by Carla Kelly
He slowed his horse and rode beside Paloma for a moment. He meant to reassure her, he told himself, but mostly to reassure himself, if he were honest. “Oye, Paloma, if we succeed in any measure, I might ask Governor de Anza for a small raise. What do you think?”
“I think you have noodles for brains,” she replied. They laughed.
No matter their fears, Marco knew he could live another forty years and never see anything as magnificent as the canyon of the Kwahadi. The walls seemed to rise higher and higher until he couldn’t look up, because it made him dizzy. Hawks circled overhead on the air currents, making little wing adjustments, gliding, gliding. Grass already grew here. The place of buttes, mesas and canyons within canyons seemed touched by magic. Maybe winter never came long to this place. He looked around with a rancher’s eye, thinking what a land grant this would have been. Noodle brains, you’d have lasted here only long enough for some irate Kwahadi to roast you over a slow fire, he reminded himself.
He also noticed new Kwahadi warriors not of their ragged band, all on horseback, watching. “Have they been tailing us long?” he whispered to Toshua.
“Maybe since the cave.”
That was not the answer Marco wanted. “Why didn’t they make themselves known?” he had to ask.
Toshua leaned toward him. “Do you see the warriors with the left side of their hair cropped? That is how warriors mourn deaths. We leave it to the women to cut themselves. They have suffered from la viruela, as your little doctor thought. If we have la viruela among us, they’ll see it and maybe stop us.”
Marco digested that. He saw the hesitation on his friend’s face. “There is more?”
“They have probably noticed Spaniards among us who are not bound hand and foot and who do not have ropes around their necks.”
Their little cavalcade rode steadily on. Everyone ate in the saddle. The canyon widened and widened, and then there was the river, tipis lining both sides, which told Marco that it was fordable. In the distance he noticed separate tipis, a cluster here and there. He also saw mounds of burned tipis. In the distance, he could not begin to count the size of the horse herd.
They had reached the great encampment.
Toshua scanned the village, too. “Not as many lodges,” he said simply. “My people have suffered.”
More warriors and young boys on horseback appeared to ride alongside their ragged band. Marco saw other Kwahadi running to the immense horse herd, catching their own mounts. Toshua motioned him closer.
“Stay tight now. Some may try to reach through us and count coup on you. I can make no promises.”
Marco nodded. “Can I do anything to protect Paloma?”
“Trust Eckapeta.”
The Kwahadi crowded so close to them now that their horses moved forward only with some effort. Marco’s Double Cross horse tossed his head and rolled his eyes, fearful. It was all he could do to keep the animal under control.
A stone struck the back of his head, which made him sway in the saddle. Paloma called his name, and he heard Eckapeta calm her with quiet words. Another stone brought blood by his ear. He waited for a war club to slam him to the ground, wishing he had never listened to Antonio Gil.
A quick glance told him they were surrounded by angry men. Appalled, he kept his view fixed on that space between his horse’s ears. He knew there were prayers that a good Christian saved for times like this, but all he could think of was Paloma.
“Let us dismount carefully and slowly,” Toshua said to them all. “Take Paloma’s hand, if they will let you.”
They wouldn’t. As soon as he was on his feet, Marco was pushed into the middle of a group. He heard Paloma exclaim, then someone thumped him with that war club he dreaded and he fell to his knees.
He was too foggy to know precisely what happened next, except that he heard a roar of disapproval, and then chuckles, of all things. He glanced around to see warriors ducking and whooping, and then Paloma stood beside him, swinging her brand, her eyes full of indignation. She also had the baby on her back, so no one came near. She stood right over him, ready to swing again.
All was silent. Marco rubbed his shoulder, where the war club had found its mark, then touched her ankle, wanting human connection.
He heard the creak of leather as the rest of the travelers dismounted. Kahúu quickly took her place beside Paloma, grabbing her free hand. And there was Eckapeta standing behind him, protecting him. Someone thrust Antonio among them and Ayasha knelt by him, covering his body with hers. Toshua had shouldered through the crowd.
