Despite all the playacting, some things were accomplished. The party would spend the night in the council house. Arrangements for food were made and gifts were given to the chief.
Almost as an afterthought, Sanchez negotiated for the services of the young Caddo with a slight knowledge of Spanish. He could be very useful in communicating with native tribes in the interior.
And, it must be confessed, Sanchez had also realized that to have someone to order around would increase his own prestige.
“Lizard,” the young man came to be called. His name was an appellation so long and unpronounceable, full of clicks and guttural hisses, that the travelers gave up in despair.
The young guide had a rather heavy lower jaw, wide mouth and prominent cheekbones. Someone suggested that his face looked like that of a lizard and the name stuck. Neither he nor his temporary employers realized that, in fact, this was very close to a translation of his name in his own language. He had, in fact, for most of his life been called “The Lizard.”
Sanchez had made certain, partially through his charade of meaningless gibberish, that Lizard understood that he must report only to him. This gave Sanchez more control over the situation. If their interpreter and guide had no one else to whom he could report, Sanchez could manipulate any situation to his own advantage.
They set out early the next morning, Sanchez riding in the lead, with Lizard trotting on foot alongside. Again, it would be next to impossible to miss the trail and these first days would establish the cunning Sanchez as leader of the column. Later, he thought vaguely, if the situation appeared to become dangerous, that arrogant young pup Cabeza could take the lead.
6
In two sleeps, they reached the Spanish outpost. It was a jumble of thatched huts such as they had seen at the Caddo village, with one mud structure which appeared to be the headquarters building. A sentry lounged in sloppy posture against the wall at the doorway.
By heaven, thought Don Pedro, if he were a soldier of mine, he’d look alert. The old man brushed irritably past the curious sentry, followed by Cabeza and Sanchez.
A lieutenant in a soiled tunic slouched behind a desk and watched the trio curiously as their eyes adjusted to the dim light. He was not surprised. The native grapevine had brought rumors of an approaching party two days ago. He was merely puzzled as to why anyone who did not have to would spend time in this god-forsaken swelter of a gulf coast.
Don Pedro stepped forward, nodded in polite greeting, and began.
“Buenos días, amigo. I am Don Pedro Garcia. We are starting on a search for my lost son. He disappeared five years ago on an expedition to the north.”
The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “Welcome, Señor Garcia, to our poor facility.” He rose, offered chairs, and asked a young native girl to bring wine. These were obviously persons of importance.
Light conversation followed, questions about the sea crossing and about the quest. At last, the lieutenant began to move around to the point of the conversation.
“I am sorry, Señor Garcia, but I cannot allow you to cross the river. It cannot be done without the sanction of the Crown.”
Don Pedro was completely unimpressed. This was no more than he had expected. It merely signaled the opening of negotiations. He glanced at Cabeza and Sanchez sitting dejected on their stools. Ah, he would demonstrate for them the art of diplomacy.
“Well, so be it,” he shrugged.
“But, never mind,” the lieutenant was continuing. “We will enjoy your visit while you are here. Ours is a lonely existence. We are so forgotten here on the border and so undermanned and underpaid. So drink up and we will enjoy each other’s company this evening!”
He raised his glass in salute and the others did likewise.
“Ah yes,” agreed Don Pedro. “Yours must be a dedicated life, to submit to such indignities. It is a shame that you cannot be adequately repaid for your loyalty to the Crown.”
Almost unnoticed, a small bag of soft leather had appeared on the desk top in front of Garcia. The contents clinked softly as the old man gently poked it forward a short way with a gnarled forefinger. The lieutenant appeared to pay no attention, but continued to talk.
“Yes, we do our best. But with such few troops, what can I do?” He spread his palms in a helpless gesture. “We cannot even adequately patrol the river crossing. Why, even tomorrow, it must remain unguarded for most of the morning while we scout the lower crossing!”
Garcia saw with satisfaction that somewhere during the exaggerated gesturing, the bag of silver had disappeared. The contract was complete.
“One of my men will show you to an area where you may spend the night,” the lieutenant was continuing. “After you are settled, we will resume our conversation. I trust you three will dine with me?”
They followed a soldier in a shabby uniform toward an open area where their party was already preparing camp. Cabeza was plodding along at Garcia’s elbow, puzzling over the scene just past.
“Forgive me, Don Pedro,” he mused at length. “Did the lieutenant take a bribe to allow us to cross?”
At Garcia’s other albow, Sanchez snickered at the young man’s naivete. The old don glanced at him with irritation, then turned to Ramon.
“Of course not, lieutenant. You heard no mention of a bribe, did you?”
“But money changed hands.”
“Only a gift. A young officer in the service of the Crown is woefully underpaid.”
“But, I—”
“Cabeza,” snapped Don Pedro, becoming a trifle irritated, “you heard no mention of anything to be done in exchange for money, did you?”
“No, señor.”
“Very well, there is nothing more to be said.”
So, there was not. The three were royally entertained with the best dinner to be afforded on the frontier and no word was said of the coming day.
