Authors: Don Coldsmith

Follow the Wind (4 page)

BOOK: Follow the Wind

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Sanchez, Garcia, and
Cabeza squatted on woven rush mats in the shade of a thatched arbor. Lizard was in deep conversation with leaders of the village as the others waited.

And this village was exactly like the rest, Sanchez fretted. Another few days of travel, another village of thatched huts. Garcia insisted on questioning in depth at every stop. It was stupid, Sanchez realized. The area where the young officer had been lost was weeks further to the north. Then he became irritated at himself. Mother of God, it was almost as if for a moment he had begun to believe his own story!

Why should he care that the old don wished to give his trinkets to any chance village they encountered along the way? If it helped to keep interest alive, why not let him have his way?

Sanchez sighed and scratched his back against the pole on which he leaned. Actually, he reflected, it was relatively comfortable here in the late afternoon shade. These savages built, for summer use, a sort of open-sided arbor with thatched roof. It kept the sun from beating down the livelong day, yet let the south breezes cool the sweat. Most of the cooking,
much of the living, even, was carried out in these structures during the summer months. Only in rainy or chilly weather would the Caddoes retreat to the shelter of the huts.

Sanchez let his gaze wander across the level plain to the north. It seemed to stretch to the end of the earth and Sanchez began to wonder if he had made a mistake. He had had no idea, at the beginning, how persistent Don Pedro Garcia could be. He had thought in terms of leading the expedition aimlessly for a time, until the old man became discouraged and began to tire. At that point, they could all go home, everyone richer except the
SeÃ±or
Garcia, who had more wealth than he needed anyway.

Somehow, it had not worked out that way at all. He, Sanchez, was becoming discouraged and tired. Don Pedro, on the other hand, appeared younger and more vigorous than at the start. He was thriving on this life. The first time Sanchez had seen the old don, he had appeared just that. A tired old aristocrat, limping from ancient battle wounds and arthritis and mourning the loss of his only son.

Now old Garcia seemed decades younger. To observe him from a distance, as he sat the gray mare with military bearing, one would think of him as a soldier in the prime of life. There was no indication that he had any intention of backing down from this search until his mission was resolved. It seemed that he fully expected to find evidence of his son, either alive, or firm proof of his death.

Sanchez exhaled a sigh of frustration. What if no evidence were ever found? Would the old man continue to press to the north until they all died in the unknown land? Just how far, Sanchez wondered, could one travel to the north? Might they not be trapped in a climate impossible for survival as winter descended? If worst came to worst, he wondered if there were enough men who could be counted on to mutiny and refuse to throw their lives away.

He was afraid not. The expedition seemed a tight-knit, loyal, and enthusiastic unit. The lancers, handpicked by Lieutenant Cabeza, seemed to take so much pride in their platoon that it appeared they would follow their young officer into hell itself. The crossbowmen, well-paid professional soldiers,
likewise seemed proud of their position with the expedition. As for the others, most were Garcia family servants. Some had been with the Garcias for generations and would undoubtedly die for the old don if it were requested.

Sanchez was always alert for an alternative course of action which would allow him flexibility in case he saw opportunity. This was his entire way of survivalâto change loyalties when it seemed profitable. His frustration now was based largely on the fact that his choices were so limited. The reluctant scoundrel was being carried along on the crest of a wave of loyalty and enthusiasm. How very odd that everyone else in the party shared this feeling, when the whole mission had been the creation of Sanchez in the first place.

He glanced over at the conversation in progress between Lizard and the chief squatting across from him. Suddenly, all his attention was focused on the two. The chief was gesturing and nodding eagerly, pointing northward and holding up his spread fingers.

Don Pedro leaned forward and spoke sharply to Sanchez.

“What does he say?”

Lizard was listening intently to the rapidly talking native. After what seemed an eternity, he turned to the others, a look of mixed wonderment and pleasure on his face.