Yes, pabi, he thought. Pray God someone is in charge and find him. I’d like it to be someone without a grudge, but I am not a complete fool.
The crowd parted and a warrior stepped forward. Kahúu raised her hand in greeting, said something and pointed to Paloma.
“Turn around, my love,” Marco told his wife.
She looked at him, and he saw her lovely face. Someone had struck her with stones, too, and her cheek bled. She clenched the brand so tight that he wondered why her bones didn’t come through the skin.
“He’s come for my baby, hasn’t he?” she said in a low voice, as the warrior, his eyes troubled, reached for the cradleboard, jostling it on her back.
Marco nodded. “Take your arms out of the loops. Slowly, slowly.”
She dissolved in a flood of tears, and he knew it was not fear but love. A quick glance around told him that everyone else saw what he saw. “This is hard,” she said, between great, gulping sobs.
Kahúu spoke earnestly to the warrior, her hand on his shoulder. She kissed his cheek, then gently took the branding iron from Paloma so she could do what she wanted least in all the world to do. “You must, my sister,” Kahúu told her.
“Deep breath, my love,” Marco said.
Paloma closed her eyes in what he knew was prayer, then became the courageous woman he had married. She opened her eyes and carefully slid the rawhide loops from her shoulders. The warrior said something, and Kahúu put out her hand to stop him.
That’s it. Let her do this with dignity, Marco thought, grateful to the woman who had become Paloma’s friend because they had each filled a need in the other.
With a shaking hand, Paloma wiped her eyes, then held the cradleboard close to her face. She kissed the baby, all bright-eyed but restless at the noise, caressed her dandelion puff of hair one last time, and held out the cradleboard to the baby’s father.
“Kahúu, can you tell him please that I will miss his daughter as though I had lost a fiber from my heart?”
“I already have,” the woman whispered in Spanish.
The warrior said something and the crowd parted again to admit a woman with a cradleboard on her back.
“His other wife,” Kahúu said. “It will not do for a warrior to carry a cradleboard.”
I would, Marco thought. God above, I would.
It was done. The woman took the baby and hurried away. Kahúu’s brother-in-law made the sign for “thank you,” then another sign which Marco did not know. He looked at Kahúu.
“It is hard to say in Spanish, except that it means more than only thank you.”
“It will never be enough,” he said.
As Marco watched in amazement, and in the dawning of hope that they might survive this day’s work, Kahúu sat with them in the dust, took her own daughter from her back and spread the cradleboard across Paloma’s lap, too. A look at her husband, and he dismounted and stood behind Marco with Eckapeta.
He heard a greater creak of leather as old Buffalo Rut dismounted. Roughly, he patted Paloma’s head and kept his hand there as he spoke. He signed as he spoke. He told how he had been so ill in their village and this little woman of the big Spaniard had chewed his food for him so he could live another day.
“There is much more,” Buffalo Rut began, then stopped at louder voices and movement.
Marco sighed with relief to see Toshua, and with him an older man with some considerable dignity. He was no taller than
the others, but he wore a cap of buffalo horns and an air of complete control. This was no peace chief, but this was not a matter of peace, but of dark days ahead. With their arrival, Spaniards had found their way into the Kwahadi canyon.
“What more?” the chief asked, after taking in the sight. “Toshua, a warrior I had not thought to see again, tells me there is healing magic among the Spaniards.”
Toshua pointed to Paloma and to Antonio, who knelt with them, his eyes kind. Something had changed. For the first time, Marco thought he actually looked like the physician he was. Ayasha held his hand, her face calm, too.
The chief looked at Paloma, assessing her with wise eyes, and nodded. He gave Antonio a similar assessment. “Tell me more.”
Toshua raised his head, and Marco felt his spirits rise, too. This was the Comanche who had survived, chained in a henhouse, for several months on nothing before Paloma had rescued him. The little flame that had flickered and almost gone out before his rescue by the hated Spaniards had grown into something impressive. Marco felt himself sitting taller, too. “Pabi,” he whispered, so only Paloma could hear. “We have a good brother in Toshua.” Her response was a nod.
