A Lady Bought with Rifles (32 page)

Forty-two leaves on a henequen plant. Twelve to be cut off at the root, the spearlike tip and edges trimmed and placed in a bundle, which, when big enough, was carried to the end of the row to be collected by a movable-track mule-car line.

Thirty leaves exactly must be left on each plant. You were beaten for twenty-nine, beaten for thirty-one. Other plantation counting was simpler. Hours were from the dimmest morning light to the faintest twilight. There was one meal a day and a lump of fermented dough.

No, the important numbers—two thousand leaves a day, twelve from each plant—were taught in the field by the foreman or
capataz
's cane. More advanced lessons were given in the clearing by the living quarters.

The whips were made of henequen, braided thick and heavy for their special work, dipped in water to make them cut deeper. It was the fifth morning after Lío's band arrived at Mariposa that Trace counted lashes.

They'd been given three days to learn their task before the full stint was required of them. On this day of their expected “graduation” they gathered in the clearing for roll call after the bell sounded at a time Trace knew was not yet four.

Lanterns hung from the commissary, flickering on the hundreds of slaves. Eight hundred, someone had said. Most were Mayas, descendants of the people who had once ruled this part of Mexico, but several hundred were Yaquis and there were perhaps forty Chinese. And one stupid gringo, Trace thought dourly. He ached all over from hacking henequen sixteen hours at a stretch, but he'd done his two thousand leaves yesterday, damn them, and he'd do whatever he had to in order to live and get out of this place.

Live to see Miranda. Hold her again. Fear gripped him as it always did when he remembered how she'd fallen, struck down by a clubbed rifle. He was trying to reach her when he'd been creased by a bullet. When he'd roused, guarded with the rest of the prisoners, he'd asked how she was, but the soldiers weren't answering questions.

She was alive, though. Had to be. For he was going back, sometime, somehow. A whispering ran through the ragged crew.

“Going to be a cleaning up,” muttered the thin pockmarked man beside him.

The top bastards stood up front, facing the listless workers. Maybe thirty men with the power to beat, starve, or kill any or all of the slaves: the
administrador
, or manager, with his neat moustache; the
mayordomo primero
, or superintendent; his assistants, the
mayordomos segundos;
and the
capataces
, including the one who had already raised a weal on Trace's shoulders for faulty trimming of a leaf.

We ought to rush them, he thought.

Trace looked around. Was it only because he knew Lío's men that they retained individuality for him? The old-time hands—tall, short, Chinese, Maya, or Yaqui—seemed to wear masks, or perhaps the masks had become their faces. Hopeless and, except for the Yaquis, trained from childhood to work and obey, they would, at a word from their masters, overwhelm any rebels. Even Trace knew that killing overseers would bring ruthless retaliation from Army and police. If a man had to die, he might as well take along a few of those smug sons of bitches. But a man hoped not to die.…

Miranda. Miranda. Sweet and bracing as the scent of acacia after rain in the desert. Till he came to this thick-aired muggy green hell, he hadn't guessed how the harsh clean beauty of the desert had entered his soul. And Miranda was honey in the rocks, a bloom among the thorns.

“Lío Tercero,” called the
administrador
, “step forward!”

Lío came out the crowd, squarish head high. Not a slave, Trace thought with a thrill of admiration. That one will never be a slave. And he understood why two-thirds of the Yaquis died during their first year on the plantations.

“Take off your shirt,” ordered the
administrador
. “You have not fulfilled your stint, lazy dog. But you will learn.”

Lío didn't move. Several foremen tore off his flimsy white shirt. The
administrador
barked another name. A Chinese of immense proportions stepped into the clearing. He towered for a moment over Lío; then, face impassive, he stooped, gripped Lío by the wrists, and straightened.

Trace understood then.

The
majador
, or whipper, bent over a bucket and dragged out three dripping ropes. He chose one, dropped the others back.

No one was sleepy now. At sight of the whip, a moaning gasp stirred through the men as if their scarred backs cringed from that three-foot-long rope plaited from the fiber they slaved to harvest.

