Listen to the Mockingbird (10 page)

My mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Almost forgot.” He scratched at his head, leaving a black smudge on his earlobe. “There was a woman asking for you around town. A colored woman.”

“She found me.”

“She a slave?”

“Of course not.”

“Friend of yours?”

“I knew her in St. Louis.”

“If the Confederates stay, they’ll be thinking you are harboring a runaway slave. And if the Union comes back, they may take a dim view of your supplying the Rebs with horses.”

I opened my mouth, closed it then opened it again to sputter, “I had no choice. They could have marched on me and taken the horses.”

Jamie looked down; and when he raised his eyes, they were both sad and angry. “That may be. But the exacerbating fact of the matter is you’re known to be a friend of mine. And I, most certainly, am a traitor to the Union cause. Send the nigra north and pack up and get yourself to the other side of the border.”

“She’s with child; her time is coming soon. I can’t send her away, Jamie.”

He went back to his task. “Be that as it may, neither of you is safe here. “

A few people were moving like lost souls across the plaza when I crossed it the second time. Faces were grim, chins jutted out. There was no time to dawdle.

“Miss Summerhayes!”

I flicked a glance over my shoulder. It was the horse buyer, Lieutenant Morris. I nodded, waved and hurried on.

“Excuse me,” he said, taking my elbow with a brash smile. He was only a little taller than I, but his frame was like iron and his eyes were so self-certain that he looked like he could wrestle a bull to the ground.

I slowed. “Sorry, I have to get to Garza’s while he still has something to sell.”

“Of course,” Morris said. “Then I’d like to buy your lunch at the Double Eagle.”

“Thanks anyway—”

“Surely you don’t mean to go without lunch.”

I was puzzled at his persistence, but it occurred to me that this man might be an even better source of information about the Texans’ plans than Jamie. “All right,” I said slowly. “Thank you kindly for the invitation. I will need some time to get the wagon loaded. I’ll meet you there.”

999

The Double Eagle was a lot better place to take a meal than you’d expect to find in a town like Mesilla. Moses Fountain, like his brother, had made a good deal of money mining silver up at Piños Altos and bought up a lot of land in and around the town. When he opened the Double Eagle he said he figured it would lose money and didn’t care. He had plenty of money. What he needed was class. And this was nothing if it wasn’t class—as good as any dining establishment I’d seen in St. Louis.

When I got there, the dining room was almost empty. Lieutenant Morris sat at a table in the corner chatting with a man I’d never seen before. Morris saw me, got to his feet and came to meet me at the door. The other man disappeared.

Garza’s store had been filled with panicky people. I’d purchased as much beans and flour and other edibles as I could and wrestled the sacks to the wagon myself. Finally, I’d seen a kid slouching in front of the saloon and gave him more money than I should have to finish the loading.

It seemed odd to sit now at a linen-covered table as if everything was normal.

“Are you Texans going to abandon us?” I asked.

“You do get down to the heart of things real fast.”

He chuckled warmly and changed the subject. When we finished eating the biggest cuts of beef I’d ever seen on a plate, I asked again.

“Are your men pulling out?”

He turned a steady gaze on me, taking my measure. I took a cautious sip of tea so smooth it tasted like satin. Morris was having whiskey. He’d mixed it with water, but the color was still dark. I didn’t much like whiskey. Ladies did not drink alcohol, which is not to say I had not tried some.

He leaned back in his chair and pressed a napkin to his lips. “I’m afraid there is that possibility.” He folded the napkin and put it on the table. “I would like to offer my services.”

“Excuse me?” He was an officer. He couldn’t be asking for a job.

“You’ll need help packing up.”

“Thank you, but no. We won’t be leaving.”

“You must!” he said sharply.

I stared at him.

He dropped his eyes like a bashful schoolboy. “Sorry. It’s just that I’d hate to think what might happen.” He peered at me earnestly. “I hear you have a slave woman out there. You won’t be able to trust her once the Yanks get here.”

“Winona is not a slave. She wouldn’t dream of causing me any trouble.”

“Well,” he cajoled smoothly, “you haven’t had time to think about it properly. At least say you’ll hold your decision till you’ve had time to give it your full consideration.”

I ran my fingers around the rim of my saucer and agreed to think about it.

