by Win Blevins
The boy looked at them with what he intended as pride.
Sam put a hand on his arm. “Why?” he asked.
“Why?” Tomás looked down at his plate. He dropped his spoon into his bowl of stew. He stared at it. Then he dumped the whole bowl in his lap. He stood up, food dribbling down the robe. Maybe he tried to scream the next words, but they came out as a series of hiccups. “Because the hijo de puta killed Ma-ma-ria.”
Then the tears burst forth. Tomás wept, he sobbed, he shook convulsively.
Paloma put her arms around him. Sam patted his shoulder. Hannibal watched Tomás’s face closely, tenderly. Then, slowly and patiently, the three adults drew the story out of the child and put it together:
The girl that Cerritos raped in front of everyone, the one “not good enough for you yet,” she was Maria Guerrero, the older sister of Tomás. And all the other men had raped her, as often as they wanted, at least one every night, since…
“Maria, she…”
The first time they raped her, Tomás threw himself on her attacker. They laughed, beat him, and then did everything they wanted to do with her loudly, mocking him and laughing. When he threw himself on the rapist again the next night, they held him fast, brought him close, made him watch, and then beat him senseless. After that they separated the two completely. They were not permitted to walk together, to talk, even to sleep near each other.
Tomás did not know what would happen when they finally got to Santa Fe. He was hoping they would be sold to the same family and could escape together.
“But Cerritos, he made a point of it. When he sold her, he did not want anyone to know I am her brother, know she had any family nearby. Cerritos, he said these words, ‘A tasty morsel, unprotected…’”
Hannibal and Sam looked at each other and reached an understanding. To help this boy they needed to know…
“You walked to Don Emilio’s rancho?”
“Yes.” They realized he’d seen it when they went to get Lupe.
“Then what did you do?”
Tomás had honest pride in the next part of the tale. He told how he watched, figured things out, approached, sneaked through the casa until he found the don at his table, explored the rest of the house in the dark, and discovered…
“She was in his bedroom. Naked. He came down the hall calling her ‘Querida.’”
A term of endearment—Sam felt it like a sting.
“I knew he soiled her all day long.”
Sam sensed something wrong. “She was still in his bed?”
“No, she…No, she…” And he wailed and sobbed again. Some minutes and much soothing were needed to get the next part of the story.
“She was hanging in the moonlight, naked, by a cord from one of the rafters. Muerto.”
For long moments no one could speak. Tomás looked from face to face. There were no words.
“You said he came down the hall?” This was Hannibal.
“Yes, just after I found her. Perhaps he heard me and thought it was her. He came carrying a candle in each hand. They showed me my target, they framed his head for me. I took that cleaver and…” He pointed to the big knife, raised his hands over his head in a double fist, and swung them viciously down. The blow rattled the dining table, and the equilibrium of his listeners.
“Are you sure she is dead?”
“I touched her.”
“Sure he is dead?”
“I split his brain in two.” The words danced to dark music in Tomás’s eyes.
Sam, Paloma, and Hannibal looked at each other, understanding.
“My child,” said Paloma, “you must rest.” She put an arm around his shoulders and guided him toward the doorway. “We will talk about everything tomorrow.”
SAM AND HANNIBAL spent the next day in Santa Fe and came back with a different story. “We didn’t have to ask anyone,” said Sam. “It’s the talk of the town.”
Paloma brought cups of coffee. As she started to sit, she said, “Wait, I’ll get Tomás. He’s done nothing but sleep all day.”
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” said Sam.
“It is,” said Paloma. “If he’s old enough to kill a man, he’s old enough to hear what comes of it.”
When Tomás was across the table from them and fully alert, Sam started to give him the news.
Tomás held up a flat hand. “I don’t care about the cabrón. Tell me about my sister.”
Sam said gently, “We brought her body in the wagon. We stopped at the Church of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and the priest said the proper words over her.”
To Sam the words felt like thrown stones.
Tomás’s face was naked.
Paloma said, “Tomorrow, if you want, we will bury her outside the chapel here.”
“Good.” Tomás looked lost for a moment. Then he said with a twisted smile, “Now tell me about the viejo hediondo.”
“Don Emilio is barely alive,” said Sam. “No one knows whether he will live or die. He mumbles but says nothing that makes any sense. The doctor says maybe he has a fractured skull, or maybe he’s only missing a big piece of scalp on the left side of his head. Either way, he’s weak from loss of blood, and he has a high fever. No one will know anything for several days.”
“Unless I get at him,” said Tomás.
“Stop that,” Sam said. He gave the boy a hard look.
“I will kill him,” said Tomás bitterly.
“You won’t,” said Sam.
Tomás lashed out. “He might get well. He might remember me.”
“You don’t know what it is to kill a human being.” Sam wished he didn’t.
“He might send the policia.”
“We’ll plan for that.”
Paloma held Tomás’s hands and looked deep into his eyes. “We will protect you.”
Sam added, “No more killing.”
He watched Tomás’s face carefully, and later he thought the boy’s expression was relief.
