Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Don Esteban drew the sword that hung at his side. “Yours,” he said, “will trouble me even less.”

  Pilar barely glanced at the naked blade pointed at her, though she spoke more quickly. “Will you let him get away with what he has done, Baltasar? Will you let him use you to get what he wants, even though he would have let you be killed by the Apaches with the rest of us? The solution is easy. Give Refugio your sword. Give it to him and let the two men who have injured you try to kill each other.”

  “An excellent idea,” Refugio said, his voice soft, as if he feared anything louder would sway Baltasar in the wrong direction.

  At the same instant, Don Esteban took a step toward Pilar, shouting, “I told you to shut up!”

  Baltasar moved quickly to match Don Esteban's stride, and Refugio kept pace at his side. The lantern light ran in a silver-blue gleam down the length of the sword Pilar's stepfather held.

  She pushed herself up with her back pressed to the wall behind her. Using its support, she rose unsteadily to her bound feet. She jerked at her right ankle with desperate strength, trying to loosen the thong. She felt the wetness of warm blood creeping clown her instep, dampening the leather binding. She increased the pressure, oblivious to the pain. Abruptly, the thong slipped. Her right foot was free, though it was so numb she was not sure it would hold her.

  Don Esteban advanced another step as he saw she had loosened, her bonds, though at the same time he glanced back over his shoulder at the door. It seemed he was not quite certain whether the jacal was surrounded, not certain he was free to act. He cursed, Baltasar, saying in tones of contempt, “You came in with me on this plan. Now stop playing the fool and help me carry it out!”

  Pilar said quickly to the big man, “It isn't foolish to admit you made a mistake. You owe Don Esteban nothing — unless it's payment in kind for what he did to Isabel. You could give him that.”

  “Listen to her, Baltasar,” Refugio, said in soft entreaty, “listen, and either take your moment of vengeance as Pilar said — or else give it to me.”

  “Stupid fools, all of you,” Don Esteban said, his lips curling in a grimace. He tightened his grip on his sword, moving with it pointed at Pilar's heart. She gathered her trembling muscles, knowing any evasion she might make would be no more than a delay.

  Baltasar moistened his lips as he listened to Refugio. “You will kill me for this, later,” he said.

  “No,” his leader said hurriedly. “Escape is through the door.”

  “Don't be an imbecile!” Don Esteban cried with a sudden note of fear in his voice. “There's no need for this.”

  The big man shook his head, obviously wavering. “The band will shoot me the minute they see me.”

  “They may try, so you'll have to be quick. But I pledge you a recompense for Isabel's pain and her blood.” Refugio's voice was steady. “And Pilar's life.”

  “Not if I take it first!” Don Esteban drew back his sword for the thrust.

  Baltasar made a strangled sound, muttering, “Pray God the band shoots straight.”

  He dragged his sword, screeching, from his scabbard, and slapped the hilt into Refugio's hand. In the same instant he whirled around and dived for the door.

  Refugio spared him not a glance, but lunged full length with the sword in his grasp, catching the driving blow Don Esteban had begun, wrenching the other man's blade upward in a rasping scrape that showered the dirt floor with orange sparks. The glittering point struck the wall above Pilar's head even as the guards of the two weapons locked together with a vicious clang. Refugio grabbed the older man's shoulder and shoved. The don plunged off balance, coming up against the adobe wall in a scattering of loose dirt, twisting around to face his opponent.

  Refugio stepped back. Catching the hem of his cloak, he swirled it around his left arm, out of the way, then stood balanced and ready.

  Pilar, her breathing fast and uneven, slid along the wall away from the men. She bent to snatch the blanket up from the floor under Refugio's feet, where it might be an impediment. He glanced at her, a swift and comprehensive appraisal, then he settled into his position, intent only on the man before him.

