DC03 - Though Mountains Fall (13 page)

Caleb nodded slowly, one eyebrow creeping up. “What do you need?”

“Only a few sacks of grain to feed our horses, señor, and perhaps a few ears of corn. Oh, and we will need to purchase six saddle horses—broken, of course.”

“I don’t have six saddle horses to sell.”

Soto laughed. “No, Señor Bender, I can see that, but there are other settlers here.”

Caleb eyed the other three soldiers, all mounted on pinto ponies.

“But you got the bandits’ horses, didn’t you?” He’d seen soldiers corralling the ragged ponies on the outskirts of town as the remainder of the bandits were led away on foot.

“Sí, this is true. We have rounded up all of their ponies, but there are seventy men left in my command. There were seventy-five, but some of my brave men died protecting you from the bandidos. If we are to defend your valley properly my men will need mounts, and we are short six horses. I will buy that one.” He pointed to Caleb’s best buggy horse, a standard-bred gelding that stood staring at him over the pasture fence.

“He’s not for sale.”

Captain Soto glanced over his shoulder, then leaned a bit closer and spoke in a low conspiratorial tone, as if sharing a secret he didn’t want his men to hear.

“Señor Bender, you must understand my position. I am a company commander in the Mexican National Army, and I have the authority to take whatever I need. Now, I offer to pay you out of kindness, because I don’t wish to be a burden to the yanqui campesinos.” Then his head tilted and he shrugged. “But if you dishonor me in front of my men . . .”

Caleb was no fool. He could see where this was going.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll sell you the horse.”

Soto grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “
Muy bueno!
I will pay you a hundred pesos. Corporal, fetch this fine animal from the pasture and put my saddle on him.”

“A hundred pesos?” Caleb said, perhaps too indignantly for his own good. “He’s worth at least twice that.”

Now Soto’s smile turned condescending, as though he were talking to a child. “Perhaps in America, but this is Mexico, and things are different here. A hundred pesos is a whole month’s pay for a peon or a soldier. But if this paltry sum offends your dignity I can always keep the money.”

Caleb glared at the little captain, but he knew from experience it was useless to argue with a thief. He held out a hand, palm up.

Beaming, the captain pressed the coins into Caleb’s hand and closed his fingers over them. But Soto wasn’t done. While he bargained with Caleb his men climbed up into the barn, and now they began tossing down sack after sack of grain. In the end Soto paid for this too, perhaps a fourth of what it was worth.

“It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Señor Bender,” the captain said, “but now I’m afraid we must go. We have other farms to visit, other purchases to make.” Soto tested the girth strap to make sure the saddle was properly secured on his new mount, and as he hooked a foot in the stirrup he glanced over his shoulder at Caleb. “By the way, we took care of the rest of the bandidos for you. El Pantera’s rabble will trouble you no more.”

The wagon driver made some kind of remark that caused a ripple of subdued, sinister laughter among the others.

The knot tightened in the pit of Caleb’s stomach. “What did you do?”

Soto’s head tilted, puzzled, as if the question made no sense.
“We sent them to the garrison in San Luis Potosi, where they will be hanged.”

“You promised you would let them live,” Caleb seethed, his nostrils flaring.

Soto spread his hands wide and looked to his
compadres
. “Sí, and I kept my promise! I
did
let them live. I even made the commander of the garrison at San Luis Potosi promise that he would give the bandidos a fair trial before he hangs them.”

Caleb’s fists clenched white, remembering the words of a Jewish grocer he’d once known in Ohio. The old Jew told him a strange story handed down by his ancestors about when the Red Sea swallowed the Egyptian army. The refugees were jubilant until Gott himself asked them,
“Why do you sing when my children
lie drowned in the sea?”
Caleb hadn’t quite understood it until now. Try as he might, he could not remain silent.

“I’m starting to think the only thing in this country worth less than a man’s life is your word, Captain Soto.”

The smile disappeared, and Soto’s face reddened as he leaned toward Caleb. “They were bandidos
,
gringo. Outlaws, murderers, thieves. Five of my men lie dead because of them, and three of the peasants in the village. What would you have me do, release them so they can kill again? Or perhaps I should build a nice jailhouse for them and make myself their servant. Would you have me bring them eggs and toast for breakfast every morning for the rest of their lives? Life is hard here, gringo. Mercy is a luxury we cannot afford, especially for men who only make life harder. I have no sympathy for these men.”

“You will answer to Gott one day,” Caleb spat.

They laughed at this, the captain and his men, as if it were an old joke.

“Señor Bender,” Soto said, still chuckling, “I think perhaps this has been the problem in my country for far too long—too
much God and not enough common sense. But the new presidente is taking steps to correct the problem. He will bring order. You will see.”

Captain Soto spurred the horse he had just stolen from Caleb, and his men followed him down the lane toward Hershberger’s place.

The soldiers had just left when Domingo rode up to the barn on a mule-drawn planter. Climbing down from the seat the young native wiped his forehead with a bandanna.

He pointed with a thumb. “Wasn’t that one of your horses?”

Caleb nodded, holding out a hand to show him the coins.

Domingo raised an eyebrow. “A hundred pesos?”

“Not nearly enough for my best buggy horse.”

“Better than nothing,” Domingo said, instantly grasping the alternative.

Caleb pocketed the money. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe the federales are worse than the bandits. Twice now I have heard Captain Soto say the new president does not fear Gott. What does he mean?”

“Presidente Plutarco Elias Calles, who won the election and took office just before the New Year. He is an atheist, and he has sworn to break the church’s grip on Mexico.”

“Why?”

“Because he, and many others, see the church as the tool of European imperialists.”

