The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “My cousin he works for Mr. Popin.”

  “Qi'in Tse?”

  “He is my cousin. And Reyes. She is my cousin.”

  She said, “I don't know what those men want of me. I only know they are dangerous. They are Nazis.”

  For a moment he disbelieved her, a slow grin taking away the ancient mask, leaving a boy's face. “You see too many movies, I think. There are no Nazis in Tesuque.”

  She warned him, “We are at war.”

  He had pride now. “When school is over this spring, I will join the navy. Many of my cousins are in the navy. Every man of our Indian school football team joined the navy this year, but they must wait to go until the school year closes.”

  “You know then that there are enemy spies, fifth columnists, hidden in many places in this country. I am certain these men are Nazis.”

  “Why then do they seek to harm you?”

  “Because I escaped from them in France. I am a refugee.”

  He accepted it. He was suddenly decisive. “You must go to the F.B.I.”

  She couldn't do that. But she dare not tell him. He understood cinema suggestion. “First I must have proof. I do not dare accuse them without proof. They are too strong. No one would believe they were Nazis. If I can only get away from them now, I will find proof.”

  “You do not worry about that. I get you away,” He went among the women and children now, spoke in their own tongue. The women brightened, the children scurried. The boy went out.

  She sat against the wall on the banco. Schein would not recognize her, the blanket hiding her face, Indian-woman fashion. The mackinaw lay folded there on the bench. Her hand slipped into the pocket, the gun was still within, reassuring. Under cover of the confusion and the coat, she transferred it to her purse.

  It was after eleven when Porfiro returned. The women and children were ready. They carried bright calico bundles. There were others waiting outside, a baby in arms, fat, placid.

  Porfiro spoke to Julie. “Wear the coat under your blanket. It will not be seen. You will need its warmth.” The open truck was outside the door. “Climb in back with the others. Two of my primos are ahead on the road. If the man tries to stop us, they will delay him.” Two other Indians climbed into the front with him.

  She sat on the bare floor of the rear with the others. The day was bitter cold, the sky slate. It was not fear that pulled the blanket across her head, covering her mouth and nose, only her eyes visible. She saw the truck parked on the siding just below the turn. She saw the two blue-jeaned Indians loitering near it. Schein, bowler jammed to his ears, overcoat collar turned up, gloved hands on the wheel, looked half frozen. She knew he scanned every face in the truck, her face. She didn't look into his eyes.

  The truck turned on the highway, chugged along. Schein didn't follow. She dared relax when they passed the few houses of Tesuque. The truck labored up the snowy hill, passed the crest, eased down toward Santa Fe. It was easy.

  Porfiro parked just off the Plaza. His two compadres stretched their legs. He came around to the back of the truck. He said, “Here we are, miss.” He didn't seem to know what to do with her. She didn't know exactly what to do herself. Obviously she couldn't expect to enter her room unnoticed in this disguise. As if he had sensed her thoughts he said, “Your clothes are in this bundle. My mother has wrapped them.”

  Julie took the brown paper package, told the Indian woman, “Thank you.” Soledad nodded, smiled, smiled wider. Julie slid to the street beside the boy. She said, “You know how grateful I am to you.” Her fingers had removed the bills from her purse during the ride; she held them out now. “Please take this. Not pay. A present for your mother.” He looked at her quietly. “You cannot refuse a guest's present,” she said, “no more than I could refuse yours.”

  “Thank you, miss.”

  She said, “Your mother's clothes? How can I return them to her?”

  He said, “Next week I go back to school. I was needed to help at home in the storm. Send them to me at the Indian Club.”

  She repeated after him, “Porfiro Melones.”

  He hesitated. “You are not afraid?”

  She repeated as before, “I am always afraid.” She turned, started away, but his steps came after her.

  “The truck will be here all afternoon. Always someone will be in it. If you need to return, you are welcome.” He nodded just once, turned again. “An Indian woman walks slowly, little steps, no legs.” He grinned.

