White Apache

by tiffy

  ʺWe are invited to share dinner with him tonight. I think you will find it enlightening.ʺ

  She noted the openly curious stares of the people, who must have thought a female in boyʹs breeches as peculiar as she did the young women who strolled through the crowd with their pendulous breasts bared beneath the scant cover of their rebozos, nursing noisily suckling infants!

  Elise was escorted to the largest of the adobes by an elderly woman with greasy white braids. With her limited French, greatly aided by gestures, the alcaldeʹs wife Maria explained to Elise that she would be given time to bathe and change before the evening meal. A basin of water was provided, along with some linens of dubious cleanliness. Elise thanked Maria, then made her toilette as best she could and donned a simple yellow muslin dress.

  How peculiar it felt to be in the garb of a white female again after weeks spent wearing Indian tunics and boyʹs clothes. She gave her hair a thorough brushing, but had no mirror beyond the small steel one in her saddle pack in which to inspect her appearance. ʺLittle matter, since I fear the feast will not be an elegant affair,ʺ she murmured to herself.

  Although simple and none too sanitary, her introduction to New Mexican food began pleasantly. She watched Maria and her two daughters prepare dried blue corn by grinding it with a pestle in a mola, a hollowed‐out smooth stone. The fine flour was then mixed with water and rolled into thin tortillas, which were baked over a hot fire.

  Santiago showed her how to use a tortilla in lieu of a spoon, scooping up a glob of stringy cheese with it and neatly taking a bite.

  She emulated him and liked the exotic flavor of goat cheese and blue corn cakes, but when she reached out with another tortilla to dip into a bowl of onions and chiles verdes, he cautioned her to begin with a small bite.

  One of the men said in Spanish, ʺThe white lady will singe the roof of her mouth.ʺ Pretending not to understand, she scooped up a generous portion of the sauce, having eaten many of the hot dishes prepared by Elkanahʹs cook back in Virginia. But none of Felizʹs spicy Spanish sauces compared with the green chiles indigenous to the Americas. Elise gasped for air, then let out a coughing breath that she was certain would ignite the crude oak table like kindling!

  Frantically, she seized the nearest cup to gulp some cooling liquid down her flaming throat. Unfortunately, it was not her cup, filled with mildly sour watered wine, but her hostʹs, filled with aguardiente.

  ʺNo, Señoritaʺ was all the alcalde managed before her eyes widened and more tears gushed from them, spilling down her flushed cheeks.

  ʺ Aguardiente is a most potent brandy,ʺ Santiago said as he handed her a large cup of watered wine.

  She gratefully took several swallows, then asked in a raspy croak, ʺWhat is that brandy made of? Scorpions?ʺ

  He laughed. ʺClose. This particular product is distilled from the juices of the cactus.ʺ

  She drank more sour wine. ʺThey must leave in the spines. Iʹm certain several are lodged in the pit of my stomach.ʺ She finished off the battered wooden cupful of wine and held it out for a refill, trying to ignore the solicitous yet amused reactions of the people around the table. At least she was spared the rough guffaws and teasing of Santiagoʹs men, who were eating elsewhere in the village.

  Maria began to speak rapidly, explaining that chiles verdes was perhaps a dish not suited to delicate European ladies. Apologetically, she bustled off to bring fresh roasted ears of yellow corn and some plain goatʹs milk to soothe her guestʹs stomach. Elise wanted to beg off the goatʹs milk, a substance she had learned to loathe in France, but knew she could not protest without revealing her comprehension of Spanish.

  She gagged down the milk beneath the watchful black eyes of Maria and ate an ear of corn with a plain tortilla. The gray stringy cheese had lost its appeal. When the meal was over, Elise received yet another surprise. Although not painful like the hot chiles and distilled cactus juice, it was one that tested her calm French sophistication.

  A large bowl of coarsely chopped tobacco was passed around the table, along with whole brown leaves which were used to roll the small pungent cigarillos she had seen the men smoke along the trail. Santiago had indulged occasionally.

  But here the women joined the men, deftly rolling their own and puffing away in public as unabashedly as they had nursed their babies. Even Mariaʹs two adolescent daughters smoked.

