Marco and the Devil's Bargain

by Carla Kelly

“Señor!”

  Aware of the urgency, he sat up, careful to tuck the blankets around his wife, who was stirring now, too. Dios, it was cold! He dressed as fast as he could and stuck his head outside the tent.

  Toshua nodded to him and pointed. Marco squinted, then his heart began to sprint.

  “Who are they?”

  “From the south. Maybe Apaches, maybe Tonkawas.”

  “How long, do you think?”

  “Hard to tell. They are far away right now, but they are riding, and here we sit.”

  The men looked at each other; there was nothing to say. Toshua went to his tent and yanked the tent pole. The doctor inside yelped and swore. Marco was a little kinder.

  “Paloma, we have to ride fast. Hurry, please.”

  She asked no foolish questions, even as her face paled. He turned to saddle the horses, assessing them, aware of how thirsty they were, how cold.

  By the time the horses were saddled, Paloma was dressed and already folding the tent. On her face was that set, determined expression Marco had seen more and more on this cold journey. She looked at him, a question in her eyes. He pointed to the south. She looked and took a deep breath, even as she crossed herself.

  “Paloma, if you have anything of importance on the pack horses, carry it with you. If we need to, I’ll loosen the ropes tethering them to us. We might need the distraction they can provide.”

  She nodded, her eyes going in sympathy to the pack horses. “They’ve been so good to bear our burdens,” she said softly. She transferred another blanket and more pemmican to her horse, then let him help her mount. She settled her skirts around the side horn and turned resolutely away from the distant riders.

  Even Antonio did not complain this morning. He usually rode on the far side of Paloma, as though wanting to remain separate from them all. This morning, he deliberately rode on the other side of Paloma, putting himself between her and the unknown riders, which touched Marco. The médico even leaned over to ask Paloma, “You have all your inoculating supplies, do you not?”

  She nodded, and pulled back her cloak a little to expose the leather bag that hung from her shoulder.

  “You remember everything to do?”

  She nodded again, and they started at a steady clip, heading east as always, but faster.

  “Let’s see if they turn and follow,” Marco told Toshua.

  “They will.”

  They did, although with no increase of speed, loping along in a way that was more than maddening, as they paralleled the travelers. Marco observed his companions, wondering at their apparently unspoken agreement not to deliberately look south, even though everyone’s eyes strayed that way when they thought no one saw them. The only time Paloma showed any fear was when he dismounted fast, and as they watched, untied the packhorses. She whimpered, then set her lips more firmly. All Marco could do was pat her leg before he mounted again. To his relief, the obedient animals continued to follow, although farther back. It chafed him, because he knew the unknown riders were now aware of what he had done, and why.

  Damn them! He watched, hoping they would take the bait and veer toward the pack horses, which even now had paused to nose among the sparse vegetation. No luck.

  He could ask Paloma to pray for a miracle, but he knew she was already praying. Her lips moved in a continuous Ave Maria as she rode, her back straight, her eyes only darting small glances.

  It was a party of ten or twelve and they did not ride like Comanches. “I think they are Apaches,” Toshua told him, then grinned. “At least Apaches won’t eat our little doctor, like Tonkawas!”

  “I’ve never dealt with Tonks,” Marco said, speaking softly so Paloma would not hear. “They really are cannibals?”

  Toshua nodded. “They have certain favorite parts.”

  Although he could see no change in the vastness around them, Marco felt they were traveling more downhill now, dropping ever so slowly in altitude. What it meant, he did not know, because he had never felt so lost in his life, so dependent on another human as he was dependent on this Comanche. His long-dead father would never have understood it; Marco barely did.

  If that wasn’t enough, Marco looked behind him in late afternoon, when the wind began to ruffle his hat. Dios, but a storm was bearing down. The suddenness of it startled him, who was used to watching clouds build and billow over the Sangre de Cristos. Were they not suffering enough? He tied down his hat before it blew away. He looked back to watch monster clouds rise higher and higher, as though a demon hand swatted them into the atmosphere. The sun had been weak all day, and now it seemed to surrender to clouds that grew darker and darker. He looked at his wife, who seemed unaware of the storm coming from behind. More and more, her glances were directed south.