The
administrador
pulled out his watch, motioned with one slim finger. The
majador
lifted his arm, brought the whip down with slashing force. Lío's body convulsed, a sighing breath rose from the slaves whose bodies seemed to sway in an echo of that blow.

The inside of Trace's mouth filled with blood. He was biting the inside of his cheeks, clenching his fists. It seemed forever before the
administrador
signaled the second blow. More of the plantation's arithmetic, Trace decided, as he realized there was a precise space between each descent of the rope. It must hurt more that way, drag out the torment.

How long would it last? Lío had not made a sound, though his body, unsupported by his feet, contracted involuntarily with each blow. On the sixth lash the brown skin showed flecks of blood that expanded into trickles. On the seventh, Lío's back seemed to spasm, go into muscular twitches as if it had become something separate from the man.

On the eighth …

Trace didn't know how he reached the
majador
. Only that he had wrenched the whip away, lashed out with it at his own
capataz
, who closed in on him with the
mayordomos
and other foremen.

For a moment he held them at bay with the rope before he cracked it into the snarling face of the nearest man, let it drop and felled his
capataz
with a blow in the windpipe.

Heedless of the canes that whistled down around his head and shoulders, Trace fought savagely. He'd pay for this, they might kill him. So he'd better make it good. If he could just get through to that damned
administrador
with his needle-thin moustache and gold watch, his almost dainty finger that signaled down the rope till it dripped with blood as well as water.

Over the shouting men, the
administrador
's black eyes met Trace's, held a gleam of—mockery? Excitement? Then something struck the back of Trace's head. He felt his legs dissolve, fell forward under a hail of blows and kicks.

Incredible pain seared his back, pierced him awake with his own cry. In spite of blurred vision and the sledging ache in his head, he knew where he was even before his mouth tasted the sweat of the back it pressed against. He ground back a scream, heard a swish close by, the unmistakable impact, once heard, of wet rope on flesh. Through a weaving red mist, Trace saw Lío, still on the Chinese's broad back. A
capataz
had taken over the whip.

That meant …

The third blow. Trace's body jerked. Was he bleeding yet? How many lashes?

Four. Trace felt as if his back were on fire. The nerves and muscles convulsed. He chewed his lip, blind with agony. If the blows came faster, he'd merge with them, drown in the black flaming sea.

But that
administrador
—he had a watch. He counted. Signaled. Enough time between to make you feel each blow to the utmost, no running them mercifully together.

A strange metallic rasping came from Lío. He didn't cry out as the blows fell, but that strange inhuman sound came after every lash, and as it came, so did the rope on Trace. He set all his will on not screaming.

Then he lay in a heap in the trampled grass. Something prodded him. He looked up at the
administrador. “Norteño
eyes,” murmured the immaculately groomed slender man. “Well—we shall see, gringo. See how you tame.”

Trace watched his polished shoes move away. His
capataz
, face wealed by the rope, came up and delivered a kick that sent Trace halfway over.

“Up! Since you've energy for brawling, you'll cut an extra five hundred leaves today or taste the whip again.”

Trace crawled up, pulled on his shirt. His bloody back would stick to it, but it would be some protection from insects. Lío was moving away with the other workers. Someone handed Trace the ball of soured cornmeal dough that was all he'd taste till supper. His stomach revolted. He started to refuse.

“Take it,” muttered one of the old-timers. “Right now you think you cannot eat, but an hour in the fields will change that. You're going to need your strength. They'll be after you now.”

If the other days had been forced, driven labor, this one was torture. Each swing of the machete, each bending to add to or pick up a bundle sent pain twisting through his bruised, broken flesh. His head throbbed and the
capataz
never passed without slashing him with the stinging limber cane.

“Five hundred extra leaves, gringo. And mind you trim them well.”

An impossible stint even for an experienced worker in good condition. Hell! thought Trace, startled at his own bitter amazement. Gives me something to think about besides how I'd like to kill those bastards. Especially that foppy
administrador
—break his signal finger and cram that watch right down his throat!

