chaco will let up on the torture stuff.”
“He won’t let him go,” Maeve wept. “He’ll have to kill him. He’ll just do it faster if he really doesn’t think he’s a spy.”
“Mercy on us,” Ham muttered. “But if we can keep Chaco busy here somehow, he can’t do anything to Zachary there, right?”
“What good am I doing Zachary?” Maeve cried. “I came here to keep Chaco busy, but I couldn’t think of a way to stop him when he left tonight. I can’t think around Chaco anymore. I just feel terror. For all I know he went straight there after he left here.” She got up and began mechanically cleaning.
“Not possible,” Ham responded, helping but still whispering. “I followed him and he went to some pottery place that has lots worse liquor and uglier patrons than we do. I checked back there a couple of times and he’s still there.”
“I didn’t even see you go,” Maeve exclaimed.
“Well, I’d be a pretty rotten spy if I got outed my first night on the job, eh?” Ham sniffed. “Here’s hoping nobody saw me doing anything but duck-walking down main street balancing my bandage roll on my head. Of course I don’t know too much about what Chaco and his lot were saying but I got the impression he’s not leaving town tonight. Maybe he’s meditating on what to do about the Duvall lad. No chance he’ll just cut him loose?”
“Never,” Maeve said.
“She said hermoso, didn’t she?” Ham ventured after a silence. “Is he? Handsome, I mean?”
“Yes, very much so, and ten years too young for me,” Maeve chided. “Easy, Ham. I only have eyes for you, even as my drooling idiot brother. Was it very hard for you to resist getting drunk tonight?”
“Okay, time to fess up about that,” Ham said. “I got lost in a bottle for about six months after San Jacinto, Maeve, up until I tried to serve as best man at Dan’s wedding and ended up slithering down on the floor and lying there laughing. Dan shook me like a rag doll in front of everyone and said if I didn
’t get sober I’d never see him again.
“I got sober. But I had discovered that people seemed to prefer thinking of me as a drunk to thinking of me as a cripple, and I preferred them thinking that way too. So I have pretended to be a drunk, but I’m not. I kill potted plants disposing of real alcohol. I carry glasses of warm tea around. Sometimes I smash glasses pretending to be angry with people who ask me to dance when I can’t. I’m sorry I deceived you. It was stupid pride. Count on me to be as sober as sober can be. We’re finished here, Maeve. Bedtime.”
They headed toward Vienta’s house, talking softly. The streets were utterly deserted. “You may have noticed there’s only one bed,” Maeve pointed out, “and since John’s not really an invalid he gets the floor and Angelita gets the wicker daybed in the kitchen.”
“Ah, but there’s a hammock on the porch,” Ham said triumphantly. “I claim it. I wonder how high I can swing before I fly out?” Ham stopped dead suddenly and clutched his head, crouching down and grinding his teeth. Maeve saw Chaco step out of the alfareria. She helped Ham with his crazy bandage-wrapping as Chaco approached.
“Poor Herve,” she said to Chaco. “He tired himself out too much, I think. But he was having such a good time.”
Chaco seized Maeve and crushed her to him, kissing her hard enough to leave bruises. “I respect that you have these to care for,” Chaco said harshly. “It gives me status in the town, that my woman honors her family. But do not forget that you are my woman.” He ran a hand roughly over her and then pushed her away. He stalked off to his own house. Ham shot up and doffed his hat. “Muchacho!” he called out, and drooled.
During the night the guards had waked Zachary over and over, with a rifle-butt in his side, a torch flaring right in his face, by dashing water over him. They would force him up onto his feet and then knock him down again and leave him in darkness. When he could he slept in an absolute stupor of exhaustion. Morning came and found him stiff as a log and frantically hungry. Stretching produced fresh pain as he tore open half-closed wounds. More than he had since this ordeal began he wanted to curl up into a ball and weep. So he did.
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