by Vella Munn
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps. Some of our holy men say the soldiers are kachinas, not good ones who bring rain, protect life, and see that our crops succeed, but evil. They do not spend seasons deep in their land with the other spirits, but remain here, untouched by sacred cornmeal from the Powamu chief as should be. They are different, evil.”
She’d used several words that meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t dismiss their intensity. The Navajo didn’t believe in kachinas, but he was on Hopi land.
“It is not for you or me to understand what is in the hearts, minds, and souls of the newcomers.”
“No,” she agreed. “Cougar, go back to your people. Tonight.”
“I cannot.”
“Because you made a promise to them? Ha! I take your promise and step on it.”
Someone laughed in the distance, reminding him of how much a voice could carry.
“I will say this to you one time,” she continued, softly, before he could warn her. “It does not matter whether you believe me, or whether my words mean anything to you; in this thing, I will have my way.”
He sensed her coming closer.
“You say you are ready to die as long as your people benefit from your sacrifice, but this is not between Navajo and Spanish. The Hopi, too, have become part of it.”
“Yes, they have.” He sighed. “And because of that, you should thank the Navajo for wanting to take the Spanish far from you.”
“Thank?” she echoed. “And if a Hopi dies in this, will I thank you for that? Do not speak, Cougar. It is my turn. It was your plan to lead the Spanish to the great canyon, was it? Perhaps it was your thought to stay with them until they were far from Oraibi and then slip away while other Navajo came here and stole their horses. Yes, that would be a Navajo’s plan.”
“You make it sound like a foolish thing.”
“Because it is.”
Before he could do more than open his mouth to object, he felt something hard and sharp touch his side. He jumped but, trussed, was unable to move away.
“A knife.” She explained the obvious. “Like the Spanish would use on the Hopi.”
“The Hopi? But—”
“If you get the Spanish to leave with you, the time will come when they will know they have been deceived. Their anger will be like a winter wind, and they will seek revenge.”
The knife no longer pressed against his flesh, but he’d already dismissed it as he concentrated on her. He’d known her to be courageous from the moment he’d become aware of her, but now he admired her in a way he’d never guessed was possible, a way he didn’t want.
“Will they seek to punish the Navajo?” she continued. “No! You will be gone, as will the other Navajo braves. The Spanish do not know where you live, and even if they found that place, your people would already have fled. But the Hopi are not birds—it is not our way to spend our lives moving from one place to the other. Oraibi is our home, our life; because of that we are vulnerable.”
The soldiers were talking loudly, their voices like dirt that rolls over the land when the wind has it in its grip. He hated them. Hated what she was saying.
“Tell me, Cougar. How many Hopi will the soldiers kill before they are satisfied?”
Her question slammed into him, but before he’d made full sense of it, he felt her hand on his chest, then moving over his hip, down his leg, finally reaching his bound ankles. She slid the knife under the ropes and began cutting, her breathing coming fast and hard. Once she’d freed his legs, she attacked the bindings on his hands. When, at last, his arms were no longer trapped behind him, it was all he could do not to cry out from the pain.
“Go!” she ordered. “Now!”
“What about you?”
“Go!”
“Your safety—”
“If you do not leave, I will call them and they will kill you.”
• • •
“Damnation!”
Fray Angelico winced at Captain Lopez’s bellow but hurried toward the sound. Because the captain held a flaming torch, he easily saw what had caused the man’s anger. As it had been getting dark, Lopez had ordered the captured Navajo to be placed near the soldiers’ encampment, but the savage was no longer there. Several short pieces of rope lay on the ground. Lopez kicked at them, then repeated his oath.
“Who allowed this?” he insisted. “Who was supposed to be guarding him?”
It came as no surprise when no one claimed responsibility. Instead, the gathered soldiers seemed inordinately glad to have a man of God in their midst.
“Was it you, Padre?” The captain strode toward him, stopping when they were only inches apart. “Is this how you defy me, by letting the savage go?”
“No,” he blurted, then regretted having said anything, because if Lopez believed him, there was only one other logical culprit. “Captain, you have no jurisdiction over me. What I do is my concern and the Lord’s, not yours.”
“Do not test my patience. The churches you and the rest of your order are determined to erect will never come about without a military presence. I cannot believe—cannot believe . . .”
Captain Lopez fisted his hand and shoved it under Angelico’s chin. Refusing to back down, Angelico reached for the pectoral cross around his neck and held it up, defying the military man to ignore what it symbolized. The soldiers, obviously torn between loyalties, shuffled from one foot to the other. Only Madariaga stepped forward.
“If you strike me,” Angelico said, “your soul will be cast into everlasting hell.”
Although the captain continued to glare, a little of the madness left his eyes. “You have no comprehension of my responsibilities. None. Do you have any idea what the possession of emeralds means to me?” He patted his pocket where he’d earlier placed the jewels. “The potential, the opportunities . . . Of course not, because material profit means nothing to you.”
“In God’s eyes, material goods are of no—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Lopez clamped his fingers against his temple and squeezed. He noticed that Madariaga had positioned himself so he could protect Angelico.
