Beverly Byrne (28 page)

Diego
bit back a sharp reply. He looked around him and scowled. The room was a primitive
pigsty. There was a stack of pots with burned-out bottoms serving as a chimney,
no furniture worth noting, and four walls black with smoke. It was enough for
the old man, and enough for most of them. Not him.

By
happy accident he'd been spotted by DeAngeles when he was ten and taken to
Santo Domingo. From the first Diego had considered the shabby bunkhouse a
palace compared to what he had come from. He still thought of it as such,
particularly now that Mr. Westerman was making so many improvements. While he
watched the old man work he decided that this was the last time he'd come here.
He would cut all his ties with Pueblo Cochiti. He was a new breed of man, and
this was a new age.

Eustaquio
was busy with thoughts of his own. Ten minutes passed in silence, broken only
by the sound of his mallet. He shaped the soft metal into the form of an eagle
with outstretched wings. He would give it turquoise eyes. Eventually some Anglo
would pay a few dollars for it. He grunted again and lay down his tools, thankful
that there was no need to put them away. Since his wife died and his children
married, Eustaquio had lived and worked alone in this room. It was an unusual
arrangement for the pueblo, but it was granted him because of his age and
skill, and because he ranked high among the priests of his religious society.

He
pondered that holy part of his life and looked at Diego through half-closed
eyes. "You know who I am?" he asked finally.

Diego
was startled. "Are you crazy, old man? Of course I know who you are."

Eustaquio
shook his head. "No, you have forgotten." His voice was calm and
betrayed no response to the insulting manner in which the boy addressed him.
"If you remembered, you would not speak to me so."

"I
remember," Diego whispered. Visions and old claims choked him.

"Good.
Then the poison of the Anglos has not yet destroyed you. I have work for you to
do. It is a sacred task and it will cleanse you."

"What
are you talking about?" Diego felt the Keres language of Pueblo Cochiti a
strange and oppressive thing in his mouth. "What do you want?" he
repeated.

Eustaquio
told him.

Diego
staggered to his feet. "You're crazy," he said in English. "I'm
getting out of here."

The
old man sprang ahead of him to block the door. His small form was an impenetrable
barrier. Diego could not violate the old taboos and push past him.

"When
you were seven and the
kachina-man
beat you, was it not I who held your
hands skyward and kept you from falling to the ground in disgrace? Would you be
a man today if I was not your ceremonial father?"

Diego
doubled over. He was soaked in perspiration, and he shivered as if a cold wind
blew through the room. He was back in the firelit
kiva
confronted by a
naked figure painted in black and white stripes who whipped him with the
sharpedged fronds of the yucca plant. The sweat pouring beneath his shirt was
the blood of his initiation into the ancient ways. He was marked forever.
"I cannot do it," he stammered, again in English. "The sheriff
..."

"Speak
your own language!" Eustaquio commanded. "And stand up like a
man!" He struck Diego in the face with caculated force. The boy did not
recoil from the blow. Eustaquio knew he'd won. "If you are clever, the
sheriff will learn nothing. And afterward there will be a reward. Money. You
can buy a motorcar and go away," he added slyly. He was not above
combining new persuasions with the old.

"Is
this why you want this thing? For money?"

"No,
not only that." Eustaquio looked around and his watery eyes saw more than
the room that encompassed his life, or the craft that the Anglos required him
to pervert to their taste. He saw a whole history, a world infringed and
violated. "I have my reasons," he said simply.

Diego
wanted to protest that Westerman had done nothing to any of them. The words
died on his lips. He knew too much to speak such a half-truth.

"We
will smoke," Eustaquio said. He went to a shelf in the corner and took
down an elaborate pipe. When it was filled and lit he drew a mouthful of acrid
smoke into his mouth and exhaled it in the directions of the four winds, the
earth, and the sky. Then he passed the pipe to Diego.

The
young man took it with trembling hands. This was the final pledge. After it
there could be no turning back. He wanted to run away and deny the old man's
claim on him, but he could do nothing. The chains, forged early, were
unbreakable. He inhaled and did exactly as Eustaquio had.

The
old man returned the pipe to its resting place and opened a small decorated
jar. He removed a pinch of sacred cornmeal and carried it to the entrance,
pushing aside the blanket that served as a door. Light streamed in and
Eustaquio allowed the pale yellow maize to dribble from between his brown
fingers. A sunbeam gilded it gold as it fell. "It is good," Eustaquio
said. "You will have success."

"It
will take time," Diego whispered. "I need to plan. "

"There
is no hurry."

Diego
struggled to his feet and stumbled into the street. He spoke to no one else and
set out at once on the long ride back to the ranch. He was returning to Santo
Domingo charged with the duty of killing Tommy Westerman.

21

ON
NOVEMBER  ELEVENTH, THE DAY THE ARMISTICE was signed in Europe, Tom Junior was
born. Tommy stood beside his wife's bed and grinned at her and their newborn
son. He looked and sounded like the boy he'd been when Amy first knew him.

"You're
marvelous,
memsahib
, and so is he. We'll have a big party to celebrate
as soon as you're feeling up to it. Invite everyone. I know a guy in
Albuquerque who has plenty of French champagne, war or no war."