“Him say yes, hair-face boy! Big medicine.” He pointed to the north. “Him six, maybe seven sleeps.”

Garcia was bubbling over with questions and, for some time, the awkward conversation continued. Actually, little new information was gained. The basic message was the original one.

A few days' travel to the north, there was apparently a village where a young hair-faced man lived. He was regarded with special honor of some sort. Beyond that information, the conversation was limited, both by language problems and by lack of any actual knowledge on the part of their informants. The story was mostly hearsay. There was apparently no one in this village who had actually seen the hair-face. They had only heard rumors.

Nevertheless, Don Pedro Garcia was convinced that the
young man they told of would prove to be his son. He could hardly wait to begin the next day's travel.

Sanchez was not so certain. There was something here that did not ring true. The entire thing was too easy. Certainly, the story told by these savages fit precisely that which he had fabricated for the old don. That bothered him considerably to start with. How could any set of actual facts coincide with the series of falsehoods which came entirely from his own imagination? He shook his head in bewilderment.

The others could not understand the hesitance of Sanchez. The entire membership of the Garcia expedition was jubilant. The slim chance that had led the party halfway around the world was about to pay off. Ah, the honor that would be their lot if the mission were a success. Some possibly even thought of the generosity of Don Pedro. His gratitude toward those who had taken part in the rescue of his son would be beyond belief.

Under normal circumstances, those would have been the thoughts of Sanchez. But not now. His confused thoughts seemed to whirl in his head. Sanchez had to get away to think.

He walked a little way from the village, moving aimlessly, but in the general direction of their travel. A jumble of rock gleamed whitish in the pale twilight and he stopped to sit. Behind him in the village, Sanchez could hear the revelry. Don Pedro had ordered a ration of wine for all and spirits were high.

This was probably the first time in history that Sanchez had missed an opportunity for free wine. He even neglected to seek female companionship as he usually did during these night stops. This fact reaffirmed the seriousness of this thought as he watched the dusk deepen and the stars begin to appear. The breeze at his back was not unpleasant and it was good to be alone to collect his thoughts. He watched the sky in the north until the Pole Star appeared.

Mother of God, Sanchez thought, how is it that everyone believes my story but me?

There could be no chance that this might be the son of Don Pedro Garcia, could there? He had been lost many weeks further north. But the natives had said, through Lizard, the interpreter, that this young hair-faced person was “big medicine.”
Certainly, it seemed reasonable that the son of Don Pedro, if alive, would be the recipient of honor of some sort.

A soft step behind him brought Sanchez to his feet with a start. Ramon Cabeza stepped out of the dusk and motioned the other to resume his seat. He joined him on a nearby rock.

“Sanchez, you are troubled.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Oh no,
seÃ±or
,” Sanchez whined, adopting his groveling peon attitude. “I onlyâ”

“Stop!” Cabeza waved him to silence impatiently. “I mean you no trouble.”

There was a long silence while Sanchez waited uneasily. What could the young lieutenant want? At last, the younger man spoke again.

“Sanchez, you and I are very different, but I think we want the same thing.”

Sanchez was startled. Was the scrupulously loyal officer of lancers ruled by greed, also?

“We want only the best for Don Pedro Garcia,” Cabeza continued.

Ah yes, thought Sanchez. It is not that he is a scoundrel, but that he trusts me to be as honest as he. And that is good. When one trusts you, he is easier to deceive.

“None of us have been as far north as this, except you. And you are troubled. What is it, Sanchez? Do you doubt this story we have heard today?”

Something about an honest question with no ulterior motive made Sanchez give an honest answer. He dropped the fawning attitude and spoke straight to the other, man-to-man.

“I do not know,
seÃ±or
. The story is right, but the place is wrong. It should be many weeks to the north.”

“Many
weeks?
” The other was incredulous. “How big is this country?”

Sanchez spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“Who knows? I only know that we traveled many weeks to get to the place where the young Garcia was lost.”

