by Jeanne Rose
He nodded curtly, unwilling to voice a thank you. His past made him resentful. He walked away from her without looking back.
De Arguello sat in one of the high-backed chairs before the fireplace of his sitting room. White of hair, strong of profile, the old man still possessed a fierce gaze despite the illness that was wasting him. He looked very thin and a cane leaned against the chair.
"Please sit down," he said, polite but unsmiling.
Chaco took a seat across from him.
"So you are my son."
"Oneida's son," Chaco emphasized.
"Did she tell you about me?"
"She didn't say much about you at all, except that you gave her freedom and some money to leave when she was pregnant. She didn't say that you were my sire." For father was too kind a word. And Chaco wondered why his mother had kept silent about that truth. "Did you rape her?"
For a moment, de Arguello stared measuringly at him. "No."
The answer was definite, decisive. Chaco tended to believe him.
"I cared for your mother," said the old man. "But she was, of course, a – "
"Slave."
"A servant," corrected de Arguello.
But the Hidalgos would never admit they kept captured young Indians and mixed-breeds against their wills even to this day to be used as unpaid workers.
De Arguello went on, "My first wife was alive then, as well. But that is in the past. That is not important now."
"It's important to me. My mother died in poverty, in a filthy shack."
To his credit, de Arguello seemed taken aback. "I knew she was gone, though I did not know how. Did she die of disease?"
"A fever. We didn't have money for a doctor or any medicine." Not that medicine would have necessarily saved her, but he would have paid anything to try. "She did all kinds of work to feed and take care of us." Including a little whoring, he suspected, after Reuben died. "She had a hard time, being a woman on her own."
De Arguello said nothing.
"You sent her packing years ago," Chaco went on. "And now you're writing letters to me. I'm not interested in you or anything you have to say. I rode up here to tell you that to your face."
Again, the measuring stare. "You are not interested in an inheritance?"
Chaco was unmoved. "I don't want your land or your money." Which was probably some sort of bribe, in return for which de Arguello would want something back. Not to mention that taking such would insult Oneida's memory. "Why would you consider leaving anything to a mestizo?"
The old man gazed at the fire. "You are a child of my blood. Not that I have made out my will to that effect. I had to see you, to judge you first."
"Judge?" Who the hell did the old man think he was? "You have no power over me. Not like you had over my mother."
"You are the only child left of my blood," stated de Arguello.
So that's how it was. "I may have been sired by you but that's the only thing we have in common."
De Arguello's eyes swept over him. "I am not so certain. I have inquired about you. You are a brave man, have worked as a gunfighter. I was brave when I was young."
"Not brave enough to marry my mother." But then, de Arguello would have had to buck society, the church and his own relatives. "Or to see that she was taken care of through the years."
"Unfortunately, what is past is past."
"Is that all you can say?" But what had he expected, an apology? Chaco rose, seeing no reason to stay longer. He gazed down at the old man. "Don't write me any more letters."
"Is that an order?"
"If I get another, I'll come back up here and stuff it down your throat."
De Arguello remained silent as Chaco strode out of the room, almost running into Ynez in the outer corridor.
Once outside, he mounted his horse and rode away, only glancing back once. The strange feeling he'd had at the front door came back full force. Instinctively, he wanted to dig his heels into the sides of the buckskin and take off at a gallop. The horse was nervous, too, prancing and tossing his head about.
But he reined the animal in, refusing to react to whatever was bothering him. By the time he was a half mile down the road, the horse relaxed and the strange feeling receded.
There were plenty of reasons for feeling strange. He now realized he had wanted to see the Don, to hear his side of things. He'd wanted more than the chance to tell the man off.
And de Arguello had surprised him in some ways, hadn't been as arrogant as he'd expected. But then, the old man was getting on in years and had no legitimate children to whom he could leave his land. That was why he'd sent letters to a bastard son.
