Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Orlena ran to the doorway between the sitting room and Conalʹs bedchamber to embrace him with a girlish hug and a squeal of delight greatly at variance with her seductive attire. ʺConal, I knew you would not be far from my brother the day before your adventure begins!ʺ

  Slowly Quinn released her and sighed. Quirking a reddish brow sardonically, he said, ʺAdventure, Butterfly? We are banished to a land of sand and scorpions.

  You would do well to remain here in the seat of power, in luxury. You cannot imagine what hardships await a gently reared woman in New Spain.ʺ

  As he knew it would, Orlenaʹs lower lip stuck out in a pout. ʺOh, bother hardships!ʺ Then she darted a glance at Santiago and her eyes conveyed a message to Conal.

  ʺSantiago, fetch us some cool wine from the antechamber. Go slow and see you do not spill it.ʺ Conal closed the door and turned expectantly to her, waiting.

  ʺGabriel tried to rape me this morning.ʺ As his face hardened menacingly, she tersely described the disgusting encounter and her subsequent interview with Ignacio. She finished by saying quietly, ʺSo you see, I must either go with you or my brother will force me into a convent here, for surely I will not wed that aged lecher.ʺ Her voice was now choked with revulsion.

  Conal had always observed that Orlena had an open, affectionate nature with most people. She craved attention and love, but there was always a wariness to her, some part of her untouched, afraid, hidden away. Often he had idly speculated about how she would react in her marriage bed, concluding that there was passion in herif only the right man unleashed it. He took her in his arms and held her, soothing her sobs.

  ʺAh, Butterfly, do not cry, please,ʺ he crooned. ʺIt quite unmans me.ʺ

  She looked up with infinite trust, her wide eyes unblinking, hopeful.

  ʺIt will take some craft, but mayhap we can smuggle you aboard ship!ʺ he said with a mock sigh of surrender.

  Orlenaʹs cry of joy was drowned out by her younger brother. With a whoop, Santiago deposited his tray on the table and catapulted into their arms. In the excitement, no one noticed that he had overturned the decanter. Blood red wine dripped off the edge of the marble table and seeped into the carpet.

  Chihuahua City, Fall 1787

  ʺIt has changed little in the past two years,ʺ the tall man clothed only in breechclout and moccasins said. He slid effortlessly from his horse, hidden deep in the shadows of the cottonwoods outside the Franciscan mission. Swift and silent as the night wind for which he was named, he walked to the other horse and lifted a crumpled man from its back. The riderʹs body was slick with blood and the horse snorted and shied nervously. ʺEasy, boy, easy,ʺ Night Wind said as he soothed the horse with a melodic whisper. He turned to his injured companion and asked, ʺAre you able to walk?ʺ

  ʺI will walk,ʺ the man gritted out in pain. ʺBut these white men, will they not betray us to the soldiers?ʺ

  Night Wind smiled as he helped his friend. ʺOnly wait, Hoarse Bark. The priest is he who rescued me when we escaped the mines.ʺ

  ʺThe one who taught you white ways all those years ago?ʺ Hoarse Bark echoed in amazement.

  ʺI have visited him often over the years,ʺ Night Wind said dryly, recalling all the fierce arguments and sweet reasonableness with which Fray Bartolome had tried to woo him to pacifism. And here he was again, risking death or slavery with yet another fugitive. When they reached the side door in the mission wall, Night Wind helped Hoarse Bark lean against the cool, rough adobe. He agilely slipped over the wall and then slid the bolt on the iron gate.

  ʺCome quickly,ʺ he commanded, helping his companion through the dense garden foliage toward a dim light burning in the rear of a low building beyond the church.

  At the light tapping on his door, Fray Bartolome put aside the book he had been reading. He shoved back the massive oak chair and stood, rubbing his tired eyes, then walked to the door and opened it.

  ʺI might have known it would be you, Joaquín. It is past midnight,ʺ he said sourly, opening the door wider to admit the half‐caste and his injured companion.