Lío, several rows over, worked doggedly. He and Trace had the same goal—not to be whipped again till their backs healed. The thought of that rope laid across raw wounds made Trace sweat. If he died from the whip, that would be one thing; but what he dreaded was to be reduced to a groveling wreck whose only aim was to escape punishment.

If he saw that coming, he'd attack the bosses in such a way that they'd have to kill him. But could a man tell when he was breaking? Which whipping would be the one that snapped his hold on pride, every dream and hope that made him able to keep his spirit free?

Trace didn't know what was happening till he came on the bundle of twelve neatly trimmed leaves, stared in amazement at the adjacent plant.

“There are thirty leaves left, exactly,” muttered the man in the next row, Tomás, one of Lío's Yaquis. “Rosalio and I worked it while the foremen were at the other end of the field and couldn't tell which rows we were working on.”

As Trace gaped, Rosalio, a small tough little man, whispered sharply. “Get to work,
norteño!
None of us can waste time if you're to pile up that two thousand five hundred leaves!”

“Lío—he's going slower.”

“The men next to his row are helping.” Tomás hacked off a leaf, began trimming the spikelike point. “He'll make it. You're the one who's in trouble. Five hundred extra leaves.”

At noon the soured dough was gone and Trace was glad the long-time slave had urged him into taking it. Salt sweat stung his wounds but at least there was no chance of getting stiff from inaction.

And thanks to Tomás and Rosalio, who were getting some help on their stints from neighbors on their other sides, Trace had thirteen hundred leaves to his tally, a figure that made the
capataz
scowl and shake his head in disbelief.

“If a cleaning up makes you work this fast, gringo, maybe we should give you rope for breakfast every day.”

Trace went dizzy. What if he was given this number of leaves daily? Tomás and Rosalio might help for a while, but they couldn't indefinitely drive themselves that much harder without collapsing.

Eight hours later he staggered from the field, legs feeling like a hay-stuffed scarecrow's. His back was an itching throbbing misery. But his extra five hundred leaves were done and Lío had met his quota. The sweating, tedious, backbreaking work their companions had done to help them created an even stronger bond than having fought together.

About half the workers were married and lived in one-room huts scattered around the center of the plantation, where were located the commissary, factory, drying yard, stable, jail, corrals, stables, and homes of the
administrador
and
mayordomos
, as well as a little chapel. The unmarried men, about four hundred of them, slept in closely hung hammocks in a large stone building surrounded by a wall twice as high as a tall man, with broken glass mortared on top. At the single entrance stood a guard armed with a club, a sword, and a pistol.

Behind the sleeping quarters were a half-dozen crude stoves where women were serving out the single meal of the day. Being one of the last out of the field, Trace didn't have to stand in line long, for most of the laborers were already squatting or leaning against the wall as they devoured their tortillas and bowls of putrid fish and beans.

On the night of their arrival at Mariposa, Trace had believed he could never force down the stinking rotten fish, but now he took his bowl eagerly, sat down where his back wasn't likely to be jarred against, and scooped a folded tortilla into the beans.

Lío joined him a few minutes later. “I think my back will heal faster than yours. It won't help anyone,
norteño
, to ask for a whipping.”

Trace nodded. Hell, he knew that. He hadn't wanted to tackle the
majador
. It had just happened.

“I won't even try to defend you if you earn another beating,” Lío growled from the corner of his mouth. “My aim is to stay as strong as I can in order to get away—go back to the sierra and fight for Yaqui lands.”

“Sure,” said Trace. “I'm going to get away, too.”

“Not if you mix into every cleaning up.”

“I've learned.” Trace grinned hardily. “They can cut you in strips, hang you to dry for jerky, and I won't bat an eye.”

“That's it,” grunted Lío approvingly. He winced. “Don't make me laugh. Cracks open the scabs.” But he laughed anyway.

Blessedly next day was Sunday. Trace and Lío rubbed each other's lashes with crushed aloe vera pulp one of the cooking women gave them. It stung at first but then had a soothing, drawing effect. The worst thing about open sores was attracting insects, which often ate their way half through a foot or hand. A Maya had died of blood poisoning caused by insects the day Trace arrived, and another lay in his hammock with one foot swollen to double size, already full of maggots.