Listen to the Mockingbird (12 page)

I stared at him. “But you yourself said—”

He cut me off. “I listened too much to O’Rourke myself. The man is dangerously persuasive.”

Isabel nodded. “Lieutenant Morris was just telling me that Colonel Sibley is bringing reinforcements from Austin.” She couldn’t seem to remember which side of the argument she was on.

“Austin is a lot of miles away,” I said distractedly, remembering that Jamie had mentioned Austin in connection with the offer for my land. “So, you’re staying, too?”

Isabel looked down at feet too small to belong to an adult woman. The little boots were worn but polished. “The Baptists are not generous,” she said. And I remembered that she was awaiting funds to return East. “They have just now wired me barely enough money to stay here another month or so. I cannot afford to take up temporary quarters in Franklin or across the border.” Her face looked pinched, then she smiled and her teeth were all pointy and white.

A wave of guilt assailed me for rejecting her plea to come to Mockingbird Spring. “Yes, well, good luck.” I took my leave.

“Matty,” Isabel called after me. “Was there a fire out to your place the other day? We saw an awful lot of smoke.”

“Yes,” I called back to her, “but it didn’t amount to anything.”

“I hear you have a slave woman out there.”

I remembered that Isabel was from Atlanta, where a lone Negro inevitably spelled runaway slave. I walked all the way back to stand in front of her and say in no uncertain terms, “Winona is not a slave. She is a free woman. She works for me.”

“You pay her, then?” This from Morris. If he said one more word, I would bite him.

“Yes,” I lied.

“But, Matty,” Isabel went on, “I hear tell she is a witch.”

“A what?”

“A witch. I reckon she likely started that fire. Best you be careful. Mighty careful.” With that, Isabel turned; and I was still standing there like a fool with my feet all over the ground as the lieutenant helped her into the wagon on the corner.

Chapter Thirteen

“You must have done something to make someone think you’re a witch,” I said to Winona across the kitchen. She stopped her after-dinner tidy-up and fixed me with an iron stare. “That’s hogswallow, Miss Matty. You know I ain’t no witch. I got a mind to learn me a hex or three and give them folks something real to worry about.”

“Did I imagine that talk about wax and feathers?”

She plunked fists on hips. “That ain’t witchery. I’m just tryin’ to understand something when I do that. Tryin’ to get my loa to ’splain something.”

I swallowed air. “Your what?”

“Loa.”

“What the devil is a loa?”

Winona hesitated. “I guess it be a sort of spirit.”

“That’s witchcraft!”

“It ain’t neither! It don’t affect no one but me.”

I expelled all the breath I’d drawn in. Through the window I could see Herlinda’s dark form moving like the shadow of death toward an old hen destined for the stew pot. I shook my head at Winona. “Be that as it may, people here are suspicious of nigras. This is the Confederacy now. You have to remember that.”

“But you freed me. You give me the papers.”

“I couldn’t prove I had the right to do it, could I? I couldn’t even prove you were mine.”

The indignation in her face turned to puzzlement, and I was suddenly aware of how thin her arms looked compared to the bulk of her belly. I put my arms around her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I know you wouldn’t do anything wrong that way. I’m edgy, is all. I just don’t want anyone making trouble for you.”

Something brushed against the wall behind us, and my eyes flew to the open parlor door but saw only the deepening shadows cast by the sinking sun. The kitchen door scraped open and Herlinda stepped inside, the dead chicken, wings flopping, dangled by its feet from her hand.

999

A couple of mornings later I fumbled my way out of bed, dressed hurriedly and was making my way back from the outhouse when I saw Nacho eyeing the horizon solemnly.

“Today comes the granizo, señora.”

“Hail? Surely not.” The sky was a deeper, clearer blue than any jewel; but in my few years’ time with Nacho I had learned to respect his uncanny ability to foretell the odd turns of weather on the high desert.

In the kitchen, I paused only long enough to wrap a tortilla around a chorizo and ask Herlinda to see to some churning—the last of our butter had gone rancid.

Gnawing on my makeshift breakfast, I dashed back outside. A gust of wind with a hint of autumn in it hurled a tumbleweed toward me. Abigail, our best cow, was ambling toward the milking shed and Nacho was jerking a thumb at one of the hands and giving instructions.

