Paloma and the Horse Traders

by Carla Kelly

  The Comanche held up five fingers. “Cinco reales,” he said in a loud voice.

  The figure was preposterous; everyone knew it. Who in their cash-starved economy had such money? Marco felt the reales in his pouch, his heart sinking. He had only four, more than enough for his original plan to buy a team of horses, but the Comanche wanted five. He saw other mothers hurry their children away, running down a side street now.

  The lawyer looked around, then at the Indian. “That is a stupid amount. You must think we are idiots. We will bargain,” he began.

  “No, please no,” Marco whispered. “At least show him what money you have.” Toshua tightened his grip on Marco’s arm.

  The Indian raised his eyebrows. He looked around elaborately, then yanked on the rope, spilling the child from the saddle and snapping his neck with a sound heard all around the circle. Whatever suffering he had endured at the hands of his captors was over.

  Rojas went deathly pale, and tried to retreat into the circle. No one budged to let him in. He looked around in terror.

  The young mixed-blood woman put her hands to the rope around her own neck, crying out when the Indian controlling it tightened the knot. “Please help me, someone,” she implored. “Mary, Mother of God!”

  Four reales. Marco shook off Toshua’s hand and strode into the circle that grew wider as people continued to back up. He walked to the dead child first, swallowing his tears, and knelt beside the little body. He closed the boy’s eyes, and made a small sign of the cross on the dusty forehead. He took a deep breath and stood up.

  He knew all eyes were on him as he deliberately untied the pouch from his belt and willed his hands not to shake. He held it up, coming closer to the man Toshua had called Great Owl.

  “I have four reales in this pouch,” he announced, grateful that he was far beyond the age when his voice would squeak. “I will give all of it to you for the woman.” Please, Señor Rojas, surprise me and be a better man than I think you are, he thought. If Owl won’t take four, please offer at least one real.

  “I asked five for a mere child,” Owl reminded him. He said something in the language of The People, and the other Comanches laughed.

  Marco felt the hand of death draw near to the desperate woman. “True, you did.” Maybe he could appeal to the man’s vanity. “I can understand that. This pobrecito was a Spanish child, and worth more.” He looked at the young woman, who had clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “She is Ute, perhaps? Maybe there is some Spanish blood in her, but she is not worth five reales. I doubt she is worth four, because all of you have probably ridden her hard.”

  He hated to say such ungentlemanly things, but this was a harsh bargain with men made of flint. “Four,” he said again. “It’s a very good offer for broken-down goods.”

  He stared at the Comanche, who stared back. I will walk naked through this town before I will look away first, Marco thought. He heard his own heart thundering in his ears. He held the pouch high, stared at the Indian, then shook the pouch so the coins rattled.

  The silence that followed was broken suddenly by a sighing sound as the last air left the body of the dead child. Great Owl jerked his horse back and glanced away, reminding Marco just how superstitious The People could be. Someone shrieked. A woman moaned and fainted.

  “Show me,” Owl said, his voice more subdued now. He angled his horse away from the little body lying in the dust.

  Marco took the coins from the pouch and held them up. He reached in the pouch again, pulling out all the smaller coins too.

  “Hand them to me,” Owl said, his voice softer still.

  “After the girl dismounts and comes to stand beside me,” Marco said, knowing this was the most critical moment in the whole, terrible affair. He listened with real relief to hear someone close by clicking rosary beads and praying out loud in Latin. Please, Mother Mary and all the saints, he thought. Intercede for us here, you who sacrificed your Holy Child.

  He let out a small sigh of relief when the Indian holding the rope around the girl’s neck dropped it. With a flash of brown legs, the captive leaped off the horse and ran to stand behind him. He heard her ragged breathing nearly in his ear, because she was taller than Paloma.

  “The other child?” Marco said, after he handed all his horse money to Great Owl.

  He turned his back on the Indian riders and took his place beside the young girl. Marco looked at the circle of fair goers, their faces so serious. The priest who had been praying came forward and knelt beside the dead child. He picked up the little one and walked toward the church, cradling the ill-used body.