Lopez’s lips thinned. “A man in my position has no alternative but to do all he can to better himself. The pressures confronting me make that an absolute necessity and I vow, I swear, I will succeed. Neither will I allow any opposition. Do you understand me? Do you?”
Angelico made no attempt to silence Lopez, opting to let him vent his rage and hopefully gain a measure of control over his temper. Madariaga retreated, as if sensing how close he’d come to pushing his leader over the edge.
Captain Lopez continued to rant that from now on there would be a clear demarcation between what the Church had a say in and what were solely military duties and obligations, but Angelico barely listened. He would pray for guidance and calm and, if possible, understanding of what drove the captain; but that would have to wait because it was imperative he look for Morning Butterfly.
Unfortunately, the night hid her.
• • •
Exhaustion lapped at Morning Butterfly as, finally, she approached her family’s home. From the moment she’d freed Cougar, she had wanted to run here, but when she’d heard Captain Lopez’s outburst, she’d forced herself to slip as close as possible to where he and the padre were standing so she could hear the argument between them. She hadn’t fully understood what they’d said to each other, but when the padre’s eyes had searched the night, she’d guessed he’d been looking for her, and now she prayed he wouldn’t come here to try and find her. Oraibi was Hopi, not Catholic, and the padre had to know that, he had to.
It would be dawn before long, and she wanted to spend as much of the day as possible with her sister. It didn’t matter whether they went in search of bowl-making materials or stayed with other maidens; the important thing was to give Singer of Songs a reason to laugh—and for Morning Butterfly to try to make sense of her thoughts, of what she’d done. She’d told Cougar she didn’t care whether he lived or died, and yet
. . .
“Finally,” a voice whispered from the shadows. “Finally you are home.”
Recovering from her shock, she concentrated on locating her father’s uncle among the shadows. “You had a nightmare?” she asked One Hand. “I am sorry I was not—”
“No, I was not sleeping. Come here, child. Walk with me for a minute.”
Although she wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would hold her, she matched the old man’s pace as he made his practiced way among the many separate stone structures. The flat rocks the Hopi used to build their homes were like the earth, slow to accept the sun’s heat and equally slow to let go of coolness.
“The Spanish now know you speak their language,” One Hand said. “It should not be.”
“You stayed in the pueblo during what the padre calls mass, did you not? How did you know?”
“As long as the Spanish are here, I remain hidden from their eyes,” he agreed. “It does not matter who first told me, all tongues spoke of little else.”
“Yes, I imagine they did.”
He stopped walking, and she took advantage of the opportunity to sit. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open. “Morning Butterfly, I fear for your life!”
“One Hand, I—”
“You should have remained silent. What passes between our captors and a Navajo is not your concern.”
The old man’s fears flowed over her, nearly overwhelming her. “I had no choice.” As briefly as possible, she told him why Cougar had approached her. What she didn’t tell the old man was why she’d agreed to speak for him. Though One Hand would surely understand her irrational hope that Cougar could indeed convince the Spanish to leave, she had no words for the Navajo’s control over her.
“What happened to the Navajo?”
“What?”
“Someone freed him. Your father saw him run off.”
“Did he?”
“The ropes had been cut. Morning Butterfly, was it you?”
“Yes.”
“Because he begged you to help him?”
“No! Never. He . . . he wanted no danger to come to me.”
Chapter Nine
Since as governor, Captain Lopez’s grandfather General Don Juan de Oñate of Zacatecas had absolute power over everyone under his jurisdiction, he’d been given the authority “to carry out the discovery, pacification, and conquest of the provinces of New Mexico.” He’d pursued this goal with zeal while receiving a salary of six thousand gold ducats of Castile and borrowing a like amount from the provincial treasury. His private estate had encompassed some thirty square leagues.
After bloody years of near dictatorship, his majesty King Philip had fined Oñate heavily and confiscated much of his personal wealth. Eventually, Oñate had received a formal pardon because he had, after all, done a great deal to “civilize” the Indians with whom he’d come into contact, but he’d died without regaining the money, land, or jewels that had once made him and his family wealthy.
Lopez, born and raised in Veracruz, the chief port of New Spain, had lived for the days when the fleet from the mother country dropped anchor in the harbor. His father, fortunately skilled in metalworking, had been much in demand repairing battered vessels, and Lopez, the only son, had been first called into service assisting him when he was but six. At Huerta de Leiva’s side, Lopez had worked long hours in the hot, muggy climate, falling exhausted into bed when Huerta—bitter over the loss of the family’s fortune—finally released him. His mother, busy with his four older sisters and daily worship, had been only too happy to abdicate responsibility for the raising of this unexpected child, born when she’d thought her childbearing years were behind her.
When Huerta spoke, which was seldom, it was usually to impress upon Lopez his belief that only hard work mattered. If he neglected his wife and daughters, that was unfortunate but unavoidable, and if there were times when he missed mass because his work was so much in demand, surely God understood. Lopez, unable to sit through long sermons, had been only too willing to forgo services in order to assist his father.
