The Shadow Man (13 page)

The wool buyers arrived late one day. They spent the night at the Solis hacienda. The next day the big wagons were loaded with wool, and sheep were brought in and run through a counting chute. With armed guards scouting ahead and others bringing up the rear, the cavalcade went off to the south.

* * *

The April sun burned unnaturally bright, and a hot wind blew across the Llano Estacado as Emmanuel halted his horse. He dismounted, his legs trembling and the world rotating dizzingly. He tossed the reins down to drag on the earth and leaned against his
caballo
.

“Stand,” he ordered the horse.

Weakly Emmanuel lowered himself to the ground and stretched out on his back in the shadow of the horse. He closed his eyes. The well-trained horse looked down at its master, switched its tail, stomped the dirt once, then stood quietly.

As Emmanuel rested, the spinning world gradually slowed, finally stopping and becoming firm. From time to time he opened his eyes to gaze at the high, clear sky.

The perfect blue dome of the heavens arching over him was a beautiful sight.

The periods of weakness were becoming more frequent and severe, Emmanuel reflected. Never before had he been forced to dismount when one of the episodes occurred. He was an ill, old man. His days of riding were growing few in number, and his life upon the earth would be but a little longer.

The pounding hooves of a running horse shattered the stillness of the plains. Emmanuel's hand snaked down for his pistol. Indians or
banditos
had found him. He jerked to a sitting position and raised his weapon in the direction of the drumbeat of the swiftly approaching horse.

Jacob dragged his cayuse to a quick stop and sprang down. “Are you hurt, Emmanuel?” Jacob called as he hurried to kneel at Emmanuel's side.

“No. Not hurt. I am just getting old, and the heat made me feel weak. So I thought I would lie down and rest in the shade made by the
caballo
until my strength returned. What are you doing here?”

“I was returning to the hacienda when I saw you. Do you want me to help you on your horse?”

“Not now. Sit and talk with me.” Emmanuel reclined again on the ground.

Jacob dropped down and took a seat on the grass. He pushed back his hat. “I'll wait and ride back to the hacienda with you when you are ready to go,” Jacob said.

“That won't be necessary. We're within eight or ten miles of the hacienda. I can ride that distance after a little while.”

“I'm going in that direction. I'll go with you,” Jacob said again.

They were quiet together. Jacob scanned the surrounding terrain through the shimmering heat waves. The only things that stirred on the land were a band of antelope on the eastern horizon and a raven that flapped in and landed to sit like a chunk of broken, black obsidian on a mesquite to avidly watch the two men.

The hot sun drifted across the sky. Jacob moved Emmanuel's horse so its shadow would still fall on the old man.

Emmanuel heard the sound of the horse's hooves on the ground and opened his eyes. “Jacob, I am sixty-nine years old. Soon I'll no longer be able to ride with the men. When that happens, Conrado will become the major owner of El Vado. He is much younger than you and will at times need advice. I have watched you these past weeks. You are a hardworking man with sound judgment. The men respect you. The children and women all have grown to like you because you speak gently to them. You are at that stage when a man is old enough to have gathered much experience in the world, yet young enough to be very strong. That is a good time in a man's life. I hope you and Petra will soon bring children into the family.”

Tamarron did not reply. Emmanuel had more to say.

“I want you to counsel Conrado when you think he might be making an error in judgment. At the moment he has not decided he likes you. However, he's getting closer to accepting you. I hope he will soon be your friend. Jacob, will you help hold the rancho together after I am gone?”

“Yes, Emmanuel, I'm proud that you have asked me.”

“That is good to hear.” Emmanuel sat up. “I think I can ride now if you'll help me to mount.”

As Jacob assisted Emmanuel up on his horse, he was surprised at the slight build of the man. Emmanuel, with his piercing black eyes, thick beard, big sombrero, and heeled boots, had seemed a much larger man. But then, all men looked small when they neared death.

The two riders touched their horses with spurs, and the animals started off across the Llano Estacado.

“Call out if you need help,” Jacob said.

