by tiffy
ʺBut you are a girl,ʺ the adolescent protested.
ʺBah! I will deal with Conal when he returns. You know he always gives us whatever we want,ʺ she replied blithely as she mounted gracefully without so much as a leg up from the youth.
Joaquín stood in the shadows, considering the girlʹs words. This Santiago must be the new governorʹs son, now brought within his grasp! ʺLet us see if I cannot rob him of his whelp,ʺ he whispered. Joaquín watched the pair through slitted eyes as they rode down a narrow back street, a stupid, dangerous lark for two unarmed children. Chihuahua City was a frontier outpost in a savage wilderness where the Spanish peasantry was as capable of violence against the nobility as were the marauding Apaches.
Looking at the palace, Joaquín concluded that the governor was too well guarded to reach easily, but the road between Chihuahua and Santa Fe was a long one. He had much time to ponder his plans. For now, he decided to follow Santiago and the golden‐haired woman. Somehow that one did not have the look of a bride in a MayDecember marriage. She was obviously too young to be the boyʹs mother; he concluded that she must be the governorʹs mistress.
Quickly crossing the plaza, he mounted Warpaint, his large piebald stallion standing untethered beyond a copse of cottonwoods. Cutting across back streets, Joaquín quickly caught up with his quarry, then followed them at a discreet distance as a plan began to form in his mind.
The haughty Europeans rode imperiously by paisanas toiling in small garden plots, their horsesʹ hooves stirring up dust that blew into the womenʹs faces.
ʺThey act as if they are two schoolchildren on a holiday,ʺ he muttered, adding a fitting Spanish oath. When they headed outside town past the large, ugly slag heaps created by the ore smelting, he was disgusted with their stupidity. The mines to the north were no place for a beautiful woman with only a boy to protect her.
Suddenly, a pair of men rode out from behind a mountain of debris, a string of pack mules trailing behind the second fellow. They were guards sent to town for supplies and their eyes lit on the golden vision materialized before them. ʺEh, Pablo, look at what we have here,ʺ the fat one said as he blocked Orlenaʹs path.
She wrinkled her nose at the stench of his unwashed body.
ʺLet us pass,ʺ she commanded in her most arrogant voice. When they did not move, she suddenly wished that, instead of her most elegant riding habit, she had donned the boyʹs disguise she had worn on her flight from Spain.
ʺI am the son of the governor of New Mexico, and this is my sister! Touch her and Don Conal will kill you without mercy,ʺ Santiago said as he tried to get between Orlena and the two ruffians.
The cadaverous one grinned evilly, revealing rotted black teeth. ʺSome high and mighty rich boy.ʺ Without warning his right arm snaked out, and the heavy whip stock he was carrying knocked Santiago from his horse. He fell to the earth in an unconscious heap.
Orlena pulled her quirt back and slashed furiously at her brotherʹs assailant, screaming, ʺIf you have harmed my brother I will kill you, filthy colonial rabble!ʺ
The fat man maneuvered his horse behind her as she struggled with the thin guard. With a grunt he dragged her from her saddle. Orlena kicked and cried as she attempted to use her little whip on him, all to no avail. He pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her across his saddle like a prize of war.
ʺYou must share with me, mano,ʺ the thin one said petulantly. ʺLet us take her behind that hill where the earth is soft with fresh mud. The boy is dead. He will not bother us.ʺ
With a grunt the fat man agreed, turning his horse to ride between the hillocks of mine refuse. His companion followed him, leading their mules. They ignored Santiago, who lay in the road.
Joaquín heard Orlenaʹs screams and urged Warpaint into a gallop. Pulling a wicked‐looking knife from a hidden sheath beneath his trouser leg, he checked the Miquelet Lock pistol he had withdrawn from his saddlebag. By the time he found the boy struggling to rise from the middle of the road, he could see no trace of Orlena. Both horses stood near Santiago, but the womanʹs bay backed skittishly away when he reined in his horse.
Santiagoʹs face was chalky with terror. ʺOrlena,ʺ he rasped at the hard‐looking man armed with knife and pistol. ʺThose men, they will hurt herʺ
A sharp scream, followed by a guttural curse rang out. Joaquín wheeled Warpaint toward the source of the noise. He found the girl pinned to the soft, muddy earth near a sluggish stream. Her skirts were being shoved up by a fat, greasy‐looking Spaniard while another one held her arms in a cruel grip. Her hat had been knocked off and great masses of dark gold hair lay spilled on the grey earth as she thrashed.