  When the ʺmakingsʺ were passed to her, she shook her head and said in what she hoped was appropriately broken Spanish, ʺNo, gracias.ʺ

  Santiago relieved her of further embarrassment by explaining that white ladies had very delicate constitutions, as evidenced by her bout with the chiles verdes and aguardiente, and could not suffer to smoke even this, their finest tobacco.

  Almost afraid of what might come next, Elise was relieved when, one by one, the alcaldeʹs children were excused for bed. Santiago indicated that Eliseʹs ʺdelicate constitutionʺ necessitated that she too get some rest.

  When they bad goodnight to their hosts, Santiago excused himself from Elise, saying he had to check with Chaco on the pack animals. He advised her to go to sleep and said he would join her later. She felt Mariaʹs troubled gaze following her as she headed to the small room at the rear of the house. She knows we are not wed, although we sleep together.

  Elise had learned to pass off the crude innuendoes of the men while they were isolated on the trail, but here in this simple home, she suddenly felt like a harlot.

  When they had embarked on the trip, the two squaws had casually passed from man to man. Elise had been indignant and complained to Santiago about it. He had informed her it was none of her business and their own choice as to where they bestowed sexual favors, then added casually that the morals of fine white ladies were often no better.

  She had bristled with indignation then, but now . . . I can no longer cast stones.

  Before her liaison with Quinn began, she had never been touched by anyone except her husband. But Edouard Louvoisʹ touch had soiled her even though they were lawfully wed. She had freed herself from his vile demands, yet not even that could erase the past. And now she had complicated the future as well by falling under the spell of a Spanish renegade.

  Troubled and confused, she paced on the cool, hard‐packed earthen floor of the bedroom. A lone candle flickered against the rough adobe walls. She looked from the starry sky beyond the high, narrow window to the rude pallet of woolen blankets. She needed time to think in solitude. The night air held more appeal.

  Quietly, Elise slipped from the room, grateful that the leather hinges on the door did not squeak. She began to walk aimlessly through the quiet square, pondering what was to become of a life she had not long ago thought filled with purpose.

  Her moccasined feet were silent in the soft dust. As she approached another adobe building across the small plaza, the sound of low voices echoed on the still night air. She would have passed on, but one of them was Santiagoʹs, addressing Gravoisnot in French, but in Spanish. Why would he not use the little Frenchmanʹs native tongue? She walked around the side of the building and stood below the window to hear better, remembering their earlier exchange about trust.

  ʹʹAre the guns well hidden?ʺ the Frenchman asked, also in Spanish. ʺI would hate to have a Spanish patrol stop here and find several dozen fine Kentucky long rifles. They are illegal when sold to Spaniards, much less given to Apaches.ʺ

  A strange voice interjected, ʺWe have brought fast ponies to take the weapons to our stronghold at first light. You will not be in any danger. My warriors are concealing the rifles inside bales of buffalo hides. We are disguised as peaceful ciboleros.ʺ

  Santiagoʹs voice held a trace of grim amusement. ʺYou will hunt Comanche and Spaniards with those rifles, my brother, not buffalo. Only take care, Strong BOW.ʺ

  The Apache Santiago had called Strong Bow asked, ʺWhen do you come tO our stronghold? The Night Wind has raided the woolen mills to the south and brought us many slaves. Your brother could use your help transporting t
hem to Frey Bartolomé.ʺ

  ʺIt has been too long since I visited the priest. I long to stop at Joaquinʹs ranch and see Orlena and my new niece, but that must wait. You are certain all is well with my sister and her child?ʺ

  Gravois interjected, ʺHe has said the lady and her babe are fine, Santiago. This is not the time for family news. ʹTis business.ʺ

  ʺYou will be paid for securing the weapons from Lisa,ʺ Santiago said curtly to Gravois.

  Lisa. Eliseʹs dazed mind assimilated the shocking information she was taking in.

  Manuel Lisa was a Spanish renegade, rich but of unsavory reputation back in St.

  Louis. Santiago was smuggling high quality weapons to his Apache allies to use against his own countrymen! And his half‐caste brother was involved in raiding Spanish mills, enslaving innocent victims!

  When she heard the scraping of chairs and gruff farewells between Santiago and the Indian, Elise knew she must hurry back to their room before she was suspected of spying. How would she lie beside him in the darkness this night, knowing he was truly a traitor to all civilized society?

