Paloma and the Horse Traders

by Carla Kelly

  “I will never hurt you, Graciela,” he told her. He took a bucket, upended it, and sat down in front of the door. “But I am not leaving until you satisfy my curiosity about Great Owl.”

  “I have nothing to tell you,” she said, her voice flat.

  “I have all day to wait,” he replied. “While you’re mulling over whether to trust me, or whether you are afraid of Great Owl while living in the safest hacienda on the frontier, let me give you this to think about: I distinctly heard you say, after I was shot, ‘Meant for me.’ I wasn’t the target. You were.”

  She shuddered and shook her head. “You couldn’t have heard me. You were in shock and pain.”

  “I did hear you. Tell me why Great Owl wanted to kill you? He had just sold you for a lot of money. I hate Comanches, but they know good business. He had what he wanted.”

  She shook her head again, reminding him of Soledad—stubborn, willful Soledad.

  “Do you even understand why Señor Mondragón and the others have gone after him?”

  Another shake, but less vehement. At least she was listening.

  “Great Owl is a renegade. He is out to destroy the tentative peace feelers that Kwihnai, a powerful chief among the Kwahadi, is sending out through Señor Mondragón. My brother-in-law thinks that French traders might be involved, but I do not know.”

  He watched her face as he spoke, and saw a flicker of something. “How are the French involved, Graciela?” he asked.

  She said nothing, even though she started to shake. The French were involved.

  He gave his imagination free rein, because he was desperate to know what was going on. His own hard life had made him cynical. He thought he didn’t care for anyone, but he knew how wrong that was. He cared deeply what might happen to the good people of the Double Cross.

  “When the French came to Great Owl’s village, if they did, did Great Owl give you to them to share, while they were in camp?”

  Graciela began to weep, and he had his terrible answer. Remembering the times he, Lorenzo, poor dead Paco, and Rogelio had shared a terrified woman between them, he felt shame so great that he turned away.

  When he could bring himself to look at her again, her face was chalk white. “You needn’t turn away in your disgust,” she told him, her voice barely loud enough to hear. “Don’t you think I feel enough shame for both of us?”

  “Oh, no, wait,” he burst out. “That is not why I turned away! Graciela, I have been as bad as the Frenchmen, to my eternal shame. It’s not you.”

  “There were three men, there to forge a deal for weapons,” she said in her small voice, her eyes on the dirt floor. “Until then, I thought I was past caring ….” She let her voice trail away. She turned around and faced the back wall. “Three. All night.” Her voice sank lower. “When one finished, another began.”

  What could he say to that? He heard her weeping, even though she tried to muffle her tears. Other men probably slapped her when she cried as they violated her, until all she could do was try not to cry, which would make them angrier. God forgive me, he thought. I was no better than they.

  He thought a long moment. He knew better than to call on God or any saints for help, because he wasn’t certain there was anyone above him in a distant place called heaven. What to tell this beaten-down woman, hardly more than a child herself? He could only speak from a confused heart, one bruised more than his shin where Soledad had kicked him this morning.

  “It’s like this, Graciela,” he began, slowly sorting though a mound of words to find the right ones. “It sounds crazy, but something happens to people when they spend time at the Double Cross. They get better.”

  His words sounded stupid to his ears, but Graciela stopped weeping. He waited while she blew her nose, and then squared her shoulders, a gesture so courageous that his heart felt funny.

  “I can’t explain it. Lorenzo could have killed me when I took that stolen team back to the rightful owner, or he might have beaten me senseless. What did he do? He brought me back here. This place is a magnet.”

  “But you left. You did, and la señora cried and cried,” Graciela said. She turned halfway, until Claudio saw her profile.

  “I never said I wasn’t stupid,” he admitted, pleased to see a tiny half smile on her face.

  He thought a little longer, and felt another rush of understanding. “Maybe this is it: Paloma and Marco treat us as though we are already the wonderful people they want us to become.”

  She turned to face him. “How do they know what we can become?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a mystery to me.”