A deep-throated neigh issued from the barn. George Washington had been contrary and balky ever since the fire. Only Nacho could get near him. A sound of stamping was followed by the crack of a breaking board. The stallion was the ranch’s future. We couldn’t risk his getting himself torn up in a tantrum.

“I’ll see to the stock,” I shouted to Nacho.

Fanny and I headed north where the land runs along the mountains for nigh onto three miles. There we ranged our few head of beef cattle. With autumn coming on fast, we had much to do. Yesterday had been given over to readying the smokehouse for the hogs we would butcher.

With no warning at all, my eyes began to burn with tears. Autumn had been my favorite season. In St. Louis the weather would be glorious—the air crisp as fresh cider, the trees exploding into brilliant reds and the broad river still and bright, like a strip of sky fallen to earth. Here, the smattering of cottonwoods went yellow, but there were no red leaves at all, and the river always slowed to a trickle. I dabbed at my face with my sleeve and turned Fanny toward the watering hole.

We had dammed a spring to make the pond. Six or eight head of cattle lifted their heads as I approached but I barely glanced at them. My eyes had fixed on something that lay on the other side of the pond.

The calf was on its side on the low bank, its muzzle inches from the water. It was small, born late in the year. The cow that stood over it raised her head and her moan echoed from the mountains. Before Fanny’s hooves halted, I was already out of the saddle. The cow eyed me nervously, ears twitching, her head down between me and the calf. She bellowed again.

The calf squirmed, its legs jerking forward as it struggled to gain its feet. It swayed unsteadily for a moment then toppled into the pond. I seized the hindquarters and hauled the still-struggling animal from the water. When it turned toward me, I recoiled, appalled. “God in heaven!”

A pocket of raw flesh stared from where the left eye had been. At the side of the head was the hole where the bullet had entered, the angle so shallow it had missed the brain but exploded through the eye socket.

“Who did this!” The words burst from my lips, though I knew no one could hear me. “Why?” I said, this time under my breath. Why maim a poor dumb creature and leave it to a slow death? Our distance from town put us beyond the reach of most drunked-up rowdies. Was it a band of renegade Indians bent on even worse harm? But even the worst of them have a high regard for animals.

They kill only for food.

Now on flat ground, the calf was wobbling to its feet and trying to lick my fingers. Blood had caked around the wound and no more seemed to be flowing. The poor beast shivered, though the sun had warmed the air. The mother nudged at it, and it staggered a few steps. All four legs seemed to work okay.

I called Fanny, then roped the calf’s feet and strove to thrust it across the mare’s neck in front of the saddle. What I might do with a blind calf I didn’t know, but I couldn’t leave it on the range to die. Riding slowly so the cow could follow, I made my way home.

Julio was raking up droppings in the chicken yard. Steeling myself for mutterings about keeping a blind animal, I turned the calf over to him. He shot me a surprised look but took the poor beast willingly.

Only then did I notice the horse that waited patiently in front of the house. The wagon it was hitched to was quite empty. I had a caller.

My first thought was that someone had come to alert me that the Yankees had returned, but as I crossed to the house I remembered where I’d seen the wagon before.

She was sitting alone in the parlor reading a Bible so small that I wondered she could see the print. She rose and greeted me as if I were the visitor. Her clothes looked fresh-pressed. Wisps of hair were artfully arranged to dangle below the bun at the back of her neck.

I was sweaty and windblown and stank of horse and cattle and blood. I tried to force a smile. “Isabel. How nice to see you.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but her eyes caught on my sweat-and-dirt-stained breeches. “Those must be very…convenient.”

I wiped my hands on them, feeling like a man must feel caught out in women’s clothes.

Isabel looked at the hand I held out, started to take it then drew her hand back and herself up to her full delicate height.

“Has no one given you coffee?” I faltered, hating her and myself in equal measure. “I’ll put the pot on.”

“I have not come to pass the time of day.”

The sternness of her little-girl voice halted my progress toward the kitchen.

“You must cast out the evil in this house, Matilda.” The words fairly rang out.

“Evil?”

Isabel raised her chin. “The slave woman. She is known to be a witch.”

