Blood of Apache Mesa

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Para que buscas?” he asked. He was a mestizo dressed in vaquero style. The pistol and large knife in his belt seemed as natural a part of him as his hands. “You t’ink I am pretty?”

  Garrity interjected here. “My amigo is looking for an hombre that owes him dinero. Mucho dinero. He is not looking at you.”

  Wildon’s temper, frayed from the strain he was under, heated up. “I most certainly do not think you are pretty.”

  “Oh? Then you t’ink I am feo, eh?”

  Wildon looked at Garrity, “What is feo?”

  “It means ugly,” Garrity said. “Now it would—”

  “Yes, indeed,” Wildon said to the man. “You are feo. As a matter of fact I have never in all my life seen such a feo person as you.”

  The vaquero stepped back, his hand dropping to his holster. He slipped his pistol free, but a blast from Garrity’s gun sounded. The mestizo back-stepped and sat down on the floor. He looked up at Wildon and spat blood straight at him. Then he fell backward dead.

  More shots sounded in the cantina. Wildon, acting under blind instinct and fear, now had his Remington out. He fired without aiming across the room. But Garrity’s shooting was of a more serious nature.

  Two men on the other side went down. Now Wildon noticed they had been firing at them. A movement off to one side caught his eye, and he looked to see the bartender aiming a shotgun toward him and Garrity. He aimed at the man and fired twice. The Mexican’s face seemed to suddenly collapse inward; then the man disappeared from view as he collapsed.

  The prostitute emitted a loud scream. “Ya matastes a mi esposo!”

  “What’s she shouting about?” Wildon asked over the roaring of the guns.

  “You just killed her husband,” Garrity said.

  Wildon’s mind, although thoroughly occupied by the present gun battle, felt shock at the revelation.

  The drinkers who had been in the middle of the fracas were on the floor. Most were scurrying on their hands and knees toward the exit. The ones on the far side, including the half-dozen card players, had joined the gunfight. “I’m sounding Recall,” Garrity said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He’d reholstered his pistol and had gone to the Henry repeater.

  Wildon followed his example, pumping his Winchester and pulling the trigger to send three heavy slugs streaking toward the hostile crowd across the cantina. One man fell forward to the floor while another grabbed his arm and spun around. The firing had enough effect on the others to make them scramble away.

  Wildon and Garrity, still firing, broke for the door. They charged outside, not letting up in their shooting in order to discourage any potential assassins in that direction. The cavalrymen bolted aboard their horses and turned for a run out of the village. They rode hard and fast, putting as much distance as possible between them and the death scene.

  Wildon, realizing his inexperience, followed Garrity. They pounded toward the mountains, keeping the horses going all out for another fifteen minutes before settling down into a ground-eating canter.

  “We’re lucky it’s so close to dark,” Garrity said.

  “Damnation!” Wildon said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Most of ’em had been drinking,” Garrity told him. “If they hadn’t been, we’d be with the other dead men.”

  Wanting to spare their horses as much as possible, they slowed down even more. Several glances back showed they were not being followed.

  “Lieutenant Boothe, I want to explain something to you,” Garrity said. “It ain’t considered polite out here to stare at folks. They take it as nosiness or a challenge. Particularly like an invitation to trouble.”

  “It is a lesson I have quickly learned,” Wildon said. “This subculture in which we are traveling is completely alien to anything I’ve ever known in the past. I promise, Sergeant, that in future I shall practice more discretion.”

  “Does that mean not attracting attention to yourself?”

  “In this case, yes!” Wildon said.

  “Fine.” He pointed to the mountains. “We can find a place to hole up for the rest of the night. Then we’ll get back to tracking down the bandits.” Wildon nodded. The sudden thought of Hester away from him and in the hands of men like those in the cantina chilled his heart.

  Ten

  Hester Boothe almost jumped from the wicker chair she was sitting in when the door to the room abruptly opened. The older woman she’d seen earlier in the day entered carrying a dress. Hester looked closely at the oldster but could not figure out what race or nationality she was. Although she was dark complected and her gray hair was in braids like Indian women depicted in lithographs, she wore a gaily colored dress with a white apron. Her feet were adorned by leather sandals.

