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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: Follow the Wind
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Early next morning
, the
Paloma
set sail with the tide. The party on the beach watched the galleon quarter around the headland and disappear. For a time, they could see the tip of her mainsail above the protective island reef that skirted along the shore and then she was gone. They were alone in the New World.
Sanchez viewed the morning with mixed feelings. He had, before the end of his previous expedition to New Spain, been utterly disillusioned. Now, at times, he could scarcely believe that he had voluntarily returned to this godforsaken continent. Only the possibility of financial gain could have made him do so.
Just now, such possibility seemed extremely remote. Instead, he was experiencing the reality that lay ahead. Heat, dust, thirst, hunger, and danger would be their lot. To add to all this was the gnawing doubt in Sanchez's scheming mind. Not as much doubt, actually, as a certainty. One that he dare not share with the others. The certainty was that he, Sanchez, had not the slightest idea where they were going.
The previous expedition, of which he had been a part, had not come this way.
Oliviera had told them of a native village a half day's journey up the river. Beyond that, another two days, was an outpost, the last Spanish garrison on the frontier. They would spend the first night with the presumably friendly savages. At least, thought Sanchez, this first day or two would postpone the inevitable. Sooner or later would come the moment of truth. He would be forced to fabricate a reasonably believable story about the direction of the march.
Meanwhile, he would assume a knowing air and carry on the pretense. The others need not know that he had no clear idea where he was. And, after all, what did it matter? The young Garcia was probably long dead anyway. Sanchez would lead the expedition in a random fashion out onto the plains, pretending knowledge of the area. They would ask a few questions of any wandering tribes they might encounter. Then, when the weather or the terrain or the stamina of the old man began to become a problem, Sanchez could diplomatically convince the others that the mission was a failure.
It was primarily luck that led Sanchez to spot the snake. He was riding in the lead to establish his position as guide. The trail was impossible to lose, skirting along the river, obviously well used, and plainly leading to the village they sought.
In a low area, the path swung somewhat away from the stream to avoid a thick growth of cane. There, directly in the trail, sprawled one of the thick-bodied serpents that Sanchez hated. The creature had sought out a level spot in which to sun. Speckles of shade from a scraggy tree nearby blended with the mottled skin of the snake and it became almost invisible to a casual observer. Thus, it was a sheer good fortune that Sanchez happened to notice a subtle difference in the coloration of the object in the trail. He reined the mare sharply and cried a warning, just as the big rattler of the canebrake sounded his warning buzz.
“Look out! Mother of God!”
The palms of his hands were sweaty. In fact, his whole body seemed damp and clammy in his clothes. The sight of these wretched creatures always affected him this way. He
had seen a man die from the poisonous bite. An agonizing death it was, with the affected limb bloating and bleeding internally, the shiny blood-filled blisters growing by the hour.
The mare snorted and fidgeted, nervous over something unfamiliar. Sanchez sat frozen in the saddle, barely able to maintain control of the frightened horse. Slowly, the great snake, as long as a man is tall, moved from the striking position and seemed to flow smoothly toward the shelter of the canebrake. Its motion was deliberate, almost slow, yet in the space of a few seconds the travelers were staring blankly at a mottled patch of shade which no longer held any living creature. The snake was gone.
Don Pedro, riding at Sanchez's stirrup, exhaled audibly and a murmur ran back along the column. It was their first encounter with one of the unknown hazards of the New World and all had heard tales of poisonous reptiles.
Sanchez sat for a moment, trying to regain his composure. He gulped deeply and took a deep breath. The mare instinctively moved ahead and the shaken rider allowed her to do so. Now that the incident was past, he began to worry again about appearances. Had he lost his composure too obviously? Anxiously, he glanced back down the line.
What he saw was only that the men behind him were concerned, too. Those on foot, especially, cast apprehensive looks at the dim recesses of the brake and skirted the growth by a wide margin.
Sanchez need not have worried. The net result of the encounter was to increase his prestige. It was, after all, he who had shouted the warning and stopped the column.
Slowly, he began to understand. There was respect in the way the men looked at him, in the way they spoke during the noon halt. It was very difficult for him. No one, in all his life, had ever looked at him with admiration and respect. Even those he had called his friends had not shown these emotions. Theirs had been merely a relationship of tolerance, with perhaps less mutual distrust than they held for the rest of the world. He would not have trusted them, nor would they have trusted him, beyond the price of the next glass of wine.
