by Carla Kelly
“You must try.” He gave her a level look. “He must be inoculated and he must come with us onto the Staked Plains. If he does not, we have no chance of success.”
Of course he was right, and she did owe Toshua an apology. “Where is he right now? I will not be inoculated until I have apologized to him and convinced him to be inoculated, too.”
“You’re not just stalling?”
“No. I have given my word. I will let the physician do what he must,” she reminded him.
He took her gentle rebuke with a wry smile, that smile she liked so well, because it was part of what made him so dear. “I last saw him heading for the horse barn. Shall I come with you?”
Paloma shook her head, kissed his cheek, and left the chapel. In the hall, Antonio Gil was just closing the door on her nephews’ room. He gestured to her, but she shook her head.
“I have to convince Toshua to be inoculated. When I have done that, we will both return and then you may do what you will.”
Poor man. He seemed not to be able to manage the slightest resistance to his will. “You will probably not convince him. What then?”
“I will convince him.”
Antonio rolled his eyes and turned away, which irritated Paloma. For years she had suffered that kind of response from her horrible relatives. This time she decided not to let it go by. She raised her voice and spoke his name, so there could be no mistaking who she addressed. To her small satisfaction, he did look surprised.
“I mean what I say.” She came closer. “Let me tell you: I don’t like you for putting my husband in such a vice.”
He shrugged, and she knew he mocked her. He turned to go again. Again she stopped him, but this time she kept her voice low.
“One more thing. Let me assure you of this: if you stay around me and my husband, especially my husband, you will become a better person.”
He laughed. To her ears, it wasn’t a mean laugh, but the laugh of someone taken off guard.
“You’ve been warned,” she told him serenely, and continued on her way to the horse barn.
She found Toshua squatting on his heels in that Comanche way, against the outer wall. The thought crossed her mind that he was sitting outside in the cold just to feel sorry for himself. She took a deep breath and squatted beside him, so close that he could not ignore her.
“Forgive me,” she began, with no preamble. “Should I have taken your hand when you tried to get me to leave here yesterday? Certainly. Can you be patient with me?”
He still wasn’t looking at her, but Paloma knew she had his attention. She wanted to touch his arm, but her bravery did not extend that far, despite Marco’s assertion that she was the bravest woman alive. But I must be brave, she told herself, and proved as much by reaching out slowly. She touched his upper arm and had to swallow down tears when he put his hand over hers and kept it there.
“Forgive me,” she said again.
He did something then that took her breath away. He inclined his head toward hers until they touched. It was the briefest contact, but it moved her in ways she could never explain. I need not fear this man, she told herself.
With his hand still covering hers, she told him of the evil bargain that the physician had struck with her husband. “He is not a good man, but Marco and I must bend to his will. And if I must, you must. Toshua, we need you with us on the Staked Plains, if we are to have any chance of success.” She sighed. “No, any chance of returning alive at all.”
He was silent a long time, but she expected that. Several servants came and went from the horse barn, obviously surprised to see a Comanche and the wife of the juez crouching there together in the raw January wind. One of them stopped, but the fierce look Toshua gave the man sent him scurrying on. He would probably hurry inside to find Marco, but she knew Marco would leave this up to her.
“You know I have no power with my tribe anymore,” he said finally. “My wives threw me over for a younger husband and told lies. I have been banished. How can I help you?”
How indeed? It was a good question. “I just believe you can,” she said, not bothering with logic. “As it stands now, Marco and I and the physician will travel to the Llano Estacado after I have recovered from my inoculation.”
“I am surprised that Señor Mondragón would permit you to accompany him.”
“It was my bargain for my own inoculation. I cannot—I will not—allow him to go without me.”
“Are you not afraid, little sister?”
She knew it was a slip of the tongue. Toshua’s grasp of Spanish was good, but he had his lapses. “I am terrified,” she said, and then could not hold back the tears any longer. She had been determined to persuade this man without resorting to womanly subterfuge. “I am even more terrified of a long life without Marco. We go together, and we need you.”
“Even though I have no standing with my own people?”
She nodded. “Toshua, from what that foul physician has told us, there are Kwahadi, Penateka, and other Nurmurnah dead all across the plains from la viruela. We don’t know what we will find, but the doctor might be a bargaining tool for you, too.” She shrugged. “Or we could all die the first night on the plains.”
Toshua grunted. She shivered, and for the first time he seemed to realize how close they were crouching together, facing the wind from the north and west. He stood up and held out his hand to her. With no hesitation this time, she took it. He led her inside the horse barn and they sat on the nearest bench. He looked around, a slight smile on his face.
“You are a careful woman, and not inclined to gamble,” he reminded her.
“I will risk anything for Marco Mondragón,” she said simply. She turned businesslike then, because time was passing. “I will be inoculated, and then you will be inoculated. And then we—”
He stopped her with his hand on her arm this time. “You will not think me less Nurmurnah if I say to you to I fear this thing?”
“I am afraid, too. We could die from this treatment, but if we live, we need never fear la viruela again.”
“Tell me what that devil man will do.”
She described the process as best she could. “This does not sound like a hard thing to do,” he said.