He wasn't tempted by the idea of an inheritance from de Arguello. For one, he refused to be judged and measured by a man who thought himself so high and mighty, who'd sent a pregnant young woman off into the world alone.
For another, he knew that no one ever got anything without trading something back and that the price of any part of de Arguello's holdings would be very high. He preferred independence. He liked to do what he wanted and to go where he wanted. He'd rather let the wind decide his fate than some selfish old buzzard who was feeling close to death.
Mood soured, he figured on dropping by the Blue Sky Palace as soon as he got back to town. Mrs. Gannon might have thrown him out and demanded he never return, but the place was open to the public and he had done nothing wrong.
More importantly, he also sensed a feeling of connection with the Anglo woman -- though that feeling was neither strange nor unpleasant -- something that went beyond the desire he'd felt when he'd seen her in that red dress.
"I WOULD LIKE some more rice," Don Armando told the girl who was serving supper that evening.
"Your appetite is improving," Ynez noted from the other side of the table. Perhaps the talk with Chaco Jones had somehow made her husband feel better.
"I will have to live, at least for a short time longer."
"You are not dying, Husband. Please do not speak like that."
"We both know I am old. Life only lasts so long." Don Armando wiped his mouth and thick white mustache. "And even if age does not overtake us, accident can. Who would have thought Mercedes could have fallen in the well and broken her neck?"
"That will not happen to you."
For a moment, there was silence as Don Armando ate more beans and rice. Then he went on, "You are still young, Dona Ynez. I was hoping to find a way to take care of you. But we are both cursed with small families."
Was he going to bring up the unpleasant subject of her barrenness again? Ynez wondered.
"I had only one hope and now that, too, is gone." He sounded more fatalistic than sad. "I believe Senor Jones could be a worthy successor for me, but he is not interested." The old man gazed at her questioningly. "You know he is my son?"
As if she hadn't been listening outside the door of his rooms this afternoon! But Ynez said, "I have heard gossip – some of the servants."
"Ah, servants. Senor Jones is the son of a former maidservant, you know." When she nodded, he asked, "More gossip?"
Ynez toyed with her food, not at all happy. She thought of telling Don Armando that she would be able to take care of herself, but knew he would neither believe that, nor like it. Husbands preferred to think of their wives as mindless property.
"Senor Chaco Jones is very rude, a peon. He nearly pushed me into the wall coming out of your sitting room."
"The boy is not polished, that is certain."
"Then why would you think him a worthy successor?" She didn't usually question her husband about such things, but she felt she must in this case.
"He has courage. And intelligence, despite his lack of education. He also has a sense of loyalty and responsibility – he took care of his mother until the end. I believe he would take care of you," said Don Armando. "If he would accept his inheritance, that is."
"But you are saying he won't." Chaco Jones was strong or else very stupid. "And he is mestizo." Part Apache, p
art Spanish and, she'd heard, also part Anglo on his mother's side.
Don Armando shrugged. "But he is of my blood." Sighing, he finished the food on his plate and changed the subject. "Did you make the natillas you promised, Dona Ynez?"
"Yes, I shall bring it from the soterrano."
She rose and went out to the half-buried storehouse that kept things cool, once again brooding about the way Chaco Jones had treated her today. He could not say thank you; he could barely acknowledge her presence. And her husband actually considered the ignorant heathen a worthy man.
With a vengeance, she dusted the baked custard with a special powder. The spices would cover any bitterness. Then she returned, hearing voices as she approached the dining room. Don Armando had summoned Pedro, his foreman.
"I must change my will. Tomorrow you will fetch the Padre and some witnesses."
"Yes, Don Armando."
"I am afraid I must leave everything to the church."
To the church? Ynez's hands would tremble if they weren't holding the bowl of natillas. Her face felt cold as she entered the room, locking eyes with her husband.
"Of course, the lands you brought from your first marriage will be yours to do with as you will," he said, seeing her. "And, hopefully, we can find a relative of a relative to be responsible for you."
"You are not going to die, Don Armando, not yet." Her dowry wasn't half the size of the de Arguello holdings.