  The woman spoke in a raspy voice. “Cambiate pronto!” She tossed the dress at Hester, then turned and walked away, slamming the door.

  Assuming the short statement to be a command to change into the garment, Hester angrily threw it aside without as much as a cursory examination. She continued to sit in the chair, staring at the wall. A short time passed when the woman again appeared. She frowned when she saw the dress lying on the floor. “No te gusta, gringita? Y que importa. Venga.” She gestured in a way that made Hester think she wanted her to go away. But after a few moments she realized the woman wanted her to follow.

  Hester, a fresh feeling of fear rising in her, kept to the chair. She looked away as a silent sign she had no intention of following the woman.

  “Que tienes?” the oldster asked. “Venga. El general y tu van a comer.” She shuffled over to Hester and nudged her.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Pandeja!” The woman grabbed Hester and pulled her from the chair. “Venga!”

  Hester resisted, but the woman was surprisingly strong for her age. The American finally decided there was no use in resisting. She walked slowly after the woman into the next room. The delicious smell of strange food was strong as she went through the door. There was a large table with a white tablecloth covered with plates, silverware, and serving dishes. There were also some silver goblets and several bottles of wine. Hester suddenly realized how hungry she was.

  The old woman pointed to each dish and spoke to identify its contents. “Tamales. Frijolitos con queso. Chiles jalapehos. Vino,” she said. “Son muy deliciosos.” She pulled a chair out from the table. “Sientete.”

  Hester figured she was to sit down. She numbly complied, enjoying the aroma coming from the food. The old woman looked her over carefully, then left her alone. Hester tried to straighten out some of the wrinkles in the calico dress. The days in the wagon and the wild horseback ride earlier had left it a mess. She vaguely wondered what sort of garment she had just thrown to the floor. It had been emerald green and carefully folded.

  The door opened once again, but this time it was not the woman. It was Hubert Mauveaux. He was dressed in a colorful uniform. The tunic was a dark blue with a high red collar and epaulets. A single gold stripe lined the lower cuff while a fancy scroll design ran up each sleeve. The trousers were bright red with a wide gold stripe up the sides. The effect was finished off with a pair of extremely shiny black boots and a kepi. The headgear was similar to that of the American army except it was darker and red on top with gold striping. He bowed and clicked his heels. Although not a handsome man, there was the aura of a chevalier about him in the way he conducted himself and moved about. He had a grace that spoke of serious social training sometime in his life.

  “Bonsoir, madame.” He had also shaved, oiled his hair, and waxed his mustache to curly magnificence.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur,” Hester replied in a sullen voice.

  His eyes widened and. a wide smile stretched across his aquiline features. “Vous parlez francais!”

  “Yes, monsieur, I speak French,” she replied in the language. “And again I must insist on my immediate release.”

  Mauveaux ignored her stern plea. “It is more than I could have hoped and dreame
d for, madame! A beautiful lady who is educated and cultured and—” He stopped speaking and clasped his hands in distress. “Je regrette! I did not properly introduce myself to you.”

  “You’ve already told me who you are,” Hester said coldly.

  “But that was out there and I was dressed as a common man.” Mauveaux walked over and grasped her hand before she could pull back. He kissed it, saying, “I am Hubert Mauveaux, ex-sous lieutenant du Regiment des Chasseurs d’Afrique of the French Colonial Army.”

  “And I am still Mrs. Boothe, wife of Lieutenant Boothe of the United States Cavalry.”

  “Ah! Again I must seek your forgiveness, madame! I did not offer you any wine.” He poured her a glassful, then served himself. “This is wine of California,” he said. “Although a bit crude in comparison to the vintages of my native France, I feel that in time the Californians may equal or surpass the Old World.” He tinkled a bell. “Shall we eat?” The old lady appeared. “Si, General Don Humberto?”

  “Serveinos, por favor,” he said.