He
leaned down and kissed her forehead. Amy almost asked if he planned to invite
Rosa Mandago too.

But
she had decided never to mention Tommy's mistress, and she bit her lip and
stuck by her resolution.

Tommy
was pleased to have a son and heir, but his daughter had captivated his heart.
A year old when her brother was born, Kate was a beautiful child whom everyone
said resembled her father. It wasn't wholly true.

Like
Tommy, Kate had gray eyes, but hers did not have his steely glint. They were
mother-of-pearl eyes, luminous and iridescent and shadowed; the kind that are
said to have been "put in by a sooty finger." Her hair was thick and
curly like his, but lighter. More like Luke's, Amy sometimes thought.

When
her father was home Kate followed him everywhere, first crawling, then
toddling. Often Tommy would scoop her up and carry her around the ranch for
hours, as if unaware that she weighed anything at all. It was to Tommy that
Kate lisped her first baby words, and for him she pined during the days and
weeks when he was out on the range. "Uncle Rick" was another familiar
figure. Kate gave him affection, and an equal amount to her mother, but it was
for Tommy the child reserved her adoration. He knew it and basked in it.

"Don't
let her get jealous of the baby," he told his wife. Tom Junior was two
weeks old, and Kate had shown nothing but indifferent curiosity toward him.

"That's
up to you, not me," Amy said. She softened the comment with a smile. Amy
was not bothered by her daughter's worship of Tommy. "As long as she remains
number one with you, Kate doesn't worry about anything."

"Yeah,
well I'm going to be gone for a while. Got to check the new south range."

That
was one of the pieces of land he'd recently acquired. Amy preferred not to
think about how. "Will you be gone long?"

"A
week, maybe ten days. When I get back we'll have that party I talked about.
Meanwhile you'd better make arrangements to have the baby baptized." He
performed some quick calculations. "Set it up for the second Sunday in
December. We'll have our party the same day."

Amy
nodded. She wasn't sure how to do what he asked, but Rick would help her.
"Are you taking the crew with you?" Visions of herself alone with the
children, the new maid, and Maria flitted through her mind. She liked it when
the hacienda was given over to only the gentle life-cadences of women and
children.

"No.
There's a lot of work to be done here and on the other ranges. Diego and I are
riding out alone."

Tommy
surveyed his land with satisfaction. "Good grazing," he told his
foreman-as if it were a new discovery, and he'd not known how good it was when
he contrived to acquire it.

"Yeah,
it's ok."

He
glanced at Diego. The Indian rode hunched into his saddle as if some weight
pressed down on his shoulders. "You all right? You've been acting funny
lately."

"I'm
all right."

Tommy
said nothing more. He'd allowed himself to become fond of Diego because the boy
was no threat. Besides, he was an excellent foreman. All the same, he was an
Indian. He has funny ideas about some things and a queer way of looking at the
world. Tommy accepted their differences as a fact of life.

On
the third day of the tour they made camp later than usual. Tommy had been
anxious to cover a lot of ground. Now they hurried to get a fire started before
the night chill penetrated their bones. Tommy watched Diego hacking with his
short-bladed knife at the mesquite they'd use for firewood. He worked quickly
and the blade flashed blue in the dusk. "You like that knife of yours,
don't you, Diego?" He'd seen the Indian stroking and fondling it all day,
like some kind of fetish. "What's so special about it?"

Diego
looked up quickly. "Nothin'. It's just a knife, that's all."

"Yeah?
I thought maybe it was something special," Tommy repeated. He enjoyed
getting Diego to talk about the pueblos and the beliefs of the Indians. His
earlier, academic world sometimes called to Tommy. Occasionally he thought about
writing a book on New Mexico and the different cultures that had created it. Perhaps
when he was old and retired. Meanwhile he had Diego and Rosa to study
first-hand. He grinned to himself. Different aspects of the Indian character,
riding hard and screwing. That could be a chapter title.

Later,
over the thick bitter coffee they'd brewed, he probed a little more. "I
heard a weird story recently. Been meaning to ask you about it."

"What
story?"

Tommy
noticed that Diego didn't look at him when he spoke. He kept staring at the
earth and the fire. And fondling that damned knife. Something was definitely
eating the kid. "About Indians handling poisonous snakes," Tommy
said. "Picking them up and petting them. And nothing ever happening to them.
Is it true?"

"Yeah,
it's true."

"How's
it done?"

Diego
shrugged. "They don't let them coil. Snakes can't strike unless they're
coiled."

"I
know that. But according to what I heard that's not all there is to it."

"The
snake god protects them," Diego said quietly.

"Do
you believe that?"

The
boy turned to him and his black eyes burned in the fire's glow. "I don't
know what I believe," he said fiercely

"Yes,
that's your problem, isn't it?" Tommy nodded and poured them each more
coffee. "You live in the twentieth century in a white man's world, but you
aren't sure you're ready to give up the old superstition and magic. Not just
you. All your people."

"My
pueblo doesn't do the snake dance," Diego said. There was a note of
desperation in his word. "It's mostly the Hopi pueblos west of here."
He got up and walked away into the dark.

