The Shadow Man (15 page)

“The Señora is in the next room,” the woman replied in a hesitant tone, as if reluctant to answer.

“Thank you, Mother,” Jacob said.

Petra heard Jacob and the woman talking, and she straightened up from unrolling a wool carpet on the floor. She turned to the doorway as Jacob entered.

He said nothing, silently swinging his view over the wide room, the deep fireplace with the iron cooking hooks, the red-and-gray carpet on the floor, and the whitewashed walls. Petra had built an apartment, again expanding the size of the huge hacienda, making ample space for another family.

“Whose rooms are these, Petra?” Jacob questioned. He had seen the four panes of glass in the outside walls and believed he already knew the answer. He recalled that for many days he'd seen blocks being molded and surmised that some form of building was in progress. Busy working long days with the men, he had given the construction little thought.

“For us, Jacob. For you and me,” Petra responded in an uneasy voice.

“I had planned to build us a hacienda on our own land,” Jacob said in a nettled tone. “Probably to the south on vacant land near the Rio Pecos.”

“I know that. But I thought once you saw how nice a home we could have here, you'd be willing to stay on El Vado.”

Petra took a trembling breath. Jacob saw her hands shaking. She clasped them together to keep them still. She may have made a terrible mistake in venturing off on her own plan without discussing it with him.

“There is more to this than that,” Jacob said.

“Yes. There is more. I have an interest in El Vado to attend to. I own one fourth of all the land and livestock on El Vado. In truth, you and I are one fourth owners of all the land and livestock.”

Tamarron backed up a step, dumbfounded at the abrupt news.

“I earned all of it,” Petra cried out. “For more than twenty years I worked as hard as any man. It was not merely given to me. I truly paid for every acre and animal.”

Petra saw the expression of deep thought come upon Jacob's face, that look she had come to expect when he was weighing an important decision. Her fear at his reaction almost overwhelmed her. “Remember, Jacob, that day when you offered me all that you possessed? Well, now I offer you all I possess.”

“Why didn't you tell me about your ownership in El Vado?”

“Because I was afraid you wouldn't marry me if you knew I had so much property.”

Jacob's eyes were riveted on Petra. “You're right. I couldn't marry you knowing that.”

“And now, Jacob? And now?” Petra's pensive, questioning face was pale and taut. Her hands were gripped so tightly, they seemed to be breaking each other. She thought of the past weeks with Jacob. Not to be his wife would mean a terrible and lonely life.

Jacob's countenance softened. “You've captured me completely. It will be much safer for you on El Vado when I'm gone. So we'll live here. I never want you hurt. But we will buy a large piece of land along the Rio Pecos and expand our herd of livestock there.”

Petra went swiftly into his arms. “It will also be safer here for our children,” she said. “Within the walls where I grew up.”

Tamarron hugged Petra. He had accepted this little universe of people as his family. It did not feel bad. He smiled. There was a soft, warm glow deep down where his real being lived.

* * *

Tamarron and Tomas spurred their mounts across the plain and struck the ford of the Pecos at a full run. The horses slowed at the last instant and took the shallow, rock-bottomed crossing in long, lunging strides, flinging water from the body of the river in sharp, glistening spears.

The horses reached the bank, and the men raked them again with their spurs, gouging them up the sloping, gravelly bank.

Tomas had found Jacob after two days of searching, far to the southeast at the base of Taiban Mesa. He informed Jacob that Emmanuel Solis had been found very ill near the corrals. The elder Solis appeared to be dying. A rider had been sent to Las Vegas for the priest and
resador,
men who attended the dying. Emmanuel had asked that a rider be sent quickly to find Jacob.

The horsemen dismounted at the entrance to the hacienda and hastened inside, directly to the Solis quarters. Jacob pushed through the women of the vaqueros and peons, grouped in crouched positions near the door of the bedroom.

The old man lay pale and motionless on the bed. Señora Solis, Petra, and Conrado sat beside him. The priest and the
resador
waited expectantly on the opposite side. Emmanuel's hand clutched an adobe block. The last rites had been given, and the dying man was touching the earth.

