by Carla Kelly
“Dr. Gill was always going to make his fortune farther west,” Leo said, making no effort to disguise his bitterness. “What could we do but follow? His wife by vows, and me by a damned document.”
He stopped, his head down, and Marco thrust a gourd of water in front of him. He drained it eagerly.
“All along, you had been learning a real physician’s skills?” Paloma asked.
“It wasn’t hard. Set a bone, purge and bleed someone. I didn’t like it—too much stink and pus—but when did he ask me?”
“Pobrecito,” Marco said sarcastically, “my heart bleeds for you.”
Paloma gave her husband a little shake. When Marco spoke again, he at least sounded more civil. “And?”
“We lived near Los Adaes then, in a one-room jacal with sand fleas and cockroaches. Mrs. Gill had decided to leave him, take Pia, and return to her father. The day she was going to sneak away, the Comanches struck. The doctor and I were treating diarrhea in the garrison at Los Adaes.” He paused, his eyes weary as he passed his hand in front of his face. Paloma knew that gesture, because she had done it many times herself, trying to wipe out a view that would not leave the brain.
“We came back to horror.” Leo glanced from Toshua to Eckapeta, their expressions unreadable. “I have already told that story.”
“Keep going.”
“Surely we could leave now, but no! Dr. Gill returned to Natchitoches and told his father-in-law what had happened. Señor Rosas was understandably beside himself. He offered the doctor a huge amount of gold to find Pia and bring her back to him. He would keep his granddaughter, and the doctor would go back to Georgia. That was why we went onto the plains.”
“For money,” Marco said, his voice troubled now, the anger gone. “Not for love of his daughter?”
“For money,” Leo repeated, his voice more firm. “That was Anthony Gill.”
He was silent. Marco sat back, as if exhausted by so much greed and deception. Eckapeta passed around a wooden bowl of dried meat and they ate. When they finished, Leo continued.
“That vile man had the worst luck. We joined ourselves to as foul a group of traders as you will ever see. The doctor promised them part of the gold he was going to collect, so they suffered us.” Leo turned his face away then, his sorrow palpable. “When they could not find women, he let them use me. God damn him to eternal flames forever.”
Leo said it in a low voice. Ayasha was in tears now. Toshua and Eckapeta looked at each other, shocked.
“Did you kill him?” Marco asked, his voice kinder, speaking into the great silence.
“I wanted to! Before God and all the saints, I wanted to! I am a coward; you know that.” He managed a dry chuckle, but his eye consigned the real Dr. Gill to unimaginable torture. “The doctor and the head trader got in a brawl over the turn of a card, and Anthony Gill, that bearer of bad luck, received a knife through his bowels for his pains.” Leo rubbed his hands together. “I am happy to report that he lingered in agony for some days.”
Chilled to the bone, Paloma moved closer to Marco. With a shudder he did not try to control, her husband passed around a bottle of good brandy that Kwihnai must have liberated from another rancher no luckier than the doctor.
Leo took a long swig and sighed. “I was all for turning back. We had almost run out of trade goods and winter was coming. But no, the traders decided I should become Antonio Gil. We would recover his daughter and still get the money.” He shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t a bad plan.” He gave Paloma his attention. “You were the only one who noticed that the medical bag obviously wasn’t made for a man of my height. Dr. Gill was a head taller.”
“Much good that did,” Paloma said dryly. “I didn’t put anything together, did I?”
“We continued, and then la viruela struck. I watched the traders die and felt only delight, even though I was alone.” He folded his arms. “You know the rest. In my mind, I knew I had to become Dr. Gill and continue the charade.”
“There is more,” Marco said, after a long, uncomfortable silence. “I am a juez de campo and I am trained to watch people, to study them, if you will. You’re lying right now, and you were lying in the gathering with the two girls. I know it.”
Leo threw up his hands. “You are so determined to have the whole story?”
“I insist.”
Leo looked at Paloma, and she saw the sympathy in his eyes. “Blame Paloma for my sudden reformation.”
“What are you talking about?” Marco demanded, sounding like a man whose last fragment of patience had just blown away.
