by tiffy
Joaquín looked at her stiffened back, afraid his callousness had lost her, even for these last few bittersweet moments. Then she faced him again, and he was riveted by the cold scorn on her face.
ʺI would have you understand my heart, Joaquín,ʺ she said with contempt. ʺI was your plaything, the instrument of your vengeance, the vessel for your lust. But no longer. Conal has come for me even as I said he would. I wed you to save disgrace, but I can be free of you now, even if I cannot be free of your seed growing in my belly. The child will be given to the sisters to raise. I wish never again to see you or the child. Ignacio awaits me in the City of Mexico, where I shall be a respectable matron with a mysteriously absent husband. Mexico is a very entertaining city for a woman without a dueña.ʺ She paused for breath, watching the look of amazement on his face change to shuttered expressionlessness. Blessed Virgin, he has believed me!
Joaquín felt a band of iron tightening about his chest. ʺSo, my Lioness has been a consummate actress all these months. But know you this, Spanish whore, you came to me, not to gain advantage thenbut to satisfy your own lust! And you enjoyed my crude passionsyou shared them!ʺ With that he was around the table, slamming her hard against his body. Before she could make a sound, he kissed her, savaging her mouth until she whimpered in pain. Then he shoved her back against the table in disgust. ʺʹTis a pity Conal gives us only a few moments, or we could satisfy our carnal cravings one last time. Think on that in your silken bedchamber in Mexico!ʺ He turned and stalked out the door, slamming the loose, rotted wood on its rusty iron hinges.
Orlena crumpled on the table as silent sobs tore her throat raw. He will live. He will live. She repeated the thought over and over like a litany to hold off insanity.
Quinn stood outside the hut, lounging casually against a tree as Joaquin emerged. Dawn was seizing the sky with faint purple and orange fingers. He could see the bleak pain the younger man held carefully disguised beneath his scornful anger. ʺI assume the lady has told you her pleasure,ʺ he said, not expecting a reply. He motioned for two of the guards, who led Night Wind toward the dense stand of pines by the stream. As they disappeared behind the trees, he watched with a slow, bitter smile twisting his face.
Then he turned to Bartolome. ʺOffer Orlena comfort, Priest, and prepare to ride out after a brief respite. I will provide you safe escort back to Nueva Vizcaya.ʺ
ʺWhat of the Apaches?ʺ one Comanche militiaman asked when the holy man had vanished inside.
Shrugging in disgust, Conal replied, ʺTake what you will from their bodies. The renegade Night Wind goes with me.ʺ
With great enthusiasm, the Comanche began their grisly mutilations, crying ʺ Aaa‐heyʺ each time their busy knives claimed another trophy.
ʺSergeant Ruiz,ʺ Conal called out, ignoring the barbaric chaos around them. ʺAs soon as these allies of our sovereign are finished, bring the girl and the priest out.
You will accompany them to Chihuahua City. Take half the regulars with you.
Report back to me in Santa Fe as soon as you have completed your mission.ʺ
Inside the hut, Orlenaʹs fingers dug into the coarse cloth of the Franciscanʹs robe as the Comanchesʹ blood‐curdling cries echoed through the dawn. Bartolome held her. ʺDo not listen. There is nothing you can do. I will pray for their souls.ʺ
ʺNight Windhe was freed?ʺ
Bartolome did not know how to respond to the girl. ʺI do not know for certain.
Conal did not turn him over to his tribeʹs ancient enemies. Two soldiers took him across the stream. His horse is tethered there.ʺ He much doubted that Conal would let his half‐caste son live after all that had passed between them, but the priest could not extinguish what slim hope Orlena held now. She had sustained enough tragedy this night.
When they entered the shadows of the trees, Night Windʹs guards knocked him to the ground. One knelt beside him while the other kept his pistol trained on him. The kneeling one produced a length of the same rawhide cord that had bound him earlier. The Spaniard tied his hands tightly in front of him and then looped the remaining line around his neck. With the choke rope firmly in place, he yanked his captive up. ʺWe await the commandantʹs pleasure,ʺ the sergeant said with a feral grin slashing his face, revealing rotted teeth.