  She would remember. She clutched the paper parcel, shuffled in the brown moccasins the length of the Palace portal. She saw no hostile face. She crossed, shuffled the east side of the Plaza, past the bank to the ticket office. On the corner over there was La Fonda. Could she carry it off? An Indian was no novelty in the hotel but could she reach her room as an Indian? She could try.

  She held the blanket across her face, held her nerves check-reined. Small steps up the walk, open the door, walk in. Schein was in a truck on the Tesuque highway. Small steps into the lobby. Blaike was on a couch facing the door. He was talking to a plump pink man who wore the hat of a hotel detective. Small careful steps now, past the newsstand, down the side steps, out the door. No hurry.

  She retraced her steps back to the truck. Only the mother and baby were in it. The woman looked at her. Her eyes spoke even if her tongue was sealed by language. Julie settled down again on the floor. The woman said something, pushed over a paper sack. Julie shook her head. She couldn't eat.

  "No quiere?"

  She repeated after her, "No quiere. No thank you.” She sat there, the bundle on her lap, the purse tucked under the shawl. They had been hard to carry to the hotel, but no one had noticed her awkwardness handling them and the shawl.

  What next? Take the bus dressed as she was? Did Indians ride the bus? Yes. Two women on the ride from Albuquerque. Others on the ride to Tesuque. Someone would be watching the bus station. She couldn't pass for Indian at close inspection. She might send Porfiro to buy the ticket. She recalled, then. She had given the boy all of her money save for a little silver. She had counted on reaching the hotel before the enemy did; she had counted on their remaining on guard in Tesuque until they saw her leave. She couldn't ask the return of her free gift. The boy had been reluctant to accept it.

  She must have the money and package from the safe. She had been an idiot, lulled by momentary security into registering it. The diamonds wouldn't leave her body again, not until the peace was cemented and the horrors of this war a long-winded tale told by ancients at the fire. She must recover them. In person. The hotel wouldn't accept a note to turn them over to a young Indian boy. She would have to get back to her room some way. The risk was trebled if Blaike had asked the hotel detective to watch for her. If Blaike had told the man she was wanted for murder!

  He wouldn't! He would if it were advisable. When Porfiro returned she'd ask him to buy the evening paper. She must get back into her room, change clothes there. Even if she had to wait until the hotel slept, until early hours of dawn, she must reach its haven. Wait where? On the street if need be. She had the gun if anyone came to shove her. She wouldn't use it to kill, only to threaten. And she would use it if anyone attempted to thwart her regaining her package, if anyone attempted to take her before she could get away. She shook her head. She wouldn't use it. She couldn't kill.

  It was almost five when Porfiro returned to the truck. He wasn't surprised to see her. He asked, “You were not safe?”

  “No. One of the men was there before me.”

  “Will you return with us?”

  “No.” found a coin. “Can you get me the evening paper?” She must know what had been revealed.

  He went to the corner of the Plaza, hailed a small dirty boy, returned with the local news sheet. She spread her eyes over it. There were only six pages to search. There was no mention of Jacques. There wouldn't be. The blackbirders couldn't risk investigation of Popin's house. Nor would Blaike or Schein wish to be exposed to the police. Blaike couldn
't have been accusing her of murder to the detective. There was no murder as yet. The tale he told might be as dangerous to her but the city police wouldn't be watching for her. Only Schein, Blaike and the detective. One must watch in Tesuque. Only two here.

  She said, “I'll go now. I'll be all right.” She was without hope but she smiled. She carried the package in front of her, the purse under her arm, as she walked away from the Plaza, up to a bakery. She bought ten cents’ worth of rolls. In the connecting grocery store she examined her purse. There was exactly sixty-two cents remaining there. Two oranges. A pint of milk. Less than fifty cents now. A brick schoolhouse stood on the opposite corner. She went into the shadows between it and the larger adobe schoolhouse next. She was protected from sight, protected a little from the cold. She ate the dry bread, drank the milk, and ate one orange. The other she put in her pocket. Darkness was increasing when she emerged and with the darkness the cold deepened She must get indoors.