“I will,” replied Emmanuel. His spirits had lifted. It was good to have the strong man called Tamarron near. To Emmanuel the sky was more blue, the wind sweeter, and the new spring grass had grown an inch in the last quarter hour.

* * *

Emmanuel and Jacob stopped at the hitch rail in front of the hacienda. Jacob watched after the elder Solis until the man entered the door. Then he took hold of the reins of both mounts and led them to the corral inside the compound.

Tamarron began to brush his cayuse. The long winter hair was gone, and the short, reddish-brown coat of the horse glistened in the sunlight. The horse stood with its eyes closed, savoring the scratching stroke of the brush.

The lean, muscular body of the horse pleased Tamarron. As he often did, Jacob had ridden his own mount during the day. The big brute should always be tough and able to cover long stretches of difficult land swiftly.

Conrado rode in and swung down near Tamarron. He tied his mount to the gate of the corral. Somewhat hesitantly he walked toward Jacob.

“Your
caballo
is sound asleep,” Conrado said, slowly circling Jacob and his cayuse. He halted in front of the horse. “
Madre de Dios,
that is an ugly beast.” Conrado smiled to show he meant no offense or rebuke to Jacob for owning such a mount.

“But one of the very best,” replied Jacob. He grinned back at Conrado. “Would you like to race your gray against him, the winner to take both horses?”

“No bet. I've seen your animal run. My gray is fast but not a match for this long-legged fellow.”

Conrado's face became solemn. “Jacob, I am glad you can see past the imperfections of a horse and other things and know what their true value is.”

Conrado looked away from Jacob in an embarrassed manner, as if he had said too much or had spoken of something he shouldn't have. He spun about and walked away hastily, his boots thumping on the dirt of the compound.

Jacob stared after Conrado and knew the man wasn't referring to the ugly horse but rather to Petra's imperfection: the scar that marred her face. Conrado was thanking Jacob for taking Petra as a wife. With those words Conrado had come as close as he ever would to welcoming Jacob into the Solis family.

“Petra needs no one to thank me for marrying her. She's more than ample reward in the joy she gives me with her wonderful mind and body,” Jacob said to the straight, retreating back of Conrado.

Only the ugly horse heard Jacob's words.

The fear of the Negro slaves was an invisible vapor that Senator Simon Caverhill could smell. The bitter, acrid odor that frightened men exuded always amazed him. Never had Caverhill felt fear.

Caverhill walked along the single row of sixty black men, evaluating the health and strength of each. The slaves had been brought from a warehouse on the docks of the Mississippi River and lined up on the edge of the cobblestone pavement of Chartres Street in the French Quarter. At each end of the line of blacks stood a white man with a pistol in his belt.

Caverhill finished his examination of the slaves. He stopped near several other prospective bidders standing on the street in front of Maspero's Exchange, a large coffeehouse where cotton, sugar, and slaves were sold. He looked to the south toward the waterfront, impatient for the slave broker, Picotte, to arrive.

New Orleans was the greatest slave market in the nation. But he could see little of the city, for it was smothered and pressed down by thick gray clouds lying dense and damp on the rooftops. Though it hadn't rained, moisture was condensing out of the low clouds onto the tile roofs and dripping dismally from the eaves.

The city was old and had been built by the French more than a hundred years before on the flat mud delta of the mighty Mississippi River. Bayous, swamps, and coastal bays surrounded the city. The streets were dirt, except for the main trading district around Chartres Street, with its shops, businesses, and large brokerage houses.

The city was one hundred and ten miles from the sea. Still more than half a hundred oceangoing ships, both sail and steam, were berthed at the docks that extended for a mile along the riverbank. Also tied up were an even greater number of the flat-bottomed riverboats that plied the winding body of the Mississippi. The shallow-drafted vessels, belching smoke and steam, climbed the swift current for a thousand miles north to Cincinnati, and Saint Louis, and beyond.

