Ramon set the glass of wine on the little table and thought about the priest’s description. “Are you saying she’s a kind of Mohammedan?”
The priest shook his head. “Not really. As I understand it, the Bahá’ís believe all religions are a little bit right. They believe Christ, Mohammed, Buddha—all the great teachers—hold some of the truth and they were all teaching us to worship the same God.”
The sheriff took a hefty drink of his wine as he evaluated the priest’s words. “I’m guessing Bishop Ramirez wouldn’t hold to those teachings.”
The young priest’s smile seemed a bit sad. “No, I suspect the Bishop would consider her belief heresy. It might not take much to convince him Fatemeh is the witch Mrs. Chavez says she is.”
“You don’t think she’s a witch...”
Father Esteban took another sip of his wine. “Don’t tell the bishop, but I wonder if the Bahá’ís are on to something.”
“What would the bishop do if he thought someone was a heretic?”
Father Esteban took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s pretty old-fashioned. I wouldn’t put it past him to burn a heretic or a witch at the stake…or worse.”
Ramon shuddered. He remembered the witch trials he’d heard about in other parts of New Mexico and decided he didn’t need to know any more.
The wine was starting to go to his head. He put the glass down and thanked Father Esteban, then walked back to Mrs. Gilson’s rooming house with his hands in his pockets. Stopping before he stepped onto the porch, the sheriff looked up at the stars in the sky and wondered who understood God better—Fatemeh or Bishop Ramirez.
<< >>
The timbers of the rooming house rattled, startling Ramon awake. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes while trying to figure out what had shaken the room. The smell of Mrs. Gilson’s coffee convinced the sheriff to dress, and then trudge down the hall to the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. Soon after, Mrs. Gilson appeared with some flapjacks. “Did you feel that tremor this morning?” she asked.
“Shook me awake.” Ramon reached for some of the preserves. “Suppose it was an earthquake?”
She shrugged and returned to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Juan Gomez stepped through the front door of the rooming house and pulled up a chair. “A rider came into town. He said a dynamite shack exploded up at the Dalton mine. There’s a lot of miners hurt. I sent Ray to fetch Doc Corbin.”
Ramon nodded as he shoveled flapjacks into his mouth. “Was there a cave-in?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
“Nothing like that, but there’s a lot of debris scattered around from the explosion. They can use all the hands they can get to clean it up and help with the wounded.”
The sheriff pushed the empty plate away. “You get going. I’ll be right behind.” He ran back to his room and grabbed his gun and his hat. As he hurried out of the house, he remembered to thank Mrs. Gilson for the tasty breakfast.
The sheriff climbed on his horse and started to ride toward the mine. He could see a plume of smoke and dust rising from the area. As he considered the wounded, he realized Doc Corbin could use all the help he could get, and Fatemeh had proven herself to be a good healer. Ramon turned his horse and rode out to her place.
Aromatic smoke wafted from the chimney. It seemed she was getting ready to cook her own breakfast. He climbed off the horse, then stepped over to the door and knocked.
“Just a minute,” came Fatemeh’s voice from inside.
Ramon checked his pocket watch, then stepped around the corner of the house, looking in the direction of the mine. The angry dust and smoke plume from the explosion was dissipating. He couldn’t afford to waste much time.
“Ouch!” cried Fatemeh.
Ramon whirled around and saw Fatemeh clutching her ankle and examining her foot. Apparently, she had opened the door and stepped on the threshold with her bare foot. Several needles had been driven into the threshold in the form of a cross. Ramon closed his eyes and swore under his breath. “Damn it, Mrs. Chavez. I don’t need this right now.”
Looking down, Fatemeh saw the needle cross. “What in the world…?”
Ramon sighed. “It’s a way to tell if the person inside the house is a witch. A witch can’t pass a cross of silver needles.”
“It sure kept me from stepping outside.”
Ramon looked back toward the mountains. “We have a bigger problem than this. There’s been an explosion at one of the mines.”
Fatemeh looked up from her foot. “There has? Can I help?”
“I was hoping you would.” Ramon grimaced, thinking the words came out sounding sappy, even if they were true.