Again, the shrug. "That is up to God." But he smiled when he saw the custard. "Ah, I can taste it already."
Upset, she set the bowl on the table, only to have it teeter on the edge. She tried to catch it but her clumsy motions merely sped the crash to the floor. Custard and shards of pottery flew through the air.
"Oh!" Ynez held her hands to flaming cheeks. "I am sorry!"
Don Armando fell back in his chair, surprised. Then his expression changed to disappointment.
"Do not worry." Ynez called for a servant to clean the floor, then told her husband, "You must live, Don Armando. I will cook natillas every day to make sure that you do."
Every day of every week of every month until she found some way to change her husband's mind. The thought of his leaving such a great amount of money and land to the church, of leaving her to rot with some money-grasping relative of a relative, made her soul sick.
FRANCES HAD SURVIVED a week of working as a casino floorman, but she didn't think she'd ever get used to it. Especially difficult had been learning to ignore the way some men undressed her with their eyes. She was uncomfortable enough policing a room of gamblers; she didn't want to play hostess.
At least none of the men's glances had titillated her, which gave her more faith in herself and her feelings. She was no wanton. She must have been in an odd mood the evening she'd approached Chaco Jones in the saloon.
After that night, Frances also took care to wear more modest dresses. Luckily, Nate had bought her three or four others that were fancy enough for evenings but not so revealing. Meantime, she had Ruby add two rows of lace to the red gown's bodice, noting the girl's work with thread and needle was far more skilled than her own.
On this afternoon, a Saturday, Frances visited the "girl's" part of the hotel when she realized her blue dress needed hemming.
"May I impose on you again?" she asked Ruby, who'd also taken in the waist of the moss green one.
"Sure, Mrs. Gannon." As usual, the blonde greeted her with a smile. "Come on into the sitting room, why don't you? I'll pin it up."
"I shall pay you for this, of course."
Ruby waved her away. "Don't worry about it."
"I insist." For the girl deserved to be able to earn money in a respectable way. Frances couldn't help wondering if the city needed dressmakers. Ruby claimed she could cut and sew a garment from scratch.
Magdalena was already lounging on the couch by the window in the sitting room, the central area where Belle's ladies relaxed in the daytime and visited with gentlemen in the evenings. Each girl also had her own bedroom down the hall, both living space and working area. The door of each bedroom featured the hand-painted name of its owner, surrounded by pretty birds and decorative flowers.
As Ruby pinned up the hem of the blue dress, two more young women entered the sitting room, Luz and Sophie. The former was tall and slim and angular for a Mexican girl. Reputedly raised in a village of thieves located south of Santa Fe, Luz could be warm and friendly but was also tough, handling knives as well as Adolfo. Sophie, on the other hand, was soft in both looks and manners. A Creole from New Orleans, she had an exotic face that showed her mixed racial heritage and she spoke fluent French, a language that appealed to West Point educated Army officers.
"What are you doing, Magdalena?" Luz inquired, sitting down on the couch beside her. "Making some kind of charm?"
Magdalena merely smiled, concentrating on the small pouch she was stuffing with what seemed to be crushed leaves or herbs. "Perhaps."
"It better not have any of my hairs in it," said Luz, a hint of threat to her voice. "That stupid Adolfo didn't pay you to make that, did he?"
"This is for health, not love."
Luz seemed satisfied with that. At least she relaxed. Frances had already gotten the idea that Adolfo was terribly smitten with Luz.
"In New Orleans, we'd call that a gris-gris bag." Sophie laughed. "A voodoo spell."
"Voodoo?" asked Frances, curious.
"Another name for witchcraft," said Sophie. "Those who dare approach the old gods from Africa to ask for curses or blessings."
"Like love or health charms?"
"Um, hmm." Sophie's beautiful slanted eyes looked knowing. "Or worse."
Frances found the whole conversation fascinating but it ended when Magdalena drifted out of the room. Sophie and Luz soon followed.