  He looked at Toshua, who smiled back, oddly cheerful. Had the Comanche lost his mind? What in the world was there to smile about? Marco distinctly counted twelve Indians now, close enough to know they were Apaches.

  Then the sun vanished, snuffed by clouds. The wind bellowed like a gored ox, blowing hard enough to throw back Paloma’s cloak and skirts, exposing her leg crossed over the side saddle. Grabbing at her cloak, she tucked it tighter, her expression anxious as she absorbed the immensity of the storm.

  Toshua rode closer between the two of them, which angered Marco. “I ride beside my wife,” he said, troubled by the man’s smile, feeling the start of doubt about the Kwahadi’s intentions.

  “Señor, when I say so, will you ride as fast as you can?”

  “Should we not stand and fight?”

  “Unnecessary right now; maybe later.” Toshua was shouting now, because the wind howled. The sky had turned an unearthly deep blue. Lightning began to flicker, little tongues of fire darting out from the massive clouds towering so high above them. Marco had never seen a storm like this one, so nearly a living being.

  Marco watched the approaching Indians, amazed to see that they had stopped, their horses prancing in little circles. Were they preparing to rush them, or had the storm put some fear in their path?

  Snow slapped them sideways, only it wasn’t snow, but sharp-edged sleet that made their horses begin their own little dance of fear.

  “Paloma, put your leg over your horse,” he shouted. “Hang on! No telling what will happen.”

  She had already done that, even as her cloak billowed about her and bared her legs to the freezing rain mingled with ice. Pain replaced anxiety.

  “Fast now!”

  At Toshua’s command, Marco touched his spurs to his frightened horse, wishing he rode the predictable old Buciro. He waved to Paloma, who struggled to control her horse, then followed him, the look on her face as fierce as any warrior’s. Antonio had the terrified stare of a man not even slightly willing to be left behind. And still Toshua kept grinning, as he watched the storm even more closely than the Apaches, who had definitely fallen back.

  Through the sudden gloom created by the devil storm from the north, Marco looked ahead and saw the canyon’s edge. It was so close! The beautiful little “Te Deum Laudamus” his wife has sung a few days ago tumbled through his brain. He looked for some break, some way in, and saw nothing but an edge. God help us, he thought.

  “There’s no way down,” Marco shouted to Toshua.

  With his lips, the Comanche gestured toward the south, where the Apaches waited. “That’s where it is, and we cannot go there without a fight.” He dismounted. “Hand me that rope that tied your pack horse. “Do a dar la vuelta around your horn.”

  Suddenly Marco knew what Toshua was going to do, and he felt only relief. He dallied the rope and watched as Toshua pulled Paloma, protesting, from her saddle. As she cried and tried to dig in with her heels, the Comanche swiftly tied the rope around her and dragged her to the edge of the canyon.

  “Not without Marco!” she shrieked. “I won’t! I can’t!”

  “Do as he says, Paloma,” Marco ordered, pulling back slightly. Maybe this horse was as good as Buciro, after all. Maybe he knew somethi
ng about horses, although not as much as Toshua. The sturdy beast stood firm, unruffled by the storm, feeling the slight play of the rope.

  She was pleading now, on her knees, desperate to stay with him.

  “No, Paloma. Go over the edge. You can scold me later.”

  “See if I ever curtsy to you again!” she raged, as Toshua tightened the rope and picked her up.

  Marco laughed. “I’ll bow to you!”

  Her courage failed her at the edge and she sank to her knees again as the wind blew ice in all directions. Her tears unmanned him and Marco started to dismount.

  “No!” Toshua shouted. “I’ll go with her.”

  Toshua grabbed the rope. “I am your older brother now. I am your Claudio. He would want you safe.”

  She turned a tearful face to him, and Marco felt his own heart break a little. “He couldn’t help me twelve years ago. Please don’t do this!”

  “Claudio would if he could have, my love,” Marco said to encourage her. “Trust this brother.”

  Her face a mask of terror, Paloma nodded and reached for Toshua.

