Safe Passage

by Carla Kelly

  “They don’t know that! I want you to start abusing me with every curse you can think of, only for heaven’s sake, don’t mention my name.”

  “You are out of your mind,” Graciela said, throwing down the stick. The riders were only the length of a plaza away now.

  Before he could stop her, Addie grabbed Graciela by the hair and shook her, thrusting the stick back in her hand. “You do what he says, or I’m going to shoot you before the soldiers do!”

  Bravo, Addie, Ammon thought. “Cry, Addie.”

  “That’s easy,” she told him as she burst into loud tears, wailing and flailing about as though she were possessed. Graciela stared at her a moment, then started beating the dead horse, all the while swearing at Ammon so impressively that he stared in amazement.

  “Your turn, Blanco,” he whispered as the soldiers came closer. He clapped his hands three times as though in frustration, and Blanco lurched into a limp. Addie clung to the horse and sobbed, her face turned into his mane, delivering a creditable performance as a woman desperate to save her lame horse. John Barrymore would have been impressed.

  Ammon took a deep breath and turned to face the soldiers, grateful down to his toenails they were not federales, who would have shot him without a qualm and done whatever they wanted with his eternal companion and the Empress of Siam. They could have been the guerillas of Victoriano Huerta, Pascual Orozco, Ines Salazar, or any of a dozen men who had anointed themselves rebel leaders. They looked like he did, irregular soldiers in a nasty war. Now he had to convince them they were brothers. He touched his fox fur stole for luck.

  He picked up another stick and shook it at Graciela, then bowed to the men. “Thank you for chasing back my worthless sister-in-law!”

  Graciela shoved him and screamed invectives at him worthy of a sheep shearer. She pounded him and scraped his face with her fingernails while he tried to ward her off, all the while shouting, “And now she has ridden her horse to death and my nag is lame. And my woman, ay de mi! Dry your tears, woman!”

  Addie cried louder, adding a little touch of hysteria as she clung to Blanco. Ammon looked at the soldiers surrounding them and shrugged. “What do you do with women?” he asked, hands out.

  He held his breath, hoping, and there it was. One of the soldiers—probably a married man—started to laugh, and then another. Soon they were all laughing as the women carried on. Ammon put his hands over his ears, relieved to see one of the soldiers crossing a leg over the saddle, while others sheathed their rifles. Others stretched in that way of relaxed riders, not men bent on murder any more. Someone rolled a cigarillo.

  One of them rode forward, plucked the stick from Graciela, and gave her a swift stroke to the legs, as though she were a child. She glared, and he backed away as she spit at him. He laughed and threw the stick away. “We could shoot the noisy one, and your sister-in-law, and maybe that poor white lump of dog meat. Just say which ones, or all three.”

  Ammon shook his head. “I’m taking my sister-in-law the witch to my brother. Let him deal with her.” He reached for Addie, who pulled away and kept up her tears, leaning into Blanco. “And this one is mine for keeps. I’ll chastise her later.”

  The leader nudged his horse close to Graciela. “You do what he says, witch. Suppose you had run into federales?”

  Ammon held his breath as the man took his pistol from its holster. Please no, he prayed, as the soldier pointed the Colt at Graciela, then raised it in the air and fired. “¡Viva la revolución!” he shouted, then spurred his horse past them. The others laughed and followed. Soon even the faint hoofbeats faded away, and they were alone in the immensity of Chihuahua.

  Ammon’s legs wouldn’t hold him, so he sat down on the ground. He clapped his hands three times and Blanco perked up, stepping away from the dead horse. In another moment, he was cropping grass. Addie blew her nose on her dress and wiped her eyes. Ammon held out his hand to her, but she shook her head and walked to Graciela, standing so alone with slumping shoulders, her expression impassive.

  “Look at me, Graciela,” Addie commanded.

  The other woman looked, then looked away.

  “I meant every word I said,” Addie said, her face close to Graciela’s. “I’ll shoot you if you ride ahead or ever argue with Ammon. I killed a cougar, and you’d be easier!”