999

By the time I got home, I had just about made up my mind to take Jamie’s and the lieutenant’s advice. But no way would I send Winona north. She would come with me to Mexico.

We couldn’t bury the horses with our silverware; we would have to take them with us or lose them to Canby. A horde of rather proficient rustlers always hovered about the border, but Nacho and his sons were good hands with guns and they knew the language. We would have to risk it.

Winona met me at the door, her dark face puffed with impending motherhood. “Well, Miss Matty,” she said when I had explained, “are we to turn cottontail and hip-hop off to Mexico?” Her words were flippant, but her face looked drawn.

We sat in the parlor, me in the rocking chair, Winona on a straight-back chair because her back was bothering her. It shocked me to see her looking so frail.

“You can’t travel,” I said flatly. “The baby’s due too soon.”

“I can ride in a wagon,” she said. “What’s there to riding in a wagon? I ain’t sick. I ain’t crippled. I’m just ’specting a baby.”

“You want to have it on the road where we’ll have to boil water over a campfire? You could die. The baby could die. No, we can’t go just now. We’ll stay here.”

“I have read me the signs,” she said, “and I truly do believe it would make no never mind where I have this baby.”

I put my hand on her knee. Her dress was nearly worn through with too many washings. “If the Texans bolt and run, the Yankee army will be too busy to hunt up everyone who did business with the Confederates. If they do, we’ve got guns, and we know these parts better than they do. We can run them off if we have to.” I wasn’t at all sure that was true, but it was a chance we would have to take.

How quickly I had learned to call them Yankees and think of them as enemies—soldiers who a few short months ago I’d thought of as “ours.”

999

A couple of mornings later I was training one of the geldings on a lead in the corral when a voice called from behind me. When I turned, Lieutenant Morris grinned and saluted from atop a chestnut mare.

“Sorry. I’m rather busy,” I said stiffly, but instead of turning back to my work, I tugged the gelding toward me, unfastened the lead and slapped him on the rump. Parading a fine piece of horseflesh in front of this man would be tempting fate.

Morris had tied the chestnut to a post and was strolling toward me. “Just wanted to see if you need any help.”

“Thanks, I’m fine.”

“I trust you’ve had time to think this thing through?”

“Yes.” I wiped my hands on my skirt. “I take it there’s still a good chance your troops will be pulling out?”

Morris nodded. “I fear so. O’Rourke is being mighty hard on Colonel Baylor, practically calling him a coward right there in print. I could direct you to a place in Mexico where you and your people might put up.”

A puff of wind ruffled his hair. I settled my hat firmly on my head. Why was Morris so interested in my welfare? Did he think I’d leave the horses behind, and he could have them for the taking? “Thanks anyway. But we shall be staying.”

An unpleasant look came into his eyes but was gone so quick I wasn’t sure I’d seen it.

“I hope you won’t be sorry.” He smiled easily, replaced his hat and untied his mare.

I watched him ride off. The breeze whipped my hat from my head; and I chased it, wondering if we were in for a sandstorm.

Winona had seen us from the window. “Does that army man bring trouble?” she asked when I got back to the house.

“I don’t think so, but he seems awfully anxious for us to leave.” I explained who he was.

“I suspicion he thinks you be leaving your horses, and he wants to nab them quick.”

“Could be,” I agreed. “What did you mean when you said you had ‘read the signs’ and it wouldn’t matter where you have this baby?”

“Just signs.” Winona picked up a cleaver and set about dismembering a freshly plucked chicken. The blanched feathers lay in a mound on the table, their smell rank.

“What signs?”

“You bein’ pesky, Miss Matty.” She took aim and brought the cleaver down with a bang, splitting off a leg. She raised the cleaver again.

I put out my hand and stopped her arm. “What signs, Winona?”

Her mouth pulled into an annoyed line. “Wax and feathers,” she said.

“What?”

“You melts wax. You puts out feathers. In the night, the loa writes a message.”

“In the wax.”

“Where else?”

“With the feathers.”

“Yes’m, with the feathers. You think the loa carries a pot of ink?”

“Approaching motherhood has made you senile,” I snapped and stalked out of the room.

She followed me into the parlor and stopped dead center of the room, a chicken leg dangling from her hand. Her body looked so huge I wondered how she could stand.