From his hidden vantage point, Joaquin watched Fray Bartolome and Orlena ride south from the valley, escorted by Sergeant Ruiz and a dozen men. South to the rich life you were born to live, Lioness. He wondered how many of his men had escaped. Four bodies were visible around the campfire. Neither Hoarse Bark nor Strong Bow were among the dead as far as he had been able to see. They would know to ride for the stronghold, but he doubted that the Lipans could return with enough men to free him before Conal had him back in Santa Fe. His fate awaited him there and he would accept death, perhaps even welcome it. If only I could take Colorado Quinn with me.
Joaquínʹs thoughts were interrupted by that hated voice, now oily with sadistic pleasure. ʹʹSo, you have said your farewells and seen her ride away. She returns to the life you would have robbed her of.ʺ
Joaquín let his face relax into a taunting smile as he stood unbowed before Quinn. ʺI have robbed her of the one thing that no courtier in Mexico can restore,ʺ he said arrogantly.
Before he could mask his own fury, Conal lashed out with a wicked punch to Joaquínʹs jaw. The halfcasteʹs head snapped back as the soldiers held their choke rope tightly.
Two pairs of icy green eyes glared at one another. ʺWe have each had some measure of vengeance, Irish cur,ʺ Joaquín said.
Regaining his composure, Conal replied, ʺYes, but when you think of your mongrel child in an orphanage, your wife with a succession of foppish lovers, and your head hung from the presidio guard house, whose revenge will be the sweeter?ʺ He turned on his heel and ordered the sergeant, ʺMount him on the piebald and see that you do not let loose of his leash on the ride back to the capital.ʺ When Joaquín carelessly mounted Warpaint and stared impassively ahead, Conal pulled his bay beside the black‐and‐white stallion. ʺI will give you something else to contemplate on the journey north. I am given to understand that you mislike dark, closed‐in places . . . such as mines. We have a sweat box at the prison in Santa Fe. You are tall for an Apache, but I think we can squeeze you into it.ʺ
Joaquín did not flinch, but holding his face and body still took every ounce of will he could muster.
As they rode, Conal brooded over his revenge on his renegade son, cursing the day he had spilled his seed in the half‐casteʹs Apache mother. Orlena had been so stupid as to believe he would free the bastardthat he would keep her as mistress!
He had wanted her for long years, but never, never would he touch this arrogant savageʹs leavings. They both would pay and so would their child.
Chapter 18
Blaise Pascal hated Spaniards, especially officious fops like the viceregal emissary who had summoned him to the palace. He had been terrified when Quinn rescinded his travel pass and placed him under arrest pending the outcome of his negotiations over the priest. Now, after months of waiting, he was dragged before yet another Spanish functionary. And he was no nearer to the five thousand pesos than he was to freedom.
He watched the lace‐frothed cuffs of Don Ignacioʹs shirt rustle across the pages of documents spread before him. The arrogant youth sat behind Conalʹs table in the audience chamber, reading papers and making notes while he let the Frenchman stand and wait. Finally, without even deigning to look up, he spoke.
ʺYou are said to know about this renegade who took my sister.ʺ Catching Pascalʹs start of surprise from beneath his lowered eyelids, Ignacio added, ʺYes, the governorʹs stepdaughter is my sister. I have journeyed far to reclaim her. His carelessness in allowing her capture by Apaches is most distressing.ʺ
Pascal thought the icy man before him would have been more distressed if his cuffs fell afoul of the inkwell on the desk, but he replied cautiously, ʺI did not realize, excellency, who you were. I am most regretful about your si
sterʹs kidnapping, but I had nothing to do with the tragedy.ʺ
ʺBut you do know of the man who took her? That is why my stepfather has authorized payment of a sizeable reward to youpending the safe return of Orlena. Pray, tell me, Monsieur Pascal, how you came to know Night Windand Conal Quinn. Omit nothing in your tale, or you will live to regret it, I assure you.ʺ
Conal Quinnʹs harsh military bearing made men fear him. Ignacio Valdézʹs manner was effete by comparison, his voice lisping, and his appearance languid.
Yet the hair on Pascalʹs neck prickled in warning. Here was an adversary every bit as devious and dangerous as the Irishman. ʺI will begin with the circumstances of the half‐casteʹs birth, excellency . . .ʺ
Conal threw down the letter, every fiber in his body taut with rage that he struggled to subdue as he paced the polished brick floor of his private office.
