Listen to the Mockingbird (15 page)

“Given the exposed nature of Colonel Baylor’s position here, I came as quickly as I could,” Sibley continued smoothly, and his eyes riveted on the little man who now stood stiffly near the platform. The governor was being reminded that he was now just a colonel.

“I want you to know that I have proposed a plan to President Jefferson Davis to conquer all of New Mexico Territory. The Confederacy will reach all the way to the Pacific. There, our Navy will bring the Federals to their knees.” The crowd roared its approval.

It dawned on me the Confederates had little interest in us. The Territory was merely a path to California’s ports.

By the time the shouting was over and Sibley had taken his leave, it was growing dark. There was no time to hunt for Jamie. I made my way to the general store and asked to see the carefully covered bolt of white silk. Supplies had been slow coming through and barely a yard of it remained. The price, Mr. Garza told me apologetically, was sixteen dollars. I blinked and swallowed, and bought it anyway.

Winona was almost shocked into silence when she opened the package. “This here’s not muslin.” Then she railed at me, “Silk is terrible dear. This must have cost an eagle. You suddenly got money to burn?”

But Zia cooed her approval. I wrapped her in the silk cloth and danced her around. “Won’t you be the fine lady?” I planted a kiss on the top of her head.

“You spoil that child.”

“Just wait till everyone sees her at church. They’ll know it’s a princess come for christening.”

999

The next day, with morning chores out of the way, I downed a hurried lunch and headed Fanny back along the trail toward Mesilla to ask Jamie about his erstwhile client. Was the man who had offered to buy my land so determined to possess it that he might have set fire to it? Was there a connection between him and the map and that poor, nameless Mexican lad? Had he murdered the boy and later dug up the grave? Had this so-called client been lurking in my barn waiting to cosh me over the head? Another thought occurred to me: the boot print at the spring. Had the man been skulking on the rim of the arroyo while I was drowning at its base? Jamie wouldn’t know, but surely he could tell me something.

A strong wind was whipping the scrubby vegetation, and the stalk of a yucca that had bloomed last spring startled me from my thoughts when it capsized, grazing Fanny’s neck as it fell. I hunched forward in the saddle and moved my feet back in the way that urges Fanny to gallop.

My hair blew straight back. The plait loosened, and I realized I’d forgotten my hat. My hair would be an awful mess. We hadn’t come far; I considered putting Fanny about to fetch it. But it felt wonderful to be thundering across the high desert, like challenging the wind to a duel. I rode on.

The plaza was as empty today as it had been jammed with people yesterday. The boardwalks were bare of boots, save for a couple of officers talking on the corner. A stagecoach pulled up to La Posta and the driver climbed down, but no passengers got out.

I anchored Fanny next to the stage and was waving to the driver when someone passed behind me on foot. A glance over my shoulder caught a burly figure and wisps of red hair.

“Jamie,” I called. Had he not seen me?

The broad back was stiff, the shoulders rigid. His whole posture declared outrage. With no backward look so I could catch his attention, he plodded grimly toward the far corner of the plaza, where the soldiers were still talking. At a loss to explain his demeanor, I followed.

A third officer, a small man, obviously a dandy, almost priggish in his dress, had joined the two on the corner. When the newcomer looked toward Jamie, I saw it was Colonel Baylor.

With no further converse, Baylor jerked about and darted into the hotel. I stopped dead when he re-emerged: he was carrying a rifle, his hand on the stock, the muzzle pointed down but looking all too ready. He walked straight toward the approaching Jamie.

“Jamie,” I shouted. “Wait!”

Oblivious, my friend trudged on.

A crowd began spilling from doorways, faces alert but not shocked, as though they had been expecting something. The air buzzed with talk then went utterly still, leaving only Jamie’s footsteps to scratch against the silence.

Baylor planted a deliberate foot on each side of the walk. “Hold on, my man,” he roared. “I want to speak with you.”

Jamie halted. His right hand disappeared into a pocket; and when it reappeared, the sun glittered on a shaft of polished steel. He resumed walking.

Baylor swung his rifle up.

I flattened myself against the nearest storefront, not a dozen steps behind Jamie. The crowd of people froze.

Instead of firing, Baylor slammed the butt of the gun into Jamie’s head. The leaden thwack was all the more horrifying in the quiet.