  Santa Fe, October 1806

  His excellency Colonel Joaquin del Real Alencastre, Governor of New Mexico, stroked his beard with perplexity. He let his ice‐blue eyes travel over the disheveled appearance of the dark‐haired prisoner standing before him.

  Alencastre had traveled far in the service of king and country and was a zealous guardian of Spainʹs sovereignty against American encroachments, but he was also a prudent and fair man.

  In the past, Governor General Salcedoʹs orders about preventing all foreign interlopers from returning home had been clear. But when Salcedo informed him about Lieutenant Pikeʹs expedition, the instruction read only to send the Americans south to the governor‐general himself.

  A lone traveler who claimed he had been with Lieutenant Pike was not expected.

  And now the interloper warned him that Pike might be an agent provocateur for a Spanish‐American war! Should he believe the young man who, although not in uniform, carried identification giving his rank as a lieutenant in the American army? The governor would be well within his rights to shoot the young fool.

  ʺYou have no proof regarding the intentions of your commanding officer.

  Indeed, Lieutenant Shelby, you cannot even prove his party exists.ʺ

  Samuelʹs face split in a grim smile. ʺAh, but you do not need my proof, for you see, I was in the Pawnee camp of Swift Horse when Lieutenant Castal came searching for our party. That gentleman is under your command, is he not?ʺ

  Alencastreʹs eyes narrowed, then he sighed. ʺYes. Lieutenant Castal was dispatched to locate such an expedition. He has not returned as yet.ʺ

  ʺHow, I wonder, did you learn about the presence of our expedition into Spanish territory?ʺ Samuel played his role as casually as he dared, yet he knew his position was precarious. Spanish ʺjusticeʺ could be swift and merciless at times.

  ʺIt is I, not you, Lieutenant, who will ask the questions here,ʺ Alencastre reprimanded with surprising gentleness.

  ʺPresident Jefferson knows about Agent 13, Governor,ʺ Shelby countered.

  One pencil‐thin eyebrow rose. ʺAnd who is this mysterious agent?ʺ

  ʺThe same man who sent word to Governor General Salcedo that Lieutenant Pike was headed into Spanish territory to map it for a future American invasion.

  General Wilkinson.ʺ Samuel waited for a response.

  ʺYou are a fractious young man to accuse not only your fellow officer but your commander‐in‐chief as well.ʺ

  Shelby shrugged. ʺTheir motives are different. Pike is merely a fool who thinks heʹll advance his career and win glory in a war against Spain. He is a patriot, if a very misguided one. Wilkinson is for sale to the highest bidder, but even when bought, he will turn his coat again and shift allegiance. He takes pay from America and Spain and conspires against both to carve out an empire from Spainʹs possessions in New Mexico.ʺ

  ʺA war between His Catholic Majesty and the United States could aid the filibusters,ʺ Alencastre said consideringly. Stroking his beard, he continued, ʺBut it would also fuel the American governmentʹs greed for Spanish land.ʺ

  ʺEven though what you say about Americaʹs land hunger may be true, you must realize that President Jefferson would not want to provoke a war with Spain at this time. It would ill serve our interests or yours.ʺ

  Alencastre pondered that, reasoning that it was most likely trueif what Shelby claimed about General Wilkinson was true. If the general was a Spanish agent, the governor of New Mexico had not been informed of it. But it would certainly explain the strange orders he had received from Governor General Salcedo. Had Wilkinson sent word to Salcedo about Pikeʹs expedition, wanting the Americans to be arrested and brought to Santa re? Then why did the wily Salcedo want them escorted unharmed to him in Chihuahua? Was Salcedo himself part of the filibuster plot with the Americans?

  ʺI have a great many things to consider, Lieutenant Shelby. If what you say is true, the charges are more grave than you could ever imagine.ʺ He rang for his sergeant and had the American escorted to a comfortable cell.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Northeast New Mexico, November 1806

  In spite of the chill nights that promised winter, the day had dawned with unseasonably warm sunshine. White clouds bubbled up on the jagged horizon, melding into the pale lavender of the mountain tops. The small party of renegades, for that was how Elise had come to think of them, drew closer to Santa Fe. Elise Louvois, however, was no closer to a decision about her relationship with Santiago Quinn.