As soon as they had arrived in Santa Fe, he had placed Night Wind in the foul prison at the top of the hill north of the city. For that much, at least, he had felt some grim satisfaction. Then he had gone to the governorʹs palace, pondering how to deal with Ignacioʹs wrath. Immediately Señora Cruciaga had come running out the front door, practically falling at his feet in entreaty, gasping, ʺOh, Don Conal, it was not my fault! Those lazy guards, they do not stand watch as they should, or it never would have occurred.ʺ
For a fleeting moment, hope had flared in his chest that something fatal had befallen the viceroyʹs emissary, but when the woman handed him a letter with trembling hands, he realized that Santiago had not rushed out to greet him.
Hours later, as he sat in his quarters, he reread the letter with consuming bitterness.
Papa:
I have left Santa Fe of my own free will to join the Lipan again. My sister dwells there and I long to be with her. I grew to love that life and the people even as Orlena has. I would be a bridge between Spanish and Apache worlds so that each can live in peace and freedom.
Forgive the hurt I have caused you in doing this, and please do not harm Night Windʹs friend, the holy father, if you hold any love for me.
With regret,
Santiago
ʺIf I hold any love for you,ʺ he echoed hoarsely. ʺEverything I have ever loved has been stripped from me as if I had been born cursedmy familyʹs wealth and title, my homeland, my position at the Spanish courtthen Orlena and now you, the son of my blood, my heir, my mirror imageyou choose to live with savages!ʺ
He grabbed the inkwell on his writing desk and hurled it across the room. It crashed against the far wall, splattering the freshly whitewashed surface with a jagged black explosion that perfectly matched the torment in his soul.
Ever since they had arrived in this hellish place, he had watched his son grow apart from him, questioning his dealings with the pueblos, the paisanos, and the merchants who paid him in lieu of dearer taxes to the crown. Like Orlena, the boy had a soft, idealistic streak in him that insisted the enlightened Europeans must deal honorably with animals like the savages. At first he had dismissed the disillusionment and puzzled hurt in Santiagoʹs eyes as the natural process of growing into manhood, but the youth had become someone he did not know.
Like Orlena, Santiago rejected him and clung to that half‐caste renegade!
Well, his bastard lay in chains up on the hill, at his disposal as Governor of New Mexico. ʺThis I swear to you, Santiago, be you alive or dead by now in your quest to rejoin those whoresonsI will kill every Apache from here to Texas and see your damnable idol Night Wind reduced to a glassy‐eyed, cringing piece of offal who must be dragged to the executionerʹs block!ʺ
The whip bit into his back, reopening old scars which had been reduced to thin white lines since his childhood in the mines. Now once again they dozed crimson in he hung with his wrists manacled from the ceiling, his chest flattened against the rough adobe wall. With every blow of the short leather whip, his face slammed against the gritty surface until his cheek and lips were as bloodied as his back.
Conal watched from the end of the long row of dank filthy cells, standing near the door so as to breathe more freely. God and all his Saints, how he hated the stench of savages! But he relished the punishment being meted out to the renegade, who hung silently on the wall. Conal knew what he was thinking. He prays for the beating never to end rather than to endure what will follow it.
Joaquín did attempt to focus his mind on the pain of here and now. Anything was better than contemplating the small black box he had been shown upon his arrival at the prison. Barely the size of a coffin, it was made of cast iron with tiny, narrow breathing slits on the sides. No other light could penetrate its cloying confines, only the heat of the blazing spring sun, baking its hapless victim to a slow, agonizing death. Of course, long before he died from lack of water or shock, his mind would retreat into the oblivion of madness. No amount of physical pain could equal the terror of the beast within him, the beast from the bowels of the mines.
ʺCut him down and put him in the box while he is yet conscious,ʺ Conal ordered.
Weakened as he was by the brutal beating, the half‐caste still fought with amazing strength as they dragged his manacled and chained body toward the central courtyard of the prison. So great was his frenzy, it took four men to hold him in the box until the heavy ring of the iron lid was finally flung down and latched. At once the noise of his protest ceased. The silence was eerie and the prison guards and Conalʹs soldiers all backed away from the half‐caste in the sweatbox.