Jamie reeled and staggered but kept his feet.

“You print lies and trash,” Baylor screamed into Jamie’s face, his breath coming in gulps, his spit spattering Jamie’s cheek. “You insinuate I lack courage. Defend yourself!”

Jamie said nothing.

Baylor threw the rifle down and pitched himself at Jamie like a charging bull. Jamie swung a fist, and both men fell. Jamie was far the heavier; but Baylor, his face the color of a ripe plum, pinned the Irishman with a knee against his throat.

“You cannot come upon me like that. I’m too much man for your sort!” Baylor roared, his face going redder still as he tried to wrestle the knife from Jamie’s fingers. “You stab people, do you?”

Jamie only blinked and stared.

Baylor’s face, red as blood, covered with sweat and swollen with fury, twitched. He grabbed the rifle from where he had pitched it, put the barrel to Jamie’s cheek and fired.

I don’t know how long I screamed before I could will my legs to run to Jamie. The blood was coming from his neck in spurts. His eyes fastened on mine, and he seemed to smile. Then he gave a soft choking sound and his eyes fixed.

Baylor stalked away. Stunned and still silent, the crowd parted to let him through.

999

I sat numb and motionless in the saddle while Fanny took me back to the ranch. I’d seen Baylor’s kind of rage before, and the memory sickened me. Images devoid of any meaning but horror ricocheted off each other in my brain.

Jamie was dead. And Baylor probably would not even be arrested.

Zeke had come and shaken his head over the scene. Jamie’s hand had still clutched the knife. Plenty of people had been close enough to see that he had not threatened Baylor with the blade. He had only held it, as I told Zeke, for self-defense.

But that Jamie was armed was enough. The Mesilla Valley, having welcomed the Texans, now desperately needed them. Just yesterday, even I had shaken Baylor’s hand.

The man was vile and treacherous and obviously quite mad. He had ordered my horses practically stolen from me and then denied it. Even Lieutenant Morris had denied it. Other purposes, indeed. The lieutenant had said the horses were for Baylor. Did they think I wouldn’t remember?

Now Baylor had murdered my friend. I wanted to tear my hair and wail as the native women do when death strikes. But the tears would not come. I was nearly home before I realized that I would never learn what Jamie knew about the man who had tried to buy my land. With no more reason than I’d had before, I was suddenly afraid. I turned Fanny south.

The cuevas hove into view, and Tonio, standing at the cave’s entrance, a pack on his back, waved. “Tea?” he called.

“Thank you, no.” I didn’t dismount. “I should like to ask a favor.”

He ambled to Fanny’s side and looked up at me, shading his eyes against the brightness of the sky. “What is it?”

I withdrew the stained pouch from my shirt and slipped the leather thong over my head. “Would you keep this for me?”

The lines around his eyes seemed to tighten.

“You know what it is?”

“I expect it’s the map.”

“Yes.” I looked down at my fingers gripping the saddle horn so tightly they were almost white then tossed the pouch to him. “I was going to show it to Jamie O’Rourke. He was editor of the newspaper and a friend of mine. I hoped he might know something. But Jamie was killed today.”

Tonio’s face made sad creases about the eyes. “I’m sorry.”

I swallowed against the lump that rose in my throat. “I was there. He was shot down in cold blood by the man who until yesterday was governor of this territory.”

Tonio watched wordlessly while I flung my runaway hair from my eyes.

“It seems possible,” I went on, “that whoever killed that Mexican boy may have set my range afire and searched my bureau while we fought the blaze—all because he wants that map. If so, he won’t stop looking for it. But he won’t think to look for it here.”

Tonio gave a slow nod. “I will look after it.”

Chapter Seventeen

For days I could not shake the gloom. Indeed, I was hard put to stir from my bedclothes. Even Zia’s coming christening failed to cheer me.

Jamie surely did print blunt and scathing words about Colonel Baylor. His tongue sometimes got ahead of his brain. But to be coldly gunned down with a crowd of people looking on! And Baylor a free man. Justice seemed a strumpet, for sale to the highest bidder. But I already knew that.

On Saturday, I awoke still peckish. By mid-morning there seemed little left to go amiss.

