Crack in the Sky

by Terry C. Johnston

  Kinkead shook his head. “Nawww. But those greasers gonna be right there when we start the trouble.”

  “We?”

  Matthew smiled. “Hatcher and the rest ain’t about to let them pelados buffalo ’em and keep them senoritas all to themselves.”

  “Trouble comes, we’ll be ready,” Jack declared confidently. “Because we’ll be the ones get in the first licks.”

  “Don’t go get yourself too drunk, Bass,” Graham warned. “Need to have you ready to kick and gouge, soon enough.”

  “Damn,” Scratch muttered. “Here I come to this here baile to have myself a hoot and a headache come morning. Then you niggers tell me you’re gonna get me in a fight and all my fun’s over!”

  “Plenty of time for fun afore the fighting starts,” Caleb explained.

  Bass inquired, “Why there gotta be any fighting anyways?”

  “That soldier bunch been wanting to trim our feathers ever since we caught up to them Comanch’,” Hatcher declared. “Ain’t no stopping what’s been coming ever since that morning up in the mountains.”

  “’Sides, Scratch,” Elbridge said, “it ain’t a real fandango less’n there’s some head-banging on them greasers.”

  “Man can’t come and have himself a drink and a dance?”

  Caleb shook his head, grinning. “Not when there’s more fellers here than there is wimmens!”

  “Ye figger on dancing with their women,” Hatcher explained, “ye best be ready to put yer fists to work.”

  “They don’t like me dancing with their gals, eh?”

  “You’ll get a whirl or two in,” Kinkead stated. “But they don’t put up with us dancing with their women for long at all.”

  “I was looking forward to some likker and a dance with a soft-feeling gal or two,” Bass grumped. “Might as well be spending this night in some Injun camp since’t I can’t enjoy my likker and my dancin’ neither … ’thout some Mex soldiers wanting to put their thumbs in my eyes, or stomp on my shins!”

  “Matthew, go take ye a look around the room,” Jack instructed as he put a fraternal hand on Bass’s shoulder. “See if’n ye can spot a likely gal for Titus to dance with afore the fighting starts.”

  “And once the fighting starts,” Scratch kept on muttering with deep disappointment, “then all the rest of my fun’s run dry too.”

  “I’ll be back straight’way,” Kinkead declared as he steered Rosa away into the bustling room.

  As he sipped on his clay cup of liquor, Bass looked over the growing crowd, beginning to notice how the men and women openly flirted with one another. While the more demure and younger women stayed behind their wide fans kept fluttering before their eyes, most of the older females boldly began conversations with the men passing by them. Much the same with the rougher sex, anxious and unsure young men scrunched up against a wall, perhaps talking only with male friends as they furtively eyed the young women, mortally afraid to chance striking up a chat with one of the black-eyed beauties.

  As his eyes bounced over this group and that, Scratch groaned, “What you go and do that for, Jack?”

  Hatcher asked, “Do what?”

  “Send Kinkead off to go find me a gal—”

  “Ain’t you gonna dance tonight?”

  He finally turned to look at Hatcher. “I am.”

  “Eegod! Won’t it feel good to have your arms round one of ’em for that dancing?” Jack inquired.

  “Damn fine,” Bass replied.

  “Then it’s settled: we’ll find you a likely gal for dancing,” Jack explained. “And maybeso … a li’l courting too when the night grows old.”

  “Courting? I ain’t in no mood for courting one of these here women!” Scratch bellowed a little too loudly. Then, realizing his transgression, more quietly he said to the others, “I ain’t like Matthew there. I don’t aim to get married off to no gal—Injun or Mex.”

  “Dancing … even courting don’t mean you’re getting yourself married, Scratch!” Caleb guffawed.

  And Isaac declared, “But some sweet courting talk just might get you bedded down with some soft-skinned gal!”

  “Just like you got yourself a warm one to sleep with while you was healing up with the Snakes,” Solomon declared.

  “Hush!” Jack declared, waving his arms suddenly.

  At the center of the long room Governor Mirabal stepped atop the low platform in front of the musicians, bowed gracefully in his velvet uniform trimmed with silver braid, the crowded room applauding politely, then began to speak. As Kinkead hurried back to the group, Hatcher asked him to translate.