Caleb stared at him. “Do you?”

Domingo thought for a moment before saying, “I did, once. Father Noceda disagrees with me, but I have come to believe there are
two
churches. One of them is the buildings and the land, the money and power that attracts evil men and corrupts good ones. The other church is the real one, the one in the hearts of common people who only want to raise their crops
and children in peace. They seek only absolution, and hope. Such a hope binds people to each other in ways that men like Captain Soto will never understand. I have only recently come to understand it myself. I am afraid for the
true
church, Señor Bender. Our new president will attack the power, but in the end it will be the common people who suffer. It is always so.”

Caleb nodded slowly. Amish or not, his son-in-law was a man of keen perceptions.

On Thursday morning Miriam laid two outfits on the bed, one Amish and one Mexican.

“What should I wear?”

It was an hour before daylight, and Domingo was already dressed in his cotton work clothes and sandals. Miriam had not seen her family since the wedding, apart from the madness at the hacienda, but today was a school day.

School would be held, as always, in her father’s buggy shed. Miriam couldn’t help being nervous about how she would be received.
Very
nervous.

Domingo wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her ear. “If you are asking what I would like to see you wear, it does not matter—you make
everything
beautiful. And if you are asking what will upset your family the least, you would know that far better than I.”

Now, with Domingo’s arms about her, the choice became clear. There was no going back, and no sense in pretending. The plain black dress and kapp would never be seen as accommodation, but hypocrisy. With great trepidation she put on the printed skirt and white blouse, draped a shawl over her shoulders, twisted her hair into a single thick braid, uncovered, and slipped sandals onto her feet.

Domingo went to his mother’s barn and hitched his horse to the cart while Miriam dressed. Kyra’s two boys sat in the back as the rickety oxcart jostled out of San Rafael and around the end of the ridge, arriving at the Bender farm as the sun peeked over the low hills in the east.

When Domingo pulled up to the buggy shed and stopped, Miriam hesitated, staring at the house.

“Domingo, are you sure about this?”

He took her hand in his. “No. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know that whatever it is, it must happen sooner or later. It was a little awkward being around your father the last two days, but he doesn’t seem angry. Sad, maybe.”

A glimmer of lamplight shone through the cracks of the buggy shed—Rachel, already there. Miriam took a deep breath, steeled herself and climbed down from the cart.

As soon as she stepped through the door, Rachel met her with a hug, then held her at arms’ length. “You look lovely,” she said. “Marriage must agree with you because you’re glowing.”

Miriam smiled demurely, but shook her head. “The blush in my cheeks is only nerves. This is a tense moment for me.”

But Rachel only smiled. “You’re not banned yet, sister. People may talk, but there’s nothing they can do. Not yet. Relax.”

“How is Mamm?”

Rachel darkened and gave a little shrug. “Not so good. Give her time—she’ll get used to the idea.”

They were almost done arranging the benches and tables when the children started coming in, and Miriam began to sense that Rachel might be wrong. There
was
something they could do. The Amish were usually the first to arrive, but when it came time to start, the only children in her classroom were Mexican.

Not a single Amish child showed up.

Clutching her shawl about her Miriam went outside to look.
From the slight rise where the buggy shed sat she could see the entire lane, and the lanes from the other houses down to the main road. There were no children in sight, anywhere.

Her father came out of the house and headed for the barn, but when he spotted her he changed course. She could hear her own heart pounding as he walked up.

“Buenos días, Señora Zapara,” he said. She would have taken it as a kindly greeting if he’d been smiling, but her father’s eyes were hard.

“Good morning,” she croaked.

“You needn’t be looking for the children, Miriam. The Amish grapevine has done its work. I’ve already heard from most of the fathers that their kinner won’t be coming to your school anymore.”

Fighting back tears, she clutched her shawl tighter and merely nodded.

He leaned closer and his voice lowered ominously. “What did you expect, Miriam? You want to know what they said? They said they came to Paradise Valley so their children wouldn’t be influenced by outsiders all day in school. Every family here—
every one of them
—sold out and picked up and moved a thousand miles, just for that. And now their children are going to be taught by an outcast? A baptized woman who chose to walk away from the church? What did you
think
would happen?”

When she saw her father in the hacienda stable right after the wedding he hadn’t seemed angry, only a little sad. But the Amish grapevine had indeed done its work, and now she saw in his eyes the disapproval, perhaps even the scorn, of his brethren. She had shamed him. She couldn’t hold back the tears, but she clung to one last hope.

“I am not yet banned,” she whispered.

“You will be. You’ve broken from your church, and
they
know
it even if you don’t. These people don’t need a ban to tell them who they should allow to teach their kinner.”

Her eyes drifted down, away from his hard glare, as tears tracked her cheeks. “Shall I continue to use your buggy shed, then?”

“Do as you wish until the ban comes, but you’ll only be teaching Mexican children.”

He walked away, but after a few steps he stopped. Half turning, he looked her up and down. “And don’t go into the house dressed like that,” he said. “It would only upset your mother.”

It took her a few minutes to collect herself. Then, wiping the tears from her face, she went back into the buggy shed. She had a class to teach.

At lunchtime Rachel went to the house to eat while Miriam stayed behind. A few minutes later Domingo came into the buggy shed carrying two plates.

Shocked, Miriam asked, “Did they put you out?”

He shook his head, smiled. “No, but I am a free man. I choose to eat with my wife.”

Somehow she made it through the day, and somehow her brother and sisters managed to avoid her the entire time. But she had time to think. None of this was the children’s fault, and it was unfair to deprive the Amish children of an education. Devastating as it was, there remained only one solution.