In the Season of the Sun (7 page)

“Send him around to me, I'll show him how good life can be,” Ma said with a wink of a painted eye. She laughed and bathed the beef from a clay tureen of drippings and hummed along with the melody of a balladeer whose sad lament floated on the still night.

Coyote Kilhenny entered the saloon and inhaled deeply, taking in a lungful of tobacco smoke, spilled whiskey, and blood. There was also the musk smell of Ma's belles, an assortment of young girls of every shape, size, and complexion, from a chunky lass with paste-white features to a slim, sultry mulatto. Indian girls and brown-skinned senoritas with raven eyes went from table to table, man to man, flirting with one, cajoling another until a man would pay any price for half an hour of pleasure.

Especially a young man.

Kilhenny searched the crowded interior for Tom and managed to catch a glimpse of a familiar plaid tam as a crowd gathered around a table and began shouting bets to one another, presaging some contest. Kilhenny wormed his way across the crowded room, his eyes still ranging over the Mexican and Anglo faces of Ma Cutter's patrons.

A roaring blaze in the fireplace case a host of wraithlike silhouettes upon whitewashed adobe walls draped with serapes and reed mats. One end of the mahogany bar was dominated by a crystal bowl filled with hard-boiled eggs. Along a wall and free for the taking were clay cook pots of frijoles and rice, and stoneware platters of fresh-baked tortillas made from stone-ground corn flour, stacks of them steaming and fresh from the hearth oven. A plump
mamacita
waited with ladle and plate to serve Ma Cutter's patrons.

Kilhenny's stomach growled. A nubile young girl, no older than sixteen, danced past him, her lace bodice pulled low, her shoulders bare, and the coffee-colored mounds of her breasts threatening to burst the fabric. Aye, he was hungry for that too, he paused to reflect, before edging past her undulating hips and heading for the gamblers.

He made his way to the table where Pike Wallace, his silver hair tucked in his tam, wiped a hand on his buckskin shirt and then tapped his fingers lightly on the sides of three clay cups.

“One cup, two cup, three cup,” he said. He glanced up, spied Kilhenny, and winked. “One has the pea, my friends. One out of three. But which one, eh? Put your money on the table and take a guess. I cover two to one. You can't get a better deal than that. Try your luck. Is there an hombre here with guts?” Pike shuffled the cups around on the table and picked one of them up to reveal a dried pea. “See? I just won. And my lanterns ain't what they used to be. One of you sharp-eyed sons ought to be able to do as well, hey?”

A Mexican vaquero took a seat opposite the old trapper and placed a stack of pesos on the tabletop. The
vaquero
, a stocky man who reeked of pulque, grinned at his compatriots and hooked a thumb in his belt and motioned for Pike to switch the cups.

“I am a man of courage, Senor,” he said and lifted a bottle of the milky-looking liquor to his lips and drank deep.

Coyote Kilhenny had to marvel at Pike's dexterity. Kilhenny knew what to look for and he still missed the moment when Pike slipped the pea in between the middle fingers of his right hand. He'd conceal it there until someone demanded to have every cup overturned and then the pea would mysteriously appear beneath one of the cups. Kilhenny was tempted to stay and watch Pike at work, but with a new alcalde running the city, and a morally righteous one at that, he was determined to remain on his guard. He was hungry and tired and didn't want to be booted out of town for failing to control his men.

The
vaquero
touched the top of one of the cups, Pike lifted it up, and the men around the table shook their heads and decided which they would have chosen. The
vaquero
lit his cigarillo and tossed another couple of pesos on the table. His compatriots, hard men all, applauded and leaned forward to study Pike's flashing hands as he maneuvered the cups across the rough surface of the table.

“Where's Tom?” Kilhenny asked, edging closer to his partner.

“Romancin', what else is he good for?” Pike chuckled and sat back to allow his latest victim to choose a cup.

“What about Skintop?”

“I ain't his keeper neither,” Pike grumbled. “Neither of them two is my worry.”

“It'll be your worry if there's trouble. The rurales saw us ride in together this afternoon. We could all wind up as the alcalde's guests in the calaboose.”

The vaquero lost again and, demonstrating a bullheaded belief his luck would change, tossed a few more coins into the center of the table. The vaquero tugged at his pencil-thin moustache, his stare intense as he studied Pike's every motion.