  ʺAnd I might have known you would be up reading even though it is well past midnight.ʺ Joaquínʹs expression was warm as he looked at the older man who for thirteen years had been his mentor in the white world. ʺI have brought a friend. I hope that was a medical treatise, not the life of Saint Francis you were reading. Hoarse Bark needs help.ʺ

  ʺThrough that door. Let us put him on my bed and I will look at him. Hoarse Bark,ʺ Fray Bartolome echoed. ʺHe is the Mescalero boy from the mines? You have not seen him in all these years!ʺ

  Joaquín helped the priest stretch Hoarse Bark on the bed in the adjacent room.

  ʺWe encountered one another by chance only this morning, Father.ʺ

  As he examined the youthʹs shoulder, the priest grunted, ʺAnd this encounter did not perchance involve soldiers or mine owners?ʺ One shaggy greying eyebrow arched in disapproval.

  ʺOnly their mules, several dozen destined to pull the arrastras at Señor Hurtadesʹ

  gold mines,ʺ Joaquín said impenitently. ʺHoarse Bark and his Mescaleros had the same idea I did, but the Spanish had laid a trap with extra soldiers in ambush.

  My men were fortunate to escape unscathed, but only a small handful of Hoarse Barkʹs companions were as blessed.ʺ

  ʺBlessed!ʺ The priest snorted as he brought a basin of clean water and bandages from the crude oak cabinet. ʺYour vendetta against slavery in the mines is understandable, my son, but sooner or later the soldiers will entrap you and those who follow you.ʺ

  The argument was one they had often had over the years. Both men knew how useless it was, but neither would abandon his convictions. Joaquín, Fray Bartolomeʹs brilliant young pupil, had lived for seven years at the mission, absorbing every bit of information he could about his Spanish conquerors. He had learned how to pass among them with detested disguises as a ʺTame Indian.ʺ He could speak Castillian Spanish as fluently as a scholar when the occasion suited him, yet he had spent most of his time for the past six years living with a small band of Lipans in the Guadalupe Mountains.

  ʺNight Wind will never be caught, holy man,ʺ Hoarse Bark said, ignoring the sharp agony of his bloodied shoulder while the priest cleaned it and probed with a sharp knife for the bullet lodged in the flesh.

  ʺNight Wind is it? Your reputation precedes you from Durango to Santa Fe, Joaquín. I have been hearing stories of an infamous raider and his band of renegades. Apaches who steal and kill. Small wonder you have had no time in the past two years to visit me and the good brothers here!ʺ

  ʺI will not defend how I live,ʺ Joaquín said in weary resignation. Shrugging helplessly, he added, ʺI am sorry I have not come to see you sooner.ʺ

  The priest raised his eyes from the stoic Mescalero and stared at the tall, hard-looking young man standing beside him. Joaquín looked for all the world like an embarrassed schoolboy unable to complete his Latin conjugations.

  ʺHurmph. For killing and stealing you have no guilt. For neglecting your old teacher you are stricken with it.ʺ The priest broke into a sad, gentle smile. ʺMy son, you cannot continue to move between the Apache and Spanish worlds, living as a raider. You could build a life helping the Indians. War and plunder only bring more Spanish guns.ʺ

  ʺYes, I plunder Spanish mines and kill Spanish soldiers. Think you if I stoppedif all those like me laid down their armsthat it would do any good? The conquerors would turn all able‐bodied Indians into slaves and butcher the infirm like cattle!ʺ

  Joaquín watched Fray Bartolome shake his head, and noticed for the first time the gray that tinged his dark hair.

  The priest bandaged the Mescaleroʹs shoulder after applying a poultice to the wound. Then he said quietly, ʺIf you and those such as you would teach the others what you have learned of white civilization, a compromise might be reached. The day of the nomadic society of the hunters passed for the Europeans.

  So must it, too, for the Indians.ʺ

  ʺWould you have us live li
ke the Pueblo?ʺ Joaquín asked with contempt in his voice.

  ʺThey live in peace and keep many of their old ways,ʺ the priest argued.

