“No!” George said, putting all the restraint he could manage into the command. “Leave him!”
The beast held her strike, halting just above the prostrate form. D’Avignon whimpered as he lay face down in the dirt, hands curled over the back of his neck. George slipped down off his walker’s back, pulled his knife, reached down, and grabbed a handful of D’Avignon’s hair.
“What in blazes are you doing?” someone asked in a loud, imperious voice.
It was a moment before George realized that the voice was speaking in English. He looked and saw Father Velasquez standing, fists on hips, eyes ablaze with righteous indignation.
George squinted at the man.
“Well?” Velasquez said. “I demand an explanation.”
“Au secours!” D’Avignon cried.
“Shut your mouth,” George ordered with a tug that pulled his victim’s head back. He looked over at the priest. “I am not interested in providing you with an explanation.”
“I can see that,” Velasquez said. “Nevertheless, you will provide one.”
George brought his knife around to D’Avignon’s throat. D’Avignon’s lips moved as he whispered pleading prayers. George smiled. “All right, Father. Do you want it before I kill this cur? Or after?”
“You will not kill him.”
“No?”
“No.”
George heard the rumble in his walker’s throat and his smile tightened. “And you know this how?”
“If you intended to kill him,” Velasquez said, “you would not have hesitated. You want him cowering, not dead. You want his terror, not his head.”
Slowly, George took his blade from D’Avignon’s throat. He straightened and put the knife in its sheath. With a motion he told his walker to keep her prey from leaving, and D’Avignon whimpered as the beast leaned down and glared at him with a large, unblinking eye.
George walked over and stood before the priest. They were of a height, though the Spaniard was stockier and silvered at the temples. There was a great discipline in the priest’s steady-eyed composure; George had met this type before, during his years in the Army of the United States. A “true believer” George’s father would have called him, though this man seemed to temper his ideals with realism.
“This man is not to be trusted,” George said. “He is a betrayer, a liar, and a thief.”
“None of which is a capital offense,” Velasquez countered.
George forced himself to relax. “True,” he said. “Though as you said, I probably would not have executed him. He is guilty of much more, but those crimes were not against me or my people.”
“Your people?” Velasquez asked.
George met his gaze. “Yes,” he said, and pulled aside the yoke of his tunic and pinched at the exposed pale skin. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that this makes me one of you.” He motioned to the chiefs and soldiers who had gathered again behind him. “Those are my people. Not you.” He spat toward D’Avignon. “And definitely not that. Understood?”
Velasquez nodded. “I understand you.”
George returned to his walker and leapt to thigh and saddle. “Please, sir,” he said once more in the Trader’s Tongue. “Please extend my deep apologies to Colonel Rolando and His Excellency. My walker became unsettled and, well, I fear horses do not herd well with our mounts. I hope that they will forgive this...interruption, and that we may continue our introductions under calmer circumstances.”
Velasquez nodded, and George noted the hint of a smile.
Yes, George said to himself. You have played this game before, and better than your homespun appearance suggests.
“I will pass along your apologies,” Velasquez said, speaking also in French. “Perhaps you can provide a few riders to guide us to a place we might make our camp?”
“I will pass the request to our Council.” Then he slapped his walker’s shoulder and toed her around so fast her tail cracked the air over D’Avignon’s head. He urged her toward the knot of chiefs.
One Bear frowned, though both Two Roads and Storm Arriving grinned broadly.
“You have given Long Teeth a proper welcome,” Storm Arriving said, referring to D’Avignon.
“It was shameful,” One Bear scolded. “I do not understand you, One Who Flies. You and Speaks While Leaving, you force us toward an alliance with the Iron Shirts, you tell us to treat them like friends, and when they arrive you treat them like old enemies!”
George signed his agreement. He didn’t want One Bear to replace him with another interpreter, so he acquiesced. “I have apologized to them, and now I apologize to you and the other grandfathers. I was surprised to see Long Teeth again, and my anger bested me. It will not happen again.”
