The Deliverance

by Richard S. Wheeler

  He glanced at the women, who were settled back into their carriage seat awaiting his decisions. They would be all right, even though he could not put them into an inn or posada this evening. They were women of the tribes, used to hardships that would swamp white women.

  “Horses next,” he said to Victoria. She stared back at him so solemnly that he shrank from that gaze. Skye’s ordeal had been her own, and it was not yet over for her; not until they were a thousand miles from this dangerous place.

  He drove slowly through the plaza, stopping at last beside an ox-team and some Yank teamsters. The big, red-bearded oaf would do just fine, he thought.

  “I say, Sah, is there a livery barn here?” he asked.

  “Not as they call it,” the Yank said. “But they got a yard. Just foller this creek that cuts the town, down a bit, and it’s maybe a quarter mile below.”

  “They’ll put up stock, hay, and feed?”

  “They got plenty of hay, and mostly some grain too, but not oats. It’s likely to be maize, or maybe barley, all depends. But it’ll put some pull back into them trotters.”

  That was welcome news. “I, ah, haven’t made my banking arrangements yet, just arrived, letter of credit to cash. Do they want something in advance?”

  “Mostly, but you can allus dicker. I once traded a pound of nails for a night’s feed for my whole ox-team, time I arrived late once. Nails is an item around heah, worth a plenty to people that don’t have foundries.”

  “Just dicker, eh?”

  “You got it, friend. Where you from?”

  “Ah, Trinidad and the Azores.”

  “Reckon I don’t know where that is, but I’d guess south.”

  “There, you know more than you think! Well, you’ve been a help.”

  The teamster waved. Childress set his weary trotters into a slow walk through town, struck the shade-dappled creek, and headed downstream until he found a large stockyard fenced with crooked cottonwood poles. A haystack rose nearby, and some rude adobe shacks lined the perimeter.

  He approached the gate, and found a wiry Mexican hostler.

  “You take care of these horses, hay and grain?”

  The man nodded.

  “How much?”

  “Dos,” he said. “Por dia.”

  “Pay you?”

  “Si, Amando, that is me.”

  “All right, Amando, a generous feedbag for these nags, rub them down, water them, and put them on hay. There’ll be a tip for you in it.”

  Childress helped the women down. Shine landed at his feet. The hostler drove the carriage through a chattering gate and closed it. It would be a long hike back to the plaza for a man of his girth, but he was determined to go. There was a girl to rescue, and a meal to be found, somehow. He eyed the monkey, his salvation in times when his belly rumbled and protested.

  It struck him, as he stood looking at the adobes of Santa Fe just up the creek, that this was an uncommonly sweet place, nestled into the sheltering crook of the mountains. The pungent scent of piñon pine smoke filtered his way. Odd, how peaceful was this place, with its azure heavens, its pine-clad slopes, its earthen homes, its smiling warm-fleshed people. He had never been in love with any place, but suddenly this rural village smote him, and he could not say why. Only a few hours earlier he had seen this place as a miserable gaggle of mud huts.

  He took in arm each of his woman friends, and strolled slowly back to the gentle village, admiring the great cottonwoods that lined the creek bank, the staircased tan adobe buildings, the velvety air, the riot of flowers here and there, where least expected, the strange light that sharply limned every building made the whole place seem almost holy, almost sacred. He wondered how such strange thoughts could stir him.

  Santa Fe was an old city with old ways. They strolled up narrow streets, past languid people who were in no hurry, past a hostelry called the Exchange Hotel, and an adobe Yank store called Seligman and Clever, and when they finally reached the plaza, near dusk, they discovered that much of the town was strolling, apparently an evening diversion, many of them arm in arm, laughing, enjoying that heady cool air and the great hush of serenity that embraced Santa Fe.

  The Governor’s Palace loomed darkly, it massive doors closed, and no light rising from any of the narrow, grilled windows. But these public rooms were not the governor’s private apartment. They strolled by, the women on his arm, Shine sometimes beside them, attracting much attention and whispers, and sometimes swinging along the roofs, from viga to viga, unseen by those below.