  The old woman shuffled to the table to fill their plates. After setting the platters down in front of them she made a silent exit.

  “That is Señora Gonzales,” he explained. “Although an illiterate, she performs her household duties most remarkably. You may have picked up the fact she addressed me as ‘general.’ That is because I am in command of this army outside my castle.”

  “It is a small army,” Hester said.

  “You have not seen all of it, madame, nor do you realize its potential,” Mauveaux said. He noted that Hester took a bite of the food. “And how is your meal, madame?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Hester said. The food was actually better than anything she had eaten at Fort MacNeil or on the wagon train. Between it and Mauveaux’s impeccable manners, she began to feel some confidence. She thought it best to keep, the conversation on the pleasant side. “Your housekeeper told me the names of these dishes, but I cannot recall.”

  “She told you in Spanish, no doubt,” Mauveaux said. “What you are eating now is called a tamale. It is beef, olives, and flavorings wrapped in a corn-meal paste, then baked. The other is the form of Mexican beans with a special goat cheese on the top. You seem to find the food to your liking.”

  “It is delicious,” Hester replied. “And what is in that bowl?”

  “Ah! Take care, madame! That is a fiery food called jalapenos! It takes time to get used to them,” Mauveaux cautioned her. He picked one of the large green peppers and ate it, smiling in a superior manner.

  Hester, feeling defiant, reached out and took one. She bit down, immediately feeling the fiery juices fill her mouth. But she continued to eat it slowly, as if savoring the taste. The only outward sign of distress were the tears in her eyes. She dabbed at them with her napkin after finishing the pepper. Although her voice was a bit strained, she had it under control. “Most interesting.”

  “You are a remarkable woman!” he exclaimed. The meal lasted an hour and a half. They ate slowly and sipped the wine while Mauveaux told her of his home in Orleans and a bit about his cold father and eccentric mother.

  “I have inherited her passions,” he said. “I, too, am a romanticist with a tender heart full of passion and love.”

  “How do you know this of your mother, monsieur?” Hester asked.

  “It was no secret that she was unfaithful to my father and had many lovers. I know, for I saw several myself.”

  Hester, an Anglo-Saxon raised in that race’s environ of womanly chastity and modesty, gasped in surprise at this casual revelation of his mother’s adulterous conduct.

  But Mauveaux did not notice. He continued talking, enjoying this chance to converse in his native tongue. After years of border women who lacked any exposure to life’s more refined aspects, the Frenchman was fast falling deeper in love with the beautiful American woman with her obvious social graces. His conversation was disjointed in his excitement as he went from subject to subject. At one point he interrupted himself in mid-sentence. “How disappointed I am, madame!”

  “Why is that, monsieur?” Hester asked.

  “I made you a gift of a beautiful dress, but you did not choose to wear it,” he said.

  “Monsieur” Hester said almost defiantly, “I am a married woman, and I do not accept gifts from strange gentlemen. In my circle it would be considered most inappropriate and improper conduct.”

  “But of course! But I am not a stranger to you,” Mauveaux explained. “We have been introduced, and now we are dining together on fine food in a wonderful atmosphere. And there is more.” He turned toward the door, snapping his fingers. “Julio! Venga por favor,”

  A Mexican man carrying a violin came into the room. He bowed and, without further ceremony, began to play Chopin’s “Polonaise.” Now Hester had to admit that the music was also better than what she’d heard at Fort MacNeil. She took another sip of wine, not realizing she was beginning to get a little drunk.

  The violinist went through a half-dozen pieces before he ended his concert. After bowing again to their applause, he made a graceful exit.

  “How wonderful!” Hester exclaimed. “Where on earth did you find him?”

  “His name is Julio Montenegro, and he once played the first violin in the Mexico City symphonic orchestra,” Mauveaux explained. “But he murdered a man and was forced to flee the capital. Eventually he joined up with my army and acquired a violin during a raid on a hacienda in Sonora. After I heard him play, I made sure he would do nothing to risk his life or his hands. He is one of the permanent guards left here at our mountain fortress.”