Kilhenny leaned close to Pike's ear. “Better let him win one, old man, or he'll be making you eat your tam, feather and all.”

Kilhenny straightened and left the table. He was elbowing his way to the bar when one of Ma Cutter's mestizo servants tugged at his coat sleeve and after getting the half-breed's attention pointed to a trio of uniformed men standing near the entrance to the saloon.

Two of the men wore short coats, close-fitting tailored wool trousers tucked into high-topped black boots, and japanned leather helmets. Braidery adorned-the red-and-white-trimmed coats. The pistols tucked in their leather belts and sheathed sabers added authority to their appearance. The third man was attired in a similar uniform, though he sported a good deal more braidery and his round belly, protruding like a bay window over his feet, gleamed with shiny gold buttons from his chest to his waist. He stood no taller than five feet in height. His hair was close cropped and the black sprinkled with silver, his bushy sideburns almost totally silver. His leather dragoon helmet sported white metal fastenings and a black plume, a rather dashing addition that seemed incongruous in so corpulent an individual.

The festivities slowed, the cacophony of voices lowered in volume, and the music ceased as Don Rafael Rodrigo's presence became known.

The alcalde seemed to enjoy his effect on the cantina's inhabitants. He surveyed the interior but ventured no further than the doorway. He did, however, summon a servant to his side who darted across to the bar and returned with a hard-boiled egg for the diminutive mayor.

As Kilhenny approached, Rodrigo stepped outside and the half-breed trapper followed him. In their wake, the cantina returned to life, the denizens within quickly attained the level of celebration they had so quickly abandoned.

Rodrigo stood aside and studied the luminaria-bordered Road of Kings with obvious disdain for the cantinas and bordellos. He turned to appraise Kilhenny, who stood half a foot taller than the alcalde and broader in the shoulders as befitting a man who had spend most of his life in the wild. Rodrigo did not seem impressed by the half-breed's physical presence; after all, Rodrigo was the alcalde, the mayor of Santa Fe and the commander of the garrison as well.

“So you are Coyote Kilhenny. I am Don Rafael Rodrigo, alcalde of Santa Fe and in the absence of our glorious governor, Don Manuel Armijo, I am acting as governor as well.”

Kilhenny noticed another dozen soldiers standing in an uneven file behind the alcalde. The men waited by their mounts and with envious looks took in the festive avenue where every illuminated window and open doorway offered a glimpse of the pleasures within. Down the Road of Kings toward the heart of Santa Fe, the more respectable citizens of the bustling town carried on their own celebration, marking the Feast of All Souls with a fiesta and in the morning a church service to ask forgiveness for sins committed the night before. The city square and comfortable hotels were off-limits to the rowdy trappers and vaqueros and freight haulers who marched the King's Road.

“I am told you brought three men in with you, Senor.”

“Three men and a passel of prize buffalo robes,” Kilhenny answered.

“And you will be responsible for the conduct of your compadres?”

“They're grown men,” Kilhenny growled.

“And as long as they behave like men, not animals, we will have no trouble, you and I.” Rodrigo bit into the hard-boiled egg, chewed and swallowed, and tossed the other half away. “Ah, one thing more. Normally I would not deliver this myself but the governor, my good friend, asked me to present this personally to you. An Anglo freighter brought it from Bent's Fort.” Rodrigo snapped his fingers and one of the dragoons stepped forward and passed a leather parchment case to the alcalde, who promptly handed it to Kilhenny. “Governor Armijo and you appear to share an influential friend,” Rodrigo added.

Kilhenny untied the case, opened it, and produced a sealed letter that was addressed to him in care of the governor of Santa Fe. The letter appeared to be from one Nate Harveson of Independence. Kilhenny was familiar with the name. Harveson was a successful businessman and merchant who had carried on a profitable freighting operation between Independence and Santa Fe for years. Harveson had interests in the fur trade, New Mexican sheep, blankets, and buffalo robes.
And now an interest in Coyote Kilhenny
, the half-breed thought to himself as he sidestepped into the glare of a nearby window and read the contents of the letter. Its message was brief and to the point.