Petra leaned over the still form of her father. “Jacob is here,” she said.

Emmanuel stirred and opened his eyes. His mouth worked, but no sound would come. He raised a limp hand, fingers spread. He looked at Jacob, then Conrado, and brought his index finger against the adjoining one. The hand dropped. The eyes closed. The chest rose, then sank with a shudder.

The
resador
was an expert at knowing the last moment of death. His sight was locked upon the old man's face. He saw the first veil of final mystery come. He cried out loudly. “Go with Jesus! Go with Jesus! Go with Jesus!” The soul must take flight to its savior's name at the precise time of death. Its destination must be certain. He thought he had made the call at exactly the right moment.

As the priest reached out and closed the staring eyes of the dead man,
las viejas
and the other women came streaming into the room. They began to scream in grief. They threw themselves from side to side and wailed formless words. They paused and gazed at the dead man while their shrieks fell to whimpers, like lost children staring. Then, shaking their heads, they redoubled their lamentations.

Conrado stood up and, taking Jacob by the arm, pushed from the room. His voice was crusty as he spoke. “The women will wash and prepare father for burial. You and I must talk.”

They walked beyond the walls and stood looking out over the Rio Pecos and the limitless, grassy reaches of the Llano Estacado. Far up above the river, a bald eagle hung motionless, its telescopic eyes boring downward, seeking fish in the wet depths of the stream.

“Perhaps an omen,” said Jacob, pointing up at the great bird riding effortlessly on the wind.

“Father probably would have said the same thing,” replied Conrado. “Did you understand his last gesture?”

“He wanted you and me to work together to see that Rancho El Vado survives, and that the people living here are cared for and protected.”

“You are exactly right. We talked before you came. He also said you should take thirty thousand sheep to Austin or Houston and sell them. Here in the valley, one sheep is worth less than two dollars. In Texas a sheep would be worth nearly twice as much, for there's a ready market to build the herds of the new Americans settling there. You, being an American, could make the sale. I can't do it, for the Texans hate Mexicans and would steal our herd.”

“I'll do that in the fall after the first heavy rain. Then there will be water on the plains for the animals.”

“Good,” said Conrado.

They stood together for a very long time and said not a word.

Jacob and Conrado built a coffin in the carpentry shop. Emmanuel's body was placed within it and carried to the
sala
. Candles were lit at the head and feet. Then Jacob sat with the others in an all-night wake. Now and again someone would say a prayer or start a hymn, and the rest of the mourners would join in.

At midnight a light supper was served in the kitchen. As Jacob ate silently with Petra and several others of the household, he heard the shovels of the peons digging in the family cemetery north of the wall.

When the sun rose to lie yellow and round on the eastern horizon, the body of Emmanuel was carried to the chapel. The priest spoke a short sermon and led all the people of Rancho El Vado in prayer.

There was no ceremony at the grave site. The coffin was placed on ropes held by four men and lowered into the ground. Petra and Conrado led the sobbing Señora Solis away.

Tamarron remained by the grave as, without a word, the peons and vaqueros began to fill it in. He noted that several of the man had tears in their eyes. These men held their heads down, trying to prevent the others from seeing their expressions of sorrow.

Jacob raised his view from the raw dirt of the grave and looked at the more than a score and a half tombstones marking other burials. Emmanuel, you had a worthy life and a good death, Jacob thought. Your funeral was held by your family and friends, and your grave is in the soil at El Vado. You were a most fortunate man.

Captain Zaldinar counted the scalps. He scowled as he removed the objects, stiff with dried blood, from the sack. Each was examined closely for the coarseness of the hair and the color, then laid in one of two piles on his desk.

Zaldinar could have assigned the unpleasant chore to a subordinate, but he always performed the task himself. One day Kirker might make a mistake and come again with the scalps of mestizos, people of mixed Indian and Spanish blood, gentle citizens of Mexico.

He looked at the redheaded American scalper, trying to read his thoughts. Were there scalps here that were not Indian?