  Graciela turned away, a lonely figure. Ammon watched as Addie let out a big breath and walked to Graciela. In a moment, her arms were around her, holding her in a tight embrace, the best illustration he had ever seen of “reproving betimes with sharpness,” and all that followed.

  When he thought he could stand up without making a fool of himself, Ammon walked to the dead horse. And now we’ve ridden a horse to death just like the guerillas, he thought in sorrow. He looked north, wishing with all his heart that he could clap his hands three times and have the US border materialize in front of them. And here they were, going toward to a ranch that might not look any better now than Hacienda Chavez with its dead occupants.

  “Well, mujeres, we’d better start walking,” he said. “Addie, you’re a woman in a million.”

  SIXTEEN

  THEY TOOK TURNS walking and riding all night, coming to each rise fearful, but they might have been the only persons in all of Chihuahua now. By unspoken consent, no one wanted to stop as morning came and rain pelted them. There was no shelter in sight, but Ammon and Graciela knew where they were. Ammon also knew Addie would walk beside him without question.

  “I just want to go home,” Graciela said quietly to him, when he boosted Addie onto Blanco for her turn. “I don’t know what I will do about my husband.” She touched his arm and spoke softly, probably so Addie couldn’t overhear. “I envy you, Ammon ’Ancock. You and Addie have never had hard words, have you? I want to murder Paco Menendez.”

  He looked at Addie, who was looking back at him, the smile on her face serene, but tinged with genuine humor. He knew she had heard Graciela. “What d’you think, Addie?”

  “I’ve been inclined to murder Ammon,” she said, so matter-of-fact that Ammon had to look away because he wanted to laugh. “It passed. Maybe not as soon as it should have, but it passed. Don’t give up on the doctor yet.” She gave that low laugh he liked so well, and when he turned back, she was looking at him, serious now. “Chances are, he hasn’t given up on you.”

  Addie nudged Blanco ahead, a signal to Ammon that his wife wanted to be alone with her thoughts, but hopefully not her misgivings. He had always respected her quiet moments because they were part of what made her so lovely to him. Graciela watched her go. “I spoke out of turn,” she said, sounding remarkably humble for the Empress of Siam.

  They were all so tired. He sauntered along more slowly with Graciela, not bothering to avoid the puddling water because it would have taken more effort than he possessed. He told her about the great sorrow of their lives, and the rift it caused because they were both too proud to bend. Graciela listened, her eyes troubled. “You know you’d rather keep her here. You still want to get her to the border?”

  “Even more,” he told her. “Addie is so precious to me that I cannot endanger her further. Our country is not a safe country.” He nudged Graciela’s shoulder. “Addie’s right. Don’t give up on your doctor, even if he did change sides. It’s not written anywhere that doctors are geniuses any more than freight haulers are.”

  Graciela laughed. They walked quietly then until the three of them walked in single file across the expanse of what he knew was the San Diego Ranch. In their solitude, they might have been on the moon, but they each seemed to need their solitude right then.

  It is my revolution too, Ammon told himself. He looked ahead to his wife, whose head nodded forward as if she slept. How do you see it, my love?

  The rain let up in mid-morning as they trudged on, taking turns on Blanco, with no complaints from Graciela, who seemed to have learned something from last night’s terror. He hoped the lesson would last. She was riding now, so he walked beside his wife
, holding her hand.

  He knew the San Diego land because he had freighted grain, hides, lumber, and even a grand piano like his mother’s to Graciela’s father, who ran the ranch for Señor Terraza. He watched Graciela, waiting for that moment when she would probably rise up in the stirrups when she saw the main house, with its pinkish stucco covering adobe bricks, the three delicate arches at the entrance, and ornate tracery carved from volcanic rock.

  There it was. Graciela rose in her stirrups, leaning forward, her smile so happy. He pointed out the hacienda to Addie. By chance, he had been freighting grain to San Diego that early morning in March last year when Francisco Madero gathered his eight hundred insurgents there in preparation to attack Casas Grandes, where old dictator Porfirio Díaz’s federal troops were garrisoned. No one had known it at the time, but it was almost the opening shot of the revolution, right in his lap.