Sanchez began to enjoy the new experience. It was a heady
thing, a lift such as one felt from the rapid consumption of good wine on an empty stomach. He relaxed, chuckling inwardly in sheer enjoyment. So this was how it felt to be respected! A resolve began to form in the dark cobwebby recesses of his devious little mind. As yet, it was beneath the level of his consciousness, but it was there.
Certainly, there was no morality or conscience involved, no sense of right and wrong. The possibility that respect was something to be earned had yet to occur to him. At this point, Sanchez had discovered only one fact. There was a better feeling when one was admired than when one was hated and despised.
Yet another opportunity was to occur that day. They reached the Caddo village of thatched dwellings and little children ran to peer wonderingly from a safe distance. A man approached, cautiously at first, and led them to a larger structure which appeared to be a council house or meeting place.
Sanchez found, rather to his surprise, that he remembered some of the sign language gestures the native was using. Experimentally, he attempted the sign for “leader” and that for “question.”
“Your leader?”
The man nodded and motioned them into the meetinghouse. It took a few moments to adjust their eyes to the dimness of the structure. There was no one to be seen, but soon a group of natives entered and a man, who appeared to be their chief, sat in a prominent position facing the visitors.
Communication was very difficult for a time, until the native chief sent for a young man who could speak some Spanish. He had, he told them haltingly, worked for the garrison two sleeps north.
Sanchez was in his glory. He squatted across from the young Caddo, made numerous meaningless gestures, and voiced monosyllables totally without significance. He had realized that the members of his own party, in their ignorance, would assume him to be conversing in the language of the savages. Meanwhile, the natives would believe the tirade of gibberish to be Spanish, which they did not understand. Sanchez would thus appear to be a masterful linguist and negotiator.
Despite all the playacting, some things were accomplished. The party would spend the night in the council house. Arrangements for food were made and gifts were given to the chief.
Almost as an afterthought, Sanchez negotiated for the services of the young Caddo with a slight knowledge of Spanish. He could be very useful in communicating with native tribes in the interior.
And, it must be confessed, Sanchez had also realized that to have someone to order around would increase his own prestige.
“Lizard,” the young man came to be called. His name was an appellation so long and unpronounceable, full of clicks and guttural hisses, that the travelers gave up in despair.
The young guide had a rather heavy lower jaw, wide mouth and prominent cheekbones. Someone suggested that his face looked like that of a lizard and the name stuck. Neither he nor his temporary employers realized that, in fact, this was very close to a translation of his name in his own language. He had, in fact, for most of his life been called “The Lizard.”
Sanchez had made certain, partially through his charade of meaningless gibberish, that Lizard understood that he must report only to him. This gave Sanchez more control over the situation. If their interpreter and guide had no one else to whom he could report, Sanchez could manipulate any situation to his own advantage.
They set out early the next morning, Sanchez riding in the lead, with Lizard trotting on foot alongside. Again, it would be next to impossible to miss the trail and these first days would establish the cunning Sanchez as leader of the column. Later, he thought vaguely, if the situation appeared to become dangerous, that arrogant young pup Cabeza could take the lead.
In two sleeps
, they reached the Spanish outpost. It was a jumble of thatched huts such as they had seen at the Caddo village, with one mud structure which appeared to be the headquarters building. A sentry lounged in sloppy posture against the wall at the doorway.
By heaven, thought Don Pedro, if he were a soldier of mine, he'd look alert. The old man brushed irritably past the curious sentry, followed by Cabeza and Sanchez.
A lieutenant in a soiled tunic slouched behind a desk and watched the trio curiously as their eyes adjusted to the dim light. He was not surprised. The native grapevine had brought rumors of an approaching party two days ago. He was merely puzzled as to why anyone who did not have to would spend time in this god-forsaken swelter of a gulf coast.
Don Pedro stepped forward, nodded in polite greeting, and began.
“
Buenos días
,
amigo.
I am Don Pedro Garcia. We are starting on a search for my lost son. He disappeared five years ago on an expedition to the north.”
The lieutenant's eyes widened. “Welcome,
Señor
Garcia, to our poor facility.” He rose, offered chairs, and asked a young native girl to bring wine. These were obviously persons of importance.
Light conversation followed, questions about the sea crossing and about the quest. At last, the lieutenant began to move around to the point of the conversation.