One Bear could not argue with such an abject confession of regret. He signed acceptance and turned to ride back to camp.
“The Iron Shirts would like some of our soldiers to show them where to camp.”
One Bear thought, then turned to Two Roads. “Keep those domesticated elk they ride away from our whistlers,” he said. “And keep them all downwind and downstream. We don’t want them fouling our water. They are a dirty people with no thought for others.”
The chiefs headed back toward camp and Two Roads took his Kit Fox soldiers to show the Iron Shirts where to camp.
George watched them go in their separate directions—leaders of the People and of the Iron Shirts—and wondered if this was a good thing or a bad thing that had happened today. He was not convinced that the Spanish were necessary to the ongoing safety of the People, but Speaks While Leaving was, and managing their presence here was going to prove quite a challenge. Seeing D’Avignon, though, had tinged it all with a darker hue, and now George saw much more of the cloud’s shadow than he could of its silver lining.
Chapter 6
Wednesday, September 24th, AD 1890
Advance Camp
Spanish Expeditionary Forces
Near the Red Paint River
Alliance Territory
Alejandro didn’t remember it being like this.
His memories of army life were fond ones: days in the saddle, the fresh breeze in his face, the scent of leather in his nostrils; evenings around warm campfires, eating hearty meals; nights under starry heavens, cozy beneath a taut tent that kept off the midnight dew. Somehow, in his mind, traveling with a cadre of soldiers through open country had acquired a favorable patina, like the craquelure of an old painting that fogs and obscures the actual details of the scene.
But now those details were apparent in sharpest clarity. The bug bites, the smell of sweat and smoke and manure, the grit that embedded every wrinkle and crevice, the cold nights, the disagreeable food with its even more disagreeable indigestion. He experienced it all again, anew, and wondered why his memory had lied to him.
Rainclouds had shadowed them into the Territory, and the clouds opened up just as they had started to make camp, turning a difficult task into a misery. They were a half-mile from the nearest pickets of the main encampment, a distance that put the Cheyenne’s lack of trust into physical perspective, but Alejandro had not expected to be welcomed as an old friend among these people. The history between Spain and the natives of the New World had been violent and ugly, and only the past century of relative quiet between the Crown and the Cheyenne allowed him to even contemplate this alliance. And so he sat on a camp-stool in his sagging, sodden tent, wrapped in a musty-smelling blanket of rough wool, listening to his guts gurgle, and looked out at the gloom of the early morning while he contemplated what needed to be done first.
The decision was made for him, announced by the approach of sloshing footsteps. Alejandro stood as a handful of black-frocked men appeared: Father Velasquez and four of his fellow clergymen. Along with them, standing to the rear like a magpie among the crows, was D’Avignon.
“Excellency,” Velasquez said with a respectful nod. “May we come in?”
“Certainly,” Alejandro said, and beckoned them inside
.
His tent was not large, but was ample for a small meeting. Stool, cot, and trunk were arranged around his camp desk to provide seating for his guests. The priests entered and sat, and then D’Avignon poked his head inside the tentflap.
“Tea for your guests, Excellency?” D’Avignon asked in rough Spanish.
“Yes,” Alejandro said; the man’s ubiquitous presence was annoying, but hot tea would be very welcome. As D’Avignon left, Alejandro turned to Velasquez. “I’m glad you’ve come. We must discuss our next steps. Your mission here, as I see it—”
“Respectfully, Don Alejandro,” Velasquez said, “I already know our mission here. It is quite plain.” He turned and checked with his fellows, all of whom nodded sagely. “We are here to bring these savage heathen into the glory of God’s light and comfort. It is a task we have performed before and, with His grace, will be able to perform many times in the future.”
“Yes, I see. Thank you. You have put it quite succinctly,” Alejandro said. “I wanted to tell you, though, how important this mission is to us.”
“Excellency, the importance you place upon this mission is irrelevant. We would work to bring these unfortunates to Christ with the same fervor, even if you considered it to be the height of folly.”