Kirker stared back at the captain. He knew Zaldinar hated him and what he hoped to find. Kirker grinned a crooked, comprehending grin. These scalps were all genuine Indian hair.

You are a loathsome son of a whore, thought Zaldinar. He went back to the grisly task of counting the remnants of once live, breathing humans.

The first time Kirker had come to Chihuahua to collect the bounty money for scalps, Zaldinar had found ones he believed were not the hair of Apache or Comanche. He had had Kirker arrested and thrown into prison. Reflecting back upon that time, he knew he should have had Kirker executed immediately. Instead he had allowed a trial.

The judge had not found the nature of the scalps to be positive proof of their origin, Indian or mestizo. Kirker had been released after six months of confinement. Zaldinar had insured that those months were very bad for the renegade American. The judge had ordered that Kirker be paid for fifty uncontested scalps.

Kirker watched the Mexican officer closely. He and his band of men had arrived in Chihuahua and gone directly to the military headquarters on the southeast side of the city. Hundreds of soldiers drilled and sweated under the hot afternoon sun. A company of armed cavalrymen were practicing a fast, intricate maneuver on the far side of the flat, dusty parade ground. The garrison of crack fighting men was a trap Kirker placed his head into once each year to sell scalps.

Two soldiers with rifles had escorted Kirker and Rauch into the room of the duty officer. The other Americans were instructed to remain outside. Zaldinar, the man Kirker did not want to meet, sat waiting for him.

The guards halted the two Americans in the center of the room. One guard took the bag of scalps from Kirker and handed it to the captain. Then the soldiers took up their positions, one on each side of the captain. They had been given their orders and stood vigilant.

The captain continued to sort the scalps into two piles, one containing what he judged to be the hair of women or children, and the second those of men. Kirker wouldn't quarrel about the division. Zaldinar would like an excuse to fight with him. But Kirker would never allow himself to be taken prisoner again and thrown in the filthy
calabozo
.

A very young lieutenant came through a rear door and walked hurriedly to the captain's side. He bent and began to speak into Zaldinar's ear in a low, urgent voice.

Kirker listened warily, his senses whetted. He could hear the quick, whispered tone but couldn't make out the meaning of the words.

The captain's eyes swept over the Americans, then dropped to gaze at the scalps. He asked the lieutenant a question. The young officer answered in the same quick tone.

Kirker knew that the information the lieutenant brought affected him. The expression on both of the men's faces told him that. It could only be bad news. The weight of the pistol on Kirker's side was a very comforting thing.

As Zaldinar spoke to the lieutenant, giving him orders, the American gang leader felt the jaws of a trap closing around him and his men. But Zaldinar had blundered. The two army privates would not be strong enough fighters to arrest Rauch and Kirker.

“Rauch,” Kirker whispered from the corner of his mouth, “something has gone wrong and we've got trouble. Stand ready to back my play. You take the two on the left.”

“Goddamn. Don't start anything here,” Rauch whispered back angrily. “We'll lose everything. We're two hundred miles inside Mexico, and surrounded by thousands of soldiers.”

“You just be ready or we'll never leave here alive.”

Captain Zaldinar stopped speaking. The lieutenant pivoted and headed for the rear door. He stole a look at Kirker.

The scalp hunter caught the young, inexperienced eyes of the lieutenant, read the thought behind them, and knew that his suspicions were correct. By looking at me you've killed yourself, thought Kirker.

“Lieutenant, wait,” Kirker called in a sharp voice. “What has happened?”

Zaldinar rose to his feet and, leaning over his desk, bristled at Kirker. “This does not concern you,” he snapped. “And, remember, you are in Mexico. I give the orders here.”

The lieutenant had halted. He looked questioningly at his superior.

“What are you waiting for, Lieutenant? Carry out your orders.” The captain's command crackled with his anger.

Kirker was certain Zaldinar had instructed his junior officer to assemble a platoon of soldiers to take the Americans prisoners. He and his men must leave immediately and, if necessary, fight clear of Chihuahua and escape across the vast distance of hostile territory to safety in Texas.