The temperature always dips low at night, but that morning there was ice on the water in my basin. The hearth of the round adobe fireplace in the corner of my room was not only cold and empty; a stream of frigid air was streaming down the chimney and across the floor to stab at my bare ankles. I had put off sending some hands into the mountains to fetch more firewood, hoping they could bring back a Christmas tree as well. Now, with winter seeming in a rush, the fresh-cut logs would be full of sap, would pop and spit burning splinters.

Venturing to the outhouse and lowering my backside onto that icy plank used up the few shreds of courage that remained to me. I tried to wash up without touching any more of the ice water than absolutely necessary, which tended to defeat the purpose. My mirror showed a stranger’s worn face.

In the barn I found Ruben and Julio mucking out and dispatched them to the hillside for wood. They were not at all sorry to leave the mucking to me.

I jabbed a pitchfork into the straw and began to toss it forward. A gust of wind swept through the barn, slapping the hay straight into my face. I was picking the stiff strands from my eyelashes when I heard horse hooves drumming, hell-bent for leather. I stepped out of the barn to find one of the men I least wanted to see in all the world reining his horse to a halt.

Lieutenant Tyler Morris had come alone this time. A chill settled in the small of my back. I didn’t fancy this visit at all.

Crossing my arms, I waited until his horse settled down and stopped snorting. He had ridden the mare too fast—foam was clinging to her neck and withers, and in this cold that would do her no good. But I didn’t offer a brush and blanket. A good deal of squawking came from the chicken roost where Winona was choosing a few for supper.

The lieutenant tipped his hat. “You are not a picture of Southern hospitality.”

With neither the time nor the temper for idle talk, I cautioned myself not to be rude then ignored the advice. “Have you come to take more horses?”

“Come now, Miss Summerhayes. You do me a disservice. I bought eighteen horses from you. I didn’t take them.” He grinned and winked as if he expected me to swoon.

“You paid but half their worth.”

He leaned forward and his wide-set eyes were quite earnest. “General Sibley himself sent me,” he said. “He sends you his greetings.”

A warning sounded in my head. This time Lieutenant Morris would take all my horses and pay nothing.

“You see, while the Army of New Mexico was making its way here, Indians raided the horse herd at night and made off with more than a hundred.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t have a hundred horses. I don’t have any at all to spare.”

“Surely you could spare one or two. For the army that is here to protect you.”

A cautious relief began to rise in me. If Tyler Morris had orders to commandeer all the horses, he wouldn’t have come alone and he wouldn’t be trying to cajole me with notions of patriotism. But the words were out before I could bite them back. “A colonel in that army shot a friend of mine in cold blood. And you told me the horses you took before were for Colonel Baylor, but he apparently did not receive them.”

“Colonel Baylor is not a well man,” Morris said quickly. “He has not been well for quite some time. Perhaps the exertions required of the governor were too great. His memory began failing him soon after we arrived. And then that most unfortunate incident—” The lieutenant’s gaze bounced from me to something just beyond my left shoulder. The wide-set brown eyes widened, and blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving a greyish pallor beneath the tan. A white half-moon scar stood out on his temple.

I snatched a glance over my shoulder, expecting someone with a rifle or at least an overbold coyote; but it was only Winona, who was eyeing him quizzically, a pair of fresh-killed hens still dribbling blood dangling from her hand. She turned and went on to the kitchen.

Morris nervously turned his horse, his jaw set, his eyes so wide the white showed top and bottom. “That the slave woman? The witch?”

Now I was the nervy one. “Winona is no slave and no witch. She’s never done anyone harm.” I cast about for something to turn his attention. “How many horses do you need?”

The mare, sensing her rider’s distress, was taking quick, agitated steps in place. He gave a sharp pull on the reins, the last thing one should do with a skittish horse. The mare’s ears twitched, and she brought her front feet a few inches off the ground.

“That woman is not harmless,” Morris shouted. “You’re a fool if you believe she is.” He jabbed his chin toward the house. “She will slaughter you in your bed!”

The reins went taut; and the mare leapt away toward the road, leaving me to watch bewildered as horse and rider became small with distance.

999

When I finished cleaning out the barn, Winona was plucking the last of the chickens. Steam from the bucket where she had dunked the birds filled the kitchen with the sickish stench of wet feathers, but I scarcely noticed.