  Don Esteban attacked in fury, trying to take advantage of the small confines of the jacal, to force Refugio back into Pilar or else trap him in a corner. Pilar retreated in limping haste to the doorway, ready to step through. She could not bring herself to move farther, however, but stood watching with her fingers digging into the blanket. From the night beyond came the dull noise of hoofbeats fading away as Baltasar fled. There had been no shots, no shouts.

  Refugio had been bluffing. He had come alone.

  Don Esteban fought like an enraged animal caught in a trap, using every desperate ruse at his command, every trick learned from the New Orleans encounter between them. Refugio was fighting for two; his defeat would mean death for Pilar. His countermoves were smoothly efficient, but cautious.

  The lantern cast their shadows, dancing in triplicate on the wall. It made shifting pools of layered darkness in the corners that were more treacherous than pure blackness would have been. The ceiling was low, and uneven with its sagging poles; both men had to watch above them as well as in front and to the sides, or they were likely to bring crumbling thatch, scorpions, and spiders cascading down the backs of their necks.

  Refugio made not a sound. Don Esteban breathed like a faulty bellows, gasping in the warm air. Perspiration appeared on the older man's face, beading on his cheeks and forehead, running down his nose. It made a wet patch between his shoulders on the back of his jacket. Refugio's hairline grew damp and curling, and there was a satin sheen of moisture at the open neck of his shirt.

  Their feet shuffled back and forth on the earthen floor, stirring up dust that glinted in soft gold eddies in the flickering light. Don Esteban grew more aggressive, his footfalls heavier, as if he wanted to slash Refugio to quivering ribbons and grind him into the dirt. Refugio evaded him, giving ground, expending a minimum of effort.

  Backing swiftly, the younger man unfurled his cloak from his arm and dipped his left hand into the garment's pocket. He drew it out with his fingers clenched around a small leather bag. His gaze narrowed on the point of his opponent's sword, he put the bag to his mouth and used his teeth to loosen the string that held it closed. With the bag's neck open, he abruptly turned it bottom side up.

  Gems poured from it in a stream as green and shining as the new leaves of summer. They hit the floor, bouncing and skittering under the feet of the two men, burying themselves in the dusty surface where they winked like cat's eyes in the dim light.

  “You wanted the emeralds in exchange for Pilar,” Refugio said. “There you have them. Some may be a trifle marred before we're done, but I do keep my bargains.”

  Don Esteban cursed in savage fury. He minced back and forth on tiptoe, darting quick, agonized glances at the floor with his teeth set together as if in anticipation of pain.

  He trod upon a green stone and it made an ominous crunching noise in the gritty dirt. The don flailed in a sudden desperate feint, circling Refugio's blade, his own adhering, locking with it once more to the hilt. He shoved at Refugio as he leaped back, disengaging.

  “Stand clear,” he ground out, his chest heaving with effort. “I must pick up my property.”

  Refugio inclined his head in polite acquiescence. “By all means.”

  Don Esteban squatted down, reaching out to pick up the sparkling emeralds from the dirt one by one, collecting them up in his left hand. His hasty gathering was clumsy, for he picked up quantities of dry earth with them. As he worked, he snatched quick upward glances at Refugio, as if he suspected him of some ruse or was planning one himself.

  Disquiet rose in Pilar's mind. Before she could stop herself, a warning rose to her lips. “Take care—”

  There was no need to finish it. Refugio was watching, waiting in long-held knowledge of the sly cunning that underlay Don Esteban's actions.

  The don sprang upright, flinging
the handful of jewels and dirt into Refugio's face. He followed them with a hard, straight thrust of his sword with all his strength behind it. Refugio bent swiftly under the hail of green stones in their cloud of dust, meeting his opponent's sword with a parry that jarred them both to the elbow, then leading into an Italian master's feint that slipped past Don Esteban's guard like an eel sliding into water.

  Don Esteban cried out. The two men held their places while the dust the don had thrown settled, lazily billowing, to the floor. It appeared for a moment that the two were embracing, with Refugio supporting the older man. Then Refugio retracted his sword. Don Esteban staggered back, sprawling to lie in the dirt with a crimson stain spreading over his jacket front.