“I? What … how …?” Paloma stammered.
Leo held up his hand to stop them, not taking his eyes from Paloma. “Pia Maria is the shorter of the two girls we saw earlier. Señora Mondragón, of all the people in this tipi, you know why I said nothing.”
Paloma swallowed and turned her face into Marco’s arm. “It was the weeping women, was it not?” she said, her voice muffled. “You couldn’t bear to do to them what Kahúu’s brother-in-law did to me.”
There was a catch in Leo’s throat. “I could not. It isn’t in me anymore.”
Paloma held her hand to her mouth so she would not sob out loud. Marco put both arms around her.
“After all, who could say if I would ever get Pia Maria back across east Texas?”
“No, that was not in the devil’s bargain, was it?” Marco said as he cradled Paloma in his arms now.
“No. I thought at first that I would tempt you with the gold from Pia’s grandfather, that which tempted the traders,” he said, with a rueful shake of his head. “I was not two days in your presence before I knew you would never be so dishonorable.”
“Well, thank you,” Marco said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“It’s more than that. You don’t know Señora Gill’s father; I do. He is a lying cheat who beats his slaves. Who can say how he would really treat a child who has, for all intents, become a Comanche? Pia Maria is better off here, with a mother and father who love her. Who paid twenty buffalo robes for her.”
“Thank you, Leo Flynn,” Paloma said, as she swabbed at her tears. “You have done a good thing.”
He gave her a genuine smile, one of the few she had ever seen from him, and it was directed at her. “Dear lady, do you remember what you told me, even before this journey began?”
“No, I … no.”
“You told me that the more time I spent with you two, especially Marco Mondragón, the better I would become. You were almost right, except that I believe the credit goes to you.”
Marco started to laugh, a low laugh that began somewhere down deep and seemed to spread through his whole body. “Señor Flynn, you are a cheat and a rascal, but you are absolutely right,” he said when he could speak. He raised Paloma’s hand and kissed it. “My love, you might be my star in the meadow, but obviously I am not the only person becoming better through your influence.”
Paloma covered her face with her hands, unable to look at any of them. “I wish my cousin Maria Teresa had been so susceptible,” she whispered, for Marco’s ears only.
“We’ll try again with the Castellanos when we return home,” he promised her. “My star. Tatzinupi.”
“I just want to go home.”
“And so we shall. Leo Flynn, we will get you back to Valle del Sol. You can do what you want from there, but we have need of a médico in Santa Maria.”
“But I’m not—”
“Oh, you are. Come, Paloma. I need to walk with you.”
He held out his hand to her and she rose gracefully, happy to be away from such heavy doings. Outside the tipi, she jumped when she heard a shriek much like the first. Wiping his knife, Toshua came out next.
“What did you do, pabi?” Marco asked.
Paloma had to turn her head away at Toshua’s wounded look. “I just gave him a matching strip on his other cheek, in case he tries to forget this little lesson.” He drew himself up. “It is the Kwahadi way. We are tidy people.”
>
The tidy people danced that night, willing to use Paloma’s promised five days of comfort, laughter and tipi time before the Dark Wind paid a visit. They danced to honor the bear that the bedraggled travelers had killed, which meant that Marco had to dance, too, pantomiming his approach and the creature’s death. Paloma watched with considerable amusement, and then some respect. Her husband was light on his feet. She noticed that the Mondragón family jewels did swing more comfortably in a breechcloth. How in the world would she ever get him into breeches again? Then Eckapeta pulled her up, too, and she had to dance with another woman, the one who killed the bear cubs.
In the morning she was still comfortable in the robes with the most accommodating man she knew, thinking about a little more tipi time before the sun came up completely, when Eckapeta came into their tipi suddenly.
“Up, Paloma.”
Marco groaned and started to shake his head, but Eckapeta yanked off the buffalo robe, baring his nakedness. The woman laughed to see his readiness for something other than rising and left the tipi. Whatever dignity he had possessed now shredded, Marco gave himself a moment then sat up, muttering to Paloma, “You would not do that.”