  Joaquínʹs voice was laced with irony. ʺYes, they are allowed to live in peace if they adopt the Christian religion and pay the Spanish tax collectors.ʺ

  ʺWe speak of survival, Joaquín, not the uncompromising triumph of the Indian way. As to the religion . . .ʺ his voice trailed away as the old confusion and doubt again assailed him. ʺI have been too long in the wilderness and have seen too much. I do not know, my son, if God wants his sheep brought to him at the point of Spanish swords.ʺ

  ʺYou know it is wrong,ʺ Joaquín countered, then relented. ʺOften the Church is the only thing which stands between my people and outright destruction at the hands of the Spanish military. You saved my lifenow Hoarse Barkʹs lifeand many others over the years. If only more white men were like you and the brothers.ʺ

  The priest covered the Mescalero with a coarse cotton sheet. ʺHe needs nourishment. Come. I will warm some good hot soup to strengthen him, and you will tell me all that has passed since last you left us.ʺ

  Much later, as the first pink streaks of dawn cast a soft glow of light across the earthen floor, the priest and the half‐caste still sat across from one another in the front room of the cabin, which was Fray Bartolomeʹs library and work room.

  Rude and bare but for the startlingly large collection of books, it served his simple needs well.

  ʺI am sorry beyond measure for your wifeʹs death. I will pray for her soul . . . that is, if you do not think her Apache gods would mind?ʺ the priest said after Joaquín had told him of his marriage nearly two years ago and his wifeʹs death from smallpox. It explained much about Joaquínʹs long absence. He had been grieving. The white men who brought the disease had given Night Wind another reason to hate them. Fray Bartolome sighed sadly. ʺAlways I had hoped you would settle down and have a family.ʺ

  Joaquínʹs drawn face softened a bit. ʺI have found a family, Father. When a Lipan takes a wife, even if she dies, still he is bound to her parents. I live with Slim Reedʹs family and provide for them.ʺ

  ʺI am glad of their consolation, but I can see your soul is in pain,ʺ Fray Bartolome said simply.

  Joaquín arched one slim black brow. ʺAnd I know you will pray to the Christian God for me as well as for Slim Reed.ʺ Gratitude for the older manʹs unconditional friendship was written plainly on his face.

  ʺYou have become used to white ways. Green‐Eyed Boy would never have spoken the name of one departed. But I fear you have lost the Apache religion without gaining the Christian one.ʺ

  Joaquín shrugged. ʺAs you said, Father, I live between two worlds. I may be equipped by education to assume a place in the white manʹs world, but not by race. I am only half white. I do what I must do.ʺ He shrugged and looked away.

  ʺYou can choose another path. Leave vengeance behind, Joaquín.ʺ The priestʹs gray eyes glowed with intensity as he forced the young man to meet his gaze.

  ʺWhen you came here an abused and mistrustful child, I convinced you to be baptized and I chose your Christian name. At first I could not think why Joaquín suggested itself to me. Now I understand. Perhaps someday you will as well.ʺ He paused, then said, ʺThe name Joaquín is of Hebrew origin. While studying the Old Testament several years ago, I learned its literal meaning.ʺ His eyes warmed with mirth. ʺA very literal people, the Hebrews, with much to admire in their civilization.ʺ

  ʺDo not let the Holy Office hear you speak so. They would have you burned as a Jew,ʺ Joaquín replied with irony. ʺYour tolerance for Indians has already made you suspect.ʺ

  ʺI will take my chances. Only remember this when you next ride away from here.

  Joaquín means, The Lord Will Judge.ʺ

  A smile curved the younger manʹs lips. ʺPerhaps your Lord has chosen the Night Wind as the instrument of his judgment.ʺ

  Chapter 4

  For several days as Hoarse Bark mended, Joaquín stayed at the mission. Dressed in the white cotton pants and shirt of a paisano, a mixed‐blooded peasant farmer, he would go into the city during the day to learn about the movements of Spanish troops and shipments of gold. His nights he spent with the brothers at the mission, renewing old acquaintances with the frail, elderly Domingo and the naive, younger Alonzo. He and Fray Bartolome would argue philosophy, history, and literature far into the cool fall evenings. This was a time of respite and tranquility for his troubled spirit. He knew that when the Mescalero was able to travel, they would rejoin his raiders in the mountains and resume their guerilla war on the whites. Hoarse Bark, who had lost the last of his family in the raid when he was injured, had chosen to join Night Wind in his vendetta.