  Without another wasted moment, Toshua tightened his grip on the rope and dropped over the edge with Paloma.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In which Paloma learns a valuable lesson

  Paloma couldn’t help herself; she screamed all the way to the bottom, her arms tight around Toshua’s neck. She felt him chuckle and make strangling noises, and she wondered why Comanches were even allowed to exist in an orderly universe.

  “Calm, calm, little sister,” he said when they touched ground. “Your husband is holding the horse firm and you cannot fall.” He laughed then, strangely exhilarated by what she knew right down to her marrow was a desperate situation. “Do not back up. We’re on a trail only. The bottom is still a long way down.”

  Paloma held her breath in fright. When he loosened the rope and she saw it snake upward toward Marco, she went to her knees and crawled toward the rocks and solid wall.

  “I will go to him now. Don’t move. Wait, wait.” He knelt beside her and she clung to him. “Still and silence.”

  She felt the vibrations of horses’ hooves close to her. Please, please let it be Marco, she thought, even as she knew he was far above her, facing Apaches with nothing more than a wretched doctor to help him. Then the nightmare of her childhood became real as a horse masked with eyeholes and beadwork emerged from the darkness of the storm. She had seen such horses before, on that day when her world changed forever. She squeezed her eyes shut like a child and shrank against the stones that suddenly felt so comforting.

  She whimpered when Toshua stood up, but he kept his hand on her head as he spoke to whoever stood above them on horseback. It was a low-voiced exchange, rising and falling with an intensity that made her open her eyes, when she realized the one on horseback was a woman.

  Paloma stared as the icy sleet turned to rain so cold that her teeth chattered. Toshua moved closer to the horse. He moved with a stealth that made him more apparition than flesh. Paloma watched in surprise as Toshua put his hand on the woman’s leg. The gesture was tentative, then it became a caress.

  “Paloma, this is Eckapeta, my oldest wife,” he said. “She says The People have been watching us.” He said something in Comanche to the woman and her reply was sharp. “You stay here. We are going up the trail to help your husband, because all he has is a worthless little man at his side.”

  “Go then, and hurry,” Paloma urged. “Your wife?”

  Toshua shrugged.

  Silent herself, Paloma shivered and tried to wrap herself in her sodden cloak, as the woman made a tsking sound with her tongue and let her horse turn around in that tiny space. She held out her hand to Toshua. Before he leaped up behind her, Toshua handed Paloma his knife. The woman carried a bow and quiver, too, slung across her shoulder.

  “Use my knife if you need to. Don’t hesitate, little sister,” Toshua told Paloma.

  Two other riders followed Toshua and the woman up the narrow trail as rain turned to snow and the wind howled like one of Toshua’s restless spirits, roaming on the plain above. She closed her eyes and hugged the canyon wall. “Te deum laudamus,” Paloma whispered. She was alone on the trail with the poor company of her imagination.

  The storm raged, but she listened intently for war cries, shouts. Nothing. When the snow tapered off and the cold clamped down, she peeked out from the sodden hood of her cloak. She gasped to see a dark figure, a weird apparition of the storm, looming over her. Resigned to death, she closed her eyes, wanting to be brave, wanting one more glimpse of Marco. Sudden darkness enveloped her, and she wondered if this was death.

  It was warmth, a buffalo robe. “Who …” Paloma said. She struggled to look through the folds of the robe and saw a young woman standing there. Without a word, Paloma held open the robe.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the young woman came closer and then joined Paloma under the robe. She smelled of tanned hide and wood smoke and the faintest tang of sage.

  “We’ll just wait here until everyone is safe and we are all together again,” Paloma told her, wondering if the young woman understood Spanish. It hardly mattered; she knew she was only trying to comfort herself.

  “You must not scream like that ever again, as long as you stay with The People.” Her Spanish was clear and she was obviously peeved.

  “I promise,” Paloma said, contrite. She knew her rescuer was younger, but there was that edge of command in her voice that branded her as Comanche. “Who are—”

  “I am Ayasha. I rode with Eckapeta. We will stay here.”