Paloma hadn’t considered that aspect. “I suppose it does not.”
He sat back and folded his arms, suggesting to Paloma that he was about to strike his own bargain. She was not wrong.
“Señora Mondragón,” he began quite formally, “although I do not understand how such a cut and mere thread can stop the Dark Wind, I will agree to this on one condition.”
“Which is…?”
“When you have been inoculated, you will inoculate me. I trust no one else, and certainly not that foul sack of dung I rescued.”
If this was a rebuke of her own failure to trust, so be it, Paloma decided. Minute by minute they were being drawn deeper into Antonio Gil’s web. It was useless to struggle. She understood the greatest issue and nodded, even though she quailed inside. If he were here, dear Father Damiano would only remind her that her adventure continued.
“Very well. Let us go inside. I am cold.”
Doesn’t this silly woman know that we must hurry?
Anthony couldn’t help himself. As he paced in the hall, he wondered if he would ever look at medicine as anything but a business. Probably not. Why was she taking so long?
He heard a door open and close, and then the juez de campo stood there at the end of the hall, just watching him. It was hard to tell about Spaniards, with those heavily porched eyes that could look so menacing. Maybe he didn’t mean to be menacing, because Spaniards were a strange breed. What wasn’t hard to tell was the man’s utter devotion to his wife. Anthony felt a momentary pang, because he knew he had gotten in the way of that devotion with his demand. The moment passed, as he knew it would.
The man wasn’t going to say anything. Damn him for making me uncomfortable, Anthony thought. “Where’s your wife? I have to do this.”
<
br /> He hadn’t meant to sound so peremptory. All it earned him was the type of stare only a Spaniard could exhibit effectively—one that “looked down the long nose.” Catalina Gill had raked him with a glance like that when he didn’t measure up.
“She’s convincing Toshua to be inoculated. He’s the Kwahadi who saved your nearly useless hide.”
“An Indian? Who cares?” God help him, why could he not keep a civil tone?
“You do, if you have any plans to survive more than a day or two near the sacred canyon, provided we live long enough to find it.” Señor Mondragón’s expression changed to tender as he looked over Anthony’s shoulder. “Ah, my love, who goes first?”
Anthony turned around, happy to admire the pretty lady. For a small woman, she had quite an air about her.
“I will go first,” she said, faltering slightly. “Only if you will hold me, Marco.”
“I was going to insist upon that,” her husband said.
Anthony felt like stepping out of the way of the glance the two shared. “And the Indian?” he asked, striving for a professional tone. True, the love was not directed at him, but it had been a few years since he had seen any at all. Toward the end, Catalina had been anything but kind to Anthony Gill.
“He has a name, and it is Toshua,” Paloma replied with no little dignity. She took a deep breath and looked as young as he suspected she might be. “He will be inoculated if I do it, not you. I will watch you closely, Señor Gil.”
She pronounced it “heel,” as he was used to hearing, without a hard gee in sight. Maybe, if he cared enough, he could teach these two some English. It was obvious they had no idea what was probably going to come their way, once the colonies became the states and more people like him started moving west.
Anthony looked from the woman to the Indian, who only raised one eyebrow. It was enough. “Certainly,” he said, easily convinced by that simple expression, mainly because there was nothing remotely tame in Toshua’s eyes.
“Where will you do this?” Paloma asked. She stood beside her husband, her hand in his.
“Where did you sleep last night?” Anthony asked. “That might be the most comfortable place.”
She gestured, and Señor Mondragón opened a door. She turned to include the Indian. “You, too, Toshua. You should watch, I think.”
The Indian surprised Anthony by hanging back. He shook his head. “This is your private place,” he told her, as though she needed reminding.
“You have my permission,” the juez said. “Who do you think is going to look after you two, as la viruela runs its course?”
Like most white men, Anthony had come to believe the myth that Indians had no feelings. And after seeing what Comanches had done to Catalina, he would have been the first to confirm that myth. This was different; these people were different. The Indian gave a small sigh that thankfully served to cover his own. What kind of people were these? Likely he would have leisure to explore the matter as the disease played out.
They all looked at him expectantly. He told Paloma to sit down on her bed and decide where she wanted the inoculation.
She looked at her husband. “Did you say yours was on your arm?”
He rolled up his left sleeve and turned his arm so she could see the scar on the inside of his upper arm. She touched it.
“I thought that was an arrow wound.”
He laughed, a low sound probably not intended for anyone’s ears but his wife’s, but there they all stood. “We’ve never taken an exact census of my scars, Paloma.”
She grinned at him and rolled up her own left sleeve, pointing to her forearm. “If I have to watch so I can inoculate Toshua, it had better be a convenient place.”
As she sat completely still on the edge of the bed, Anthony spoke to a servant hovering in the hallway. He brought in a little table, pulled it up to the bed, and picked up a stool another servant had brought into the room. Before Anthony could do anything, Señor Mondragón gestured for him to stand aside while he picked Paloma up and sat down on the bed, holding her on his lap. She let out an enormous sigh and leaned against him. Anthony envied them for one irrational moment, until he reminded himself that nothing in life was fair. Mooning around wasn’t getting him one step closer to Pia Maria. Ask any American. Time was money.