Toshua spoke loud enough for all to hear. “You need the little man and the woman of the Spaniard. These two can save our people from la viruela.” Toshua looked around, taking his time. “I see warriors here with only one braid, and women with scarred faces and cropped hair. There should be more children. What of our friends the Kiowa? I see none here. Is everyone hiding from the Dark Wind? Can you go far enough to hide?” He pointed with his lips. “What about those tipis over there? Are they full of the Dark Wind? And these burned piles what remains of the lodges of warriors and families? Where are they now?”
In a low voice, Eckapeta translated into Spanish. It was the only sound, beside the harsh call of a hawk that floated overhead, watching the proceedings, but more likely looking for meadow mice.
“I have never known the Kwahadi, you Antelope Eaters of the plains, to cower in fear,” Toshua said. “We can change that. We have power against the Dark Wind right here.”
Chapter Thirty
In which the play goes on
Everyone was so still now, riveted on what Toshua had said, looking from Paloma to Antonio. She knew if she lived to be an old woman in the colony of New Mexico, she needed no more adventures. This was enough. I just want to go home with my darling, she thought.
She had to sit there, her head up, proud and dignified, when she wanted to gather herself into a tiny ball and mourn the loss of the baby until all the tears allotted to her in a lifetime were used up and she could weep no more. To distract herself, she thought of her kitchen on the Double Cross, the soft murmur of Spanish, the fragrance of posole bubbling, the welcome sound of Marco’s steps at the end of the day, and the way he tapped his boots outside the door and then brought in the mud anyway, to Sancha’s exasperation. She longed for the genuine pleasure of her legs wrapped around him as they made love. She wanted him to whisper into her neck and not be overheard by others—kind people, but people still—in tipis and caves.
Just a little longer, she told herself. Patience and shuffle the cards, as my husband would say. Antonio will find his daughter and we will go home. She gave Marco a reassuring smile and received one in return. It would not have surprised her if he was thinking exactly the same thing.
“What is his name?” Marco whispered to Toshua.
“Kwihnai. Aquila, an eagle to you, but better you call him Kwihnai.” Toshua looked at his wife, who appeared enviably serene. “My woman will translate.”
Kwihnai made a motion for silence. Kahúu squeezed her hand, under the cover of the cradleboard.
The chief said something. Toshua answered, then said Marco’s name, which made Kwihnai stare in amazement.
“War chief and peace chief,” Eckapeta whispered. “And look now, he indicates Antonio. Let us hope our little man is equal to this.”
Antonio must have seen the end in sight, too. With an obvious effort, he got to his feet. With a smile, he dusted off his precious beaded medicine bag and stood there, a short man who tried to will himself tall.
Toshua pointed to him with his lips. “This man can save you from la viruela.” He looked around elaborately again, as Eckapeta continued translating. “I can see the Dark Wind has taken a toll. Even among our friends the Kiowa?”
The chief nodded, his eyes sad.
“ ‘How will he do this?’ ” Eckapeta whispered, translating the chief’s words.
The same thing happened as before, and Paloma was ready for it. Antonio began to speak, his voice eerily high, showing fear impossible to hide, no matter how he tried. Toshua translated, then gestured for Paloma, ignoring the médico. They would do what they had done before, the stakes infinitely higher now.
This is the performance of my life, she thought, calm. In this I honor my brave mother, who would not let me die. She and Toshua pantomimed the agony of smallpox again, from the fever to the staggers. The People who had gathered tight in anger moved back, the better to see this. She glanced up to see nods of sympathy.
Even Antonio got into the rhythm, taking first Toshua by the arm, cutting him, planting the scab-covered thread, then bandaging him. It was her turn, and she did the same. All the while Eckapeta translated into Spanish, her voice more assured when Kwihnai offered no objection.