  “Remarkable!” Hester said, fascinated. “And he is a murderer?”

  “This is the New World, madame,” Mauveaux explained. “In building empires, one must deal with various elements of undesirables from time to time.”

  “You are forging an empire, monsieur?” Hester asked.

  “But of course! This uniform I wear may be that of a lieutenant, but an emperor’s robes shall be mine one day,” Mauveaux said. “I shall take up where Maximilian left off.”

  “As I recall,” Hester said pointedly, “Maximilian was executed by the Mexicans.”

  “He was not a true emperor, madame” Mauveaux replied. “He depended on the goodwill and support of others. I shall do my own empire building.”

  “I wish you luck,” Hester said.

  “Would you not wish to be my empress?” Mauveaux asked. “Together we would rule over a dominion that would stretch from the American border down to Tierra del Fuego. Two continents!”

  “No, thank you,” Hester said smiling.

  “Madame, you cut me deeply!” the Frenchman exclaimed. “How can you be so cruel to one who loves you passionately?”

  Hester became flustered. The man had not spoken of loving her, and she was unprepared for such unwelcome attention. She reverted to English. “Sir! How many times must I tell you that I am a married woman?”

  “I love you with all my heart!” Mauveaux cried out. He went to her and sank down to one knee. “My soul calls out for you.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I cannot go on without you,” Mauveaux insisted. “When I saw you standing beside that wagon, my passions and affections boiled over. I had to have you as my own.”

  “You kidnapped me, sir! I was forced to go with you against my will, and I strongly resent it,” Hester said. “You have made me a most unhappy prisoner.”

  “Oh, no, madame! It is I who is the prisoner—un prisonnier d’amour!”

  “I demand my release,” Hester said. “If you have no consideration for me, please think of my poor husband.”

  The expression on Mauveaux’s face darkened. “I hate him! The jealousy I feel courses through my body like a hot fire.” He looked passionately and longingly into her face. “He has had you and I have not!”

  “And, sir, you shall not!” Hester exclaimed.

  “You torture me with your beauty!”

  With the eff
ect of the wine swirling in her head, Hester got unsteadily to her feet. “I demand that you take me back to my husband.”

  “My heart demands that you surrender to me,” Mauveaux countered. He rushed over and put his arms around her waist. “Give yourself to me, mon petit chou”

  “Don’t call me you little cabbage!” Hester said. “I am Wildon’s little cabbage.” Her wine-muddled mind then considered what a strange term of affection that was.

  “I will make you love me,” Mauveaux promised. “You will be mine through our mortal lives and . eternity too. The people will call you their empress.”

  “I would rather live with my husband on officers’ row than with you in a golden palace!” Hester said.

  “Tell me your name,” he begged.

  “Mrs. Wildon Boothe,” Hester replied.

  “No, ma fleur! Your Christian name,” Mauveaux insisted.

  “I certainly shall not,” Hester said, moving toward the other door.

  “Then I shall give you one,” he said. The Frenchman stopped his amorous attentions as he turned his thoughts to an appropriate appellation for the woman he now felt would sit by his side as he ruled his New World empire. “Alons! I have it. You shall be L’Imperatrice Camille—the Empress Camille. Your beautiful face and lovely figure fit that name perfectly.”

  “I am,” Hester insisted loudly, “Mrs. Wildon Boothe!” She fled the room, going through the door and slamming it shut. She looked frantically for some way to bolt it shut, but could find none. But her unwanted host made no effort to force it open.

  Mauveaux spoke to her from the door. “I am a patient man, ma chere Camille! You will be mine one way or the other!”

  Eleven

  The trail had stopped cold.

  Garrity, kneeling down for a closer look at the ground, finally gave it up. He got to his feet and shrugged. “The terrain is too rocky here. It would take an Apache scout to figure out the marks and scratches.”

  They had spent the whole day following the track that grew more and more difficult to see. From distinct hoofmarks, the spoor had disintegrated to mere marks and scratches on the ground. Finally, even that poor sign disappeared as the hard terrain became smooth and virtually unmarked.