by Scott O'Dell
I wait for Don Felipe to continue. We pass the cells where the prisoners stand because they cannot sit and he pauses to inquire if everyone is in good health. He is greeted by silence. He has forgotten what he started to say. He is thinking about the map I make for him, on what day it will be finished, what he will then do with it, the treasure he will find.
"The witness," I say.
"Oh, the witness, the one the fiscal mentioned. It is the guide, Zia Troyano."
"Zia?"
The sun suddenly bursts into a thousand pieces and the stone terrace seems to melt beneath my feet.
The cell is quiet. Don Felipe has been here to see how the map progresses. He has left now on his evening rounds, satisfied with what I have done. In appearance it is a good map, yet with it he will never find the treasure.
The star shines wanly in the west. I must go on and tell the story of our journey from Tawhi, the Cloud City, of the death of Captain Mendoza and the evil it brought. But how do I ever write this down when my head whirls around and around, when all I can think of is Zia Troyano?
26
BEFORE THE SUN stood three hours high, all of us working at the task except Zia and Father Francisco, the pack train was loaded with the bags Roa had tossed down from the cliff, and we had left the Cloud City and the forest far behind.
We rode hard and warily until noon, in corselet and helmet, though there was no sign that the Indians followed us. Then beside the stream we halted to rest the animals and adjust the bags, which in our haste to leave Tawhi had not been properly balanced.
I was surprised at Roa and Mendoza. They were grimy with dirt, but seemed as fresh as if they had slept all night. I was curious to know what had happened to them on the mountain, and here as we rested beside the stream Roa told me. It was not the same story that Mendoza told Father Francisco.
"We traded with the cacique until dark," Roa said. "He was very pleased with the trading, for Mendoza planned it that way. He kept making signs about the mule that Mendoza had promised to barter, but Mendoza made signs back that he would have to wait until morning."
Roa paused and glanced around to see that Father Francisco was not within hearing. The priest had said nothing when Mendoza explained to him that once each year the lake was emptied in order to retrieve the gold, and that the bags he had tossed over the cliff he had bargained for.
"We set to work shortly after night came," Roa said. "We had to dig up the stones the terrace was paved with, which was very difficult. But after that it was easier. We started at the side of the dam away from the lake and dug a channel to the depth of a vara. When we came within a couple of paces of the lake we stopped. That was about midnight. We waited until near dawn, then dug again."
"A dog was barking," I said. "I wondered if it heard you."
"That was close to dawn, while we were resting. The barking we did not like. Well, as soon as we dug within a step of the lake, water pushed the rest of the dirt out and began to flow down into the plaza. In a few minutes it tore through the channel in a flood, carrying the whole center of the dam away."
"What happened in the city?"
"As Mendoza thought, everyone who could escape the torrent scrambled to the roof tops."
"And sat there while you gathered up the gold?"
"Sat, though they made gestures and yelled at us, especially the women, and threw a few stones."
"The cacique did nothing?"
"Why should he? He has gold to last a hundred years." Roa glanced at the heavily laden train. "And so, caballero, have we."
At a slower pace we again set off, heading toward Háwikuh. Not long after, we learned that Indians from Tawhi were pursuing us. Tigre, who was trotting along in front of Mendoza suddenly stopped and sniffed the wind.
Mendoza pulled in his mount. The dog was facing a low ridge, not far distant, that ran parallel to the course we followed. Piñón grew there and scattered brush. As we watched, an Indian with red marks on his chest crawled from a bush and ran to hide behind a tree. A second Indian followed.
"They are beyond reach of the crossbow," Mendoza said, "and we have no powder to waste."
Roa said, "Why not pursue them, and kill a few?"
"When we camp they will come closer," Mendoza replied.
He called the dog and we set off, traveling a short distance to the mouth of a wooded ravine. Here we found a spring and a place nearby where we were protected from the rear by a steep hill. The animals were tethered on short ropes. The bags of gold we piled up, making a small fort.