  “He’s saying he’s proud to have everyone as a guest in his home,” Matthew explained as the governor turned, holding out his arm. “Says that this is a special night for celebration … his wife and oldest daughter are back under their roof … not again to have to worry about Comanches.”

  “T-that’s them?” Rufus Graham asked as the woman and her daughter glided up to the low platform in their wide-hooped dresses, both of vivid color, the long lace of their mantillas spilling from the tall bone combs fastened at their crowns, hair ironed into tight ringlets around both faces.

  “Damn if them women don’t shine!” Hatcher exclaimed.

  Caleb declared, “I can’t believe it’s the same two we brung back from the mountains!”

  “Can’t be,” Scratch agreed. “They don’t look a thing like the two what Matthew here said was relations of that governor.”

  “It’s them,” Kinkead testified. “You niggers don’t recollect them two been yanked out’n their homes afore sunup by the Comanche … and now you see ’em in all their finest glory.”

  “Damn if them women don’t shine!” Hatcher marveled again.

  “You said that awready once’t!” Wood cried. Then, as he peered over at Hatcher, he added, “Lookee there, boys! Mad Jack’s got him pup-dog eyes for them gals.”

  “Shut that bunghole of your’n!” Hatcher snapped, then turned to Kinkead. “What else is he saying now, Matthew?”

  Just then the governor motioned off to the far side of the room, waving up the sergeant of that detail of soldiers who had followed the trappers along the Comanche trail.

  “Telling everyone how much a hero they were to ride after the Injuns what took the cattle and sheep, what took the women and children of our valley,” Kinkead translated.

  The new lieutenant stood on the floor just in front of the governor as the official continued speaking.

  “He wants the rest of the soldiers to come up so everyone can know who were heroes after their captain was killed in the fight with the Injuns.”

  The seven uniformed soldiers came out of the crowd, joined by at least a dozen more men dressed in their finest civilian clothing, resplendent in braid, silver conchos, and ornamental buttons from ankle clear up to collarbone.

  “That ain’t all of ’em is it?” Isaac asked in a whisper.

  “I figger some of ’em still covering guard watch, maybe,” Jack replied. “They ain’t all here.”

  “Hol’t on!” Kinkead blurted, waving both his arms in a downward motion to quiet the others.

  Hatcher asked, “What’s he saying?”

  “I’d tell you if I could hear!” Then Matthew moved forward a step, cocking his ear as the governor’s eyes scanned the crowd. “Jack—he’s saying he wants you and me to come up there with them soldiers.”

  “Me?”

  Kinkead nodded, starting off with Rosa beneath one arm, his huge hand snatching hold of Hatcher’s sleeve and tugging him along. “Governor wants all of us.”

  “Why, goddammit?”

  Matthew grinned. “He says we’re the heroes what brung his family back to him. We’re the heroes he says kept the soldiers from getting all killed by the Injuns.”

  “C’mon!” Hatcher growled with a sharp gesture of his head. “If’n I’m going up there, rest of you are too!”

  “Likely he’s got that right,” Solomon said.

  “Got what
right?” Bass asked.

  Fish replied, “When he says them soldiers get killed if’n we hadn’t come along.”

  The group shyly followed Matthew and Rosa to the front of the low platform, where Rosa slipped out from beneath her husband’s arm and joined the front row of spectators who were applauding with their approval. Most everyone in the room smiled enthusiastically as the eight Americans strung themselves out at one side of the platform … everyone but the soldiers and those in attendance who hated every gringo, no matter what they had done to rescue the governor’s family.

  As Bass shoved in between the shoulders of Isaac Simms and Rufus Graham, his palms began to sweat something fierce, especially when he looked up from the toes of his muddy moccasins to find the soldiers glowering at him and the others beneath their dark eyebrows. Quickly he turned away, glancing over the rest of the room, finding hate flickering in the eyes of so many males, adoration glittering in the eyes of so many of the females. Old and young. Especially the young who held hands and fans at their breasts, that rounded, dusky flesh half-exposed in their bloodred, black, sunset-blue, or buttermilk-yellow gowns that barely clung to their bodies.