  However, the last thing on Joaquínʹs mind as he greeted the fruit vendors and leather carvers of the huge public market in the plaza was revenge. He wended his way across the crowded square, past mules laden with the pungent cargo of citrus fruits and chocolate from the south and stiff, odoriferous buffalo hides from the northwest. Long reddish‐brown chains of chilies hung innocently in the warm morning air, their incredible potency seemingly shriveled by the sun.

  He passed old Señora Quiros as she briskly stirred lime into a boiling pot filled with corn husks. Her daughter was busy at her stone metate, grinding the softened, husked corn into a paste, which she then efficiently shaped into thin cakes. The smell of the fresh tortillas filled the air and Joaquín stopped to buy several from her.

  The pretty young paisana looked at the handsome stranger with liquid brown eyes that reminded him of Slim Reed. Simple trust and honesty shone forth in her round, placid face. Fleetingly he considered bedding her, but he knew the probability that her confession of lying with a half‐caste stranger would come to Fray Bartolomeʹs ears. He was one of only three priests in residence for the whole of Chihuahua City, whose population exceeded five thousand Catholic souls. He regretfully decided against indulging his sexual appetite and bought several more tortillas to appease his stomach instead.

  As he munched and strolled with deceptive casualness through the huge plaza, he listened and observed. Chihuahua City was the headquarters for the military command of all the northern internal provinces. A great deal of information came through servants of the ricos, people who were invaluable to their high and mighty Spanish masters.

  As he sat cleaning chickens in front of his small butcher stall, one shopkeeper said, ʹʹThe new governor of the province of New Mexico arrived last evening on his journey to Santa Fe. They say he is a brave soldier who received many honors from his Catholic Majesty at the Spanish court.ʺ

  ʺHah!ʺ another merchant sweeping chicken feathers from his doorway snorted in disgust. ʺSome honor. New Mexico is full of wild Apache and Comanche. I do not envy this Spaniard his job!ʺ

  So, the most isolated of all the internal provinces was to have a new governor.

  Some Spanish soldier turned courtier, Joaquín mused to himself. Perhaps he would head to the west side of the plaza toward the military academy and barracks where an official visitor would most likely be housed. He could size up his new adversary first hand before the governor even reached his post.

  When he arrived at the military headquarters, a large crowd had assembled to view the celebrity as he and his entourage departed with due pomp. Joaquín saw a large contingent of smartly dressed soldiers, obviously dispatched from the City of Mexico to serve as personal escort for the governor. No provincials ever had uniforms that matched, much less the latest in Miquelet Lock muskets. The new governor must be taking his ease for a day or two before the next leg of his arduous trek, for the soldiers were preparing for an inspection, not a journey. A nice show of imperial authority here in the hinterlands, Joaquín thought in amusement. Then his eyes followed those of one young lieutenant. A young woman stood in the archway of a courtyard off the commanderʹs palace, arguing with an older woman. Their voices became increasingly strident as a boy rode up with a magnificent bay stallion in tow, rigged
with a ladyʹs sidesaddle. Stamping her foot, the imperious girl whirled away from her frowning dueña and headed toward the skittish horse. Joaquín wended his way past the gawkers at the parade inspection toward the secluded garden. The beautiful señorita merited a closer look. Often he found women of the nobility to be most useful sources of information and other amusements. When he was about twenty feet from her, he could see her delicately beautiful face and the burnished magnificence of her hair. ʺLike old Spanish coins,ʺ he murmured to himself.

  Her coloring was indeed unusual, a deep, rich gold matched by large gold eyes with thick dark lashes. Such elegant blonde perfection marked her as a Castilian aristocrat, most probably the governorʹs wife or a mistress brought from Madrid.

  Her lisping Castilian accent confirmed his guess as he heard her arguing with the boy, who had dismounted in front of her.

  ʺPapa will be furious, Orlena. He forbade your riding this horse. Doña Inez will tell on us,ʺ the boy implored.

  ʺOh, bother the old harridan! Santiago, I abhor these rude colonials and their foolish pretensions. She would doubtless prefer I ride in one of the woodenwheeled baggage carts all the way to Santa Fe! Any of His Majestyʹs stables would yield horses as spirited as this one and Iʹve ridden the best of them since I was younger than you.ʺ