No Indians were in sight, but while we ate supper Tigre stalked back and forth in front of the bulwark, stopping from time to time to sniff the air.
Mendoza tied the dog to a stake and threw water on the fire. With our weapons at hand, we waited for night and the attack we were certain would come.
"They will try to steal the horses," Roa said. "We should ride out and give them a scare."
"If we do so," Mendoza said, "we thereby leave the animals and gold unguarded."
He looked across the dead fire at me.
"I have my crossbow," I said.
"Good," he answered. "The gold has brought you alive. It was different, muchacho, before the gold."
Tigre stood at the end of the leash, the muscles under the gray coat taut, a thread of saliva hanging from his mouth. After months of harsh training, he was no longer a friendly dog, wagging his tail at every kind word, but a dangerous beast that all of us feared, save Mendoza.
Tigre suddenly growled, and peering toward the ridge, I saw at a distance of half a furlong two figures crouched behind a bush. As I stood up, an arrow sped past me, and almost at once a second struck my corselet. A bolt from Roa's crossbow hit a tree behind the two Indians, who were now running toward the ridge.
Mendoza untied the big dog. "Santiago!" he shouted.
At the command, Tigre leaped the bulwark. He overtook the first of the two Indians and, not stopping, slashed at his leg. With a cry the man went down, but the dog ran on and caught the second Indian as he reached the ridge. For a moment or two dog and man were outlined against the sky. Then I could see only the dog trotting back toward the Indian who lay writhing on the ground.
"No, Tigre," Zia cried. "No!"
The big dog must have heard her, for he halted and looked up.
"Santiago!" Mendoza shouted.
Obeying his master's command, Tigre ran on to where the Indian lay. There was a low cry, silence, then the dog came bounding back to his master.
"Mucho macho," Mendoza said, patting his head.
A cool wind had sprung up out of the north. Roa wanted to rebuild the fire.
"We have killed only two Indians," Mendoza said, "there are more."
"The rest have gone," Roa said.
"They may come back," Mendoza said.
But Roa was right. We never saw the Indians of Tawhi again.
27
THE NEXT MORNING, after traveling an hour, Mendoza wanted to know if I thought there was a shorter way to Háwikuh.
"As the eagle flies," I told him. "Coming, we followed the river north, then turned west. Thus our course formed a right angle and was therefore longer by four or five days than need be." I showed him the map of a shorter route that I had made at Tawhi. "On this course, however, we may encounter rivers and mountains we cannot cross."
"God is with us," Mendoza replied, "so we travel to Háwikuh by the shortest way."
Father Francisco did not hear these words. If he had, I am certain he would not have agreed with Mendoza that God was with us. Every step we took, he would have said, was a step along the devil's own road. And this, as God is my witness, would have been the truth.
At noon I took a reading from the cross-staff, and with my notes and some guessing I plotted a straight line south-by-east to the latitude of Háwikuh. On this new course we set out, riding again in helmet and corselet.
Spring had settled on the land. Grass was fetlock deep, deeper in the swales, billowing like
water blown by the wind. White-boled aspen had come into leaf, and the leaves turned on their stems like bangles. Birds larger than our hens in Ronda were everywhere, blue-colored and so tame you could pick them up.
We camped that night at the mouth of a box canyon, where a stream no wider than a man could leap tumbled down. Along it were dams, ascending the canyon like ladders, made of tangled branches and aspen trunks. An animal, which was as big as a small dog and had dark fur and a short, flat tail, lived in these dams.
Where we camped the stream fanned out into a small pond and in the clear water dozens of fish lay on the bottom, their fins gently moving. They had spotted green backs and pink sides and were fat, but we could not catch them since we lacked the necessities.
We had seen no Indians that day, yet again Mendoza had us make a fort of the bags.