  At that moment he couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman out in public in so provocative a manner, her clothing exposing so much of her neck, her shoulders and arms, even unto the top half of her breasts. Swallowing hard, Titus wondered how the dresses stayed up. But then he figured those firm, soft-skinned mounds were what held everything in place. So much of those breasts exposed that it wouldn’t take much at all for a man to just reach his hand right in there and—

  “Titus Bass! Step up there, nigger!”

  “Uhh?”

  “Matthew just called your name,” Rufus said in a harsh whisper. “He’s calling out our names for this here party to clap for us.”

  Glancing quickly to his left, he found Isaac Simms and the others beyond him grinning sheepishly, motioning him up with them. He immediately took a step to join the others as he heard Matthew call out Graham’s name. Rufus was there at his right shoulder a heartbeat later, so that all eight of the Americans stood before the group as the governor, his wife, and daughter stepped off the platform and right up to Rufus Graham. There the governor held out his hand, shaking it before he moved on to Bass.

  As Titus released Mirabal’s grip, he had but a moment before the governor’s wife stepped up to him, her hand suspended between them.

  “What’m I to do?” he whispered to Isaac, frantic.

  “Bow your damned head, nigger!” Simms said in a husky whisper.

  Nervously shoving his hairy chin against his chest, Scratch watched Manuela Mirabal give a short curtsy before releasing his hand and stepping on to do the same with Isaac. But the moment the woman moved on and relief began to wash over him, he discovered the pretty, cherry-eyed daughter stopping right in front of him, toe to toe, staring up at him as soft-eyed and wet-lipped as a young fawn.

  “Bow again, goddammit!” Rufus reminded him with a growl.

  As Manuela Mirabal moved by Isaac, he nudged Bass with an elbow. “This’un’s sweet on you, Titus, ol’ boy! Better give her hand a kiss too.”

  On the other side Graham chuckled softly. “Just like them proper Frenchmen do in St. Louie!”

  “Kiss her h-hand?”

  “Do it!” Isaac ordered.

  As instructed, Titus bowed his head and brought the small, smooth hand to his lips obediently, brushing it with his parched lips, embarrassed that his entire mouth and throat had just gone dry. Raising his head, he found Jacova’s eyes brazenly locked on his. Instead of immediately removing her hand from his once he had completed his bow, the girl held on to his hand as he straightened. Her mother reached out and gently nudged her young daughter, as if to remind Jacova she was to continue down the receiving line. Just as she was about to step aside, the young woman squeezed Bass’s hand, lingering for a heartbeat longer.

  While she turned to present her hand to Isaac, Bass felt both ears growing hot beneath his long curls.

  Barely able to breathe, Scratch found he couldn’t take his eyes off her—helpless as he studied the way Jacova held out her delicate fingers to Simms, how she curtsied politely, the way she spoke to Isaac as she furtively glanced at Titus. He suddenly realized just how quickly she pushed her limp hand into Isaac’s, allowed Simms to bow, then immediately yanked her hand away while she had let it linger in Bass’s grip.

  Was he crazy? Or had she really sought to hang on to Bass until the very last moment they might have to share, the last moment they would have to touch, to gaze into one another’s eyes?

  As he watched Jacova float back across the front of the room to rejoin her parents, Titus suddenly became aware of the hateful glare in the eyes of all those young soldiers arrayed just behind the governor, his wife, and daughter as the Mirabais stopped before Matthew. Mirabal motioned for Rosa to join her husband. While she shyly stepped to Kinkead’s side at the center of the sala, Bass noticed the governor’s daughter looking at him from beneath her long eyelashes.

  “Maybeso that young’un’s got the idee to make herself your wife,” Rufus whispered, leaning into Bass’s shoulder.

  With a reflex jerk Titus jabbed back with his elbow, planting it deep into Graham’s belly. Giving a noisy ooomph, Rufus stumbled back a step, snorting with laughter.

  “What’s he saying now, Matthew?” Gray asked.

  Kinkead translated in a whisper, “Says they’re gonna bring in the lamb and the calf now. I don’t figger there’s gonna be a empty belly in the whole house!”