He took careful aim and shot the fat one through the center of his back, then slid from Warpaint, racing toward the thin man, who released the girlʹs arms and quickly drew the knife from his belt. Joaquín jumped him and they rolled through the soft mud in a blur.
Orlena was crushed beneath the dead guardʹs weight, struggling to free herself from the stench of lust and death. She could feel his blood on her hand as she pushed at his body. With a final shudder, she shoved him away and sat up to view the battle raging between her other attacker and her rescuer.
Just then the slim, dark stranger rolled up over his adversary and pinned him to the muddy earth with one knee on his chest. Grabbing the long, greasy hair of the guard, the paisano pulled it to bare the manʹs neck, which he cleanly slashed from side to side Orlena quickly averted her eyes from the gory spectacle, fighting down waves of nausea.
Blessed Mother, how she hated swooning women! She struggled to her feet as the stranger rose from his handiwork. After cleaning his knife on the shirt of the corpse, he carelessly sheathed it beneath a full trouser leg.
In a few lithe, silent strides he approached her, then stopped. Orlena pulled her torn blouse together and tried to hide the swell of her breasts from his piercing eyes. She could feel their cold green glare of assessment sweep her body. Pulling her muddied hair like a cloak across her shoulders to cover the irreparable damage to her clothing, she returned his bold perusal with a regal stare, then spoke. ʺDid you see a young boy with red hairʺ
ʺThe governorʹs cub is harmed no worse than you,ʺ he answered curtly in perfect Spanish. Joaquín felt a surge of desire squeeze the breath from him. The courtesanʹs haughty manner enhanced rather than detracted from her beauty.
The sweet‐faced wholesomeness of the girl in the market paled in comparison with this woman. How he would love to humble this Orlena and have her beg him for loving, as so many other fine Spanish ladies had done!
Before Orlena could decide whether he was a rescuer or another brigand, she heard the thunder of horses and Santiagoʹs shout, ʺPapa!ʺ
With an oath snarled in a strange dialect, the dark stranger slipped past her and vaulted onto the back of his magnificent horse. Wheeling the stallion around with the lightest touch of his knee, he rode in the opposite direction.
Orlena stood for a moment watching the fluid grace of man and animal meld perfectly. Then she realized that he had mounted from the right. The horseʹs saddle, if the strapped‐on blanket and minimal stirrups could be called such, was Indian. He was Indian! Or at least, of mixed blood, a casta, whose finely chiseled features betrayed his heritage. Terrified, she turned and ran with her torn skirts hiked up to her knees.
Conal frantically embraced Santiago and examined him. ʺI should horsewhip you! Are you injured?ʺ He examined the cut swelling into a bloody lump on the boyʹs temple.
Although seeing double and still disoriented, Santiago croaked out, ʺOrlenathe other man went to help her. Two men attacked us and dragged her there.ʺ He pointed to the path between the hills.
When Orlena rounded the hill at a run, Joaquín watched Santiago race to embrace her. The boyʹs father walked toward them in long, furious strides. Even from his observation point on the top of the hillock, Joaquín could sense the governorʹs leashed fury. They were yelling angrily. He could not discern their words from such a long distan
ce, but he had seen enough to have his answer.
The governor loved the son who was his mirror image. How would he like to see the boy raised as a Lipan?
Three hours later Joaquínʹs smile was calculating as he rode in a roundabout course toward the mission. He had spent the afternoon in the city learning about the new governor of New Mexico, his son, and the mysterious woman who traveled with them. His revenge would begin in Santa Fe.
Orlena sat in the hot, cramped quarters assigned her by the Commandantʹs wife.
The room was stultifying, with its low ceiling, narrow windows, and crude plank floor. Heat seemed to radiate up from the floorboards. The rug was threadbare, and the dark pine furniture was crudely fashioned. It left splinters in her hands and tore her gowns.
As soon as she could escape Conalʹs scowling, furious presence, she had slipped upstairs to her room and undressed, ordering a bath. Santiago had nearly been murdered and sheOrlena forced her thoughts away from the filthy brutes who would have done such hideous things to her body. She could still smell the sour stench of sweaty wool jackets and grimy hands on her skin.