  Remembering the slow walk she returned to the hotel. This time she used the side door. At the head of the stairs she saw the detective sitting at the far end of the lobby. She didn't see Blaike. She shuffled to the steps leading to the women's room, followed that corridor. Possibly she could find a staircase leading to third. She couldn't dare the elevator, questioning. Indian women weren't seen in the upper corridors. The steps descended again, turned to the elevator cage. Julie reclimbed, retraced the corridor, descended the other flight and left the hotel.

  Indians were not welcome in many places. She had not seen one in a restaurant; they had brought their food for the day in paper sacks. There was the bus waiting-room. It would be heated. She found the way and she sat there on a bench. Suddenly panic swept her. If she had found the stairs at the hotel, how could she hope to reach her room unnoticed? It was the first place Blaike would guard. She would have to pass his door. The Indian blanket wouldn't fool him. She must wait until later, far later. She sat there unmoving.

  At eleven o'clock, the porter gestured. “Get going now.” She didn't speak, didn't look at him.

  She rose and went out again into the bitter night. Back to the hotel. She circled it. She could see her room at the rear, the small balcony, another below it. Unhampered by these clothes she could climb to it. If she could get inside the surrounding wall. If she could do it unnoticed. Two men hard-heeled around the corner. She shrank against the wall. They didn't look at her. She walked the opposite way, past the side door, up to the corner. She didn't glance at the two couples who passed her, entering the hotel. She followed them, slipped inside, and quickly slipped out again. Albert Schein sat on the couch watching the door. He hadn't seen the Indian. His eyes were on the women who had entered in front of her.

  She wandered aimlessly on up the street. The Cathedral. She could go in there to wait. No one would say, “Get going” in there, There were cars passing, others at the post office across. She wandered on following the walk past the Cathedral, past walled old Spanish houses.

  There was an open parkway after the road turned. She crossed to it. It lay deep in snow, the tall trees throwing black grotesques on the gray. The little river it followed was frozen. She plodded on. The headlights of a car blazoned her as she crossed the bridge. She heard the drunken laughter as it passed, the rough jabber, a derogatory word, “Squaw.” She was suddenly terrified. The brakes squealed farther up the road. The car could turn back. That could be the meaning of the sound. She ran directly toward the great dark house, fell across the low wall, ran to the small portico and flattened herself against the door.

  Her shaking hand drew the gun from her purse, held it pointed. But no one came. She saw then at her feet the litter of advertising papers, throw-aways. This house was empty. It would not present a shiftless doorway if it were not. It was a well-groomed house.

  She tried the door. It was of course locked. She began a slow circle of the house then, window by window. Everything locked. Back door locked. If she could but hide here a few days until the first clamor of the hunt died. She had no compunctions. She took the barrel of the gun, broke the glass above the lock on the back window. Her hand reached in, twisted the lock, raised the window. She climbed through awkwardly, pulled the window down after her.

  The luminosity of the out-of-doors showed a kitchen. Suddenly her knees buckled. It might have been a house to let. It wasn't. The dim blue of a pilot light was on the stove. Whoever lived here was temporarily away, that was all. There was furniture, the gas was on, the house was fairly warm, enough to keep pipes from freezing in an unseasonable spell.

  She found newspapers in a box, stuffed the hole of the window. She didn't dare make a light. She left the blanket on a chair. The gun she pushed back into her pocket, the purse she clutched under her arm. She moved through into the dining-room, living-room, hall. Somewhere there must be an electric torch, usually in a hall. She searched drawers and chest, found it where she should have looked first, on the closet shelf. It worked. She dimmed it with her hand, climbed the stairs without sound. Her heart was louder than her footfall. If this house was not unoccupied, those who lived here wouldn't believe anything a strange Indian-dressed girl told them in the night. There would be one answer, the police.

  Bedroom doors were open. Three of them. One at the head of the stairs, the two others off the hall to the right. No one was in them. Each room, each bath was in precise beautiful order.