As Zia and I were finishing the task, I heard the rustle of twigs and glanced up to see a deer with knobby horns standing on the far side of the pond. It looked at us curiously, drank the cold water, then stood for a while with a wet muzzle trying to catch our scent. As it moved away, Roa, who was tending the mules, picked up the matchlock and fired. The deer jumped high. It ran along the edge of the pond, and fell in the marshy grass.
Zia left me, and leaping the stream, ran to where the deer lay, its muzzle lying in the water. She pulled the body back into the grass and straightened the head and the crumpled legs, so the deer seemed not to be dead but sleeping. She then broke four small boughs from a juniper bush and laid them around the body in the four directions—North and South, East and West.
Always when a deer was killed, she did this. It was a ceremony, a sort of apology for the act of killing. It was made to the animal who was dead, in the name of the living, of the law which decreed that all life was kin, one to the other—the juniper bush, the deer, and the girl.
And always Mendoza watched the ritual with amusement. This time, however, as she stood in the meadow before the fallen deer, saying words he could not understand, he was impatient. Jumping the stream, he hurried to where the deer lay.
"Night is almost here," he said. "We have no time to waste on this business."
Zia put out a hand to fend him off, but he pushed her away, and slipped a knife from his doublet.
She raised her eyes from the deer and looked at him. "The flesh, which you eat of this animal, will lie heavy on your stomach," she warned him. "It will not nourish you nor give you strength."
"There is much work to be done," Mendoza said. "Go, young woman, and do it."
Zia knelt, and as if he were not there cutting the deer apart, went on with the ritual. Only when she was finished did she leave to help me with the bags.
"He thinks of nothing except the gold," she said. "It is a sickness."
These were the words Father Francisco used, speaking of Mendoza.
That night, though the dog Tigre was better than all of us at guarding the camp, the Captain set watches.
At dawn we were again on the trail to Háwikuh. All that day Mendoza urged the conducta on. It was our custom to travel two hours and rest one, for we had found that laden animals fed on grass suffer if not rested in this proportion. But he stretched our marches to two and a half hours, then to three. Riding back and forth, he kept an eye on the mules, on those that lagged, on the packs to see that they kept their balance, that no bag worked loose and was lost.
Late in the afternoon I saw far off on the horizon a misty blue shadow. It was some fifteen leagues away, a range of mountains that ran full across the horizon. I pointed it out to Captain Mendoza.
"Our course," I told him, "takes us straight into this sierra. It might be wiser to travel east or west and avoid it."
"We travel on," Mendoza said.
The next afternoon we reached a plateau which gave us a clear view of the sierras. Throughout the day, as the conducta toiled upwards to a plateau, we had glimpsed their snow-covered crests. But now they loomed above us, filling the horizon east and west for some twenty leagues, a wilderness of wooded canyons and stony scarps.
Nightfall was still two hours away, but there was wood about and a small stream meandered along our path, so here Mendoza ordered us to encamp. Roa went out to kill one of the numerous antílope that stood watching us at a distance. They proved fleet of foot, however, and he was content to bring back a plump turkey, which we fried over the coals. While we ate, Mendoza held council.
"We cannot climb the sierra with laden beasts," he said. "We must travel east or west, one or the other. Which is it, maker of maps?"
"Either way," I replied, "is off our true course."
"Which is better?"
Father Francisco spoke up. "Let us bury the gold and seek a pass through the sierra."
Mendoza gave no heed to this advice. Sooner he would have buried all of us. He spread out the map I had made of Háwikuh, the trail leading from it to the city of Tawhi, and the trail leading to Háwikuh from the Sea of Cortés. The latter trail, through Chichilticale and the Valley of Hearts and thus to the sea, seemed to interest him the more.
Turning to Roa, he said, "At dawn take the best horse and ride east. Seek out Háwikuh and there recruit four mules and two muleteers. Meanwhile, we travel west from here to where the sierra ends. Then we make a circle and turn eastward to meet you as you come from Háwikuh with mules and muleteers."