“I am sorry,
Señor
Garcia, but I cannot allow you to cross the river. It cannot be done without the sanction of the Crown.”
Don Pedro was completely unimpressed. This was no more than he had expected. It merely signaled the opening of negotiations. He glanced at Cabeza and Sanchez sitting dejected on their stools. Ah, he would demonstrate for them the art of diplomacy.
“Well, so be it,” he shrugged.
“But, never mind,” the lieutenant was continuing. “We will enjoy your visit while you are here. Ours is a lonely existence. We are so forgotten here on the border and so undermanned and underpaid. So drink up and we will enjoy each other's company this evening!”
He raised his glass in salute and the others did likewise.
“Ah yes,” agreed Don Pedro. “Yours must be a dedicated life, to submit to such indignities. It is a shame that you cannot be adequately repaid for your loyalty to the Crown.”
Almost unnoticed, a small bag of soft leather had appeared on the desk top in front of Garcia. The contents clinked softly as the old man gently poked it forward a short way with a gnarled forefinger. The lieutenant appeared to pay no attention, but continued to talk.
“Yes, we do our best. But with such few troops, what can I do?” He spread his palms in a helpless gesture. “We cannot even adequately patrol the river crossing. Why, even tomorrow, it must remain unguarded for most of the morning while we scout the lower crossing!”
Garcia saw with satisfaction that somewhere during the exaggerated gesturing, the bag of silver had disappeared. The contract was complete.
“One of my men will show you to an area where you may
spend the night,” the lieutenant was continuing. “After you are settled, we will resume our conversation. I trust you three will dine with me?”
They followed a soldier in a shabby uniform toward an open area where their party was already preparing camp. Cabeza was plodding along at Garcia's elbow, puzzling over the scene just past.
“Forgive me, Don Pedro,” he mused at length. “Did the lieutenant take a bribe to allow us to cross?”
At Garcia's other albow, Sanchez snickered at the young man's naivete. The old don glanced at him with irritation, then turned to Ramon.
“Of course not, lieutenant. You heard no mention of a bribe, did you?”
“But money changed hands.”
“Only a gift. A young officer in the service of the Crown is woefully underpaid.”
“But, I—”
“Cabeza,” snapped Don Pedro, becoming a trifle irritated, “you heard no mention of anything to be done in exchange for money, did you?”
“No,
señor
.”
“Very well, there is nothing more to be said.”
So, there was not. The three were royally entertained with the best dinner to be afforded on the frontier and no word was said of the coming day.
Early next morning, the now-friendly young lieutenant made a big show of good-byes and wished them a pleasant sea journey. Then he summoned his small platoon and marched stiffly through the village street and out of sight down the trail. There was silence in the encampment, except for the occasional cry of one of the native children at play.
“Come,” Garcia motioned to no one in particular. “We go.”
Quickly, they packed the baggage of the expedition and splashed across the shallow water of the ford, heading north into the unknown. The level landscape, dotted with scrubby trees, stretched away into shimmering distance. Don Pedro kneed his smooth-stepping mare up beside Sanchez.
“Which way?”
Sanchez had by now had time to reflect on his course of action. He had begun to remember some almost forgotten details of the previous expedition.
How could he have forgotten, he now wondered, day after day of the hot sun beating down on his back as they traveled? Of course, their primary direction had been north and the sun had swung in its merciless arc across the southern sky each day. He had started each morning with the sun on his right shoulder and had slumped exhausted at night with its coppery orb sinking into the horizon at his left. It would be easier this time on horseback.
A gust of hot wind struck his face as he turned to look at the straggling column behind. Yes, that had been the other thing. The wind had never ceased to blow, that livelong summer. Each day, the steady south breeze had struck full on their backs as they traveled.
Sanchez suddenly had a great resurgence of confidence in his ability. Of course he could lead the expedition. It required, at least for a time, only that they hold a generally northerly course. That, he could manage. He could gauge direction both by the sun's position and by the prevailing south wind at their backs. He picked out a blue hilltop in the shimmering distance. That would be their landmark for the day.
Sanchez suddenly became aware that Don Pedro had repeated his question.
“Which way, Sanchez?”
The little man was exhilarated, almost drunk with the euphoria of authority. He stood in his stirrups and, with a long, sweeping gesture, pointed at the blue shimmering hill, days to the north.
“We follow the wind!”

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