  Somewhere, within that long low building, a Cheyenne girl toiled and pined for another life. He scarcely knew how to rescue her. He scarcely knew how to feed himself and these two women he was suddenly responsible for.

  Off the plaza were gambling parlors and eateries, their windows bright with yellow lamplight. Shine didn’t wait; at the next one, a place on San Francisco Street, he dodged in, startling people, chittering and nattering, catching bits of food tossed at him, popping the morsels into his mouth, licking his hairy lips, and finally absconding with some hot buns. These he deposited at the feet of Childress, outside, who plucked them up off the grimy clay, and handed one to each woman. It would be the start of a meal, Shine-style, one item at a time, rifled from a dozen sources. But they would be fed.

  The plaza darkened as the twilight faded, but the paseo did not cease. People walked, gossiped, courted, flirted, and maybe did a little business as they strolled the streets at sundown.

  When Childress and the women next passed the shadowed Governor’s Palace, everything changed. Deep in the gloom behind a barred window, a girl cried out.

  Standing Alone slipped close and whispered furiously, even as Childress stood casually by, hoping the strollers would not see anything amiss. They didn’t. For a woman to be talking to someone within was as ordinary as a sunset.

  “How do we get her out?” he asked.

  Standing Alone’s powers of speech obviously weren’t adequate; Victoria strained to understand. But finally, it came clear: the great wooden doors were locked with an iron key for the night. The soldiers took care of that. But one way out remained, through the barracks and into the plaza, right past the soldiers.

  Childress thought swiftly: “Tell Little Moon to try it; walk out past the soldiers. Smile and walk.”

  Another great whispering ensued, and finally Victoria told him that the girl could not do that: the soldiers would catch her and do bad things.

  Shine jumped up to the window and sat there, nattering at them all.

  “Try it, take him into the barracks, let him amuse the soldiers.”

  The girl absorbed all that, after Victoria had conveyed it to Standing Alone. The monkey squeezed past the iron grille and jumped into the darkness within, chittering softly.

  “All right! We must be quick! The barracks door is right over there,” he said, pointing at a narrow orifice cut through the thick walls.

  He hurried the women to where the door stood, a silent barrier between an Indian girl and her mother, and a reunion long overdue. There was a lamp lit in the barracks; light filtered under that door.

  For an endless time, nothing happened. Santa Feans drifted by, though their ranks were thinning now as night enveloped the city, and they repaired to their homes for their late suppers.

  The stars were popping out. The vast black bulk of the Sangre de Cristos loomed in the east, dark and mysterious. A breeze brought upon it the scent of juniper, and cooking food, and maybe even the freshness of the peaks.

  He heard muffled noise within, maybe laughter, male, amused.

  He eyed the women. They had heard it too. He nodded: they would head straight across the plaza and vanish into a narrow dark alley. He didn’t know what they would do if soldiers burst out, in pursuit of the little servant.

  The door opened so suddenly that light seemed to explode from within. He heard laughter. Caught a glimpse of Shine, bounding out; then came the girl, stumbling, breathless, out into the dark plaza
, ghostly in white. He closed the door swiftly, plunging them back into the sheltering dark.

  “Ayah, ayah,” cried Standing Alone, who was hugging this lost child of hers, this thin, haunted girl.

  “Come,” he whispered in a voice that brooked no dissent. How long would the soldiers take to decide something was amiss?

  He hurried them into deepening dark. Light spilled from various windows in the plaza, but in its heart there was the sheltering gloom that fell over them now.

  He heard the soft sounds of weeping, and then they were out of the plaza and into one of the little streets that would lead them downslope to the river. For the moment, they were safe.

  But only for the moment.

  forty-one

  As weary as he was, Skye knew where he must go and what he must do after leaving Alvarez’s store. He pushed one foot ahead of the other across the plaza, and then eastward on San Francisco Street toward the twin towers of La Parroquia. He clambered up steps; the church stood on a low elevation, and then he plunged into its darkness, which foreclosed a brilliant afternoon light.

