Bistozo grinned. “What fun is that?”
The group’s fourth member, a bandy-legged fellow named Zalea, who had been out doing some informal hunting, came walking into camp from the slopes above. When he spotted his friends, he hurried over to join them. Chaparro wasted no time in appraising him of what he and Quintero had seen at the desert pool.
“How many are there?” Zalea asked. “Can we kill them?”
“We can kill them if we are brave and cunning,” Quintero assured him.
“But we must inform the council of what we saw,” Chaparro said. “That is what the customs demand.”
“I grow weary of the customs,” Quintero said. “They tie a warrior down tighter than rawhide ropes drying in the sun.” But he knew they had to follow tradition and law. “We will speak at the council tonight.”
“Are you going to call for a fight?” Zalea asked.
“I will see what I will do,” Quintero said. He had too much respect for the Chirinato council to boast of wanting to defy its authority and advice. “But I will speak my mind.”
Bistozo’s woman joined them with clay mugs and a jar filled with tiswin, a corn beer of which the Chirinatos were particularly fond. After serving the warriors, she properly made her exit without having said a word.
“Tiswin is good after being busy all day,” Quintero said. “Yes,” Chaparro agreed. “But for real drinking, I prefer mescal.”
“Or tequila!” Zalea added with a laugh. “I have two bottles. Shall we drink them?”
“No!” Quintero exclaimed angrily. “You know my feelings about this! I will not go to the council or war with anybody who is drunk.”
The other three, although thinking how much fun it would be to get drunk and maybe quarrel and scuffle, showed their desire to stick close to Quintero by not defying him. He was their leader through long years of evolvement that had begun in their boyhood.
“We will stay sober, don’t worry,” Chaparro said.
Quintero glanced at the sun above them, then swung his gaze to the large wickiup at the center of the camp. “We will have time to eat a little. Then we go to the council and I will talk to them about the White-Eyes at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.”
The entire encampment moved into its late afternoon and early evening routine. Any hunters who had gone out looking for game returned with fresh kills. At that time of year in the Culebras, only a blind-and-deaf man could not find game. Smoke from cooking fires drifted across the small valley and all activity eased down to soft talking as the women tended their cooking chores while hungry men and children waited for the meals to be served.
Later, with full bellies and the first evening fires being lit, the people who desired to hear the council and chat with their friends, moved toward the meeting area in front of their chief’s wickiup. The leader of that particular band of Chirinatos was a husky, prematurely gray warrior called Lobo Cano. Craggy-faced and with heavy lids, he seemed like a wolf lying in wait to all who observed him.
Lobo Cano was already seated cross-legged, waiting for the others to make their appearances. The first to arrive was a slim old man who greeted him silently with an upraised hand. This was Aguila, an old warrior who was a close and valued friend of the white man Eruditus Fletcher.
Two other men, all veteran fighters and hunters, showed up and took their places, forming a semi-circle with Lobo Cano and Aguila occupying the center. Interested onlookers murmured among themselves. Then Aguila’s brother Nitcho, the tribal medicine man, following Chirinato custom, shook the sacred rattles and called on Spirit-Worn an-of-the-Desert and Coyote-Ghost-of-the-Mountain to bless them with wisdom and visions.
At that point, before the chief could bestow proper greetings to the rest of the council, Quintero pushed his way through the crowd and presented himself in front of the group. He stood scowling, arms crossed, as his three friends joined him.
Lobo Cano made no remarks regarding this discourtesy. He waited to see where the breach of etiquette might lead. Aguila smiled wryly and said, “Buenos noches.”
“Speak to me in the White-Eyes’ language, old one,” Quintero said.
“Then I say to you, good evening,” Aguila said. “Why do you wish a greeting in that tongue, Quintero?”
“Because your friend Erudito is at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff with many White-Eyes,” Quintero announced.
Excited talk broke out among the people at the news. Lobo Cano spoke sharply, “How do you know of this?”
“Earlier today, Chaparro and I hunted on the southern rim and spotted them.” He glared at Aguila. “These were not men with women and children. They were soldiers.”