Not seeming to notice his tone, Fatemeh nodded. “I’ll get my things…and some shoes.” A few minutes later, she reappeared at the doorway with her black bag. Careful to step over the needles this time, she climbed into her wagon and loaded some bottles into the bag. She reappeared, then darted around the back of her house. She rode out on a sleek Arabian stallion a few minutes later. Together, she and Ramon rode to the mine.
As they approached the mine, the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and dust hung heavy in the air, burning Ramon’s lungs. They heard wails of agony. Riding closer, they saw the remains of the dynamite shack. A severed arm and leg lay nearby. Ramon’s horse reared. Patting the animal’s flank to calm it down, he looked around and saw the reason for its agitation. A severed head lay in the horse’s path, its eyes staring up and mouth open in surprise.
Worried about Fatemeh’s reaction, Ramon looked around. Her expression was neither shocked nor scared. Instead, her eyes were locked on the mine entrance, her brow furrowed in anger. “This is a cursed place.”
They rode forward, past a man with a wooden plank embedded in his chest, lying in a pool of blood. Finally, they came to a place where Doc Corbin knelt beside a man who kicked and thrashed. The man’s arm was only attached to the shoulder by some tendons and muscle. “Quick! Give me a hand. I need to get this arm amputated and the wound cauterized.”
Fatemeh ground her teeth, then climbed off the horse. “They’ve desecrated the earth. No wonder it struck back.” She stepped over to the wounded man and opened her bag. “Sit him up,” she commanded as she produced a vial of greenish liquid.
The doctor did as he was told. The man screamed and Fatemeh poured the liquid down his throat. He began thrashing even more. “Help us hold him,” called Doc Corbin.
Ramon clambered off his horse and grasped the man’s legs while Fatemeh and Corbin held his upper body. A few minutes later, he relaxed and began breathing gently.
“You can tend to him now,” said Fatemeh. She looked up and rushed to a man trying to staunch the flow of blood from another man’s leg.
Ramon quickly turned around to avoid watching Doc Corbin saw off the wounded miner’s arm. He found himself face to face with Randolph Dalton. The mine owner’s velvet coat and silk vest were pristine. “Why did you bring her?” asked Dalton. “Talk of cursed places striking back will spook the men.”
Ramon looked around at the men lying on the ground, bleeding and broken, many scarred with powder burns. Some wailed in agony. Others were only strong enough to whimper. “All due respect,” said the sheriff, “I think these men have just learned the fear of God.”
Dalton ground his teeth. “That may be true, but the minute they start thinking the shack exploded because of a curse...” He threw his hat to the ground. “Mark my words, if my men start to pack up and leave, there’ll be Hell to pay.” He stormed away.
“I think Hell has already had a say,” muttered the sheriff under his breath. Despite that, Ramon could understand why Dalton was upset. The explosion cost him a lot and men who were upset and distraught reacted in all sorts of ways. Anger was certainly possible. The sheriff looked around and found a mine supervisor. The man put him to work clearing debris.
By the time it passed noon, the sheriff and his deputies were covered in sweat-streaked dust and
soot. They had done about all they could usefully do. Ramon saw Doc Corbin packing up. Fatemeh, whose black dress was matted and stiff with blood, patted the hand of one of the miners and spoke quietly to him. She stood up and moved to another. As the sheriff climbed onto his horse, he couldn’t help but notice Mr. Dalton watching Fatemeh like a hawk.
<< >>
On Wednesday after the mine accident, Ramon waited at the sheriff’s office for the mail to come. He sorted through the letters and opened a packet containing a fresh set of wanted posters. Rifling through them, he was at once relieved and disheartened to see no one he recognized. “Even the outlaws are all strangers,” he muttered.
Standing, he stretched, then put on his hat and stepped out into the sunshine and decided to take a walk. As he stepped into the street, a young boy named Elfego Baca ran headlong into him. Behind him, his friend Juan Fernandez skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Ramon put his hands on his hips and glared down at the boys. “Shouldn’t you two be in school?”
Elfego and Juan stared up at the sheriff with wide, rounded eyes, then looked at each other. Finally, Elfego sputtered out an explanation. “Mrs. Chavez…she offered to pay Juan twenty-five cents if he would draw a circle around the new curandera.”