  “The other child?” Marco asked again. He turned around to look directly at Enrique Rojas, his eyes boring into the weak man who would now and forever in New Mexico be branded as a fool and a coward, whether those titles were truly justified or not; the man was simply too green for this harsh land. Maybe he could succeed elsewhere. “Come, señor, I know the governor gave you money for horses.”

  “That belongs to the Treasury,” Rojas began. Someone behind him in the crowd threw a shoe. Another followed, then another. “Very well!” he exclaimed, his face the color of the red dirt plastered on the church where the priest stood with the small corpse in his arms.

  Rojas’ hands shook too hard for him to even open the pouch, much less remove it from his belt. One of the soldiers in the crowd slit the strings and the pouch dropped to the ground.

  Great Owl laughed out loud as the lawyer groveled in the earth, picking up coins and then in his terror dropping them.

  “Dos reales,” the man said, fear raising his voice an octave or two, which made the Comanches laugh harder. Some of the people in the crowd were smiling now.

  “Bring the money here,” Great Owl ordered.

  The lawyer sobbed and sank to his knees. Marco snatched the coins from him and walked to Great Owl again. He held the coins just out of reach.

  “See here, Great Owl, I do not think this child is all Spanish either, and look, he has a shriveled arm! I didn’t notice that before. This is more than enough.”

  Maybe he had overplayed his hand, maybe not. Two reales would have bought the best horse in the traders’ remuda. He had no money for those matched bays now.

  Great Owl gave him such a stare, as if memorizing his face and storing up his vision of this bold New Mexican for use in the future. So be it, Marco told himself. Our lives are all in the hands of God.

  He held his breath until the Comanche shifted in his saddle and lip-pointed toward the child, who hadn’t raised his eyes from the space between the horse’s ears, so cowed was he.

  The captor looped the rope around the child’s arm and playfully lowered him to the ground as the little boy struggled to loosen the noose around his neck. Marco ran forward and grabbed him. He lifted off the rope and the boy clung to him, his arms so tight around Marco’s neck that Marco thought of Soledad’s farewell hug and nearly began to cry himself. He held the reeking, filthy little slave, murmuring to him as he would murmur to Claudio.

  Marco stood there until another priest came forward and took the child from his arms. “We’ll tend to him,” the priest whispered. “May God and all the saints bless you forever for what you have done, Señor Mondragón.”

  “He blesses me every day, Father,” Marco said. He gave the frightened child a gentle pat. “You will be well cared for, muchacho.”

  With a sigh of his own, Marco returned to the circle, faintly embarrassed at the deferential looks cast in his direction by men and women alike. The lawyer was on his feet now, brushing off his good suit and cloak and trying not to look at anyone.

  “Tell Governor de Anza exactly what happened, leaving out nothing,” Marco ordered him. “You can be certain that other reports are probably already winging their way toward him, so it will not profit you to lie.”

  The lawyer was a broken man. He nodded and left the circle, his head down, the better to avoid the scornful looks aimed at him.

  Marco felt a so
ft hand on his arm. He turned around to see the young girl he had saved prostrate herself in the dirt at his feet, her face in the dust. Gently he lifted her to her feet then took her by the shoulders.

  “I am sorry for those things I had to say,” he began, “but—”

  She shook her head. “You saved my life, Excellency,” she said. “I will do whatever you wish, because my body belongs to you.”

  It was Marco’s turn to blush. He shook his head. “Oh, no! Your body is yours, although it is true that I own you.” He smiled, thinking of Paloma. “Actually, you belong to my wife, who is kind and gentle and needs a servant for our children, since she is with child again. Will you help us?”

  Tears welled in brown eyes much like his own. She leaned forward and kissed his hands. He took her by the hand and led her to Toshua. Her hand trembled and she tried to shield herself behind Marco. He coaxed her out.