  Pilar let out her pent breath and closed her eyes. Tears threatened to overwhelm her, and she swallowed them down. She felt sick and spent and empty. She had witnessed an execution. She had known how it would be, must be, as surely as Baltasar had known when he gave Refugio his sword and departed. Refugio could have drawn out the agony, could have tormented his old enemy as the wild cat for which he was named might play with a mouse. He had not. He had permitted the don a last chance at escape, a chance to call it even and withdraw from the contest, and even take his stolen property. Don Esteban had not been able to resist a last foul ruse, a last attempt to catch his sworn foe unaware. And so he had died.

  He had died, and it was over.

  Pilar opened her eyes. Refugio was on one knee in the dust, sifting through it for the emeralds. His movements were deliberate, precise. He cupped the shining stones in his hand, touching them with his long, callused fingers, meticulously counting. A bleak pain settled in Pilar's chest; still, she moved slowly to join him. She sank to her knees, reaching to locate a half-dozen green jewels.

  “That's all of them.” Refugio's face was still, his eyes shadowed in the dimness.

  Pilar held the emeralds to the light, then bent her head to carefully blow away the dust adhering to them. With them lying on the blue-veined white surface of her palm, she held them out to Refugio.

  He reached for her hand, taking it in his. With his closed fingers around the emeralds he held, he put his fist over her palm then released his grasp, adding them to those she had recovered. Removing his hand, he curled his fingers around hers so she possessed the whole shimmering green hoard; then he held them there.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “I don't want these.”

  “You did once.”

  “Not anymore. You're the one who risked your life for them, the one who lost the most; you should have them.”

  She tried to push them toward him, but he would not let her. His clasp tightened until she could feel the polished edges of the stones biting into her skin. Abruptly, he released her and rose to his feet with decision. He stepped back.

  “I don't want to see them again,” he said. “They are a reminder of things best forgotten. I make you a present of them, a dowry. Now, shall we go?”

  “But what of you?” she asked.

  He was already turning toward the door. He looked back with one hand braced on the frame. His gray eyes were clouded and his face lined with weariness as he answered. “What of me? Dowries are convenient things, I have no doubt, but I . . . have no use for one.”

  24

  THE FUNERAL FOR Don Esteban was held the following day. They buried him in the piece of hallowed ground beyond the walls of the hacienda where the charros and their families were laid to rest, and also Charro's grandfather, who had been given the land. The old man had wanted to watch over his mercedes, though later Huerta family members were buried in the cemetery near the Mission San Juan.

  It was Señor Huerta who had pointed out that Pilar was now, most probably, Don Esteban's heir. His son was dead and there were no other living relatives of close degree, so her claim should be strong. There was a certain bitter humor in that knowledge. It mattered little to Pilar, however, beyond the fact that there would likely be no one to dispute her possession of the emeralds.

  Governor Pacheco had been present at the service. Vicente had been sent to inform him of the death and await his orders as to what he wished in the way of investigation into the affair. It had been a great concession for the governor to come personally to the hacienda, one due to the status of Señor Huerta in the community, Pilar thought. After the ceremony, while the grave was being filled, the governor had convened a hearing. Pilar had not attended for the simple reason that neither she nor any of the other women of the house had been informed of it. It had been of no great duration. The governor, Charro said, had decided after hearing the evidence, that Don Esteban had been killed in an honorable meeting with swords, and that no blame could be attached to Refugio for the tragic outcome. Governor Pacheco had taken a virulent dislike to the don, and was not inclined to waste many minutes of his time in worry over the man's demise. The wonder was not, according to the official, that someone had killed him, but that no one had done it sooner. There had been some suggestion that the death be blamed on the Apaches, with only the arrival of Carranza preventing the usual mutilation of the body. Refugio would not agree. The responsibility was his, and he would not deny it. He had seemed inclined to object to calling it a meeting of honor, but had been prevailed upon to agree to it as the wisest course.