  She turned on the water in the center room bath, jumped a little at its sound. It ran warm. Suddenly she didn't care. There were no houses near on this side, only the stretch of parkland. She pulled the shade, hung the mackinaw over it. A black cotton stocking dimmed the light. She pulled off her clothes, ran a hot tub, luxuriated in it. Her head jerked; she mustn't fall asleep here. She turned on the shower then, even scrubbed her hair. It wakened her. She folded towels neatly, turned off the light, used the torch in the bedrooms. She was only borrowing. She found clean underthings; she took those most worn. She made a notation in her little book. She would send money to this house to pay for all she took. She folded Soledad's clothes, borrowed a bathrobe and slippers and went down again to the kitchen. She wasn't afraid now.

  The bundle. It wasn't here. She must have left it on the waiting-room bench. For a moment hollowness sucked at her. She straightened her shoulders. It didn't matter. It might be better this way. If it were found, opened, reported, even printed in the little newspaper, Blaike would believe she'd got away. The hunt would roar on to Albuquerque.

  She put Soledad's clothes in the blanket, left it neatly on a chair. There would be food here. She opened the cabinet doors, used the torch. Canned goods. Staples. Something hot. Soup. She brewed it, ate it with crackers, washed up the traces and returned to the upstairs. She noted what she had taken.

  By torchlight she examined all the closets now. Two women alone lived here, one older, the best front room; one younger, this room. The one at the head of the stairs was for a maid or guest. The younger hostess wouldn't mind if she borrowed the blue jeans, a clean but old shirt. The girl was taller than Julie but she could fold up the pants legs. Most did in these parts. The shoes were too large; she would have to continue wearing those of Soledad. The bed waited, a heavy-blanketed bed. She needn't dress now. No one was coming here tonight.

  If anyone did— If anyone did it would be three brown bears and she'd say, “I'm Goldilocks and I was so very tired.”

  Julie took her purse and her gun and went to bed.

  There was no sound in the house, no sound in the white world outside. The silence of snow was falling again outside the window. She'd slept late, past nine o'clock. For a moment on awakening panic touched her, realizing last night, where she was. But the silence of house and snow reassured her. She got up, dressed in the levis and shirt, borrowed socks. Before she left the room no one could know without examining the bed that anyone had entered it. She carried the mackinaw over her arm, the gun was inside her purse.

  Cautiously she crept downstairs, made the rounds of the
windows. There was nothing to see but unbroken snow. Even her footprints of the night before were covered. She turned the furnace up a bit before fixing breakfast for herself. There were a few eggs, a bit of butter in the box. The two women hadn't planned to be gone long. No bread, but crackers. Tea.

  She took out the moccasins from the blanket, buttoned them, returned to the living-room. She had half a package of cigarettes left in her purse. She smoked one.

  It was a little time before the presence of the radio impressed itself. News. She tuned in softly, barely a whisper, tried for wavelength. She could get only two stations, one had records, the other a soap opera. The records, interspersed with advertising, identified the source as Santa Fe. She sat there all morning until an eventual news broadcast. There was no mention of a missing girl nor of a murder.

  She was comforted but apprehensive. Unless someone intruded she would do as she planned, remain here for two or three days. She wouldn't starve, she wouldn't freeze.

  Once so long ago she had waited seven days in an empty house in occupied France. Part of that time with only a few cabbage leaves to gnaw. Luck had returned to her. There were even books here. She took one about the southwest, pushed a chair near the window but out of sight if anyone came to peer.

  Nothing broke the stillness of all the day save the muffled radio. At the evening news broadcast she listened, but nothing of local import was given. When night fell she knew more about the territory between this village and El Paso. She had studied the map. She returned to her bedroom after supper, hooded the bed light with a blue bandanna from her hostess's drawer, read until she was sleepy.

  The second day was without falling snow. A watery sun fell through the sky for an hour's interlude before leaden clouds engulfed it. Her nerves were unreasonably taut. Once the phone rang. She counted slowly until the sound ceased, leaving a greater void of silence. And once someone came whistling to the front door. She heard him coming. She was in the coat closet before he rang the bell, until a long time after he had gone away.