  “This is Toshua, my great good friend. The only fear you should have now is if my Claudio and Soledad pester you to play with them, or make you hunt for tadpoles in the spring. Will that suit you?”

  “Beyond all measure, Excellency,” she whispered.

  “Just señor,” he told her. “In that I am firm. What … what is your name?”

  “Graciela Tafoya,” she said, rubbing the red mark around her neck.

  “Where are you from?”

  “The cloud land of the Utes. It … it is a long story, Exe … señor.”

  “It can wait then.” Marco looked behind him, surprised to see that the Comanches had slipped away as quietly as they had come. He thought again how Great Owl had studied the very bones of his face, then put away the disquiet such an act caused him. Why borrow trouble? Wasn’t there enough already in New Mexico?

  “Toshua, you see a penniless man now,” he told his friend. “Pabi, Do you think I am charming enough to talk three dirty traders out of a horse or two?”

  “You can try, Little Brother,” Toshua said. He sheathed the knife he still held.

  “What would you have done, if Great Owl had made a move toward me?”

  “He would be a dead man.”

  Marco looked at his empty pouch, opening it wider. “I think a moth just flew out,” he joked, which made Graciela smile. He looked toward the horse traders, curious to know if they truly had been followed by that unwholesome band, and wondering if he should attempt a purchase with more money no closer than three days away at the Double Cross. They didn’t look like men filled with much milk of human kindness, but all they could do was deny him.

  He still stood there, watching the crowd that had followed the horse traders start to melt away, apparently no longer interested in livestock. Comanches could do that to a person. He looked toward the distant plaza, startled to see some of the vendors hurriedly packing their goods, the better to leave Taos and the Comanches behind.

  A few prospective buyers, hardy types, still lingered by the horses. Marco didn’t notice any of them eyeing the matched bays, so he took heart. “Come along,” he called over his shoulder to his friend and his slave. “They’ll either laugh me away or we’ll make a deal.”

  Chapter Eight

  In which a reeking trader is kinder than a stupid lawyer

  Marco stopped suddenly, which made Graciela gasp and draw back. I must remember not to startle this one, he thought. Do we even want to know what she has been through?

  “I will do this fast, which will probably make me a fool fit for plucking, especially with these hard cases,” he said, eyeing the horse traders. He looked back at Toshua. “Pabi, there is something about what happened … I want to start for home as soon as possible.”

  Toshua nodded. “I feel it, too.” He gave Marco a shove, which made Graciela gasp again. “Get those horses, if you can.”

  Marco walked to the matched bays, admiring the look of them. He ran his hand down the broad chest of the closest horse, which did not shy away from him or draw back his ears.

  “You like what you see?”

  Marco looked over his shoulder at the younger of the traders, who had put his hand on the other bay, repeating Marco’s gesture. The man smiled, and Marco saw his own love for the horses.

  “I do,” Marco said, and made no effort to even begin the usual haggle of walking away, and arguing and walking back, and giving the disgusted headshake, the mournful look—all the tricks of trading that would take hours. He knew the trader would think him a green fool, but so be it. “I like them both. Have you trained them to work as a team?”

  “I have. They are brother and sister, and work well together.” The trader gave him a long look. “You are the countryman who bought the woman.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Marco said, faintly embarrassed. “I can use her, though.”

  A sour look crossed the trader’s face. “Hopefully not as hard as her captors did.”

  “Hey, wait! My wife needs help with our two children, and next spring, our third child. I am an honorable man.”

  The trader nodded, and his eyes lost their hard stare, which had the effect of making him look vulnerable, if only for a second. “These Comanches! They fought us, killed one of us, then followed, just staying far enough back but close enough to keep the hairs standing up on my neck.” He gazed into the distance. “God willing, we will not see them again. I’d prefer that they blend into someone else’s landscape. Do you want these horses?”

  “I want to use this team to pull a light carriage. My wife will travel better that way with our little ones.” Here I go, Marco thought. “I gave away my entire purse to save that woman from death. Would you consent to trailing these horses with me back to my ranch, so I can pay you there?”