  Vicente had been troubled by the findings of the inquiry, though he was glad that his brother was freed from the threat of punishment in the matter. He had felt it necessary to speak to a priest about it. That was not difficult, for the good padre from Mission San Juan had come to the hacienda for the funeral rites and had stayed overnight afterward. The two had sat up until nearly dawn discussing this and a multitude of other theological questions as propounded in Seville, and also the problems of mission life, from persuading the Indians to accept the glories of Christianity to keeping the system of canals that watered the fields open and running. When morning came, Vicente had ridden with the padre back to the mission, as part of his escort. Vicente had not returned. Instead, there had been a message saying that he would return with the priest in two days’ time, when he came to celebrate the wedding mass, but then would make the mission his home. There was need for his help there, and it was possible he would become an assistant friar in training to the priest.

  The message was a reminder of how close the wedding was upon Pilar. All that was left was this night and one more, then she would be wed to Charro. Pilar wanted to be happy, to feel some anticipation, but she could not. She was fond of Charro. More than that, she respected him and knew he would be a good husband to her. Still, the thought of the wedding, and the night afterward, filled her with dread.

  A dozen times she had started out to find him, to beg off from it. A dozen times she had stopped. She was reluctant to hurt and embarrass him by her refusal to go through with the ceremony after she herself had dragged him into it. She hated to admit that she did not know her own mind, that she had accepted his very tentative offer out of pique and desperation. Moreover, she could not think what else she would do, where she would go and how she would get there over the dangerous roads to San Antonio. If she could not leave, could not command an escort, it would be most uncomfortable staying here to face Señor and Señora Huerta, as well as Charro.

  She thought Charro suspected how she felt, for she had caught him watching her with concern in his eyes. He was moody and withdrawn, though he kept close beside her when Refugio was near.

  When Charro was not with her, he spent much time with Enrique. The two of them, she thought, missed Baltasar. It was not surprising; they had been together for a long time.

  The big man had not reappeared, nor had any sign of him been found around the hacienda by the Indian charros. No one could say where he was staying, what he was doing, how he was living. He could be anywhere. He was used to living off the land. It was possible, too, that he had gone to San Antonio, or that he had ridden away either south toward the Rio Grande or back east toward Louisiana.

  Pilar had th
ought of him often since the night at the jacal. He had done much that was vile, yet he had saved her life by his refusal to kill her. She would never forget the look in his eyes as he left, or his whispered prayer of hope that the band was waiting outside, waiting to kill him.

  Baltasar had wanted to die. It was not just Isabel's death and his part in causing it, she thought, but also his betrayal of the man who had been his friend and his leader. So long as he could hold Isabel up as his reason, he could live with it. When she was gone, he could not. She wondered what would become of him, though it seemed likely she would never know.

  She could not sleep. It seemed endless ages since she had really slept. She had been so restless this evening that she had not even donned her nightgown when she retired for the night, but still wore the day gown of gray stripes with a black stomacher that she had put on that morning. She had tried to work on a piece of sewing Charro's mother had given her, a petticoat for her trousseau, but soon tossed it aside. Leaving the candles burning on the table beside the bed, she had pulled her chair out onto the balcony. Somehow, it seemed more restful there in the corner where the grapevines grew in a thick, rustling curtain.

  The night was calm, the air fresh and dry yet soft. The stars appeared close. The moon hardly moved in its arcing track across the heavens. There was a guard on the platform near the gate, but she thought he was asleep; there had been no flicker of movement from there in some time. Now and then a moth, drawn by the light, fluttered past and into the bedchamber. She could hear the insects flying against the candle's glass shade, bumping into it with a faint musical chiming.

  The first notes of the guitar were so soft she was not quite sure she was not hearing the moths against the glass. They grew louder by degrees, but still seemed to be coming from far away, perhaps from a room under the far end of the loggia, perhaps even from outside the courtyard wall.