  I had no plans to move, Paloma thought, grateful not to be alone. Under a buffalo robe in a storm might be no place to strike up an acquaintance in Paloma’s usual world, but she had left that world. Unsure of herself, but desperate for human contact, she put her arm tentatively around Ayasha’s shoulders, hoping she wasn’t breaking some Comanche rule.

  Ayasha moved into the circle of her arms as if she belonged there. They huddled close together, and Paloma closed her eyes. Like a child, she tried to blot out what was going on above them by simply shutting her eyes. If you are dead, Marco, she thought, I will be as brave as I can be. I will never dishonor your memory, my love.

  She jerked upright at the sound of howls, yips, and puma-like screams directly above them. Ayasha made no sound but burrowed closer, if that were even possible. Paloma tasted blood in her mouth and realized she had bitten into the soft flesh inside her mouth; she spit out her blood. She pressed her hand against her mouth, wishing for a cloth, when she heard the sound of falling bodies, men shrieking all the way to the canyon floor. She gasped when one of them landed on the trail, still alive and clawing with bloody fingers to keep from sliding off. Paloma peered through the robe, every nerve alert.

  His plain headband told her he was Apache. For one small moment, his desperate eyes locked on hers, and then he let go, the momentum too great. Keep breathing, Paloma, she told herself.

  Feeling another body strike the ledge, she screamed, which earned her a slap across the face and sharp words from Ayasha. Paloma needed no interpretation. She pressed her lips together, Toshua’s knife tight in her grip. In her life she had only used knives in the kitchen, but a survival instinct told her how to hold this one.

  Both of them silent, Paloma heard labored breathing, then sudden cold and snow as the Apache yanked back their sheltering buffalo robe. In the dim light Paloma saw his upper arm pierced by an arrow and his scalp partly torn from his head.

  Quicker than sight, Ayasha drove her knife into the Apache’s nose. With a roar, he grabbed her and tried to fling her over the edge.

  Paloma threw off the buffalo robe and grabbed Ayasha, tugging her back against the canyon wall. The man’s grip faltered, giving Paloma mere seconds to yank her free and try to thrust her farther back, except that Ayasha was having none of that. The Comanche scrabbled close again, jerking on the arrow in the man’s arm as he screamed in agony and flailed a
bout.

  With a grunt, he grabbed Ayasha’s leg this time, pulling her toward the edge. With no hesitation, Paloma drove her knife through his wrist, twisting it. He yanked his hand up. Her knife clattered against a rock as she gave him a monumental push with a grunt of her own that sent him over the ledge.

  Without wasting a moment, Paloma grabbed Ayasha and dragged her back from the edge, looking around in the failing light for the buffalo robe they had flung aside. She threw it around them again, pulling the girl into an embrace so close that they began to breathe in rhythm. She shivered, or maybe Ayasha shivered. They were bound together so tightly that Paloma could not tell.

  There was no sound of humans above them now. What a strange storm! Last year, Marco had told her of lightning in winter, but she had put it down to a tall tale. Through a slit in the buffalo robe, Paloma blinked at the lightning, and then the close roar of thunder, as snow fell, and then icy sleet, as if the elements couldn’t decide what to do.

  “Just be alive,” she whispered. She wrinkled her nose at the odor of blood and her own rank fear. She pressed her head against the rocks of the canyon wall and closed her eyes.

  But there was Ayasha. The Spaniard in Paloma told her to make polite conversation. “Do you belong to the woman who rode away with Toshua?”

  “I belong to no one,” came the quiet answer.

  “I have been there,” Paloma whispered back. Pray God I am not there again, she thought.

  Buciro would probably have handled the lightning better, but Marco had no other complaints about his mount. He shook his head when Toshua offered to show him the Comanche way to take a scalp, and could only hope that thunder obscured his retching at the wet sound as the Comanche finished his circling cut around the dying Apache’s head, then grasped the deep gash at his neck and yanked away his entire scalp.

  He heard the little doctor vomit when Toshua, with a certain savage flair, placed the scalp in his lap. All that earned Antonio Gil was a look of great contempt from the author of the butchery.