Early next morning, the now-friendly young lieutenant made a big show of good-byes and wished them a pleasant sea journey. Then he summoned his small platoon and marched stiffly through the village street and out of sight down the trail. There was silence in the encampment, except for the occasional cry of one of the native children at play.
“Come,” Garcia motioned to no one in particular. “We go.”
Quickly, they packed the baggage of the expedition and splashed across the shallow water of the ford, heading north into the unknown. The level landscape, dotted with scrubby trees, stretched away into shimmering distance. Don Pedro kneed his smooth-stepping mare up beside Sanchez.
“Which way?”
Sanchez had by now had time to reflect on his course of action. He had begun to remember some almost forgotten details of the previous expedition.
How could he have forgotten, he now wondered, day after day of the hot sun beating down on his back as they traveled? Of course, their primary direction had been north and the sun had swung in its merciless arc across the southern sky each day. He had started each morning with the sun on his right shoulder and had slumped exhausted at night with its coppery orb sinking into the horizon at his left. It would be easier this time on horseback.
A gust of hot wind struck his face as he turned to look at the straggling column behind. Yes, that had been the other thing. The wind had never ceased to blow, that livelong summer. Each day, the steady south breeze had struck full on their backs as they traveled.
Sanchez suddenly had a great resurgence of confidence in his ability. Of course he could lead the expedition. It required, at least for a time, only that they hold a generally northerly course. That, he could manage. He could gauge direction both by the sun’s position and by the prevailing south wind at their backs. He picked out a blue hilltop in the shimmering distance. That would be their landmark for the day.
Sanchez suddenly became aware that Don Pedro had repeated his question.
“Which way, Sanchez?”
The little man was exhilarated, almost drunk with the euphoria of authority. He stood in his stirrups
and, with a long, sweeping gesture, pointed at the blue shimmering hill, days to the north.
“We follow the wind!”
7
Sanchez, Garcia, and Cabeza squatted on woven rush mats in the shade of a thatched arbor. Lizard was in deep conversation with leaders of the village as the others waited.
And this village was exactly like the rest, Sanchez fretted. Another few days of travel, another village of thatched huts. Garcia insisted on questioning in depth at every stop. It was stupid, Sanchez realized. The area where the young officer had been lost was weeks further to the north. Then he became irritated at himself. Mother of God, it was almost as if for a moment he had begun to believe his own story!
Why should he care that the old don wished to give his trinkets to any chance village they encountered along the way? If it helped to keep interest alive, why not let him have his way?
Sanchez sighed and scratched his back against the pole on which he leaned. Actually, he reflected, it was relatively comfortable here in the late afternoon shade. These savages built, for summer use, a sort of open-sided arbor with thatched roof. It kept the sun from beating down the livelong day, yet let the south breezes cool the sweat. Most of the cooking, much of the living, even, was carried out in these structures during the summer months. Only in rainy or chilly weather would the Caddoes retreat to the shelter of the huts.
Sanchez let his gaze wander across the level plain to the north. It seemed to stretch to the end of the earth and Sanchez began to wonder if he had made a mistake. He had had no idea, at the beginning, how persistent Don Pedro Garcia could be. He had thought in terms of leading the expedition aimlessly for a time, until the old man became discouraged and began to tire. At that point, they could all go home, everyone richer except the Señor Garcia, who had more wealth than he needed anyway.
Somehow, it had not worked out that way at all. He, Sanchez, was becoming discouraged and tired. Don Pedro, on the other hand, appeared younger and more vigorous than at the start. He was thriving on this life. The first time Sanchez had seen the old don, he had appeared just that. A tired old aristocrat, limping from ancient battle wounds and arthritis and mourning the loss of his only son.
Now old Garcia seemed decades younger. To observe him from a distance, as he sat the gray mare with military bearing, one would think of him as a soldier in the prime of life. There was no indication that he had any intention of backing down from this search until his mission was resolved. It seemed that he fully expected to find evidence of his son, either alive, or firm proof of his death.
Sanchez exhaled a sigh of frustration. What if no evidence were ever found? Would the old man continue to press to the north until they all died in the unknown land? Just how far, Sanchez wondered, could one travel to the north? Might they not be trapped in a climate impossible for survival as winter descended? If worst came to worst, he wondered if there were enough men who could be counted on to mutiny and refuse to throw their lives away.
He was afraid not. The expedition seemed a tight-knit, loyal, and enthusiastic unit. The lancers, handpicked by Lieutenant Cabeza, seemed to take so much pride in their platoon that it appeared they would follow their young officer into hell itself. The crossbowmen, well-paid professional soldiers, likewise seemed proud of their position with the expedition. As for the others, most were Garcia family servants. Some had been with the Garcias for generations and would undoubtedly die for the old don if it were requested.
Sanchez was always alert for an alternative course of action which would allow him flexibility in case he saw opportunity. This was his entire way of survival—to change loyalties when it seemed profitable. His frustration now was based largely on the fact that his choices were so limited. The reluctant scoundrel was being carried along on the crest of a wave of loyalty and enthusiasm. How very odd that everyone else in the party shared this feeling, when the whole mission had been the creation of Sanchez in the first place.