He paused, confused. He had nearly admitted to the young officer that he did not actually know where they were going. He tried to assume a more knowledgeable air.

“The savages there live in a different sort of house, a tent made of leather. They hunt the humpbacked cattle for food.”

Cabeza nodded. He had heard of the shaggy buffalo, but they had seen only a few scattered herds at a distance. It was still difficult for him to comprehend the vastness of the prairie ahead.

“Very well. But whether this is the one we seek or not, I will count on you. I will not have Don Pedro hurt if we can avoid it.”

There was only a hint of a veiled threat, which indicated the young officer not quite as naÃ¯ve as Sanchez had thought. But there was also the sincere request, the asking of cooperation from an individual who, by implication, Cabeza was approaching as an equal. The implied approval was almost more than Sanchez could bear. He swelled with pride.

“Of course,
seÃ±or
.”

The “six, maybe
seven” sleeps mentioned by the savages were to be cut to five, according to Garcia. He wished to spare neither horses nor men as they pushed rapidly ahead.

They encountered one other village after two “sleeps” and, on questioning, received the same story. Yes, there was such a hair-face. Many of the people in this village had seen and talked to him. Beyond that information, the conversation bogged down again in the everpresent language difficulty. Again, however, there was the mention that the hair-faced one was honored. They spent the night and forged rapidly onward next day.

Apparently, the village they sought was somewhat larger than most. The trail was well traveled and seemed plainer and broader as they came closer to their destination. Smaller paths straggled in through the brushy plain and from the canebrakes along the streams, joining the main pathway. It reminded Sanchez of a river, growing in size as it was joined by smaller tributaries along its course.

It was shortly after noon on the day they all anticipated,
when they encountered two young natives with bows and arrows, hunting rabbits. The two were fearful at first, but Lizard was able to set them at ease.

Yes, the village was ahead. Word had preceded the party and they were expected, but their motives were apparently suspect. To reassure the savages, Garcia gave them some smalll gifts and asked that they go ahead to their village. The two nodded, pleased. They loped out of sight down the trail at the peculiar jogtrot that seemed the normal gait for long distances among these people.

Shadows were lengthening before it began to be apparent that they were approaching the village. A smoky haze from cooking fires hung over a shallow valley ahead. Soon curious people ventured out to meet the travelers, walking alongside the horses and jabbering excitedly to each other. Lizard talked back to them, in his glory as interpreter for the expedition.

They threaded their way down the main path between scattered huts and approached a knot of men who appeared to be leaders of the encampment. Lizard conversed with them briefly, then turned, pointing to one of the men.

“Him chief. Hair-face there.” He indicated one of the long council houses nearby.

The man identified as chief proudly led the way to the council house and beckoned them inside. The others stepped back in deference to Don Pedro and the old man stooped to enter. Cabeza and Sanchez followed. The chief beckoned again and pointed to the far end of the shadowy room.

Their eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. A recumbent figure lay on a rush mat, rising to an elbow to greet them.

“Hair-face!” said Lizard proudly.

The object of their gaze was a boy of some thirteen or fourteen years, a scruffy fringe of beard sprouting along his jaw and upper lip. Flat-lidded eyes and a vacant stare gave evidence to mental deficiency. Saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth, which spread in a blank, childlike grin.

In silence, the travelers stared. Was this pitiful animal-like creature that on which the hopes of Don Pedro Garcia had been focused? This could not be the lost Garcia heir. This was
hardly more than a child, a half-breed probably, and obviously an idiot.

Sanchez finally realized the truth. The “big medicine” so proudly mentioned by poor Lizard must have to do with a curious custom among the savages. Madmen and lunatics, he had heard, were thought to be possessed of spirits. Therefore, to avoid angering the spirits, such unfortunates were treated with great deference and protected from all harm.

“Mother of God!” Sanchez whispered, crossing himself.

“Sanchez!” Garcia roared.

The idiot boy on the mat jumped in fright and began to cry at the noise. Garcia whirled and grasped the cowering Sanchez by the front of his tunic.