Alejandro eyed the priest and was about to speak when D’Avignon returned with a kettle and a stack of tin cups. Tea was poured and served. Alejandro breathed in the aromatic steam and let it calm his nerves.
“Reverend Father,” he said after a moment, putting a pleasant smile on his face. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. When I said I wanted to tell you how important this mission was to us, I did not mean to myself alone, or even myself and your superiors in the Church. I meant ‘us,’ as in ‘Her Majesty and I.’” He let that sink in for a moment, but Velasquez did not register any change in expression, so he continued.
“Father, you and I have known one another a long time. We have seen many campaigns together. I won’t mince words with you. Her Majesty has taken a special interest in these people; a personal interest, in fact. So let me warn you now: if she hears of any activities such as occurred among the Yaqui or the tribes of the Tejano, she will never forgive you. Not ever.” He raised a hand to forestall the priest’s rebuttal. “And before you tell me how unimportant our regent’s earthly forgiveness is to you, I shall say that regardless the state of your immortal soul, a royal disapprobation such as she can bestow will make your remaining years here in this world a trial indeed. Especially when it can be easily avoided by reining in the more—energetic—methods your fellows have been known to employ.” He leaned back and sipped his tea.
“I hope I have clarified my meaning, Father.”
Velasquez’s demeanor had not altered, though Alejandro noted the pulse stronger in his neck.
“You tie our hands, Excellency.”
Alejandro chuckled. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m confident that you and your colleagues can devise sufficiently persuasive measures that do not include beating, flogging, or any of the harsher techniques you have used in the past. The rest of our force arrives soon. They bring with them ample supplies—food, liquor, tobacco, and such—to ensure the natives’ full and enthusiastic cooperation. Look at it this way, Father,” and he leaned closer to imply a conspiratorial tone. “We don’t expect you to drop the stick, just to use more carrots.” The priest’s dour expression remained, and Alejandro leaned back again.
“We need these people on our side. Willingly on our side. Neither Her Majesty nor I will countenance anything that puts this alliance in jeopardy.” He stood and his guests all rose in response. “I appreciate your coming to chat with me, Father, and I hope you will accompany me today when I go to speak with the chiefs of the Cheyenne Council. Ostensibly, I go to request riders to help guide our army northward, but I also hope we can discuss topics of more interest to you. There are many souls here that need our help in finding the way to salvation.”
At last Velasquez’s expression lightened. “I am glad to hear you say so, Excellency. I feared you were only interested in the more...temporal aspects of this expedition.”
Alejandro reached out and put a hand on Velazquez’s shoulder. “Believe me, I place equal importance upon our spiritual goals. I have made a solemn vow, Father—a vow to our Lord in Heaven—to bring as many souls to his Church as possible.”
And finally Velasquez’s deeply-lined features turned upward into a grin. “That is good news, Excellency. Very good news. I am sure that, together, we can achieve great things.”
Alejandro nodded and saw the clergymen out. He heard them talking enthusiastically as they squelched their way through the rain-soaked grass, and he sighed.
One worry down, he thought to himself.
“D’Avignon,” he said.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“You have chosen your men?”
D’Avignon came up close behind Alejandro. “Yes. Ten strong backs await your orders.”
“And they can be trusted?”
The trader laughed his rogue’s laugh. “Definitely, Señor. These men love their country, but gold sways them, too. And your offer carries the best of both worlds—to get rich in the service of Spain.”
“Good,” Alejandro said. “Very good.” He smiled toward the rain and the mountains hidden behind the low, grey clouds. “Prepare to take them out soon. I’d like to keep you away from One Who Flies and avoid further...complications. Do you have any locations in mind?”
“Oh, yes,” D’Avignon said. “I prospected this area with One Who Flies years ago. Up in those hills—” He giggled like a boy. “The creekbeds glitter with gold dust.”
Alejandro shook his head. “No,” he said. “Those hills have been interdicted by the Council. They are...holy...or something to the natives.”
“Then it’s perfect!”
Alejandro frowned. “What do you mean?”