“What could she want with me?” Paloma asked as she dressed.
Marco shrugged, lay down again, and closed his eyes, a smile on his face. “Better you than me,” he said, which earned him a small kick from his excellent wife.
It was a beautiful morning, the air crisp, but promising warmth by midday. Paloma breathed deep; spring had come to the Texas plains. The smell of cedar campfires tickled her nose. The camp was beginning to stir. Soon they would leave—a thought that gave her more mixed emotions than Paloma was willing to admit, even to herself.
But there was a kitchen garden to plant, and she knew she would almost give the earth for a long soak in the wooden tub. She smiled to herself. Last night Marco had reminded her about the promised red shoes. And perhaps she could find a way to Maria Teresa’s dusty heart. She couldn’t do that here, so it was time to go home.
She asked Eckapeta where they were going, but the woman she had come to love like an older sister just shook her head. She took Paloma by the hand, the gesture infinitely companionable.
They walked until they were out of sight of the tipis and horse herd, to a clearing with a small fire. Someone had laid green cedar branches across the flames to create a haze of sweet-smelling smoke. Close to the fire, but not close enough to be burned, Eckapeta spread out a trade blanket. When she finished, she turned to Paloma. “Take off your dress.”
“Oh, but ….”
Eckapeta folded her arms, not about to be deterred.
Even a month ago, Paloma knew she would never do such a thing out of doors and in the bright daylight. Anyone could wander by. Everything had changed now, and she trusted Toshua’s woman with all her heart, even as she trusted Toshua. With one fluid motion, she pulled her deerskin dress over her head.
“Your moccasins, too. Sit down here and cross your legs.”
“Oh, I can’t …. Very well.” Paloma sat, after looking around to assure herself that no one else was even near the clearing.
Eckapeta picked up the smoking cedar branch and waved it over her, singing in high, high notes, so the good spirits who helped The People could hear. Paloma looked at her, tears either from shyness or smoke running down her face.
“This is a cleansing ceremony,” Eckapeta said. “I like to do this after a long journey.” She chuckled. “Maybe I just like the smell of burning cedar.” She touched Paloma’s forehead. “You know The People are not sentimental.”
“But you are?” Paloma teased back.
“Maybe,” Eckapeta said, then struggled within herself. “And maybe I love you as a sister.”
Paloma bowed her head, knowing that whatever happened, Eckapeta’s words had already cleansed away any feelings of sorrow.
Paloma closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the fragrance. Eckapeta waved the branch a few more times, then set it back in the fire. She opened her eyes when the woman knelt in front of her. She forgot to be shy when Eckapeta touched each breast, her fingers gentle around her nipples. A soft pat on her belly followed, and then she was done. She had begun the little ceremony so serious, but she smiled now.
Paloma dressed, while Eckapeta spread dirt on the fire and rolled up the trade blanket.
“I will miss you, little sister,” was all Eckapeta said, as she brought Paloma back to the tipi she shared with Marco. She turned away and Paloma watched her shoulders shake and her head go down.
“I will miss you, too, sister,” Paloma whispered.
They left The People after another meal of excellent beef from someone’s herd, Marco was certain. Their friends and fellow-travelers from the little camp sat close to them, laughing and talking. Paloma had returned, quiet and contemplative, from her walk with Eckapeta. When he had asked her what had happened, Paloma only blushed and said, “Later.”
Marco steeled himself for the pain when Kahúu brought her little niece by for a farewell look. Paloma probably would not have started to cry if the baby hadn’t started kicking her feet and cooing when she saw her temporary mother.
When she was calm again, Paloma held out her arms to accept another beaded dress from Kahúu. “I will miss you,” she told her friend. Paloma couldn’t take her eyes from the baby.
“For the dress you lost,” Kahúu whispered, then fled back to her tipi, her niece in her arms. Marco had to hold up his wife until she had her feet under her again.
With a terrible sort of dignity, Kwihnai made certain that Marco would never return to the canyon of The People, and never tell anyone how to get there. Marco did not flinch as the war chief took a nick out of his cheek, but only on one side.