“Son of a snake!” The old don's voice trembled with rage. “For this you drag me halfway around the earth?”

Don Pedro's great sword came whispering out of its scabbard, gleaming dully in the dim light. Sanchez squealed in terror and fell to his knees, squeezing his eyes tightly shut to avoid watching the final blow descend.

“Stop!” The clear voice of Cabeza rang across the room. “It is not his fault,
SeÃ±or
Garcia!”

The young lieutenant stepped quickly between the two to plead with the distraught old man.

“Please,
seÃ±or
, Sanchez has said it was not here. The place would be much further north.”

Sanchez, white-faced, dared to open his eyes and nod in frantic agreement. He was still unable to speak. Cabeza continued, somehow sensing that the flow of words was staying the old man's hand.

“He tells of a different people, who live in leather tents and hunt the wild cattle. And,
seÃ±or
,” his voice lowered and became confidential, “if you kill him, who is there to lead us to that place?”

His eyes still fixed on the cowering Sanchez, Don Pedro sheathed his sword. He whirled on his heel without a word and strode stiffly from the lodge. Sanchez, still on his knees and too weak to rise, made little gasping noises. Cabeza helped him to his feet.

“Him not hair-face?” Lizard was completely bewildered by this exciting turn of events.

“Not same hair-face. Wrong hair-face!” Cabeza attempted explanation, since Sanchez was still not able to communicate. Obviously, Lizard still did not fully understand. Cabeza was not certain that he himself did. The visitors filed outside into the early evening.

Don Pedro was nowhere to be seen. In his absence, Ramon Cabeza gave orders to camp for the night. It was a strained evening. At every motion or sound, Sanchez jumped in terror, fearful that Don Pedro would return with his sword.

Eventually, after full darkness, the old don did return. He spoke to no one, but sought his sleeping blankets. Sanchez came out of temporary hiding and the camp began to settle down for the night.

To smooth over the incident, Cabeza took it on himself to take gifts to the leaders of the village, with a special gift of a mirror for the unfortunate boy who was the center of all the misunderstanding. Sanchez had recovered to the extent that he was able to accompany the lieutenant and Lizard and assist in the giving of the presents and the attempted explanations.

Sanchez had been convinced that he was as good as dead and it had been a very sobering experience. Yet, there was another experience which was equally mind-boggling. Ramon Cabeza had saved his life. It was the first time in his memory that anyone had intervened on his behalfâin anything.

More puzzling to the devious mind of Sanchez was the reason. Why had Cabeza done such a thing, when he obviously had nothing to gain? Sanchez had felt, since their conversation a few nights ago, that the lieutenant had evaluated him quite accurately. There was little to make him believe that Cabeza respected him or even liked him very much. Cabeza was merely willing to tolerate and cooperate with him if it would be helpful to the
SeÃ±or
Garcia's quest.

Ah yes, that must be it. Cabeza knew that the search depended on the memory of Sanchez. Almost forgotten was the uneasy thought that the lieutenant half-suspected the truth. The fact that Sanchez did not know where he was leading
them must have crossed the quick mind of Ramon Cabeza.

For now, Sanchez was happy merely to be alive. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

The morning did come, of course. Everyone in the party was tense and uneasy, wondering which direction they would take. Don Pedro still spoke to no one. Would he now turn back, having failed in his quest? Even Cabeza was reluctant to bring up the subject. He elected to wait until time to start the day's march.

Sanchez avoided Don Pedro as long as possible, but eventually, as it came time to mount up, the two had to make contact. The old don stepped into the stirrup and straightened himself, ramrod-stiff in the saddle. He glanced over the assembling column. It was noticeable that his face was drawn. Don Pedro Garcia had spent a sleepless night.

His steely gaze fell on the still-frightened Sanchez for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was almost gentle in its quiet tones.

“Well, Sanchez, which way now?”

BOOK: Follow the Wind

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