  “What should I do?” she asked after a long silence. “You are right. I see Comanches everywhere.”

  She shook at the thought and he reached out to touch her arm. She pulled back, and he withdrew his hand.

  “Tell us what you know—me and Paloma and Eckapeta.”

  She shook her head. “Not Eckapeta.”

  “Very well. Tell me and Paloma.”

  Graciela rose slowly to her feet. He watched her smooth motion, entranced by the idea that such a graceful woman was well-named. He had been in enough Indian camps to see female slaves, none of them like Graciela.

  He left the bathhouse, calling over his shoulder, “Come with me.” He hoped she’d decide to follow, or at least not bolt for the open gate. And where would she go? Like most women, she had little choice in life’s fortunes. He didn’t look over his shoulder, not wanting her to think he was a weak man. Graciela already knew he was a fool. There was no need to impress her, since she had seen him with a noose around his neck.

  Paloma stood in the kitchen all alone. “The little ones are with Eckapeta in Marco’s old office,” Paloma said, indicating that they should sit around the table. “We won’t be disturbed.”

  Without asking, she put a plate of biscoches on the table and poured wine.

  She sat and folded her hands in front of her on the table, turning her attention to Graciela.

  “My husband told me that he, Toshua, and Joaquim Gasca were going to cross the Cristos and move along the foothills into the high land of the Ute Kapotas. They want to find out what Great Owl is up to. What can you tell us, Graciela?”

  Claudio glanced at Graciela as Paloma spoke, noting how she flinched and looked around at the name of Great Owl.

  Paloma must have noticed, too. She leaned forward, her eyes deep pools of kindness. “Great Owl is not here, Graciela. He has no power to hurt you in my home. If my husband has enough information, he can stop Great Owl before all chance of peace is gone and the frontier explodes again. I need to know what you know, and I need to know it now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In which Graciela looks deep inside, too

  Claudio must have sensed Paloma’s agitation. He moved closer to her on the bench. “Sister, when the Comanches shot me, I distinctly heard Graciela say, ‘Meant for me.’ Help us, Graci.”

  It was just the smallest nickname, but Graciela looked up at him, her eyes less frightened.

  “My father used to call me that,” she said.

  Paloma had lived long enough on the frontier to know what was expected of her. She reminded herself that Graciela was half Ute, and Indian conversation had certain rules.

  “Tell me about your father, Graciela,” Paloma said. “You said he was a soldier.”

  The slave nodded. “Mama is, was, Kapota Ute from near the White Mountain. Do you know it?”

  Paloma shook her head, but Claudio spoke. “Oh, yes, I have been to White Mountain to trade horses. In the San Luis Valley.”

  Just a wisp of a smile came and went from Graciela’s face. “Trade or steal?”

  Claudio gave just the same smile. “Depending. And so did the Kapota people.”

  “Papa met Mama in the presidio of San Felipe, near Ojo Caliente, or what used to be Ojo,” Graciela told them. “She was kitchen help in the capitán’s house and Papa was a corporal. I was the oldest of three.” She stopped and looked down a
t her hands.

  “Are you a cook, too?” Paloma asked, when all she really wanted to do was demand to be told what the slave knew about Great Owl. “Perhaps when my little ones are older, you might help Perla, who already complains of creaky bones.”

  “I would like that,” Graciela said.

  “Did the garrison pull out?” Claudio asked.

  Her face clouded as she nodded. “Governor Mendinueta said none of the country wives and children could go to Santa Fe.”

  “He could have been kinder,” Paloma murmured.

  Graciela shivered and looked away. “Where was kindness in any of this, señora?” She sighed and rubbed her shoulders, even though the room was warm.

  Paloma made just the smallest gesture, but it was enough. Graciela got up quickly and sat beside her with no hesitation. “We are three survivors,” Paloma said, looking from Claudio to her. “You went back to the White Mountain?”

  “Yes, we four.”

  “Where are …” Claudio began, and Paloma clamped her hand on his leg. Don’t you know, Brother? she wanted to ask, but she didn’t need to; he understood and patted her hand.