Again he studied the map, and as he did so a flock of young turkeys came to rest in a tree not far away. They huddled together on a dead branch, six in a row and, ruffling their feathers, made ready for the night.
What I thought was a seventh then flew up and perched at the row's end, close to the trunk. I saw that the newcomer was not a turkey but a large bird, either owl or hawk. Slowly it edged along, nudging the turkeys close together, nearer to the end of the branch, until suddenly one of the birds, shoved too far, fell off. With a quick swoop the bird of prey grasped it and silently flew off.
As I sat watching this little drama, I wondered why Mendoza was so interested in the road to the sea. Was it possible that he was sending Roa to Háwikuh just to be rid of him? Was Roa the hapless fowl in the tree? When he was gone, would Mendoza turn the conducta toward the coast, traveling southward then to Culiacan?
With Roa left behind, Mendoza would have all the gold for himself.
28
IN THE MORNING Roa rode to the east and the conducta turned westward. For three days we traveled, slowly because the plateau was riven by many arroyos. On the fourth day, because the animals needed rest, we stayed in camp, treating their galls as best we could and gathering grass to make fresh pads for their backs.
It was on this day, toward evening, that Mendoza again called for the map. When I spread it out on the pile of bags he studied it for a long time, but said nothing.
I walked to the fire where Zia was cooking our supper. Lured by the good smell of meat which was beginning to brown, Tigre had eased up to the edge of the pit. Zia pushed him away, not far because of his size. Twice before he had snatched our meal, just as we were ready to eat.
Mendoza shouted. The dog bounded off, made a circle of the bags, playfully leaped upon them, scattering the map, then leaped down and ran back to the fire.
With a curse, Mendoza picked up a stone and threw it. The stone struck the big dog on the leg. It was a glancing blow, not really hurtful, but Tigre whirled about.
Mendoza snatched up a length of firewood and walked toward him. The dog did not move.
"Vaya," Mendoza shouted, raising the club.
Still Tigre did not move.
Mendoza was now only a few paces away, holding the club over his head, ready to strike or throw it. He paused as he heard the dog growl, not out of fear, for he was fearless in all things, but thinking that Tigre would obey him.
"Vaya," he shouted again.
Tigre stood facing his master, feet spread and teeth bared. He had the same wild look in his eyes that I had seen before on the night that he had killed the two Indians.
&nbs
p; Mendoza threw the club with all his strength. It missed the dog, skittered along the ground and struck the fire, upsetting the meat. Tigre turned to look at the club, then for a moment at Mendoza. His eyes had grown wilder. Slowly he glided past me. I could hear the chattering of teeth and feel his hot breath upon my hand.
Mendoza took a step backward. He raised one arm to protect himself and at the same time reached for the dirk he carried strapped to his thigh.
With a swift lunge Tigre was upon him. The powerful jaws fastened upon his throat. Mendoza cried out once, as I ran for my crossbow. But by the time I had reached it and had strung the shaft, he lay quiet upon the ground and the big dog was bounding away toward a thicket.
There was nothing that we could do for our Captain. He died without speaking to us, still grasping his dirk.
By firelight we dug a shallow grave and buried him, rolling heavy stones upon the grave against marauding beasts. Father Francisco said a prayer for his soul and we sat down by the fire. No one ate. The fire grew low. A half moon came up. From time to time the big dog howled from the thicket.
Father Francisco said, "In the morning we will dig yet another grave. This grave we will dig deeper than the first. Into it we shall put the gold and cover it well so that no man can find it, ever."
I did not answer him, thinking this is right, this is what we should do, with the first light of morning. But when the others lay down and fell asleep I rose and went to where the leather bags were piled together.
Light fell upon them from the moon. In the soft glow each bag shone forth like a block of gold, bright as the gold it held. I walked around them, counting each, changing the gold to castellanos. In my mind the coins took shape and stood there in rows that reached higher than my head. A duke's ransom, I thought, gained by toil, snatched from danger, at the awful cost of men's lives, to be buried in the earth and never found.