Ruby had finished pinning the hem and was ready to sew. Frances slipped off the dress and put on the wrapper she was carrying.
"Are you interested in witchcraft?" asked Ruby. "Magdalena knows a lot about brujeria – that's what they call it in Spanish. She keeps all kinds of feathers and stones and herbs in her room. One time she took a bowl of water and some ink and showed us how to read the future."
"How can you see the future with ink and water?"
"I don't know, but Magdalena swirled the ink around and stared into the bowl and told us things that would happen."
Like a crystal ball she'd read about, Frances decided. She admitted curiosity but doubted folk beliefs only a little more than religion. "And did her predictions come true?"
"Some of them."
"But I'm sure they were general."
"Probably." Ruby said reassuringly, "Magdalena only does good witchcraft. She'd never try to hurt anybody. She said people who do are really diableras not brujas."
As if Frances would know the difference. Sometime she'd have to have a longer discussion about witchcraft and voodoo with someone more knowledgeable, perhaps Magdalena herself. Meanwhile, as soon as Ruby finished the hem, Frances headed for the casino, meeting Belle on the way.
"You won't believe it! Louisa's getting out of hand. She took some of my money and bought a big, fancy, galoomping horse! Do you know how much hay and grain it'll take to feed a thing like that?"
Frances focused on the most disturbing news. "Louisa took some money?"
"Well, she didn't exactly steal it and she says she'll pay it back somehow, but she didn't ask me first. I'm worried."
"I don't blame you."
Belle sighed. "I don't know what I'm gonna do with her. She was never this hard to handle when she was younger."
"Perhaps she's only going through a period of adjustment." Considering her age, her recent problems with school and her mother's profession.
"I only hope that's it."
"If I can be of help, please let me know."
"I will, Frankie." Belle glanced around, noticing Sophie motioning to her. "Some other time, though, seeing's how we both gotta get to work."
Work, in
deed.
Frances found herself wading through a sea of blue and gold uniforms. She had a difficult time trying to tell who was doing what and there were so many drunks that Adolfo was constantly escorting men outside.
And Adolfo worked alone, an incident in the Gentlemen's Club keeping the Blue Sky's two other "protectors" busy. At least most of the men in the casino moved aside respectfully when Frances asked them to, so she could glance at the poker and faro tables, trying to make sure both customers and professionals were happy.
Still, Frances felt tense in the crowd. The troopers seemed high-strung and ready for trouble, as if they'd been waiting impatiently to let their emotions flow freely with the alcohol and their money. Loud voices from the poker table near the saloon alerted her. A trooper and a big rough-looking man with a black mustache were arguing.
"You're cheating," said the trooper. "Admit it."
"Now boys," said the gambler in charge of the table. "Nobody's cheating here or I would've known it."
The mustached man scowled. "Anybody says I'm cheating, I'll kill him."
"With your bare hands?" taunted the trooper, who'd left his weapons outside like everyone else. "I'd like to see you try."
Not liking the fierce way the men were speaking, Frances thought she should probably get hold of Adolfo. But before she could do so, the trooper slugged the other man and knocked him into the saloon.
The man with the black mustache scrambled to his feet with a roar. "Now you've done it!"
An answering growl seemed to rise from the surrounding crowd, as if this was what they'd been waiting for. Customers started to gather from both sides to watch.
Frances hurried forward. "Adolfo!"
But the little Mexican was nowhere to be seen. And Black Mustache threw himself at his attacker. The trooper tried to strike again, missed and was knocked to the floor.
"Stop it!" Frances yelled, seeing she would have to act herself. Violence sickened her. Pushing her way through, she placed herself between the struggling men. "Get out of here, both of you!"
Oblivious with rage, the trooper pushed her aside, slamming her into the bar. Her arm throbbed with pain. Worse, as she stood there breathlessly, Frances saw the other man reach down to draw a hidden pistol from his boot. The trooper backed away.