Lobo Cano looked at Aguila. “What do you know of this, elder friend?”
“Nothing,” Aguila said. “I have not spoken with Erudito since the season of the moon of the cold winds.”
Quintero was not a man to waste time. He shouted, “This is bad for our people! We must kill them!”
A shout of approval rose from the young men in the crowd. Lobo Cano sprang to his feet. “Wait!” He realized the possible serious consequences if the young warriors roared out of camp looking for White-Eye blood. The chief sighed. “The crying of women and children make me sad.”
Aguila, also appreciating the seriousness of the situation, looked straight into Quintero’s face. “If they are soldiers they will not be easy to kill like the man and his family you attacked last year.”
“I do not care if it is one White-Eye or many,” Quintero boasted. “I will kill all I see. They are as bad as the Mexicanos.”
Aguila knew that serious and logical conversation would not be possible with the younger man. “Since there is no danger, we can be patient. It is important to find out what the White-Eyes are doing at the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff. Perhaps they are only camping for the night or a few days while journeying someplace else.”
“Do they number more than our fighting men?” a member of the council asked. His name was Zorro, and he was a man known for his cunning.
“Our band is enough to kill them all,” Quintero said.
“Then they are no threat to us,” Aguila said. “We must find out what they are doing there—”
“And how long they plan to stay,” Terron, the other member of the council, interjected.
“Their bones will stay forever if I have my way,” Quintero said.
“You are quick to strike,” Aguila said. “Many times that is not an act of wisdom.”
Chaparro stepped forward. “My friend Quintero strikes quickly against the Mexicanos! He has killed many. I listen to him when he says to kill the White-Eyes.”
“You do not care for wisdom, Chaparro?” Aguila asked.
“Not if wisdom is the prattling of an old man,” Chaparro sneered.
“Silence!” Lobo Cano roared at the mouthy young warrior. “Aguila has proven his manhood in battles and his own wisdom at councils before you were born. I followed him as a young warrior and learned much while we killed many of our enemy.”
“Show respect!” Zorro added.
“I will show respect, but eventually I will lead warriors to kill the White-Eyes,” Quintero boasted.
“You will lead nobody,” Lobo Cano threatened. He was a better warrior than Quintero. Though advanced in years, he was still strong, and could make up for any lack of quickness through experience and guile. “Do not issue commands here.”
“I respect the council,” Quintero said. He turned and left with the same abruptness he had demonstrated at his entrance. His friends followed.
“There is trouble here unless wiser heads take over,” Lobo Cano said. He turned to Aguila. “Go find Erudito. Tell him we would speak with him and the White-Eye chief.”
“I will waste no time,” Aguila said seriously. “If we are not careful, the sands of El Vano will soak up blood like it does the spillover from the Pool-Beneath-the-Cliff.”
Three
His Excellency, General Antonio Eduardo San Andres De La Nobleza, com
mander of the Northern Military District of the State of Sonora for the Republic of Mexico, held his arms out as his valet slipped the heavy uniform tunic on him. It was of a bright green, with a high collar and cuffs made of brilliant scarlet silk, complemented by a large pair of fringed epaulets. The rest of his uniform consisted of dazzling white trousers worn inside a pair of shiny black boots.
Although he was temporarily in the field and living in his tent, De La Nobleza still maintained a luxurious lifestyle. His living quarters, rather than being of canvas, were of a heavy, oiled leather and consisted of three large rooms. Oaken furniture, a thick carpet, hanging drapes, and his servant were part of the accommodations.
The general studied his image in the full-length mirror in front of him. He adjusted the tunic slightly, inspecting the effect. He gazed at himself from different angles, striking poses to appear as if he were at a formal soiree in Mexico City. Then he adopted a stern demeanor to see how he would appear in front of troops.
De La Nobleza liked what he saw.
“The tailor was a credit to his trade, was he not, Luis?”
The valet, a short, thin, distinguished-looking man of middle years, nodded nervously “Yes, Excellency The uniform fits you well.” He stepped back. “Por Dios! And it makes you appear younger! More virile!”