Chapter Ten
In which Paloma and Toshua receive a medical education
“Rest your arm on the table, Señora Mondragón.”
“Paloma,” she whispered, “just Paloma.” Her voice was hoarse and she hated to show her terror, but she did as he directed.
Noticing that she hunched over because she sat higher than the table, Marco spread his legs and settled her between them. “Better?” he asked, his voice close to her ear.
She nodded, her eyes on the tin container that the médico pulled from the shirt Luisa had given him. This could kill me, she thought, and leaned back against Marco, by instinct wanting to distance herself from the poison. His bulk reassured her, reminding her that only this morning they had made love on this same bed. He knew her so well.
Paloma recognized the linen napkin he spread on the table, one of Luisa’s. This is no banquet, she told herself irrationally. She glanced at Toshua, wondering how he was digesting this. He leaned over the doctor’s shoulder. Antonio frowned at him, but did not have the courage to say anything.
“Just sit next to Marco,” she told him.
“I should not do that. It is your private place,” he said in protest.
Paloma blushed. “Not here at Luisa’s. Sit.”
He did as she said. He grunted as Antonio Gil took out a small tool that looked like a tiny fork with three tines.
“It’s wicked sharp,” the physician said, speaking in a conversational tone now, reminding her of Father Eusebio back in Santa Fe at San Miguel. Several times she had escaped from her aunt’s grasp long enough to accompany the priest to some of the huts in his parish of Analco. He washed grit and gooey matter from children’s eyes while she held their hands. She could not imagine two men less alike, and yet they both were healers.
“I’m just going to scrape this for one inch, but hardly below the surface. Hold still now. Steady her arm, señor.”
Marco did as Antonio asked. She held her breath, then let it out slowly, even as Marco did. They breathed in unison. It felt no worse than a mosquito bite. A little blood pooled to the surface, but only a little.
“I’ve cut off two two-inch lengths of thread, one for you and one for our Comanche friend here. Ordinarily, I would ask you to look away, because I do not want you breathing and scattering anything from the scabs. You need to watch, though. Señor, would you just put your hand over your wife’s nose and mouth? Lightly.”
Marco did as the physician asked. His hand trembled only a little.
As she watched, Gil gently tamped the thread into the tin container. When he raised it, bits of matter clung to the twisted cotton. With an economy of motion that told her he must have done this many times, he set the tissue-laden thread directly over the furrow on her forearm. In the next moment he wrapped her arm with a strip of linen from another of Luisa’s napkins, splitting the ends and securing the knot. He sat back.
“Keep it dry.” He glanced at the Comanche seated next to Marco. “Your turn. You want Paloma to do what I just did? I can do it, you know.”
Toshua grunted. “I trust her more than I trust you.” He appraised the physician for a long moment, until Gil tugged at his collar. “Maybe I do not trust you at all.”
“Your choice.” Gil nodded to Paloma. “You sit here.”
She did as he said, after patting Marco’s leg. He moved after she did, standing beside her now, as Toshua slid into her former spot. Paloma regarded him seriously, ashamed of her own lack of trust, in light of his. But here was Antonio Gil, bending over her, pointing out the little fork.
“Just the lightest touch.”
“Should I wash it first?”
The physician laughed and
looked at Marco. “Your wife, sir! We’re inoculating the most dangerous thing in the world, and she worries about cleaning off the tool! I love women, I truly do.”
Paloma blushed and looked down. Other than from her own cousin, she had not heard hurtful, mocking words in a long time. She looked up quickly at the soft whoosh of a knife leaving its sheath, then held her breath as Toshua placed the tip right against the point of the physician’s jaw. He pushed it until blood appeared in little drops.
“If she wants to wash it, let her wash it,” Toshua said. He looked at Marco, who seemed also to hold his breath. “I can kill him right now or wait until we are on the Llano Estacado. It’s a big space.”
She had to give all credit to her husband. He appeared to be considering the matter, as the physician looked from one to the other with terrified eyes. “Oh, let’s wait a bit.”
The knife went back into its sheath. Toshua nodded to her. “Since I do not understand anything that you are doing, it doesn’t matter to me whether you wash that thing or not.” He rested his forearm on the table. “Let us begin.”
Paloma nodded and picked up the fork. She held it to Toshua’s arm. And did nothing more.
With a wry smile, the Comanche took the fork from her and gently scraped the skin on his own arm. “Now you do the rest.”
Relieved, Paloma picked up the thread and tamped it into the scabs. When she thought she had enough matter on the thread, she looked at the physician, who nodded. It was a simple matter to place the thread into the bloody furrow and bandage Toshua’s arm.
“Done,” Marco said. “Come, señor, and inoculate two of Paloma’s outriders. The others have survived la viruela. When you finish, we will ride.”
Paloma held up her arm. “Señor Gil, what will happen now?”
“Probably you and your lord and master would call it God’s mystery,” he said, but this time, there was nothing in his voice that mocked her. Obviously, Antonio Gil was a quick study. “I call it medical science. What happens? Give yourself five days, and you will come down with smallpox.”