It was a simple play. When Paloma had been in the Santa Fe home of her uncle Felix Moreno, they had all gone to a milagro in the plaza in front of the governor’s palace. A traveling troupe from Mexico City had performed a sinner’s view of hell and what happened to those who did not confess their sins or pay alms to the church. She remembered little imps with pitchforks and wings on their backs, flitting through the terrified crowd, poking and jabbing. Somehow, the actors had created the mouth of hell, with flames made of waving strips of red cloth. It was one of the few times her cousin Maria Teresa had clung to her, uniting them in fright. Paloma had nightmares for weeks.
This little scene in the canyon was nothing to the fires of hell, but The People had never seen anything like this play of death and suffering, which climaxed when Antonio cut their arms, and according to Eckapeta’s translation, let in the Dark Wind.
Everyone gasped and drew back. Toshua nodded meaningfully to Paloma, and she stepped forward, smiling to show all was well. She made the sign of the sun rising and setting, gestured five days, then went about her business as usual, gathering eggs—what they thought she did, she had no idea—and sweeping her floor. She even grabbed Marco’s hand, pulled him up, and gave him a great kiss. Then she rubbed against him, lifting her deerskin dress, which made everyone laugh.
“Oh, Paloma,” he whispered.
She was in charge now. She held up both hands to stop the laughter, and gestured with five fingers again, while Toshua took up the story and Eckapeta translated.
“After five days of good life, the Dark Wind wants out,” Toshua’s woman said. “The suffering begins, but it is smaller this time. It does not kill.”
Paloma continued her pantomime, lying down in the dust at the feet of warriors who might, at the very least, kill her. She suffered with fever. Marco did not fail her. He knelt and wiped her face, raising her up and signing “food.” Kahúu helped, too, wiping her legs, turning her over and cleaning her like a baby, as Paloma lay in the dust and prayed God was watching their performance with sympathy.
Toshua stopped speaking and raised his hands. It was hardly necessary, because he already had everyone’s total attention. As Marco gasped in surprise and Kahúu covered her face in relief, Paloma sat up, smiled, and stood. She did a little paso doble, and Marco joined in. “And they think we can’t dance,” he whispered to her, which made her smile.
“The Dark Wind is gone after five days more, and it will never return,” Eckapeta said, triumph in her voice now. “This is what the little man and … and,” she stopped and looked with great pride upon Paloma, “Tatzinupi, my daug
hter, can do for The People. They will not fail you.”
The sun had passed its meridian now, and the air was cool, but Paloma dripped with sweat. She shook the dust from her clothes and wiped her arms, noticing the second cut on her other arm, the one she had insisted on to convince their ragged friends a month ago.
“Follow me, Toshua,” she said, and gathered all her courage and walked to Kwihnai, the war chief. Silently, she pushed both her deerskins sleeves to her shoulders so he could see identical cuts.
“Dear chief, I have amazing power,” she told him, her head up and her voice unnaturally high. She had noticed that the Kwahadi sang in high voices to honor the gods. It couldn’t hurt to do the same with war chiefs. “Twice I have been cut. So has my man, the big Spaniard. The Dark Wind trembles and runs from us. Do any of The People suffer from the Dark Wind at this moment?”
The chief listened carefully, and made the sign for yes.
“Let me and anyone else who has driven out the Dark Wind stay the night with them. We will be alive in the morning, and we will do this cut for each of you, so you and your people will be safe. Yes, you will suffer in five days time, but it is not a suffering unto death.”
Kwihnai stood in thought a long time, not a man to rush into anything, evidently. He gave her a shrewd look then, and gestured to Marco.
“ ‘Let me speak to this man of yours that you like so well,’ ” Eckapeta translated.
Marco stood next to her, taking her hand. He bowed, one leg forward like a Spanish grandee, then gave her hand a little tug. With her own flourish, she went into the deep, deep curtsey she had performed once for her almost-husband when she accepted his proposal, and thought never to do again. The People seemed suitably impressed.
He spoke into her ear. “See there, you had another occasion, my dove,” he teased. She laughed and jostled his shoulder.
The war chief smiled briefly, and then he was all business. “Spaniard, tell me why would you do this thing for people you hate? Three years ago, your war chief, and maybe you, fought us. Why should you keep The People alive?”