  Marco watched the man’s face to see if his eyes hardened again. He saw some wariness, but more interest and a little sympathy.

  “Are you good for it, if I go some distance—” the trader began.

  “Three days, moving fast—”

  “With you?”

  “I would never suggest it, if I could not do what I say,” Marco assured him. “You only have my word for that, though.”

  The trader looked toward Toshua. “And you travel with what I think is a Comanche, who looks as though he does not suffer fools gladly.”

  Maybe humor wouldn’t hurt. “He doesn’t suffer fools at all,” Marco replied.

  The trader left without a word. Marco’s heart sank, because he wanted the horses. I tried, he thought. I suppose I can find horses closer to home and take the time to train them myself.

  He stroked the other bay this time, pleased with the way the horse whickered then pressed his great head against Marco for a moment, nuzzling like a big dog. “And you are gentle,” he said softly, not wanting to be heard, because talking to a horse would only make him look like a bigger fool than he already appeared. “Paloma would have liked you.”

  After another look toward the trader, now standing close to his compadres and arguing, Marco walked toward Toshua and Graciela. He patted his empty pouch and sighed, suddenly wondering how he would pay the innkeeper, who had been highly suspicious of Toshua and had demanded a larger deposit. Maybe I am just a foolish countryman, he thought, with a rueful shake of his head over his own idiocy.

  “Señor, you are too hasty!”

  Surprised, Marco turned around to see the young trader walking toward him.

  “I’ll do as you wish. My compadres aren’t exactly thrilled ….” He shrugged. “I do not think you will cheat me.” He gave a short, awkward bow. “My name is Diego Diaz.”

  “I won’t cheat you. Thank you.” Marco felt his face go red. “I have another problem: I gave away everything and can’t pay the innkeeper either.”

  Diego Diaz stared at him, then laughed that throw-back-your-head kind of laugh which a tightly laced man like that lawyer would scorn. “Everything? Señor, must I pay your bill at the inn, too? Answer me this: how were you planning to get to wherever we’re going without money for another inn or a meal?”

  “To
shua and I have no trouble flushing out conejos or shooting the occasional deer, and who needs an inn in August, if there even were inns on the trail we take?” Marco said, striving for a little dignity. “Señor Diaz, I can see this will not work. My apologies for wasting your valuable time.”

  “Don’t be so proud! And call me Diego. I’ll pay your bill at the inn, and trust you to trap a conejo.” He glanced back at the other traders, who were glaring at both of them now. “Maybe I’d like a change of scenery, myself. Shall we?”

  Marco nodded, satisfied. “You’ll not be sorry.”

  “I’m sorry now!” Diego Diaz joked. “I can’t think of the last time I trusted anyone. This is a new experience.”

  They looked at each other and nodded. “Which inn?” Diego asked.

  Marco told him.

  “I’ll meet you there, after I pull my kit together and get these horses.” He stopped, and shook his head. “I am a fool, too! I can’t leave just yet. I promised a woman near where we were attacked that I would find her husband and tell him to hurry home. Dios, find a man in the middle of the great trade fair! I am too susceptible to a pretty face, I suppose. This may take a while.”

  “We’ll be at the inn, and ready. Would I know him?”

  “Your guess is probably as good as mine.” Diego started to where his own horse waited patiently, his reins on the ground. He stopped. “I suppose I can ask you. It was a juez de campo, someone we traders try to avoid.”

  “I can understand that,” Marco said, wanting to laugh, even as his little seed of worry started to grow into a big weed. “Name of Mondragón?”

  “I think that was it. Something unusual.”

  Marco grabbed Diego, who gaped at him, startled. “Young and yes, she does have a pretty face. Did a pockmarked older Comanche woman ride with her?”

  Diego nodded. “These same Indians who sold you the woman ambushed us near Santa Maria. Only there were more Comanches. We think some of them stayed there in … where was it … Valle del Sol, to cause trouble.”