ʺWhy do not those lazy half‐caste servants bring the water,ʺ she gritted out.
Orlena found herself shivering in the heat and went to lie down. She could still hear Conalʹs wrathful voice accusing her with deadly quiet intensity. Her adventure had nearly cost his son and her their lives. She felt miserable and guilty and defiled all at once.
Just then a knock at the door signaled the arrival of her bath water. Slipping on her robe, she opened the door to a stocky Indian servant. He walked in and began dumping the first of the two enormous pails of warm water into the hip bath near the window. She watched his straight black hair swing across his face as he bent over. The muscles bunched and rippled beneath his thin cotton shirt as he worked. When he turned, his task completed, he did not wait for her dismissal but hefted the buckets and walked past her. His expressionless face stared through her as if she were invisible.
Orlena closed the door with a shudder of distaste. She supposed she should have thanked him, but she felt unreasoningly angry at the slow, sullen Indian servants she had encountered in the long journey from the City of Mexico. Increasingly, her great adventure was turning into a greater nightmare with every mile they traveled northward.
Slipping into the warm water, to which she had added jasmine scent, Orlena tried to relax her aching muscles, but her mind would not be still. She wondered if the Indian servant spoke Spanish. The halfcaste who killed her attackers did.
Perfect Spanish, not the crude dialect of the tame Indians, which she found so difficult to understand here in the north.
Every time she closed her eyes, a swarthy yet startlingly European face materialized in her mind. There was something about him, a leashed fury that baffled but also intrigued her.
In her years at the royal court, Orlena had learned that she was beautiful and that many men desired her, but she was used to playing by clearly laid‐down rules, fending off amorous advances and controlling every situation. She knew the stranger also had desired her, but there was more. He despised himself for it! The thought made her sit up in the tub, splashing water onto the floor.
The shivering began again in spite of the noon heat. She hugged herself, feeling the tips of her breasts harden and her abdomen clench. His sneering, handsome face swam before her eyes. She could see the lean, muscular contours of his body outlined through his thin cotton paisanoʹs clothes, see the smooth, catlike grace of his stride as he approached her. What would have happened if Conal had not arrived just then? Would he have touched her? Have done that terrible, disgusting thing to her that men did to make women pregnant? She forced the thought from her mind and reached for a towel. Would it be too much to hope that she could have a maid in Santa Feone who was not an Indian? As she dressed, she concentrated on how to placate Conalʹs anger and get back in his good graces. <><><><><><><><><><><><> As he rode into the deepening shadows of the cottonwoods behind the mission, Joaquín slowed his horse. Why did the richness of dark golden hair and fathomless amber eyes beckon him, as if she would suddenly materialize from behind the trees? She was the governorʹs woman. That alone should have been enough to cause revulsion, not lust. And she was a highborn creature of the decadent Spanish court, spoiled, haughty, and doubtless with the morals of an alley cat. He swore as he dismounted. ʺI would probably catch syphilis! Damn, concentrate on the governor and his son. I have much to do to capture the boy unharmed. The task will not be an easy one.ʺ
Fray Bartolome and the other brothers were just finishing their evening repast when Joaquín walked into the simple dining room of the mission, looking haggard and preoccupied. The priest saw him and smiled. ʺHoarse Bark must be recovered. He has snared two rabbits and is roasting them out in the orchard over an open fire. We have beans and tortillas if you would prefer.ʺ
Joaquín nodded at the assembled men and said, ʺI thank you for the hospitality and apologize for being late for dinner. Perhaps some wild rabbit would taste good, though.ʺ He smiled slightly and added, ʺTwo fat hares are too much for one skinny Mescalero to eat all by himself.ʺ
Later that evening, as they sat reading in his study, Fray Bartolome looked at Joaquín and said quietly, ʺYou have seen him, havenʹt you?ʺ
Very slowly Joaquín put the book he had been uselessly staring at down beside his chair. ʺI should have known you would hear. Does nothing that occurs between Durango and Texas escape your notice?ʺ
ʺYou have your sources. I have mine as well. Learning that the Commandant General has as his house guest the new governor of our northern province would scarcely be a matter to be kept secret in a city the size of Chihuahua.ʹʹ The priest studied Joaquín. ʺYou have fed on your hate for so long, my son. What will you do now? Waste your life in a futile attempt to kill him and be cut down by his soldiers?ʺ
Joaquínʹs sculpted lips smiled, but his expression was brittle as mica. ʺI give you my solemn word, Father Bartolome, I do not plan to kill the governor. As to retribution . . . perhaps it comes in a way neither he nor you can imagine.ʺ
Chapter 5
Orlena swore as her riding skirt snagged and ripped on the sharp, curved spurs of a catclaw bush. Reining in the bay stallion, she struggled to free herself as Conal signaled for their caravan to stop.