“That is to remind you that death will come in terrible ways, if you go against your promise.”
“Never,” Marco said, as blood streamed down his face. “On my honor, which is as dear to me as my wife, Spain, and God. And you will honor your words about Valle del Sol. I am depending upon you.”
Kwihnai nodded. He reached down and slapped dirt on Marco’s face, making a most casual poultice. “Go now.”
Now or never. Marco held out his hand, not knowing if the war chief of the Kwahadi, a proud tribe humbled to the dust two years ago by Governor de Anza, would touch fingers. “My war chief—you know him—wanted me to tell you that we have land and you have land, and there is enough for us both. Come and see him at the Taos Fair. If not this year, then some year.”
Marco’s heart lightened when Kwihnai touched his fingers. “Perhaps some year, if you will be there, too.”
“God willing, I will be.”
“Your woman, too?”
“Most certainly.”
Marco mounted his horse, pleased to see his pack animals again, their old tents on them now, and food. But there were Toshua and Eckapeta, ready to ride, too. He couldn’t hide his relief or his surprise, but weren’t they needed to help The People through the five bad days to come?
“I told them I would remain.”
Marco stared at Leo Flynn, standing so quietly beside him. Funny, he had almost forgotten about the man already. But that was Leo Flynn.
“You? Ay caray, you?
“Your friends want to go,” he said simply. “They will help me when they return. Also, that disgusting old man Buffalo Rut tells me there are more Kwahadi and many Kiowa who need what I do.”
“Are you certain?”
“I thought about it all night,” was his quiet reply. “Maybe I do not want to be known for my faulty character anymore.”
“Thank you, Señor Flynn,” Paloma said, and kissed his cheek.
“There is more,” he said.
“There always is, with you,” Marco grumbled.
He said nothing, but pointed to Ayasha with his lips. She came to his side, her eyes down, shy. “I don’t want to leave her.” He managed a surprisingly courtly bow to Paloma. “Ayasha can conti
nue molding my faulty character where you have left off, Señora Mondragón. Go with God, and may you be fruitful.”
Leo Flynn—indentured servant no more, now medicine man to the Kwahadi—patted the beaded doctor’s bag that fit him. “Or I might show up in Santa Maria again with Ayasha.” He laughed. “I also cut hair and barber.”
Leo stepped back, after Kahúu’s husband handed Marco his old Spanish bow and quiver, but with Kwahadi arrows now. He raised his hand in salute. Kwihnai motioned to Marco and handed him his own lance, which meant it was Marco’s turn to look away until he collected himself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In which Paloma is cleansed again
Buffalo Rut followed them up the steep canyon trail and onto the Llano Estacado, riding with them for two days until one morning Paloma woke to find him gone. She stood a long time watching to the east. Marco did not disturb her silence that day.
“I will miss him,” was all she said. As I will miss my baby, and The People, and Kahúu especially, she told herself that night, after Marco slept.
They would have taken a punishing pace to cross the Staked Plains, except that she knew after the first day that Eckapeta told them not to. Paloma had tried to maintain their easy, mile-eating lope and heaven knows she did not complain, but she could not keep up. Exhaustion she could not explain seemed to fill her whole body.
She thought there might be contempt in the warriors’ eyes, but she saw nothing of the kind. Eckapeta told her later, as she brushed Paloma’s hair—her hairbrush fascinated the woman—that The People would tell stories for a long time about the woman who was brave enough to challenge the Dark Wind with two cuts, and who had stood above her man with a branding iron, ready to swing at them.
“Anyone would have done those things,” she said, which made Eckapeta tug her hair and laugh.
Paloma couldn’t help but admire Marco, every bit as dignified in the saddle as the Kwahadi. She even thought her modest husband was a little bit proud of his Kwahadi scar. The days were warm now and he had tucked away the trade blanket he had worn on his shoulders, during the last gasp of winter in the canyon. He had also put away his Spanish boots, because as a parting gift, one of Kwihnai’s wives had made him a pair of moccasins that fit.