“Oh, Winona.” I threw my arms about her neck; her pregnant belly pressed against mine. “I’m just so damn worried.”

Wordless, she patted my shoulder and something moved against my abdomen.

I beamed at her as if I had discovered something all on my own. “He’s kicking.”

“She.” Winona put her hand on her belly. “It’s a she.” Then she turned her head toward the window. “What’s that smell?”

“You must have left a pot on the stove.”

“I wasn’t cooking.” She moved to the door, sniffing.

We both saw it at the same time: A thick wad of black smoke came from the north as if someone were painting the sky with a wide brush dipped in tar.

I dashed off the doorstep, Winona on my heels. From the front of the house we could see short tongues of dark orange below the blackened sky as the flames ate their way toward us through the dry brush. Range fire travels like the wind.

And a brisk wind was blowing straight into our faces.

I darted a few steps forward, desperate to believe that what I saw was something else. Whirling, I almost collided with Winona.

“Go back to the house.” I shouted the words into her face. “Tell Nacho to get everyone out here. It’s still a ways away. Tell him to load the full jars on the wagon. Get every blanket we have and wet them down in the cistern. Tell Herlinda to fill the empty jars.” I grabbed Winona’s arms, reading her mind and shook her. “You cannot go out there.”

Winona fixed me with a dark eye. “The flames is movin’ mighty fast. We needs as many hands as—”

“You want to lose the child?”

Winona’s jaw set, but she turned and lumbered heavily toward the house.

I raced for the barn and threw a saddle on Fanny and dunked some saddle blankets in the trough. Wet, they stank to high heaven. I tossed them over Fanny’s shoulders, leapt into the saddle and dug my heels into her flanks.

Horses are terrified of fire, but Fanny stretched into a gallop straight toward it as if she knew what was at stake.

Nacho came with more sodden blankets and we beat at the flames, killing some, diverting others. Ruben and Julio brought the wagon as close as they could. The horses were balky.

Our arms and hands and faces grew black with soot. I killed one tongue of flame with my blanket only to find another licking at my boots. The smoke was so thick we kept track of each other by listening for the coughing.

Herlinda arrived with more jars of water. No one spoke. We just grunted and coughed and slapped at the ugly red mouth of the monster.

My blanket grew dry and began to smolder. I reeled and dashed toward the wagon to wet it down again.

The wind changed direction, taking the nose of the fire with it. With arms like blazing tentacles it reached for the wagon. The horse reared and lunged. The wagon’s two side wheels jolted off the ground and the water jars inside sloshed wildly.

Smoke swirled like a black gauze veil of mourning. I stumbled and hit the ground hard. When I raised my head I fully expected to see the wagon slued on its side, the water lost. But the wheels seemed to have stopped in mid-air. Scrambling to my feet, I plunged into the thickening smoke. My hands struck the edge of the wagon, but it was already steady. The two straying wheels bounced back to the ground. Another pair of hands had steadied it.

I looked for a moment into the begrimed face and piercing eyes of Tonio Bernini. “The horses,” he grunted.

I hurled myself toward the stocky, long-maned palomino. In his frenzy, the horse had mired himself in the traces. I pulled them free from his legs, patted his shoulder with an assurance I did not feel and led him a safe distance from the flames.

My charred and shredded blanket had become useless. I scrambled into the wagon, searching for another, but they were all in use. I yanked off my skirt, dunked it into a jar, and ran back toward the fire. When I unfurled the skirt, it snagged on a cactus, nearly jerking me from my feet. A hand caught me at the waist, steadied me then drew away quickly as if I myself were on fire. Tonio tore my skirt free from the cactus and handed the sodden mess to me.

To my right and left, blankets flailed at the fire. Arms ached and threatened to take leave of their sockets, but still we thrashed at the burning brush with the drenched and reeking blankets. I didn’t see Tonio again.

Devouring brush did not slake the fire’s appetite but made it hunger even more.

The hair on my arms was singed. Winona’s and my argument about packing ourselves off to Mexico had been a waste of time. We not only would have to flee, we would have no belongings to bury. Nacho had turned the horses loose, of course. We’d be lucky if we could round up enough for spare mounts.