He might have become a metalworker himself if his parents hadn’t argued over him. His mother had finally insisted that he concentrate on his religious schooling instead of spending all his time out of doors. She had put in a rare appearance at the dock where Huerta plied his trade and announced that she intended to take the boy with her. Equally determined, Huerta had pointed out that Lopez was the only one he trusted to keep the forge coals hot enough, the only one whose eye was keen enough to determine when a support rod was at the correct angle. Twelve years old, naked to the waist and sweating, only inches from the heated coals necessary for bending metal, Lopez had, in a flash of insight, seen two roads open up in front of him. One committed him to a lifetime of working on someone else’s ships; the other silenced his inquisitive nature beneath an ocean of religious dogma.
That very day, he had approached a ship’s captain and asked to be allowed to accompany him and his crew to prosperous Mexico City. In exchange for the opportunity, he’d said, his father wouldn’t charge the captain for the work he had just completed. That was a lie, but his next statement was the truth. He was Don Juan de Oñate’s grandson and wanted nothing more in life than to follow in the great man’s footsteps, to travel into new land, to explore and conquer, to be a soldier. In urbane Mexico City, where the richest families of New Spain lived, he would make his mark. The captain, impressed by the name, had been willing to accommodate Lopez.
Life in a garrison behind the viceroy’s palace had been no easier than working for his father, but he’d made the most of the fact that he was limpieza de sangra, pure of blood. Where many of his fellow soldiers were barely literate, he devoted himself to learning not in the church-run schools but by asking questions, watching and listening, borrowing books, and teaching himself. In due time his facility with reading and figures caught the attention of the viceroy and other royals.
Beginning at age eighteen, in the employ of wealthy land and mine owners, he’d led soldiers into the Mayo and Yaqui valleys of Sonora, where they met only token resistance from the indigenous Indians. He could have become a majordomo or capataces for one of those influential men and turned his talent to supervising the work of the defeated Indian laborers, but his dreams lay further north. One of the wealthiest mine owners, Gregorio de Barreto, had been impressed enough with his lineage, intelligence, and aggression that he’d encouraged Lopez to court one of his daughters, and when the so-called romance might have faltered, had presented him with a dowry sizable enough that Lopez had been able to overlook her horse features and hefty hips.
Today, Lopez’s thoughts were far from his less-than-beautiful wife. Instead, he wandered from one Hopi farm plot to the other, not because he cared how the Indians coaxed life from the land, but because his feet needed something to do while he debated his next move. He carried with him the writings of Fray Geronimo de Zarate Salmeron, who’d spent years among the Jemez and served at Zia, Sandia, and Acoma. Fray Geronimo’s Relaciones, in which the good father detailed the vast treasures to be found in the territory, were, in short, why Lopez had sought his current position—and why he’d believed the captive Navajo’s tale about a wealth of emeralds to be found at the great canyon.
Tamping down the excitement that could make him lose his measured judgment, he considered the pros and cons of leading his men on a search for the accursed and dangerous Navajo. If he’d had any confidence that he could find the emeralds on his own, he would already be planning an expedition, but the canyon’s vastness made that impossible. His only recourse was to force a savage to serve as guide—and to take along the female Hopi interpreter.
Something akin to a smile touched his lips as he contemplated what other use he might put her to, but it died when he recalled the padre’s reaction to her. It might be an interesting exercise in assessing the padre’s strength and determination if he were to bed the female, but undoubtedly Angelico would fight for her so-called hon
or—maybe carrying that fight to Lopez’s troops. They were a simple lot, more fearful of their surroundings than he would have preferred, but he’d worked with undisciplined men before, and relished the challenge of turning these into seasoned soldiers. However, they were, down to their core, religious. Knowing that, Fray Angelico would manipulate their deep-rooted and blind devotion to the Church, and he, Lopez, wasn’t about to run the risk of losing their loyalty to a man of God. Besides, although he privately questioned many of the Church’s dictates, his mother had taught him to fear the Lord’s wrath; even now, he wasn’t of a mind to test the limits of God’s patience.
All right; he wouldn’t bed the interpreter, whatever her name was. Besides, he’d found another—
Stopping in mid-stride, he looked around, but although the dry and rolling land was dotted with toiling Hopi, none were close enough for him to make out their features. His observations of the way the savages worked their land had led him to conclude that farming was considered men’s work. Whatever the females and children occupied themselves with was conducted for the most part at Oraibi, which meant he’d have to go up there if he hoped to find the virgin he’d bedded the other night.
A virgin.
His first.
• • •
“Atse Hastin, First Man, hear me. You live because the Mirage People walked four times around eagle feathers, buckskin, and ears of corn, and the wind turned the white corn into First Man and First Woman. To them were born a boy and a girl who grew to maturity in four days and lived as man and wife. Before it was done, First Man and First Woman had five pairs of twins, and all but one of those had children. Four days after the last pair was born, the gods took First Man and First Woman to the East, where they learned many things. They wore Hasteyalti and Hastsehogan masks and prayed for all good things, such as rain and crops, but while in the East, they also learned the secrets of witchcraft.”
