A Lady Bought with Rifles by Jeanne Williams Page A

seemed to burst into lovely puslating explosions.
    My own voice, moaning, called me back to reality. “Trace! Oh, that was heavenly!”
    He laughed softly, held me with my head on his shoulder. I could hear the heavy pound of his heart.
    â€œAm I a woman now?” I ventured.
    He laughed, held me closer, stroking my back. “Almost. Almost, Miranda.”
    â€œIs that what happens?”
    â€œWhat you felt should happen, but it can be caused in different ways. What you had was the pleasure without the problems.”
    I thought about that.
    â€œIs there a way for you? A way you can feel good without whatever it is we mustn’t do?”
    He didn’t answer. I sat upright and tugged at his shoulder. “Is there, Trace?”
    â€œYes,” he admitted slowly. “But—Oh, hell, Miranda! You shouldn’t know such things! What are you getting me into?”
    â€œPlease?” The completion, the delight I had experienced, made me feel rich and generous, eager to make him happy, too. “Trace, show me what to do.”
    â€œI don’t need paying back.”
    â€œShow me.”
    He took my hand, did something with his clothes. My fingers encountered something hard and warm, vulnerable and eager. The sharp intake of his breath, the way he lay surrendered with that strangely independent part absolutely rigid, filled me with wonder. I stroked and fondled, keying the pace to his response, my own excitement mounting as he thrust against my hand, pushed and delved and gasped, crying out my name. He spent it all in a convulsive arching that reminded me of the golden stallion’s final effort, lay back exhausted as a warm thick fluid filled my palm.
    We lay under the moon on the stone slab. Whatever he said about virginity, I felt as much his as if we had been joined in front of an altar. I was only sad that the energy, the beautiful force he had vented in my hand, had not entered into me.
    The next day was much like the one before, except that Sewa appeared a bit stronger, ate with more relish. Cruz taught her more tunes on the flute and she would practice to Ku’s glee. When she was absorbed with her music and the raven, Cruz told me more about the Yaquis.
    They had lived since remembered times along the mouth of the Río Yaqui, which twice yearly overflowed the rich land along its banks so that corn, beans, and squash could be raised in abundance. According to tradition, after a great flood, a group of angels joined Yaqui prophets and traveled from south to north, “singing the boundary,” and ordaining the sacred limits of Yaqui territory. After that, the Yaqui prophets had visions at eight different places, locations for “the Eight Sacred Pueblos.” Though the Yaquis bloodily repulsed Spanish military might, they had accepted the Jesuit priests who came to live among them in 1617 and the Indians wove the Catholic faith into their own myths and traditions. Spanish religious policy clashed with political, however, and the Jesuits were expelled in 1767. From 1825 till his execution in 1833 Juan Banderas, the great Yaqui general, fought the Mexican government’s attempts to tax the Yaquis, divide their lands, and assimilate them. After his death, Cajeme and Juan Maldonado Tetabiate took up the struggle against the Mexicans.
    Blending old patterns with the Jesuit mission system, the Yaquis had evolved a way of government that suited them very well. All matters of importance to a pueblo were discussed at a junta, or village council, attended by the five governors, church officials, members of military and ceremonial societies, and the elders. These leaders decided how problems should be settled; they could punish offenders by lashes of a rawhide whip, a time in the stocks, or even execution. Cruz had been sentenced to death by such a junta, but he still spoke of the system with respect. When more than two pueblos were concerned, a joint junta was held.
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