Tommy
slept fitfully. Usually he had the best sleeps of his life out under the open
sky, elated by his conquest of the one challenge that had eluded him in the past.
He wasn't just clever, not any more. He was master of his physical surroundings
as well. Tonight that fact didn't bring him peace. Instead he tossed and
turned, and some primordial instinct made him feel fear without his knowing its
source. A coyote bayed in the distance. He jerked awake and looked around. In
the dying embers of the fire he could see Diego's empty bedroll.

Tommy
sat up, conscious of the weight of his built-up shoe. Out here he didn't remove
it at night. Now he got to his feet and looked around. The horses were tethered
some distance away, grazing peacefully. About fifty yards to his right loomed
the clump of mesquite scrub that had provided their firewood. He thought he saw
some movement in that direction. "Diego, you out there? What the hell are
you doing?" There was no reply. The echo of his voice died quickly in the
vast silence.

He
moved toward the mesquite and called again.

"Diego!
Are you ok?" There was still no answer, and he wished he carried a gun
like some old-time cowboy. There was a rifle strapped to his saddlebag, of
course, in case he had to deal with stray coyotes or game. Maybe he should get
it. But he'd have to walk back to the fire and turn his back on the mesquite.
It didn't seem a good idea. Tommy was aware of the weight of his shoe and the fact
that his leg ached. Then, while he stared into the darkness, he saw Diego
approach.

The
boy moved stiffly, as if drugged or sleepwalking. His torso was naked and his
arms outstretched. His head was thrown back in a contorted, unnatural way. It
was like some parody of crucifixion. Tommy peered hard into the darkness.
"Oh, Jesus," he whispered. "Oh, sweet Mother of God ..."

Diego
was carrying a snake. In the starlight to which his eyes were now accustomed
Tommy recognized it.
Crotalus
Ademanteus
, the southwestern
rattler. The diamond markings became clearer as Diego approached. He held the
creature in both hands, one at each end, and the four feet of its slender
venomous body were stretched against his chest.

The
thing twitched and hissed and writhed in its struggle to break free. The
muscles of Diego's forearms bulged with effort. His grip did not weaken. Tommy
exhaled through clenched teeth. As long as it was held thus the snake was
impotent.

Diego
recognized that the other man was watching him. His head jerked forward, and
they stared at each other across a few yards of desert. "Ok, Diego,"
Tommy said quietly. "I see your point. But it's you doing the protecting,
not any snake god. You keep holding it like that, and we're both safe."

"The
old ways are strong," Diego said.

It
sounded like an old man's voice coming from his young throat. Strange notions
of possession flicked at the edge of Tommy's mind. He rejected them.
Self-hypnosis more likely. "Men are strong," he said. "They
decide what they'll do. God gives us free will, Diego. You know that." He
wanted to laugh. He, of all people, quoting theology to a half-savage in the
desert. "Get rid of it," he commanded. "You don't owe the old
ways anything, Diego."

"I
am one with them." More like his own voice now. And tears streaming down
his cheeks.

"Not
unless you choose to be," Tommy said.

Silence
was the only answer. Tommy counted the seconds by the loud beating of his
heart. He calculated how swiftly he could jump out of the way if the snake was
flung in his direction. Not too fast, because of his leg. But fast enough
probably. It would take the thing a few seconds to coil. If he'd been sleeping,
Tommy realized, he'd have had no chance at all.

The
two men waited on opposite sides of an abyss older than time. Suddenly Diego
broke the tableau. He shouted into the night, a wordless cry of agony. Then he
turned and ran into the darkness, still carrying his lethal burden.

When
the Indian returned Tommy was sitting by the fire. He'd stirred it up and added
more wood. And he'd made fresh coffee. He offered Diego his hip flask of
whiskey first.

The
boy took a long pull, then handed it back. Tommy didn't drink. He'd had his
share earlier. Now the trembling in his limbs had subsided and his mind was
clear. "You want to tell me about it?" he asked after a few minutes.

Diego
shook his head. "No. If you want me to leave, I'll pack my gear soon as we
get back."

"No
reason to do that," Tommy said. He'd figured out most of the mystery while
Diego was gone. The only thing he didn't know was who was behind it. The why
would be related to that, and the how was obvious It had to do with playing
skillfully on old fears and loyalties. Maybe that in itself was a clue to the
question of who. "Like I said, Diego," he continued, "you're the
one with the choice to make."

"I
ain't never goin' back to the pueblo," the boy said.

"Ok.
I'm glad. I'd still like to know whose idea it was," Tommy said softly. He
was half afraid of the answer, and half grateful when Diego only shook his
head.

"All
I know is that I'm never goin' back."

Amy
spun faster and faster. Her white chiffon gown floated around her legs, and her
gold slippers were incapable of missing a beat of the senuous music. Rick's
arms held her tight, and their bodies moved in perfect harmony. The flickering
candles and the other people were the edges of a whirlpool. They receded
further away as she was sucked into the vortex. She sensed the rhythmic
clapping of the crowd as something in tune with her heart. It was no intrusion
on this moment of pure and private joy.