  Paloma slowly put her arm around Graciela’s shoulders, hoping not to frighten her, but to understand the terror of what must surely have come next. Graciela tensed, then relaxed.

  “Who is your chief?” Claudio asked, to Paloma’s relief. He seemed to finally understand the roundabout course she was taking.

  “He is called Rain Cloud. He took us in, because he and Mama are related somehow in that Indian way that no one but Indians understands, I think.” Graciela smiled. “My little brothers and I really didn’t fit in at first. I think we have always been more Spanish than Ute.” She touched her neck. “I once had a necklace with a cross,” she said, her voice wistful. “I don’t remember which Nurmurnah man snatched it from my neck.”

  She pressed her lips tight to keep from crying, and squinted her eyes into tiny slits. I used to do that, Paloma thought. Anything to keep Tia Moreno from hitting me, if I dared to cry for my family.

  “So there you were,” Paloma said, tightening her arm around the slave, who was starting to shiver uncontrollably. “Another log on the fire, please, Claudio.”

  Graciela smiled her thanks at Claudio, who blushed, to Paloma’s amusement. “Do either of you remember when that new governor chased and killed Cuerno Verde many leagues north of here?” she asked him.

  “I do.” Claudio made a face. “Lorenzo and Paco even considered joining with the soldiers and settlers—and Indian allies—but they didn’t. That would have been too much patriotism to suit them.” He looked at Paloma. “You must think me a disgrace to the Vegas.”

  “You survived and so did I,” she said simply. “And so did Graciela. I consider that the remarkable achievement.”

  Graciela turned her face into Paloma’s shoulder. “Go ahead and cry,” Paloma said. “You think we have not cried?”

  She did, and when she was finished, she wiped her face on Paloma’s apron, when Paloma held it up to her. She seemed to understand what she needed to say then, and the story came out.

  “As you probably know, the Utes allied with Governor … Governor …. He was there in the plaza briefly before your husband bought me.”

  “Governor de Anza,” Claudio supplied. “Graci, we know that the Utes were brave and true, during that hunt for Cuerno Verde and his Comanche raiders.”

  Graciela held herself a little taller. “They were, but oh, the retribution came later, after the soldiers were gone. Great Owl—he is Kwahadi Comanche—swooped down on us, and my life changed yet again.” She took a deep breath. “Mama and my brothers. Gone. I was four years with The People.” Another breath. “I cannot tell you what they did to Mama and my brothers.”

  “It has been done to us,” Paloma said quietly.

  “Then how can you ….” Graciela stifled her outburst, her eyes fearful again.

  “Both of you listen,” Paloma replied, her voice firm. “I have come to know The People. Do I understand all the Comanches? No, but the ones I know, I love.”

  “I doubt I will ever get to that place,” Claudio said.

  “Time and patience. Tell us more, Graciela. Marco and I have both been wondering why Great Owl insisted on money for you, and not barter. Marco suspects the French are involved.”

  “Money for guns,” Graciela said. “Señor Mondragón is right.” Her voice hardened. “Those … those three Frenchman came to smoke pipes and plan for a shipment of muskets.”

  “From where?” Claudio asked. “All of Texas and Luisiana belongs to Spain now.”

  “I don’t know. I do know that the Frenchmen wanted money,” Graciela told them. She took a deep breath. “I heard Great Owl say that the little boy he tried to sell first in Taos was just to test the crowd.”

  “O Dios,” Paloma whispered, thinking of her own little ones.

  “I heard him say that no matter what anyone offered, the result would be the same. Great Owl suspected that if he killed that child and then offered me, someone would pay a large sum.” Graciela looked down at her hands. “He calls that the weakness of the whites. They don’t like to deal in death.”

  Silence ruled in the kitchen as Paloma absorbed that much cruelty. She glanced at Claudio, his lips tight and eyes small, too. You are not as hardened as you would like us to believe, she thought.