  Ammon squinted to see a few horses and riders in that same plaza in front of the elegant but understated mansion. It didn’t appear to be usual ranch business, but nothing had been the same anywhere in Mexico since Madero and his troops left here for Casas Grandes and destiny.

  “You ever go to the hacienda?” he asked Addie.

  “I tagged along with Evangeline once, when she visited Graciela’s older sister. I spent the day in the kitchen eating dulces.” Addie shaded her eyes with a hand to her forehead. “I hope Graciela’s parents are here. It doesn’t look too busy, though, does it?”

  She spoke too soon. Ammon stopped, tugging on Addie’s hand, when a line of soldiers on horseback seemed to materialize around the corner of the hacienda. Almost as if they were in formation, another line swung out from the other corner.

  “Pray, Addie,” he said.

  Ahead of them Graciela had pulled back on Blanco’s reins. She looked back at Ammon, confusion in her eyes. “My parents are here,” she said calmly as though the statement would suddenly change things that were going wrong before their eyes.

  When Ammon and Addie joined her, walking no faster than before, Graciela dismounted. She came around Blanco and touched Addie’s shotgun that Ammon had jury-rigged next to his own rifle in its scabbard.

  “Don’t even think it, Graciela,” he ordered. “They’ll blow us to dust.”

  She took her hand away as though the shotgun stock burned and walked beside them in their own pathetic formation, a man and two women and one tired horse against more troops than he had seen since he and Addie rode at midnight with guerillas. Addie pressed her lips tight together, her head high.

  “I’m sorry I forced you to take me home,” Graciela whispered. “Once … once we see my parents, they’ll straighten out everything.”

  Ammon said nothing. He had a good idea where her parents were, and it wasn’t on the San Diego Ranch. He managed a smile when Addie put her hand under his shirt and hung onto his belt.

  “Getting saucy, Mrs. ’Ancock?” he tried to tease.

  “I’m not letting go of you,” she replied, gripping him tighter. “Who are they?”

  He shook his head. He had no idea, except that they weren’t federales. Their own trip across Chihuahua had turned up few government soldiers, and he wondered if Madero was even still in power. These were more men dressed like him, from sombreros to bandoleras to dirty clothes. No one had a fox fur stole, though. He thought about pointing that out to Addie, but one look at her face told him that wouldn’t earn him any husband points.

  Because they couldn’t do anything else, they walked steadily toward the troops, who parted their lines so they could pass, then closed behind them. No one said a word; the only sound was the horses. The only action came from the nearest soldier, who plucked the shotgun and the rifle from Blanco and tossed them to two other riders. Moving his hand slowly to avoid alarm, Ammon took his bandolera from around his neck and dropped it in the dirt as he walked.

  Silent, watchful, the troops escorted Ammon and his little army directly to the front steps of Hacienda San Diego. There was one thing to be said for revolution: this was the first time he had ever gone right to the front door. Graciela’s father had told him years ago to go around to the adobe office next to the stables and not to bother anyone in the big house.

  He glanced at Graciela, feeling suddenly sorry for the Empress of Siam. Her face was already a mask of sorrow, as though she knew that whoever opened the door would not be Don Marco Andrade or his lovely wife, Luisa. Those days were over, and Graciela knew it now, as the revolution came home to roost in her heart. He reached around Addie and touched her shoulder.

  The door opened, and there stood General José Inés Salazar himself, not Ammon’s choice for a gracious host, since he was the man who drove the Mormons out of the colonies. Startled, he looked into Salazar’s smiling face and remembered something his father had told him years ago when his sisters had ganged up on him. Pa had stretched a friendly arm across his shoulders, pulled him close, and whispered. “Son, you need to work with what you have here, and it happens to be sisters.”

  And you just happen to be General Salazar, he thought even as he hung back, uncertain.

  God bless Addie. Maybe she had learned the same lesson better than he had. He watched as she squared her shoulders, removed her death grip from the back of his britches, and took the two steps onto the porch in her usual light-stepping fashion. She held her hand out to the general. It shook, but she didn’t back down. Ammon held his breath.

  “General Salazar, it seems that I am still in your debt and need your help.”