Caverhill saw Picotte and his auctioneer come into sight on Bienville Street. A group of Negro women followed close behind. As they came closer, Caverhill noted that one was a pretty, yellow-skinned mulatto. The slave broker arranged the women in a single row on the side of Maspero's Exchange opposite the Negro men.

Caverhill let his view wander over the women. Though he wanted strong black men to work his ranch near Austin, he should buy some of the women and start a breeding program—so his ranch could produce more than cotton and livestock to sell for cash.

The riding mounts, buggies, and other vehicles of the bidders were against the curb on the far side of the street. Most of the drivers and slave handlers had gathered in a group and were talking among themselves. Caverhill's three men were alert and watching for any signal he might make. Because of their diligence he decided to reward each of them with a female slave for the long trip to Austin. If he could purchase the yellow girl for a reasonable bid, he would give her to his foreman, Dockken.

A Negro chain gang of a dozen men, trailed by a pair of guards with rifles and whips, worked their way along Chartres Street. The Negroes moved in a straight-line formation, sweeping the pavement with large, coarse-strawed brooms. Their heads were turned down to the street, and they listened intently to the boss Negro calling out the cadence that controlled the sweep of the brooms.

As the prisoners came abreast of the women the nearest man glanced at the mulatto girl. Immediately one of the guards lifted his whip from where it rested on his shoulder and slashed the offending Negro.

“Goddamn black bastard,” shouted the guard, “get you eyes on your work.” Almost too fast to see, the white man struck twice more, the whip licking out and cutting the black's back.

The slave seemed to shrink under the brutal blows, and he yelped shrilly.

The Negro next in line roughly jerked the chain that held them all together, reprimanding the man for making the outcry.

Caverhill looked away from the chain gang and out over the foggy town. The plight of the slaves meant nothing. They were merely machines made of flesh, from which as much work as possible was to be wrung.

Picotte opened the door of Maspero's Exchange and called inside. A half minute later two Negro men came out carrying a wooden platform. They sat it on the sidewalk in front of the entrance. At a nod from Picotte the auctioneer stepped up on the dais.

The slave broker leaned on the wall of the exchange and looked at the bidders. Every man had stated his intention to attend the sale. Their bank drafts were from local banks. Picotte was satisfied that payment would be made for any slave bought.

“Gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “please come closer so you can see the condition of the merchandise.”

The plantation owners and their managers, warehousemen, and proprietors of manufacturing companies gathered in a half-circle on the cobblestones around the platform.

“We shall start the bidding now,” said the auctioneer. He motioned at the white guard near the lines of slaves. “Bring the first black.”

As the guard and slave came forward, the auctioneer continued to speak. “All of the Negroes to be sold today are second-and third-generation slaves from the West Indies. They all speak English, at least sufficiently to understand and be understood.”

The Negro climbed up on the platform. At an order from the auctioneer the man faced toward the group of whites.

The auctioneer studied a manifest in his hand. “This fellow is thirty years old and has lived on one plantation all his life. Look him over carefully. He is strong and willing. The record shows he has been whipped only once, receiving ten lashes. What am I bid?”

Caverhill did not bid but rather watched the process to determine what the current price for slaves was in New Orleans. The Negro sold for four hundred dollars.

Another black came to the platform and his pedigree was read. The Caverhill began to bid when the price reached three hundred dollars. He bought the slave for four hundred and twenty-five dollars.

Gradually Caverhill accumulated slaves. Each time his bid was successful, Dockken came and led the acquisition away to be chained at the tail end of one of the wagons. By the time all the male slaves had stood on the auction block, Caverhill had purchased twelve of them.

One of the black women was called forward. She never looked at the white men, her eyes lowered and locked on the cobblestones of the street.

The auctioneer stated the woman's history, then added, “Those of you interested in a strong woman for work or breeding could do no better than to buy this one. Who will begin the bidding?”

Caverhill again waited for the bidding to finish. She sold for three hundred dollars. He was surprised at the low price. Female slaves had small value. He bid and won the next two women.

When the last black woman had been sold, the auctioneer called out to the bidders. “We have saved the best for last. This mulatto girl. Begin the bidding, please.”