  “But why would he track you and try to kill you?” Paloma asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “I do,” Claudio said, after a long moment. He spoke slowly, as if piecing his idea together word by word. “Graci, do you think he assumed that Marco was a Taoseño, and would not know him as a Comanche troublemaker over here so close to Comanchería?”

  “I think it very likely,” the slave replied. “Until this last time, during my years with The People, Great Owl has never been here.”

  Paloma did her own piecing together of the story that now involved her husband. “No man from Taos who bought you would think of tracking Great Owl.” She took a deep breath. “Because you know where Great Owl is likely to be, don’t you?”

  Graciela nodded.

  “He and his warriors must have watched us leave and head east through the mountains,” Claudio said, speaking softly as though all the Comanche warriors were gathered outside, pressing their ears to the walls. “That had to upset his plans. Marco was no Taoseño. He had to assume that Marco knew what was happening on the frontier. Great Owl couldn’t risk you telling him anything.”

  Graciela nodded again, still unable to speak. The terror was back in her eyes, her shivering greater. Paloma felt the slave try to burrow close, so she put both arms around Graciela.

  “All he had to do was shoot you if he could, so you would never give away his hiding place,” Paloma said, “or his plans with the French.”

  “And even if he missed you, he knew you would be too frightened to say anything,” Claudio continued.

  Graciela covered her face with her hands, her breath coming in little gasps.

  Paloma kissed her cheek, remembering again with frightening clarity that awful day when the eleven-year-old Paloma Vega huddled under the bed in the burning building, nearly frightened into insanity by the Comanches.

  “They don’t even have to be here to terrify us,” Paloma said finally. “Even now, I still dream ….” She looked at her brother. “I know you do, Claudio. What else?”

  “Need you ask? I reach for a big bottle of aguardiente. What do you do, Paloma, when it happens now?”

  “I am lucky,” she said simply. “Marco holds me close and covers my eyes with his hand.”

  A pine knot spat in the fireplace, and they all jumped. Claudio was the first to speak again. “They rule through fear and we are still afraid.” He reached across Paloma to touch Graciela. “Will such fear ever go away?”

  No one had an answer. They clung to each other. Paloma made herself think through the whole matter. “Great Owl has the money now, and he must have arranged a
rendezvous with the French for guns. He will cause all the trouble he can. He will ruin any chance of peace that Kwihnai wants and Marco has been working for.”

  “Not if we find Marco and the others and stop the French,” Claudio said.

  “Or find Great Owl’s summer camp first,” Paloma said. Then she put words to her fear because these two people knew exactly what was at stake. “Governor de Anza had an army when he defeated Cuerno Verde.”

  “Some eight hundred men, counting Ute allies,” Claudio said. “We will have … let’s see … seven brave souls.”

  “Seven?” Paloma asked.

  “I am counting Graci, too,” he told her. “We need her.”

  He reached across Paloma again and took Graciela’s hands in his own. She did not pull back. “We must do this. You need to stare down your fear and come with me.”

  “How can I?” she asked, drawing back into Paloma’s embrace.

  “By the doing of it,” Claudio told her. “We’ll travel by night, we’ll hug the foothills, we’ll trap rabbits and eat raw meat if we have to. I am not the tracker that Toshua is, but we will find Marco.”

  “I will be forever grateful, if you do,” Paloma told him. “Should Eckapeta go along with you?” Please tell me no, she thought. Please.

  Perhaps he read the reluctance in her eyes. Or he might be a true son of Pedro Vega, brave man who died too soon. Even more likely, he was the brother she knew would always protect her, even if he was not there, by leaving a Comanche warrior as formidable as her husband, Toshua.

  “Eckapeta stays here, Paloma,” he said with no hesitation. “I rather doubt she would leave you alone with the babies, no matter how many guards and archers surround the Double Cross.”

  Paloma didn’t hide her sigh of relief. “You will always protect me, won’t you?”

  His face clouded over. “I could not protect you earlier, but I have another chance now. Graci, I will guard you, too, and I need you.”

  Graciela bowed her head and her voice became soft. “Pray God you will not do me damage.”

  “Never,” he replied, his voice as soft as hers.