  He waited just within the nave for his eyes to measure the gloom, and then headed toward the gilded altar with its glowing reredos and golden tabernacle. He chose the foremost pew, for he wanted to be as close to the Mystery as he could be, and there he sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands, and thanked his God for deliverance.

  “You have spared me the eternal night. You have brought me through the trial. By what means I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I know only that I live and You spared my life. That I breathe here before You, and that I am thankful for your mercy, and for the breath that ebbs in and out of me, and for the chance to be here,” he said, aloud, his voice echoing.

  He tarried there in the solemn darkness, cherishing the safe silence, barely aware of the comings and goings around him, for his soul was utterly devoted to this thanksgiving. He did not know why he lived; only that he did. He hadn’t a cent, but at least he could give the thanks that rose upward through him.

  He rested there in that safe pool of silence, drawing strength even as he gave thanks, and after some while he stood, bowed, and retreated through the nave, and out into the blinding sun of Santa Fe.

  He was alone. His wife was somewhere nearby; the others were nearby too. But he could not contact them; they had to remain strangers. He ached to be with her, but she remained well hidden. Wherever Childress was, she would be. He could come to no conclusions about him: his rescuer, perhaps; his accuser for certain. But he was tied to him by Fate for the moment.

  He trudged wearily toward the creek that bisected the town, the Rio Santa Fe, and settled himself against a cottonwood tree, wanting only to watch the clear water from the mountains shimmer by. Children gawked at him, and he smiled at a girl who was frowning. She scampered off into the safe orbit of her mother’s skirts. He had no children. Victoria had never conceived. Someday, God willing, he would have his sons and daughters.

  And so he rested that sunny afternoon in the dappled shade of the riverbank, alone and penniless, yet rich, for anyone who lived was by that very fact incalculably wealthy. Nothing owned by Midas could equal the breath of air in his lungs.

  Something about Santa Fe reached out to him; he could not fathom just what, especially since he had come so close to doom in this very place. And yet, here he was, filled with a strange, aching delight in these warm, unhurried people, and in this pueblo that seemed so close to the sky.

  Time slipped by and he never noticed. Then the bells of La Parroquia lifted him out of his reverie, and he grew aware once again that he was deep in Mexico, that the sun had fallen below the western horizon, and that he was expected for dinner at the residence of the American consul.

  He stood, summoning energy. He could not remember ever having enjoyed such a pleasant sensation before; the lavender twilight, forested green slopes, golden buildings, the windows spilling lamplight, the dry, piñon-scented air, the deep peace. He stretched, and walked back to the plaza and Alvarez’s store, and ascended to the second floor.

  The consul was expecting him, and led him into a generous room that overlooked the plaza and was furnished with mission-style pieces and fussy bric-a-brac. Handsome oil portraits of grandees hung on the walls.

  “Mister Skye, make yourself at home. May I serve you some burgundy? My esposa will be here in a moment.”

  Skye declined. A glass would throw him into a stupor. He wondered if he could even stay awake through the forthcoming dinner. Alvarez poured himself a generous glass of ruby wine.

  The thin, hawkish consul introduced Skye to his equally thin fluttery wife, who could speak no English but welcomed the visitor with a warm smile. These people were opening their home to him. The señora vanished into the kitchen regions.

  “Here’s to life,” the consul said, lifting his glass.

  Skye nodded.

  Alvarez eyed him. “I confess to some intentions,” he said. “I have heard something of your story, public gossip, but I should like to hear it from you if you wish to tell it. It behooves a consul to be watchful.”

  Skye wondered if watchfulness was all, but he didn’t mind.

  “It’s no secret. If you wish to know, I will tell you.”

  He had always been frank about his purposes, but he wondered now whether to mention Childress, and decided that for the moment, he would be cautious about that.