“A circle?” Ramon’s brow furrowed. “What for?”
Elfego straightened up proudly. “They say, if a boy named Juan draws a circle around a witch, she won’t see him and she’ll be trapped.”
Juan smacked Elfego’s arm. “You talk too much. Mrs. Chavez said we weren’t supposed to tell anyone what we’re doing.”
Ramon removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. These were small and annoying things, but he didn’t like the sound of it. “Boys, you get back to school now.” He pointed his finger right at Elfego’s nose. “I don’t want to hear anything about the two of you harassing Miss Karimi.” He pointed his finger at Juan. “Understand?”
Both boys swallowed and nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
Ramon watched the boys run back in the direction of the schoolhouse. Instead of going for his walk, he decided to unhitch his horse and ride out to Fatemeh’s house. He knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer.
He tried the latch and the door opened. Light streamed in from a window and landed on a table. On it was a scrap of paper. Scrawled on it was a note in Spanish. It was difficult to read because of the poor handwriting and some water drops—perhaps tears—that had fallen on it after it was written, but Ramon finally figured it out. “I lost my husband because of the curse you placed on the Dalton Mine, Bruja.”
Ramon sighed and put the letter in the pocket of his shirt. As he stepped out into the sunlight, he saw Fatemeh approaching, carrying a set of traps. “Can I help you, Mr. Morales?”
“I just came by to see how you were doing?”
Fatemeh snorted. “Fine, except for some annoyances. Someone decided to set these traps over by the owl burrows.” She tossed the traps in a heap by the wheel of her wagon. “And I found a strange note tacked to my door this morning.
Ramon lifted the note out of his pocket.
“That’s the one,” said Fatemeh. “Unfortunately I don’t read Spanish. I wasn’t sure what it said.”
“It’s someone blaming you for what happened to the mine,” explained the sheriff.
“That’s ridiculous!” Fatemeh shook her head. “Why would they think that?”
“People get crazy ideas when they’re scared.”
“Like trapping owls?” Fatemeh looked down at the traps. “You’d think farmers would want the owls to eat rodents!”
Ramon dug in the dirt with his toe. “Some people think owls are the servants of witches.” He took a step closer and looked at the traps, then back up into Fatemeh’s eyes. “Someone is trying reduce your ‘power’.”
“I am most certainly not a witch.” Fatemeh folded her arms.
“The thought never crossed my mind—but it has crossed some others.” Ramon shook his head. “Hopefully they’ll get over it, but if you have any more problems, come to me.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. It’s good to know I have a friend around here.” She smiled and Ramon felt his cheeks grow warm. Despite being embarrassed by her scrutiny, he found he liked her smile and was glad she thought of him as a friend.
He tipped his hat and cleared his throat. “Well, I best be getting back to town, ma’am. But let me know if you need anything at all.”
“I will, Mr. Morales.”
<< >>
On Friday night, Ramon strolled through a surprisingly quiet and peaceable town. He saw lots of cowboys and hardly any miners. Finally, he ambled into the Capitol Saloon and noticed the barkeep already had a new mirror installed. He ordered a beer. “Quiet night tonight. Where are all the miners?”
“Most of ’em are gone,” said the bartender. “I hear Mr. Dalton’s blaming it on that Persian witch. He says she placed some kind of curse on the mine.”
Ramon took off his hat and tossed it onto the bar. “Not that again. How could she have anything at all to do with a dynamite shack explosion?”
The bartender shrugged. “I have no idea, but Mr. Dalton and the bishop aren’t too happy at all. You know the bishop owns several shares in the mine, don’t you?”
Ramon nodded. He knew that fact all too well. “She didn’t place a curse on the mine. She didn’t like it much, and may have said that too loudly, but it wasn’t a curse.” Ramon looked at the bottle of beer and sighed.
The bartender pulled a rag from his apron and began wiping down the too-empty bar. “Well, you tell that to two powerful men who see themselves losing money for every hour the mine is under-manned. Men have been packing up and moving elsewhere. If the owners can find a way to convince folks they’ve made the mine safe, they will.”