  Heʹll leave me in Santa Fe and go off to join his Apache raiders. The vendetta between him and the Spanish authorities is none of my concern. Yet she knew she could not just walk away. The thought of never again seeing his smile, hearing his laugh, feeling his touch made her heart ache. But he was a traitor, a dangerous man who had turned his back on all civilized decency to deal in slaves and sell guns to savages. Elise realized that she was woefully ignorant about the frontier and Spanish government policies toward the Indians under their domain. Having heard back in the United States of atrocities committed by savages, she felt a revulsion toward anyone arming them, but in all fairness, President Jefferson had spoken out for their rights to the land settlers were taking from them in a never‐ending march west.

  After having traveled with Spybuck, she had certainly learned to admire his intelligence and integrity. The problem of Indians versus settlerʹs rights on any frontier was a knotty one that she was ill‐equipped to solve. Perhaps the heart of the matter was that she was less concerned with political issues than with her personal behavior. Even after the shocking things she had learned about Santiago Quinn, when he turned to her in the night and put his hands on her, she was lost in a maelstrom of passion.

  For a woman who had schooled herself to behave logically and remain in control of her emotions, her response to the man was disquieting indeed. She had never possessed any fairy‐tale notions of love. Her parentsʹ marriage was a bitter disaster from its onset, which ultimately caused Samuel to lose his mother, while Elise was torn from father and brother. Then had come her own travesty of a marriage. No, Elise Louvois had never allowed herself to think of love.

  I do not love Santiago. My body lusts for his touch, that is all. The sun beat down warmly on her back as they rode through a narrow, rocky pass between two cliffs and the sweet pungency of spruce and pine filled the air. Deep in her troubled reverie, Elise was oblivious of the beauty surrounding her.

  Santiago watched her from the rise in the trail where he had ridden ahead.

  Normally she was an alert, vivacious traveler who was enthralled by seeing the wonders of nature. Something was troubling her, for the clear view of the valley floor spreading in front of her did nothing to pique her interest. She gazed on it with an expressionless face, as if it were only so much painted opera scenery.

  Ever since they had left Santa Rosa, Elise had been preoccupied an
d distant. She had erected an emotional wall between them during the days, even though she responded to his lovemaking as always in the nights. How quickly the weeks had flown into months. In a few days they would arrive at their final destination.

  She had said from the start, as had he, that their liaison would last only until journeyʹs end. The thought did not sit well with him.

  Spybuck saw the rattler glide onto a rock, seeking to bask in the warm morning sun, just as Elise rode close to the danger. Before he could shout a warning from his position behind her on the narrow trail, Ladybug sensed the snake and skittered, then reared up, throwing Elise against the rock. The rattlerʹs lethargy quickly changed when its warm cocoon was invaded by a hurling body. The double fangs sank deeply into Eliseʹs arm and she screamed, clutching her injury as she slid, dazed, to the ground.

  Spybuckʹs knife caught the snake squarely at the base of its head. It wriggled in a grotesque parody of a dance for several seconds, then lay still. Leaping from his horse, he seized the knife and tossed the impaled lifeless body behind the rocks, then knelt by Elise.

  Santiago raced up the trail and dismounted just as the Creek picked her up. ʺLet me have her,ʺ he commanded as he took Elise in his arms.

  ʺIt bit me, Santiago. The pain . . .ʺ Her eyes glazed over as the poison began to do its deadly work.

  Santiago cursed as he laid her on a flat place at the side of the trail. ʺRattlers thick as horseflies all the way across the flatlands and no one was touched!ʺ He pulled his knife from his belt and slashed her shirtsleeve away, then examined the wounds. They were deep.

  ʺIʹm going to have to cut the punctures and draw the poison, Elise. Bite down on this, querida.ʺ He pulled her leather glove from her hand and folded it into a thick wad.

  Spybuck knelt beside him and held her arm so she would not flinch under the knife. She closed her eyes as he sank the razor‐sharp tip of the blade deeply across each puncture. Blood welled up and he put his mouth to the wounds, sucking as much as he could draw of the poison, then spitting it onto the ground.