  “I came here to look for two Indian children who were abducted from Bent’s Fort four years ago by Utes, and who probably are in Mexico toiling as slaves, or indentured in some fashion. I have with me my wife, of the Crows far to the north, and the Cheyenne mother of these children, Standing Alone, who has kept a vigil all these years. At the moment, I don’t know where they are. I had little enough to begin with, but we hoped we might purchase the liberty of these young people if we could find them … and if they live.” He waited for some reaction from Alvarez, but received none. “But Jicarilla Apaches took all we possess, even our clothing. We arrived in Taos with nothing, and I soon was in trouble.”

  “A Texas spy, yes. They thought they had caught a dangerous man.”

  “I’m not a Texan. Not a Yank. There it is; there isn’t much else to add.”

  “A strange story, a generous impulse, Senor Skye. There were more risks than you imagined.”

  “Still are,” Skye said. He was fighting drowsiness and did not know whether he could stay awake through a meal. A brush with death had drained him.

  Alvarez stared out the open windows, onto the darkened plaza. A breeze eddied piñon smoke into the room. “This nation of good people has certain arrangements that cannot stand much scrutiny, señor. The treatment of its Indians is one.”

  “Peonage?”

  “Ah, that they defend gladly. The hacendados think it is a great kindness to the humble. The simple ones are guided; they toil, but then they are cared for until they die. But the Indians, señor, that can be another matter …”

  “I guess every nation has its dark corners, Mr. Alvarez. Consider the Yanks and their slavery. The Texans are a slave republic.”

  “Mexico isn’t, or so it says, but everyone knows better. And that is a warning for you. If you ask too many questions, nose about too much, you will discover enemies facing you, and they will be formidable, and if you do not flee them, you might find yourself in trouble just as grave as what you faced this day.”

  “Thank you for the warning.”

  “The Indians are used and thrown out, quite literally, in the mines. There are a few gold mines not far south of here, and there the Indians spend their lives climbing ladders made of notched logs, carrying heavy baskets of ore to bring to the arrastras, where stones grind the ore, and there the Indians waste and die for they are scarcely fed. In two, three, four years, they are gone, wolf-bait. That is the fate of so many. Terrible accidents, too. Nothing is done for their safety. The ladders fall or twist, spilling human life. A flood washes away the diggings. Dust an
d dirt ruins their lungs. Ah, it is a grim thing to see.

  “It is worse even than the black slavery of the American South or Texas, where slaves are costly and most masters at least feed and clothe them, if only to protect their property. Señor Skye, there are many in those terrible pits who have no clothing at all, not even a cloth about their loins, and who must work in all kinds of weather, fierce heat, bitter cold, or they will not be given their gruel. There is no flesh on any of them, and within a year they are skeletal, and by the second year, they are weakened, starved, and sick, or dead.”

  Skye sighed. Standing Alone’s boy, if that is where he ended up, would not be alive after four years.

  “Ah, I have told you the worst! It is not always so bad. There is hope for you. A few captive boys are employed as herders on the great ranchos, and theirs is a better life. They eat; they are clothed and sheltered. But mostly the Indians go to the mines; the sons of peons are indentured as herders. The Indians don’t seem to rebel; they work until they drop, and one hears nothing about uprisings.”

  Skye sighed, remembering his years of captivity, the pain, the lashes, the toil inflicted on him when he fought his masters; the small rewards that came to him for causing no trouble: an extra morsel, an occasional light task.

  “But let us talk of pleasanter things,” Alvarez said. “You brought your wife?”

  “We were separated. I am looking for her, and our Cheyenne friend.”

  “In Taos?”

  “I was seized in Taos and brought here by soldiers.”

  “Ah, she could be far away.”

  Skye said nothing. He hated to mislead this hospitable man.

  The hostess appeared, and with a nod invited them to her table, which was sparsely set. Bowls of leek soup steamed at three places.

  “The señora invites us, Mister Skye.”

  Alvarez led his guest to the table, settled himself, paused to say a grace in Latin, and smiled at Skye.

  “Start, señor, for much more comes soon, eh?”