“Really? Does it really?” De La Nobleza asked, pleased.
“I swear by all the saints, Excellency,” the valet assured him.
De La Nobleza was also a slim man. His slimness made him appear taller than his five-and-a-half-foot height. With black hair and muttonchop whiskers, his coloring and high cheekbones betrayed the Indian that was mixed into his Spanish bloodline. “Are all preparations made, Luis?”
“Yes, Excellency, all is in order,” Luis replied. “Capitan Perez has assured me of this.”
De La Nobleza smiled at his servant. “You are not nervous, are you, Luis?”
The servant licked his lips. “I am not used to this sort of thing, Excellency I would have preferred to remain at the hacienda.”
“But we could not do such a thing as we plan back there,” De La Nobleza said. “Think of it as no more than a social event, Luis.” He raised his arms again to allow his belt and saber to be put around his waist.
“It will not be one of long duration, Excellency,” Luis remarked as he fastened the buckle.
De La Nobleza laughed aloud. “Perhaps not for our honored guests.”
The tinkling of the bell mounted on the tent flap interrupted them. Luis went to tend to the call while De La Nobleza continued to admire his reflection in the tall mirror. Moments later, Luis reappeared.
“It is Señor Weismann, Excellency,” he announced.
“Ah! Bid him join me, Luis.”
The servant opened the flap leading to the foyer, allowing Roberto Weismann to enter the dressing chamber portion of the tent. Although bathed and wearing fresh clothing, the leader of the scalphunters was nonetheless attired for the trail.
“Buenas tardes, Excelencia,” Weismann said doffing his sombrero.
“And how are you, Don Roberto?”
“At the moment I am rather wealthy,” Weismann said. He was always pleased with the way the general addressed him as a caballero—a gentleman. “But I fear as time goes by, I slip back toward poverty rather rapidly, Excellency.”
“Do not worry, Don Roberto,” the general said. “That situation will be remedied quite soon.”
“I hope so,” the scalphunter leader remarked. “As do my loyal men.”
De La Nobleza pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. “The festivities will begin shortly.”
“How many guests do you expect, Excellency?” Weismann asked.
“Quite a few,” De La Nobleza answered. “More than a hundred actually. Particularly after I was so careful to mention in my message the copious amounts of tequila and mescal that would be available.”
“My own men will appreciate that,” Weismann said.
“Even your American? Do the native drinks of Mexico please him?”
“Any liquor pleases him, Excellency,” Weismann answered.
“What is his name again?” De La Nobleza asked.
“Penrod Donaldson,” Weismann answered.
“The Gringos seem to favor strange names,” De La Nobleza said.
“I don’t consider his name, Excellency,” Weismann said. “He is a good fighter and leader who serves me well.”
“As a military man, I can well appreciate that,” De La Nobleza answered. “One loyal lieutenant can be worth a hundred men. Even a thousand under certain circumstances.”
“That is why I keep Donaldson in my group,” Weismann said.
“Still, I have second thoughts of Gringos,” the general said turning to the mirror once again. “Did they not roll into el Tejas in ever-increasing hordes, finally illegally wresting it from Mexico?”
“They did so,” Weismann affirmed.
“For that reason, I shall always harbor a deep hatred of them,” De La Nobleza said. “Particularly after the ending of this latest war with them “
Weismann didn’t give a damn who ruled in the areas he operated since it made no difference to him whose nation’s laws he broke. He shrugged without comment.
Luis presented himself once more. “The arrangements are ready for your inspection, Excellency.” He retrieved the general’s cocked hat, complete with plume, and set it on the officer’s head.
“Esta bien!” the general exclaimed after checking his appearance in the headgear. “Come, Don Roberto. Let us make sure our guests will be pleased with the fiesta we have planned for them.”
Weismann, unsmiling, followed De La Nobleza through the tent and out the front flap. Penrod Donaldson, standing there, came to attention and saluted the Mexican officer.