ʺThis accursed place is nothing but cactus and scorpions, I fear, a sad place indeed for a butterfly,ʺ he said as he guided his horse near hers. The low, grayish‐green shrub snagged at his heavy jacket, but he pulled it free with a careless shrug. ʺGod, but I hate this place! It rivals the lowest pit of hell!ʺ
Orlena, who had freed her skirts, looked up at him and smiled gamely. ʺAh, no.
We should only be so fortunate, Conal. The lowest level of hell, Dante tells us, is naught but ice.ʺ She wiped the trickling perspiration from her brow, wishing for a cool draught of water.
He laughed heartily and signaled to the lieutenant to resume their ride. ʺI sometimes wish you had not cajoled me into letting you take lessons with Santiago.ʺ His eyes narrowed on her beautiful profile as she rode beside him.
ʺYou are entirely too erudite for a female.ʺ
ʺWhy? Because I catch you out in your literary allusions?ʺ She appeared to ponder, liking the new game that took her mind off the heat and the barren, mesquite‐infested wilderness. ʺOr, perhaps, you mislike my bookishness for the same reasons Ignacio did. I shall be an old maid and a burden to you for the rest of your life.ʺ
His face became shuttered and somber. ʺWould that be so terrible, Butterfly? To spend the rest of your days at my side?ʺ
Before Orlena could frame a reply to his oddly disconcerting question, Santiago came galloping across the rolling dusty ground, shouting to them.
ʺLook you, ahead! There is a line of tall poplar trees. The sergeant says it means water. Can we swim, Papa?ʺ
ʺLearn one thing about this harsh land quickly, son. Water enough to keep a man alive and water enough in whi
ch to swim are not at all the same thing.ʺ
ʺYou mean because the streams go underground during the summer and we must dig in the sand just to find water for drinking?ʺ the boy asked.
Conal grunted in approval. ʺI see you are learning some things about survival.
We will camp by those poplars tonight. By my remembrance, we should reach Santa Fe within the week.ʺ
ʺThank the Blessed Virgin and all the Holy Angels,ʺ Orlena breathed.
ʺDo not expect too much, Butterfly. Remember, this is New Mexico.ʺ
Looking about at the jagged purple mountains surrounding them and the exotic clumps of tuna cactus and catclaw bushes at their feet, Orlena laughed. ʺHow could I ever forget where I am, Conal?ʺ
ʺAre you sorry you left Madrid?ʺ
She shook her head, remembering the scheming plans of Ignacio and the cruel hands of Gabriel. ʺNo, Conal, I am not sorry. Not sorry at all.ʺ
As they continued to climb to higher elevations, the oppressive heat eased. The foothills were covered with oaks, pines, and cedars, and the air was filled with their perfume. After their rude accommodations in all the smaller villages along the seemingly endless journey, Orlena began to dream of the governorʹs palace and sleeping in a real bed. Surely the crude architecture that typified housing along the northern course of the Rio Grande would not be repeated in the provincial capital!
When they saw the twin spires of a church in the gray haze of the distance, Orlenaʹs heart leaped. Albuquerque had possessed no church as worthy as this!
But the closer they drew, the more disheartened she became. The physical beauty of the cityʹs backdrop was magnificent. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains reached toward the flawless azure sky to the east. The wide grassy plain rolling westward was verdant with cultivated fields and orchards. Fat cattle and sheep grazed on sparser, rockier soil.
ʺBut the capital! It is an Indian pueblo, only larger than Albuquerque,ʺ Orlena wailed as they neared the outskirts.