  At the far end of the room the crowd parted as four men stepped through the cordon, on their shoulders a large pewter platter atop which lay the roasted carcass of an entire lamb. Right behind them came four others, these carrying a roasted calf. Whistles of approval and cheers arose as the fragrance of the steaming meats washed over the room.

  With his mouth already watering, Scratch had his knife halfway out of its scabbard before Kinkead locked his hand around Bass’s wrist.

  “You’ll get your turn, pilgrim,” Matthew warned. “Let the women get their meat first.”

  Suddenly shamed and remembering the long-ago social manners his mother had worked so hard to teach him, Bass dropped the knife back into its sheath. “I’m sorry, Matthew.”

  With a wink the big man replied, “Don’t you need feel sorry, Titus. Folks like us, we ain’t got much call to show our proper manners what with the life we have in the mountains.”

  When, if ever, had he gone and bowed to a gal … much less kissed a woman’s hand? But in the last few minutes, here in a foreign land, he had just done both! Right in front of a whole room filled with gawking folks watching him as his face grew hot and his eyes smarted with embarrassment.

  This was all something so different, so completely new to him. Oh, to be sure, many of the women he’d known could be brazen in their own way, usually when he found himself alone with them. Amy Whistler, even Abigail, the Ohio River whore. And Marissa wasn’t shy at all about letting him know exactly what she had on her mind when she came sneaking out to where he had his blankets laid in her father’s barn.

  Now, those Injun gals, Fawn and Pretty Water, they had never appeared to worry about the niceties of preliminaries nor concerned themselves with social appearances. Behind the dropped door of their lodges, neither had a problem showing Titus just what they wanted from him of a sexual nature. There was no clutter of polite manners to get in the way of man and woman taking what they needed most from one another.

  So it struck him as all the more flattering that this young woman had made her thoughts abundantly clear through nothing more than that steamy look in her eyes and the way she gripped his hand until her mother demanded she move on down the line.

  Through the early part of the evening Bass had danced one lively jota after another with a succession of young women brought up and introduced to him by Matthew and Rosa. There had been a Carmelita, a Maria, and a Linda, those three somehow
rememberable among all the faceless others who came to sway at the end of his arms in that Mexican dance so reminding him of a country reel, each of those perfumed females smiling politely through their song, then turning away before he could escort them back to their side of the room.

  “Don’t you know Jacova’s mama is gonna keep a close eye on that girl now, Scratch,” Kinkead warned hours later after the lamb and calf were no more than greasy platters heaped with bones, long after the musicians were beginning to tire and the room had grown unbearably warm from all the heated bodies pulsing to those most ancient rhythms of the courtship ritual.

  Bass turned to Matthew. “Whose mama?”

  “Jacova’s mama,” Kinkead chided. “The governor’s wife. It’s his daughter you gone and got all moon-eyed over.”

  “I ain’t moon-eyed,” he snapped.

  “Well, she sure as hell is,” Matthew snorted with a wink. “Best you just forget that girl afore she spells trouble for you.”

  “I ain’t about to do a thing to make for trouble—”

  “G’won and set your eye on one of them others,” Kinkead suggested. “Like Hatcher there.”

  “Jack ain’t about to sit out a dance!” Caleb gushed as he came up, a clay cup in one hand, a rib he was tearing meat from in the other.

  “See how I got him a good woman to take a whirl with and he’s a happy man, Titus,” Matthew boasted. “Now, whyn’t you do the same and forget that Jacova Mirabal.”

  “I ain’t thinking ’bout Jacova!”

  Kinkead jabbed an elbow in Caleb’s side. “Looks to me you gone all soft-brained over her.”

  “Then bring me ’Nother girl to dance with or leave me be!” Bass grumbled, his forehead hot as all-night coals—already sensing the long evening’s potent liquor. “To hell with what’s right and what’s wrong with these here Mex folks. Can’t think of nothing better to do than drink till my own feet don’t hold me up no more.”

  “You’re damned near that now!” Rufus said as he came back to the group at the end of a song.

  “That Hatcher,” Bass said, watching Jack standing near the center of the floor, holding both hands with a comely maid until the next song started. Just beyond them stood at least a dozen young Mexican men glaring at the lone American.