Eighteen
DON EMILIO DID not cooperate. He neither lived nor died—he lingered. Though his servants listened carefully and the police asked often, nothing came from his delirium but babblings. Sam knew, because Grumble had a friend in the comisaria de policia and kept close touch. The police, naturally, were properly concerned about an outrageous attack on a prominent citizen. Such behavior could not go unpunished. But they had no suspects, not even a hint of who the culprit was. Nothing had been stolen, though the house was full of valuables, especially the chapel. Don Emilio was a widower, he lived alone with his herds and crops—why would anyone want to kill such a man?
After a week, Sam decided he had to speak up to Paloma. “We need to get started.”
They were getting undressed for bed.
She looked at him, and he couldn’t name all he saw in her eyes. Recognition, sadness, a sense of rightness.
She slipped into bed in her nightgown and patted the pillow next to her. “I know today is the first of May,” she said. “Leave the candles on.”
Sam slid in next to her naked. He didn’t own enough clothes to have nightwear.
“How soon?” she said.
“A week maybe.”
“All right. Today is Thursday. We have our horse sale next Monday. I will send a man to let everyone know. It’s going to be quite a show, and you, sir, will make some money. Then you will be able to buy supplies to take to your important rendezvous and make a good profit.”
That much was true, but it wasn’t what Sam wanted to talk about. “It’s going to be hard to say good-bye.”
He saw warmth in her eyes as well. Maybe she felt comfortable with good-bye—he didn’t. “What do you want me to say, Sam? That you must sell your horses to the other beaver men and make your bonanza? That you need to get back to the business of hunting beaver? That you must take your daughter to her grandparents, to the Crow village where she belongs?” She waited. They both knew all that.
Finally, Sam said, “I want you to tell me why
we’re inappropriate.”
She just looked at him. “I’ve thought and thought about that. When I said it, my big thought was, I’m ten years older. Or it’s because I’m Mexican and you’re American. Or because we are from different class backgrounds, different education. I was raised to love things cultivated for beauty, you to love nature in the raw. And all of that is true.”
She hesitated.
“But…”
“You tell me why we should be appropriate.”
He tapped his chest with his fist. “I have a fire in here for you.”
She just looked at him.
“When I look into your eyes, I see that you have fire for me.”
She smiled. “That’s just candlelight, sir.”
“Talk true,” he said.
After a long moment she said, “I think you’ve touched directly on it. Each of us has a fire in the heart. Mine is the fire of the hearth. I love my home, I love making a nest, I love creating a beautiful place to live.
“You, though, your fire is for adventure. It takes you hither and yon. You’ve been from the Atlantic to the Pacific. One day, when I see you again, I’ll bet you’ve looked upon the Arctic Ocean.”
Actually, Sam knew there was fur-trapping even up there—by the Russians.
She kissed him lightly on the lips. “You, mi amante, are a true adventurer, an explorer. You may dally with a nurturer like me. You even find peace and love at my hearth. But one day before long, your nature will require you to go wandering.”
He was stuck for words.
“Husband? Not yet. Father? Maybe not yet either.”
Now he was truly stuck.
She put both arms around him, buried her head in his chest, and said, “Don’t go into that head of yours. Make love to me.”
Nineteen
GETTING READY FOR the sale was a furious time. Over the three days Sam, Flat Dog, and Hannibal put Paloma’s horses through their paces again, getting them all sharp. Sam found only one he wouldn’t want himself, a gelding that was a knothead. “One in every crowd,” he told Flat Dog.
They also checked out the mounts of their own they’d trained for sale. Hannibal had made a list of Santa Fe prices of the most important supplies—powder, lead, coffee, blankets, traps, knives, foofa-raw, brandy—and figured out they could turn a nice dollar on trade goods. If they could sell some of their horses at a good price here, they’d use others to pack goods to rendezvous and earn more money.
“I’m for it,” said Sam.
“You’re becoming a trader,” Hannibal told him.
“Indians can’t run off supplies like they can horses,” said Flat Dog. Both Sam and Hannibal looked at him funny for saying “Indians.”
Flat Dog chuckled. “Indians,” he said, “means every tribe but Crows.”
The good news about getting ready was that Tomás worked hard at helping. While Pedro went to town and stayed with Sumner and Grumble—“No doubt learning card tricks,” said Sam—Tomás worked with the horses. He’d ridden his father’s mule a lot, always bareback, because the family didn’t own a saddle. As a result he had good balance on a horse. Sam told Flat Dog, “I think he’s a natural rider.”
“Natural athlete,” said Hannibal.
Tomás would be able to demonstrate, during the sale, how well trained the mounts were, so gentle that even a boy could handle them. He also showed a willingness to work at learning English. When Sam and Hannibal spoke English among themselves, he asked what certain words meant, and they explained.
The fun was getting ready for the showy part. Sam, Hannibal, and Flat Dog knew that if they could get the buyers and watchers excited and inspired, the bidding would spiral higher and higher. So they rehearsed all their routines—Paladin and Brownie showed off their liberty training. Coy did his stuff. Sam and Hannibal did all their tricks on both of them. Flat Dog demonstrated a stunt he’d developed on his own. The riders could tell what an impression their show would make—Tomás and Paloma gasped and applauded.
