Marco’s relief, Graciela grabbed the trader
and held Diego upright until he could manage for himself. With her
help, he put both arms around his horse’s neck and hung on, while
Graciela grabbed the reins.
One arrow. That was all, or at least that was
all anyone felt like waiting around for. “Hang on!” he yelled to
Diego, and slapped the wounded trader’s horse. Graciela kneed her
mount and thundered after him.
Toshua had already dropped back. He motioned
Marco forward.
“ I can hold them off, too,” Marco
said.
Toshua gave him a sour look. “My little sister
doesn’t want a carcass in her bed!” He slapped Buciro with the end
of his lance and Marco had no choice but to follow the slave and
the trader.
As they thundered along, the sun dropped like a
stone, leaving them in that weird twilight of late summer. “Hang
on, hang on,” he murmured to the trader up ahead, who was starting
to list in his saddle.
Marco had to admire Graciela’s skill on the
bare back of a horse trained as part of a team. She rode like a
warrior, leaning far out to grab Diego’s shirt and attempt to keep
him upright. The riderless bay pounded along on her other side,
keeping pace with his sister.
And then even Graciela’s skills couldn’t keep
Diego in the saddle. He lurched to one side, scrabbling for the
horse’s mane. Puzzled, shaking his massive head, the horse
stopped.
Marco reined in immediately, rearing Buciro
back in a punishing motion that hurt Marco all the more because he
knew the worth of his old mount. “Don’t fail me, Buciro,” he said
as he dismounted, grabbed Diego, and with strength borne of
desperation, hauled the wounded man across his own
saddle.
Buciro did as he was told and stayed still as a
rock until Marco was back in the saddle. The high pommel prevented
Marco from actually stretching the man across his lap, but he knew
Buciro would not react to a strange object lying against his
neck.
Graciela circled around them, her eyes
big.
“ Go now!” Marco shouted. “I’m
following. When you get to the gates, shout, ‘Santiago.’ They won’t
recognize you and you need the password.”
Graciela strained to look ahead toward the
clump of trees by the cliff. “What gate? I don’t …. What
gate?”
“ Follow me then,” Marco ordered,
wishing she were in front of him, but grimly pleased that she could
not see the gray stone walls that blended into grove and cliff.
Silently he thanked his great grandfather Victorio Mondragón, the
stone mason from Jaén, España, who had insisted on such walls.
Maybe if Paloma had another boy, he could be named
Victorio.
Marco turned around once to see too many
Indians following Toshua, who rode so low across his horse that
they blended into one object. He had seen the enemy and he did not
look back. No matter how many years Marco had fought Comanches, the
sight could still turn his bowels to water—one more complication he
did not need.
“ God be praised,” he whispered to
see the reassuring walls and the gate closed. His guards were
watching from the parapet. “Santiago!” he shouted as the night
settled around them. “Santiago!”
He could hear the Comanches now, warbling their
peculiar cry that was half death song and half unalloyed terror to
anyone listening. He glanced at Graciela’s frightened face. Perhaps
she was wondering what would happen to her this time if she fell
into the hands of the same Indians who had sold her to a paisano from the eastern side of the colony.
The gates opened too slowly to suit him, but no
one was at fault. Graciela and Diego raced through, the bay
following. Marco waited at the gate for Toshua.
The Comanche’s horse looked riderless, but
Marco knew better. Toshua was not a tall man, and given a bit to a
paunch, as others of his nation. On horseback, however, there was
nothing as elegant as a Comanche, and Toshua was no exception. He
was flattened against his horse, his hair streaming behind
him—loose as he
and held Diego upright until he could manage for himself. With her
help, he put both arms around his horse’s neck and hung on, while
Graciela grabbed the reins.
One arrow. That was all, or at least that was
all anyone felt like waiting around for. “Hang on!” he yelled to
Diego, and slapped the wounded trader’s horse. Graciela kneed her
mount and thundered after him.
Toshua had already dropped back. He motioned
Marco forward.
“ I can hold them off, too,” Marco
said.
Toshua gave him a sour look. “My little sister
doesn’t want a carcass in her bed!” He slapped Buciro with the end
of his lance and Marco had no choice but to follow the slave and
the trader.
As they thundered along, the sun dropped like a
stone, leaving them in that weird twilight of late summer. “Hang
on, hang on,” he murmured to the trader up ahead, who was starting
to list in his saddle.
Marco had to admire Graciela’s skill on the
bare back of a horse trained as part of a team. She rode like a
warrior, leaning far out to grab Diego’s shirt and attempt to keep
him upright. The riderless bay pounded along on her other side,
keeping pace with his sister.
And then even Graciela’s skills couldn’t keep
Diego in the saddle. He lurched to one side, scrabbling for the
horse’s mane. Puzzled, shaking his massive head, the horse
stopped.
Marco reined in immediately, rearing Buciro
back in a punishing motion that hurt Marco all the more because he
knew the worth of his old mount. “Don’t fail me, Buciro,” he said
as he dismounted, grabbed Diego, and with strength borne of
desperation, hauled the wounded man across his own
saddle.
Buciro did as he was told and stayed still as a
rock until Marco was back in the saddle. The high pommel prevented
Marco from actually stretching the man across his lap, but he knew
Buciro would not react to a strange object lying against his
neck.
Graciela circled around them, her eyes
big.
“ Go now!” Marco shouted. “I’m
following. When you get to the gates, shout, ‘Santiago.’ They won’t
recognize you and you need the password.”
Graciela strained to look ahead toward the
clump of trees by the cliff. “What gate? I don’t …. What
gate?”
“ Follow me then,” Marco ordered,
wishing she were in front of him, but grimly pleased that she could
not see the gray stone walls that blended into grove and cliff.
Silently he thanked his great grandfather Victorio Mondragón, the
stone mason from Jaén, España, who had insisted on such walls.
Maybe if Paloma had another boy, he could be named
Victorio.
Marco turned around once to see too many
Indians following Toshua, who rode so low across his horse that
they blended into one object. He had seen the enemy and he did not
look back. No matter how many years Marco had fought Comanches, the
sight could still turn his bowels to water—one more complication he
did not need.
“ God be praised,” he whispered to
see the reassuring walls and the gate closed. His guards were
watching from the parapet. “Santiago!” he shouted as the night
settled around them. “Santiago!”
He could hear the Comanches now, warbling their
peculiar cry that was half death song and half unalloyed terror to
anyone listening. He glanced at Graciela’s frightened face. Perhaps
she was wondering what would happen to her this time if she fell
into the hands of the same Indians who had sold her to a paisano from the eastern side of the colony.
The gates opened too slowly to suit him, but no
one was at fault. Graciela and Diego raced through, the bay
following. Marco waited at the gate for Toshua.
The Comanche’s horse looked riderless, but
Marco knew better. Toshua was not a tall man, and given a bit to a
paunch, as others of his nation. On horseback, however, there was
nothing as elegant as a Comanche, and Toshua was no exception. He
was flattened against his horse, his hair streaming behind
him—loose as he
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