De La Nobleza returned the gesture with a look of surprise. “Very soldierly, Señor Donaldson. Am I correct to assume you have served in your country’s army?”
“Yeah, Gen’ral,” Donaldson said. He chuckled. “Several different times, under several different names.”
“Ah, then you are a true adventurer,” De La Nobleza said. “It sort of depended on my circumstances at the time, Gen’ral,” Donaldson explained. “A lot of folks don’t know it, but being in the ranks is the best hiding place there is.”
“I suppose,” De La Nobleza said wary of getting into much of a conversation with someone he considered a hooligan.
But Donaldson was in a talkative mood. “I sure do take a fancy to that hat o’ yours, Gen’ral. It’s plumb elegant.”
“Thank you, Señor Donaldson,” De La Nobleza said.
“You look like them pitchers I seen of that famous French gen’ral name o’ Nappy-olen.”
“Yes, thank you,” De La Nobleza said. “Luis!” he called out. “Give us a tour of our fiesta.”
“This way, please,” the servant said. He led them over to a table filled with various bottles. “All mescal and tequila,” he said. “Plenty for everyone.”
Donaldson glanced at the alcohol. “Any rye whiskey there, Pedro?”
“No, señor, and my name is not Pedro,” Luis said.
“I call most Mezkins I don’t know by that moniker,” Donaldson said with a wink. “It’s kinda like calling us Americans Joe, know what I mean?”
“I do not, señor,” Luis said.
“I’ll explain it to you sometime when we can talk,” Donaldson said.
Luis merely cleared his throat to show his distaste. He led them over to another table. “And here we have roasted pork, goat, tortillas, chiles, and frijoles.”
Weismann noted a couple of large tents set out to each side of what was obviously the official gathering place for the guests. One of the structures was fifteen yards further out than the other. “What is the purpose of placing the tiendas de campanas in that manner, Excellency?”
De La Nobleza smirked. “It is the piece de resistance of this whole affair, my dear Don Roberto. And I must caut
ion you not to allow any of your men to wander into that area. It is reserved especially for our guests.”
Weismann was obedient without questioning. “Of course, Excellency.”
But Penrod Donaldson had a Yankee’s curiosity. “How come we got to stay outta there, Gen’ral?”
De La Nobleza turned and faced the American. When he spoke, his voice was cold and venomous. “Because I have thus commanded you.”
“Yes, sir!” Donaldson said smiling. He fully realized he was speaking against a powerful and ruthless man. It had always been Donaldson’s style to see how far he could go. Now he decided it was time to back off. Here was a man who could have just about anyone he wanted killed at the snap of a finger. “I’ll sure do what you want quick and cheerful like.”
“See that you do,” De La Nobleza said.
“Where is it exactly you wish for my brave men and me to place ourselves, Excellency?” Weismann asked.
“We have arranged a place of concealment for you on the other side of the food and liquor,” De La Nobleza said. “Luis will show you the correct place to situate yourselves. It is important that you remain out of sight.”
“As you wish, Excellency.” Weismann glanced around. “I do not see many soldiers, Excellency. Will they also be concealed nearby?”
“Not at all,” De La Nobleza said. “As you will find out, Don Roberto, I have as many troops as I need.”
Weismann glanced around again, a worried expression on his face. “You said you would have at least a hundred guests.”
“Perhaps closer to a hundred and fifty,” De La Nobleza said, “But, fear not, Don Roberto. Even if they number more than two hundred, I am well prepared.”
Weismann indicated his acceptance with a nod of his head. “Tengo confianza en usted, Excelencia.”
“Your confidence warms my heart, Don Roberto,” De La Nobleza said sincerely. He admired Weismann in spite of himself. The man was cunning, intelligent, and absolutely dependable. His loyalty might be bought by silver pesos, but Weismann could be trusted to give his all until bribed away by an enemy. De La Nobleza actually considered the scalphunter chief handsome with his dark brown hair and green eyes. Only the scars on his face marred his appearance. The general wondered what blood mixture of races coursed through Weismann’s veins.
The Dragoons 3 Page 3