October 3, 1840

Mister Kilhenny:

Come at once. I will make it worth your while
.

Sincerely
,

Nate Harveson

Independence, Missouri

Kilhenny folded the letter and tucked it in his coat. He doffed his flat-crowned broad-brimmed hat and bowed courteously to the alcalde. The half-breed was in a generous mood. The money they'd see from the buffalo robes was nothing compared to the likes of what Nate Harveson had to offer.

“I am in your debt, Don Rafael,” Kilhenny said.

“I trust it was good news,” the alcalde replied, unable to disguise his curiosity.

“Just a bit of gossip from my dear and trusted friend, Nathan Harveson,” Kilhenny said, lying with a smile.

“Oh?” Rodrigo was forced to reevaluate the half-breed. Kilhenny's attitude convinced him. Any friend of a friend of the governor's was worth being civil to. “Perhaps you and your men wish to accompany me to the fiesta at my … er, the governor's hacienda and depart such sordid surroundings.”

“I'll join you, as for my men, I can't seem to locate them,” Kilhenny said, scratching his rust-colored chin whiskers.

“No matter. Just so long as they enjoy themselves,” Rodrigo purred.

“I don't know about Pike or Skintop, but my nephew Tom could track a good time in purgatory.”

Rodrigo chuckled and nodded in accord. “He has an eye for the senoritas, sí?”

“Like a hawk's.”

“Well, Santa Fe has many such beautiful women. He will find a senorita to suit him.”

“Of that, Alcalde, I have no doubt,” Kilhenny said.

7

“J
ust because you happen to be married to the alcalde of Santa Fe doesn't mean you aren't supposed to have fun,” Tom Milam said in a voice as satin smooth as the ribbons he unfastened, as silken as the dressing gown that shimmered in the lamplight and barely concealed Cecilia Rodrigo's voluptuous body. “Ah, you'd be the fairest flower in any garden.” Tom worked the hem of her gown up to her waist. “And this the sweetest bud. I don't blame the alcalde for being jealous,” he added, lowering his lips to the bud his search had uncovered.

Cecilia Rodrigo gasped, then sighed and settled back against the pillows and stared up at the stucco ceiling of the hotel room, wondering what would happen if she were discovered. She decided—as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the enticement of his kisses—that she really didn't care at all. Don Rafael wouldn't dare punish her. As for Tom, well, the alcalde might jail him, or kill him. And what a pity because the young man was a wonderful lover.

The spasms started deep within her, coursed through her veins like a raging stream of fire; her back arched. “Oh … Oh … Oh …” She pulled the dressing gown up over her head, then reached down and raked his back with her fingernails and caught him by the shoulders and lifted him away from her thighs. “Now,” came her coarse whisper. Her eyes became slits; her moist lips and the taut pink crowns of her breasts betrayed her desperate hunger.

“I must have you now,” she said in a voice thick with passion. And Tom was only too willing. His blue eyes were hot as a cloudless sky in late summer. His close-cropped black hair glistened with sweat as did his lithe wiry body as he settled gracefully atop the alcalde's passionate young wife.

He entered her quickly, with sudden savage strokes brought her to a second climax, and joined her as she writhed and clawed and called him her sweet stallion, and he wondered how many other lovers she had murmured that same endearment to. Not that it mattered. He hadn't lured her from the fiesta in the plaza for the purpose of finding true love. She happened to be the most desirable woman in the courtyard. That she was the wife of the mayor only added spice to the encounter. Of course, he'd taken precautions should the tryst be discovered. His horse was tethered outside the window, below the balcony in the alley alongside the hotel. Coyote had taught him never to stay in a place that didn't have two ways out. Coyote had taught him a lot more too. But there were some things—and Tom grinned at the notion—that he had picked up on his own.

He nuzzled Cecilia Rodrigo's smooth neck and nipped her shoulder. A murmur of pleasure escaped his lips as he spent himself deep in her and traced a path with kisses from her shoulder to her breasts, returning to her lips and eyes and cheeks and her lustrous black tresses.

“I love you,” Cecilia purred.

“You're a liar.” Tom kissed her again.

“Lies are best when the bed is warm.” She stretched out her arm and patted the pillow beside her. “I want to go to sleep hearing your honey-tipped lies.”