He glanced over at the conversation in progress between Lizard and the chief squatting across from him. Suddenly, all his attention was focused on the two. The chief was gesturing and nodding eagerly, pointing northward and holding up his spread fingers.
Don Pedro leaned forward and spoke sharply to Sanchez.
“What does he say?”
Lizard was listening intently to the rapidly talking native. After what seemed an eternity, he turned to the others, a look of mixed wonderment and pleasure on his face.
“Him say yes, hair-face boy! Big medicine.” He pointed to the north. “Him six, maybe seven sleeps.”
Garcia was bubbling over with questions and, for some time, the awkward conversation continued. Actually, little new information was gained. The basic message was the original one.
A few days’ travel to the north, there was apparently a village where a young hair-faced man lived. He was regarded with special honor of some sort. Beyond that information, the conversation was limited, both by language problems and by lack of any actual knowledge on the part of their informants. The story was mostly hearsay. There was apparently no one in this village who had actually seen the hair-face. They had only heard rumors.
Nevertheless, Don Pedro Garcia was convinced that the young man they told of would prove to be his son. He could hardly wait to begin the next day’s travel.
Sanchez was not so certain. There was something here that did not ring true. The entire thing was too easy. Certainly, the story told by these savages fit precisely that which he had fabricated for the old don. That bothered him considerably to start with. How could any set of actual facts coincide with the series of falsehoods which came entirely from his own imagination? He shook his head in bewilderment.
The others could not understand the hesitance of Sanchez. The entire membership of the Garcia expedition was jubilant. The slim chance that had led the party halfway around the world was about to pay off. Ah, the honor that would be their lot if the mission were a success. Some possibly even thought of the generosity of Don Pedro. His gratitude toward those who had taken part in the rescue of his son would be beyond belief.
Under normal circumstances, those would have been the thoughts of Sanchez. But not now. His confused thoughts seemed to whirl in his head. Sanchez had to get away to think.
He walked a little way from the village, moving aimlessly, but in the general direction of their travel. A jumble of rock gleamed whitish in the pale twilight and he stopped to sit. Behind him in the village, Sanchez could hear the revelry. Don Pedro had ordered a ration of wine for all and spirits were high.
This was probably the first time in history that Sanchez had missed an opportunity for free wine. He even neglected to seek female companionship as he usually did during these night stops. This fact reaffirmed the seriousness of this thought as he watched the dusk deepen and the stars begin to appear. The breeze at his back was not unpleasant and it was good to be alone to collect his thoughts. He watched the sky in the north until the Pole Star appeared.
Mother of God, Sanchez thought, how is it that everyone believes my story but me?
There could be no chance that this might be the son of Don Pedro Garcia, could there? He had been lost many weeks further north. But the natives had said, through Lizard, the interpreter, that this young hair-faced person was “big medicine.” Certainly, it seemed reasonable that the son of Don Pedro, if alive, would be the recipient of honor of some sort.
A soft step behind him brought Sanchez to his feet with a start. Ramon Cabeza stepped out of the dusk and motioned the other to resume his seat. He joined him on a nearby rock.
“Sanchez, you are troubled.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Oh no, señor,” Sanchez whined, adopting his groveling peon attitude. “I only—”
“Stop!” Cabeza waved him to silence impatiently. “I mean you no trouble.”
There was a long silence while Sanchez waited uneasily. What could the young lieutenant want? At last, the younger man
spoke again.
“Sanchez, you and I are very different, but I think we want the same thing.”
Sanchez was startled. Was the scrupulously loyal officer of lancers ruled by greed, also?
“We want only the best for Don Pedro Garcia,” Cabeza continued.
Ah yes, thought Sanchez. It is not that he is a scoundrel, but that he trusts me to be as honest as he. And that is good. When one trusts you, he is easier to deceive.
“None of us have been as far north as this, except you. And you are troubled. What is it, Sanchez? Do you doubt this story we have heard today?”
Something about an honest question with no ulterior motive made Sanchez give an honest answer. He dropped the fawning attitude and spoke straight to the other, man-to-man.
“I do not know, señor. The story is right, but the place is wrong. It should be many weeks to the north.”
“Many weeks?” The other was incredulous. “How big is this country?”
Sanchez spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Who knows? I only know that we traveled many weeks to get to the place where the young Garcia was lost.”
He paused, confused. He had nearly admitted to the young officer that he did not actually know where they were going. He tried to assume a more knowledgeable air.
“The savages there live in a different sort of house, a tent made of leather. They hunt the humpbacked cattle for food.”
Cabeza nodded. He had heard of the shaggy buffalo, but they had seen only a few scattered herds at a distance. It was still difficult for him to comprehend the vastness of the prairie ahead.
“Very well. But whether this is the one we seek or not, I will count on you. I will not have Don Pedro hurt if we can avoid it.”
There was only a hint of a veiled threat, which indicated the young officer not quite as naïve as Sanchez had thought. But there was also the sincere request, the asking of cooperation from an individual who, by implication, Cabeza was approaching as an equal. The implied approval was almost more than Sanchez could bear. He swelled with pride.
Follow the Wind Page 3