Ramon frowned and nodded, not surprised to hear men were moving on. The mines up north in Madrid and Raton were said to be a lot safer than the mines around Socorro. After an accident like the dynamite shack exploding, miners were bound to leave. However, at the rate people were coming west, Ramon knew Mr. Dalton would have a full complement of miners again in no time.
Sipping his beer, Ramon noticed a calendar hanging beside the big mirror. He had two more years before his term as sheriff was up. Ramon wondered whether he would bother to run for re-election. Shaking his head, he wondered if he would even stick around Socorro. He’d heard his cousin had a nice little place down south by Palomas Hot Springs. Maybe he’d go there.
Without bothering to finish the beer, Ramon dropped a coin on the bar and stepped back out into the night.
<< >>
The next day, Ray Hillerman burst through the door, stopping just before he collided with the sheriff’s desk. He put his hands down on his knees and just breathed for a few minutes before he finally stood upright. “Sheriff, there’s something strange going on at the San Miguel Church.”
Ramon sat back and folded his arms. “What’s going on?”
Ray dropped into a chair next to the desk. “There’s a crowd gathering and they’re collecting enough firewood to set a forest on fire.”
“They’re probably just gathering for a fiesta of some kind.” He sounded skeptical of his own words. It wasn’t even ten in the morning. “Did you say firewood?”
“I guess they could be getting ready to roast a pig up there.” Ray shrugged. “But they didn’t look like they was in a celebrating mood and one of them was Mr. Dalton.”
“Maybe I’d better take a walk up there, just to see what’s going on.” The sheriff stood up and stepped over to the door. “If it’s a party, maybe I can wrangle myself an invitation.” He reached over and grabbed his hat from a nail on the wall.
Going outside, Ramon patted his horse’s nose, then turned and walked toward the church. San Miguel was said to be the oldest church in New Mexico, even older than the mission of the same name in Santa Fe. Whether or not it was, the building wasn’t much to look
at. It was a plain brown adobe, just two stories tall with two small bell towers on either side of the portcullis. On one side of the church was a courtyard. As Ramon approached, he heard voices from the courtyard and they didn’t sound happy.
The sheriff’s instincts told him to be cautious, even though he couldn’t think of any reason he should fear approaching a church. Instead of walking up to the courtyard’s gate, he stepped around to the back of the church. There he found a couple of crates. He stood on one and found he could look into the courtyard. There, tied to a stake in the middle of the courtyard, was Fatemeh. Stacked around her ankles was enough wood to start a bonfire.
Mrs. Chavez stood in front of Fatemeh, listing off many of the so-called offenses she had cited to the sheriff over a week before. “She never goes to church. She always wears black...” and she’s a good scapegoat for the problems at your mine, thought the sheriff as he caught sight of Mr. Dalton. Ramon quickly scanned the rest of the people gathered. There weren’t all that many, really, only about fifteen. Even so, it was more than he could deal with all by himself, especially since many of them were grumbling and nodding agreement with every word Mrs. Chavez said.
What worried Ramon most was that Mr. Dalton’s brother-in-law, Bishop Ramirez, stood to one side holding a torch. The sheriff wasn’t sure he had time to run off and get help. His suspicions were confirmed when Mrs. Chavez finished her rant and the bishop started walking forward. “Based on the testimony, I understand that you have familiars, that you have contempt for the Church and for God-fearing men,” he looked at his brother-in-law at that moment. “I have no choice but to declare that you are a witch and a consort of Satan. We must cleanse this evil from our midst.”
Ramon thought if he’d been Fatemeh, he would have been scared, but she just stared at the bishop. She looked confused and uncertain of what she had done wrong, but not repentant. She looked around the wall, then whistled, like she did the night the sheriff first met her.
Ramon caught sight of a movement from one wall. An owl lifted off from its perch and swooped down at the bishop. It fluttered around in his face, causing him to drop the torch at his feet. Instead of lighting the wood piled around Fatemeh’s feet, it ignited the bishop’s long robes. The owl flew away and the bishop screamed.
Owl Dance Page 2