  If surprise was a tactic, the general became a victim. Startled in turn, he grasped the hand she held out to him, and then he recognized her. He pulled her closer, but it was a gentle tug because Hispanic men could be so courtly.

  “I remember you,” he said in excellent English. “Colonia García?”

  Addie nodded. “I thought you might remember. I owe you and Doctor Menendez my life.” With her free hand, she gestured to Ammon. “This is my husband. He rescued me after you did. I keep getting rescued.”

  Still holding her hand, General Salazar threw back his head and laughed. Ammon glanced around at the soldiers, dismounted now, crowded so close to them in front of the hacienda. No one else was laughing. He watched, afraid, until something seemed to change. Whatever tension, whatever threat had followed them up the shallow steps, vanished when the general laughed. Everyone seemed to relax, all because his wife was the funniest human in Chihuahua right then. Her cheerful statement was so ludicrous that Ammon had to smile.

  Ammon felt the tension leave his shoulders. We can do this, he thought. Addie was looking at him now as though she expected him to say something intelligent.

  “General, it seems I am not half so good at rescuing my wife as you are.” Maybe that was the right touch— appeal to the general’s vanity.

  To Ammon’s chagrin, Graciela stormed up the front steps. “Where are my parents?” she demanded and broke the web of charm Addie had so artfully spun.

  Salazar released Addie’s hand, but to Ammon’s relief, moved her gently behind him as though to protect her. The general stared at Graciela until he recognized her too. He gave her a long look, as though measuring her. Graciela stood still, her face troubled. She glanced at Ammon for something—reassurance?—and all he could do was shake his head slightly.

  Salazar took her hand too, but it wasn’t a gentle grip. He pulled her close and stared into her face. “I know you,” he said finally, biting off his words, his eyes grim. “Your worthless husband is now my enemy. He rides with General Huerta, the Jackal.” He gave her a shake for good measure, his face even closer to hers. “Are you a traitor, as well?”

  Ammon knew what Graciela would do next, and she didn’t fail him. She burst into tears, which made half of the soldiers crowded on the porch take a step back. Salazar was made of sterner stuff. He didn’t step back, and his expression grew thunderous. This was the man President Junius Romney had said he feared more than any other rebel leader because he was so changeable
. “Mark me, brethren, tread lightly around this one,” he had told the Juárez elders quorum only a week before Salazar’s demands had sent the women and children fleeing across the border. Ammon looked at Addie, watched her swallow down her fright and tease out courage of her own from somewhere down deep.

  “General, let me help you,” Addie said, her voice quiet but firm. She took Graciela’s other arm and General Salazar released her. “Are you a traitor?” he shouted again, so loud that Ammon flinched. “Are you?”

  Both of Addie’s arms circled Graciela as she cried louder. Ammon watched as his wife whispered something in her ear that reduced the noise to a manageable level. She held Graciela tight, smoothing back her hair, treating her like the child she was in a crisis.

  “She’s so young, General, and she wants her mother,” Addie said, turning all her trust on the man that not one Mormon in any of the colonies trusted. It was a look so kind and gentle that Ammon knew—hoped—even Salazar couldn’t resist.

  He couldn’t. “Take her to the kitchen,” he snapped.

  Addie nodded. She hesitated, then put her hand on the general’s arm. “Sir, do you know where her mother is?” she whispered.

  Ammon held his breath. The general threw up his hands, exasperated. “On the moon? Jupiter? In a ditch?”

  “General, please,” Addie said. “She’s so young …”

  “Hacienda Chavez!” he shouted. “Get her out of my sight!”

  Ammon turned his head, sick as he thought of the bodies in the stables. How on earth are you staying so calm? he asked himself, amazed at his wife. Addie smiled her thanks, unperturbed. Ammon looked at her grip on Graciela’s fingers, which was turning them white. Graciela obviously got the message, because she stopped crying.

  “She’s no younger than you are!” Salazar declared. He shook his head, his expression dazed, as though he wondered why women even existed. He glared at Ammon. “Where does such a woman come from?” His expression changed again, and he laughed, a rueful sound now. “Is she always so sensible, your wife?”