At the end of the first day, over supper, Tomás said, “I don’t want to stay here with Paloma. I want to go with you.”
Everyone noticed that he said it to Sam, not to the three men, Julia, and the children. Sam thought, Well, I paid for him.
“You’re in trouble. You may not have much choice about where you go,” said Hannibal.
“But I want you to know you’re welcome here,” said Paloma.
“If the police aren’t chasing your tail,” said Flat Dog.
Everyone grinned, but no one thought it was funny.
“I want to go with you,” Tomás repeated. “I want to be a mountain man.”
Sam wondered what Tomás thought that meant—trick riding?—but he didn’t answer.
All day Saturday and Sunday they worked on combining their various stunts with music. Antonio, one of the ranch’s field hands, accompanied them on guitar, and Sam sang while he rode. In the evenings Sam and Hannibal taught Antonio the songs the horses knew. While Paloma went to Santa Fe on Sunday, to go to mass and remind everyone about the sale, they fine-tuned everything.
Tomás brought it up again that night—“I want to go with you.”
“You’re still a kid.”
Tomás made a face.
From the size of the crowd that showed up Monday at noon, they knew that the word had spread far and wide: Something special was about to happen at Rancho de las Palomas. Gobernador Armijo came and announced that he was looking for fine stallions. Don Gilberto and Don Carlos presented themselves with eager faces. The other great families of the region—Chavez, Otero, Perea, and Yrizar—sent representatives to buy good breeding stock. Merchants of Santa Fe appeared, perhaps to buy well-trained saddle mounts, perhaps just to watch the show. It seemed that every Santa Fean who loved horses came out for the event. Paloma sent Rosalita and Lupe through the crowd to pour brandy liberally.
At last Grumble called for silence. He was splendidly American in a plum morning coat and fawn beaver hat, which Paloma had ornamented with a wide, sky-blue ribbon to mark him as master of ceremonies. “Antonio,” he declared, “give us a fanfare.”
To Antonio’s music Sam and Hannibal dashed into the improvised forty-two-foot ring, followed by Paladin and Brownie. Coy pranced at their heels, excited. Paloma had festooned the horses’ manes and tails with streamers of bright cloth. The riders were beautifully decked out as well, in big sombreros, short jackets, and beautifully quilled moccasins. “Make the best show you can,” Paloma had urged them.
Antonio quickly launched into a fast sea shanty, a jig the horses knew. Grumble sang the words in English in a fine, round basso:
When I was a little lad and so my mother told me
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe
That if I did not kiss the girls, my lips would grow all moldy
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe.
Hannibal and Sam signaled, and the horses faced each other in the center of the circle, trembling with anticipation. Hannibal lowered his hand in a wide sweep and called, “Dance!”
Antonio strummed and Grumble sang.
King Louis was the king of France before the revolution
But then he got his head cut off, which spoiled his constitution.
On the first line the horses pranced sideways in the same direction in rhythm to the music. On the second they stomped and shook their heads.
Oh, once I had a German girl and she was fat and lazy
Then I got a French gal, she damn near drove me crazy.
At Sam’s and Hannibal’s hand signals, for the German girl line they pranced the other direction. For the French girl’s craziness, they reared and pawed the air.
Now the audience cheered.
Way, haul away, I’ll sing to you of Nancy
Way, haul away, she’s just my cut and fancy.
To “cut and fancy” they made curvets forward, passed each other, turned, and faced one another from the opposite sides. Sam could almost hear
the awe among the Nuevo Mexicans.
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away the bowlin’
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe.
Way, haul away, the packet is a rollin’.
Here the mounts reared again, and whinnied—
Way, haul away, we’ll haul away together
Way, haul away, we’ll haul for better weather.
And finally Paladin and Brownie bowed to one another.
Everyone burst into applause.
As Paladin’s head was down, Coy sprinted toward Paladin and jumped onto her back and stood on his hind legs. Paladin cantered around the ring, Coy’s paws waving at the audience.
The clapping doubled.
Coy barked three times, as though celebrating himself, and jumped down.
Flat Dog raced into the ring on his own horse for his moment of display. As the pony circled, Flat Dog swung down to one side, reached under the horse, and shot an arrow into the sky. When the crowd saw that the arrow displayed the Mexican flag, they whistled and stomped. Then Flat Dog passed all the way under the galloping legs and rose back into the saddle. Sam figured that was the first applause of the Crow’s life.
Sam and Hannibal vaulted onto their mounts’ backs and stood up. At first they just waved to the audience. Then, simultaneously, they somersaulted into the air and landed sitting down. Women in the crowd shrieked. Again and again they did it—stand, somersault, and land in riding position. When they did a leaping dismount together, the crowd went wild.
“That was fun,” Hannibal said quietly to Sam.
Grumble now stepped forward with a showman’s command of his audience. “And now,” he said, “we begin the business of the day.”
Tomás rode one of Paloma’s geldings into the ring and did a figure eight, showing how nicely it reined. On command the gelding stopped and backed up.
“What are we offered,” cried Grumble, “for this fine two-year-old? I call for five hundred pesos.”