D’Avignon winked. “Don’t you see, Excellency? One Who Flies will never think to look for me up there.”
Chapter 7
Plum Moon, Full
Four Years after the Cloud Fell
Borderlands near the Moonshell River
Alliance Territory
Storm Arriving rode to the top of the ridge and called the squad to a halt. Around him, the forty Kit Fox soldiers reined in and awaited his command. He pulled his knees out from under the first-rope and stood, balancing on his whistler’s back to get a better view.
The coastal lands were grey with drizzle from a low roof of clouds that brought visibility down to a dozen bowshots. He shielded his eyes from the mist with his hands and peered into the distance.
The land rolled away from him. Scrub dotted the slopes with dark hummocks, like tassels on the uneven prairie blanket of gold and green. Close by, patches of blood-drop flowers stood out like fresh wounds on the land. Farther away, somewhere beyond the veil of weather, lay the Moonshell River and the army of the Iron Shirts.
Behind him Grey Bear, his second-in-command, griped about his empty stomach, which encouraged the men to grumble themselves. Storm Arriving cleared his throat and everyone—man and whistler alike—fell silent once more.
The mist whispered as it fell on the sodden grass. The southerly breeze was warm and flavored with salt from the inland sea. Ahead, a quail shifted in her hiding spot beneath a bush and, to his right, a toad creaked. Then, faintly from within the melding of grey cloud and gold grass, he discerned a sound that did not belong: a rhythmic metallic clang.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Half a hand’s ride that way.”
He sat down, slipped his feet in the loops and his knees under the first-rope, and touched his whistler into motion. The others followed without question or word, the only sounds the creak of rope and the gentle thud of whistler’s feet in the wet grass. Grouse and quail flushed from hiding on drumbeat wings, curving away from the party’s path through the unmarked land.
They neared the crest of a rise and Storm Arriving held
up a hand to bring the group to a halt once more. They could all hear the clatter of equipment and the chaos of voices that typified vé’hó’e movement.
“Slowly,” he said to the others. “We do not wish to startle them.” A few of the men chuckled, and they all followed him as he nudged his drake to walk up and over the hilltop.
The Moonshell River was a twisted plait beneath the clouded sky, its banks festooned with swaying stands of cottonwood, birch, and sweetgum trees. Draped like a dark cloth through the flatland on the near side of the river was the army of the Iron Shirts: a long, dark stain of men, horses, and wagons that churned the ground with their passage. Storm Arriving and his guide party lined up on the crest, making themselves visible against the sky to the soldiers on the flat below, but the army trudged on, oblivious to their arrival.
“And we need the help of these?” Grey Bear asked.
Storm Arriving understood the resentment, but also saw something that his fellow Kit Fox did not.
“Look,” he instructed the others, pointing to the columns of men below them. “Upon each shoulder. Do you see? Repeating rifles. Each man has his own. And there.” He pointed toward the rear where men pushed large-wheeled wagons. “Look closely, and you will see mounted rifles, just like the bluecoats have.”
Grey Bear shook his head. “But look at them. The ones on foot are nearly asleep, and the ones on horse are too few.”
“I agree,” Storm Arriving said, and smiled at their surprise. “But follow my eye, as I look at all these sleepwalking Iron Shirts, from the first man carrying their flag to the last man pushing a rolls-along, and imagine with me the many bluecoat bullets it would take to bring them all down. And now, imagine how angry that would make the Iron Shirts, and how many more sleepwalkers would come to stand above their dead.”
He regarded his Kit Fox brethren. “All my life the People have fought and bled against the bluecoats. All my life, all my father’s life, the life of my father’s father, and beyond even that time. We have met them head on, hit their flank, and taken their rear guard, but still we bleed, and still the bluecoats continue to come. We have fought them alone and with the help of our brother tribes. We have joined with old rivals like the Crow People and the Wolf People, and still we bleed, and still they come. There is only one nation who hates the bluecoats as much as we do.” He waved a hand toward the army below.
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