Only Quinn remained, unafraid. Walking up to the box, he kicked the side with the toe of his hard‐soled leather boot and said, ʺRemember, your beginning will be your endalone in the blackness of hell.ʺ
Sergeant Ruiz, who had been patient and courteous to Orlena back in Santa Fe, now escorted her in hostile silence. He was polite to Fray Bartolome, but studiously ignored her. ʺI am a fallen woman to him, Father. Why do the Spanish soldiers, even those of mixed blood like the sergeant, hate Apaches so much?ʺ
she asked the priest as they rode toward Chihuahua.
They had been traveling hard for four days now, and the friar paused to rub his aching back as he considered how to explain bigotry to a woman who had grown up so enmeshed in its web that she could not see where the sticky threads began and ended. ʺRuiz is a half‐caste, yes, but one whose roots are far to the south among the reduced Indian tribes. He is probably Tlaxcaltecan or perhaps Opata.
To an Indian, does an Irishman such as Conal seem different from a Spaniard such as Ignacio?ʺ
Fighting fatigue and depression, Orlena struggled to focus on his line of reasoning. ʺI suppose to an Apache, all white men are enemies. They do not differentiate one European from another.ʺ
Fray Bartolome answered, ʺYet you and I know Europeans have warred against each other for thousands of years. Just as our cultures are different, so are those of the Indian tribes. A man whose Tlaxcaltecan great‐grandmother wed a Spanish soldier thinks of himself as Part of Spanish culture even if he retains a vestige of tribal identity. To a Tlaxcaltecan, an Apache is the enemywild, free of all restraints, defying the very Spanish government that pays his wage. Apache and other untamed tribes raid his village. They rape and kill the mixed bloods as well as the Spanish. It is war.ʺ
ʺBut the Lipan fight for their own land, for their freedom, asking nothing from Spain but to be left to hunt and gather their crops in peace. My husbandʹs vengeance came only after he was most hideously abused by his own white father and the corruption of the Spanish government.ʺ
Bartolome shrugged in helpless consternation. ʺYes, that is true, but neither side is right to kill, Orlena. There is no justification for what they both do. I know not how to stop it.ʺ
They rode on under the bleak scrutiny of Sergeant Ruiz, ever southward, farther from the mountains of New Mexico, away from her Apache lover.
Orlena swayed in her saddle, limp with exhaustion. The sun hung suspended on the horizon, but still the sergeant pressed onward, wanting to put as much distan
ce between his small party and the Apaches as possible.
Suddenly, the woman slid silently from her horse to the hard, dry earth.
Instantly Fray Bartolome dismounted and dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her head in his lap as he examined her for injuries. When the sergeant reined in his horse and turned it about to ride back to the stragglers, the priest looked up at his set face and said, ʺYou must stop for the night! Can you not see she is ill? A woman with child cannot ride like a soldier. I adjure you to heed me for the safety of your immortal soul.ʺ
As the sergeant looked down at them, Orlena moaned and doubled over, holding her abdomen. A dark stain of blood spread slowly through her buckskin clothing. Bartolome crossed himself and said a swift silent prayer for the soul of the child he knew she was losing; then he picked her up and carried her to a small cluster of piñon pine by the side of the trail. Stretching her out behind the privacy of the small, spreading trees, he ran back to his horse and took the water flask and a blanket from the saddle.
Ruiz debated. His orders were clear. He was to deposit the priest and the woman at the mission in Chihuahua City and return to Santa Fe as quickly as possible.
But he was responsible for her life, he supposed, even if she had fallen from the governorʹs favor and become a savageʹs squaw. Shrugging, he gave the order to dismount and make a dry camp for the night.
Orlena could feel the tightening cramp begin at the base of her spine, then radiate outward in every direction, squeezing the breath from her with wave after wave of agony. Fray Bartolomeʹs hands were gentle as he bathed her sweatsoaked brow with water, murmuring low, comforting words to her. ʺOh, Father, why? Why is God taking my baby?ʺ she whispered hoarsely, then bore down on another, sharper contraction. Tears streamed down her face as she felt the new life, so fragile and unformed yet, leaving her body. Night Windʹs child, her last link to him, erased in this trackless desert. How could a merciful God be so cruel?