I tried to run agitated fingers through my hair and discovered it was snarled and sticking out every which way. “Winona is neither a witch nor a slave.”

“I tell you truly, she will bring God’s wrath upon us. She must leave here.”

“She’s expecting a child, Isabel, for mercy’s sake! She has to remain here at least until it is born. I swear she is no witch.”

Not a muscle in Isabel’s face seemed to tighten, but her eyes hardened. “You must rid our valley of this ungodly woman.” She marched on her absurdly small feet toward the door then turned. “Or she will be purged. I shall pray for you that God does not smite you for harboring a she-devil.” Her chin seemed pointed as a dagger as she lifted it, held my eyes for a moment, then stepped outside, not bothering to close the door behind her.

I stood staring after her until Winona’s voice came from behind me. “We have company calling?”

I fingered my mussed and matted hair. “A kindly Christian woman.”

Winona frowned at me. “I hope she is a blind one. You looks like a four-bit gunslinger.”

I watched Isabel climb into the wagon, take the reins and urge the horse toward the trail. “I wish I were one.”

Winona jabbed her hands to her hips. “I means the breeches.” The apron strained tight over her belly.

I looked down at my shameful attire and shrugged. “It’s better for riding.”

“Ain’t proper.”

“Nothing here is proper. Nothing. So neither am I.”

Winona shook her head and made a clicking sound with her tongue.

I retired to my room to freshen up. Isabel might be het up about some notion that Winona was practicing witchcraft, but she had not shot that calf. I dawdled over my lunch wondering how I had managed to make two enemies since sunup.

Isabel would have no trouble drumming up ill will among the Baptists, who loved nothing more than railing about the godlessness of others. But the Catholics, which included most of the natives, far outnumbered the Baptists. If Isabel stirred up the Catholics against Winona there would be hell to pay, for sure. I bit my tongue at my coarse thoughts. I was becoming as wild as a bobcat myself.

A clatter began on the roof as though God had spilled a cartload of pebbles. Nacho had been right about the hail.

Chapter Fourteen

As soon as the chores were done next morning, I set out for the cuevas. I hadn’t seen Tonio Bernini since the fire, and I’d been wanting to see him ever since I began putting things together that refused to add up. Had I trusted him too readily? The sinister riddle that had taken over my life began just hours before he arrived. He seemed a sensible, decent person. But was he?

He had some standing, whatever it was, with the Catholic Church. He might be willing to help me now. A visit would also give me a chance to look him over yet again, this time with a more critical eye.

I halted Fanny near the boulders and was picking my way across the stone-strewn ground toward the cave when Tonio’s tall, rangy frame appeared in the rock opening. A second figure followed, a woman in a garment that had once boasted bright broad stripes but was now badly faded. The cloth stopped just above what looked like leather socks. A tiny ripple of shock ran up my spine. A native woman. Soundlessly, she glided away, melting almost immediately into the landscape. A peculiar scratchiness invaded my throat and thickened my tongue.

Tonio moved toward me, stopping a dozen feet away. “Good to see you, Matty.”

So, I thought meanly, if you are a priest you are surely a fallen one. And a bold one, at that. I examined his eyes for guilt and finding none irked me even more. Steeling myself against I knew not what, I said simply, “I need your help.”

With an affable nod, he waited, his face clear and innocent as a child’s, while I explained.

“Winona is no witch,” I finished. “I don’t understand why Isabel is so bent on stirring folks up.” Actually, I was afraid I did understand. Isabel was quite disposed to do this purely to spite me. “If a man of God were to tell them Winona is a good woman…”

He frowned. “You know I’m no longer associated with the church.”

“Be that as it may, people seem to think you are a holy man. They would believe you.”

His brow furrowed, but he did not protest further.

“Winona is heavy with child. You can see that. Her time will be soon. She’s a darky. Some folks suspicion she is a runaway slave, and this is now a Confederate territory. Are you to stand by while they force her from this valley?”

Pain seemed to rake his eyes, but perhaps it was only the sun. I waited.

Finally: “What do you want me to do?”

“Do you ever go to church?”

He stared at me for a moment, as if turning over my question to seek some other meaning. “It’s a bit far to walk in a day.”