In The Face Of Death (19 page)

Madelaine knew better than to let her surprise show. She smiled and offered him a slight curtsy. “Good evening.”

“Mangas Coloradas sent me,” he went on, his English stilted but far from inexpert. He regarded Madelaine with stoic calm. “I am here to talk with you on his behalf.”

“So I hoped,” Madelaine responded. “I am very pleased that he was willing to do this, and that you would undertake his commission.”

The Apache paused and looked directly at Padre Lopez. “Must you remain here?”

“Ah . . .” The priest looked from his new guest to Madelaine then back again. “It is not suitable to . . . to. . . .”

“I will not kidnap the woman,” said the Apache in Spanish. “I am here to answer her questions so long as it is proper for me to do it.” He glanced at Madelaine, and added in English. “Unless you need the priest here? You are not afraid of Indian demons, are you?”

“I may need his help in translation,” said Madelaine, having decided to leave her knowledge of Spanish a secret. “I want to be as accurate in my understanding as is possible.”

The Indian shrugged. “If that is necessary.”

“Only when I cannot understand you,” she said, “otherwise I am content to speak with you in private.”

“Then let us talk alone,” said the Apache.

Padre Lopez bowed his head. “I will go to my study; it is the next room, and if you need my help, you can summon me easily.” He gave Madelaine an uncertain stare. “Are you sure you would prefer this?”

“Yes, I think I would,” said Madelaine. “But I thank you for your concern, Padre.” What could she tell him that would not increase his trepidation? It would be folly to demonstrate her uncanny strength or her ability to resist all but the most destructive hurt. So she contented herself by adding, “I think we can trust to the honor of Mangas Coloradas, and his lieutenant.”

“His son-in-law,” the man corrected, and noticed that Padre Lopez started in recognition.

“All the more reason,” said Madelaine, who decided she would persuade the priest to tell her the Apache’s name if he would not volunteer it himself. “Come,” she went on to the Indian. “There are chairs by the hearth. They aren’t very comfortable, but they are tolerable.” She held out her hand to the visitor as she gave Padre Lopez a covert signal to depart. “I am Madelaine de Montalia. From France.”

“France,” the Indian said, shaking her hand once as if operating a pump handle. “I have heard of it. That is over the water, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Madelaine as she drew him with her toward the chairs, her manner a nice blend of the formal and the attentive. “Far to the east.”

Padre Lopez’s house, 8 September, 1856

We talked for the last time tonight, Mangas Coloradas’ son-in-law and I. He still refuses to tell me his name, for fear of giving me power over him, though he says when he becomes chief he will have to let the world know it. I find I like him, in spite of his forbidding nature and his abiding suspicions. . . . He told me he learned English while working for a group of lumbermen to the east of here. It was useful to know what the white men said among themselves as well as what they said to the Indians. . . . He has told me a fair amount about his people and why they keep so much to themselves, and I am willing to respect it.

Before the first storms begin, we will travel; I would like to reach Indian Territory before winter comes, for I am told it is often harsh and bitter on the plains, which does not please me.

Mister Hagen has decided to marry Mineata, and will go on to St. Louis after guiding me to the Cherokee and Choctaw. He believes he can hire out as a guide west now that Kansas is being opened to settlers. Some will want to go further, into the mountains and perhaps all the way to the Pacific on the Oregon or California Trails. Mineata will travel with him, and that satisfies them both profoundly, it appears.

At the suggestion of Mister Hagen, we will travel the new route sometimes called the Cimarron Crossing, for it permits us to avoid going through Raton Pass on the Santa Fe Trail, which, I am told, can be dangerous once the rains begin. After what I have seen in crossing to the west, I am willing to believe this. It would not be pleasant to be stranded in these mountains through the winter because a road has washed away. . . .

Many of the trees were spangled with leaves bright as gold coins that glinted whenever the wind touched them, as Dutch Hagen led the way on the narrow track along the steep slope of the mountain. He sat his mule with the alert posture of a man wary of his surroundings. Behind him, Madelaine drew her cloak more closely around her, and patted the neck of her mule by way of encouragement. She could hear Mineata singing quietly behind her, and the clap of the pack mules farther back, behind Carlos Nisachii, who brought up the rear of the party. It was more than a week since they had left the town of Las Vegas, to the east of Santa Fe, and they had not covered as much ground as Madelaine had hoped they would.

“There’s a spring up ahead,” Hagen announced. “We can refill our water jugs there.” He sounded relieved at his own announcement. “Make sure all of the jugs and skins are filled. It’s a long way to the next spring.”

They had drawn up the nine mules at the well when there was a distant, ominous rumble.

“Thunder?” asked Madelaine, knowing it was not.

“Avalanche,” said Hagen as the last of the sound died away, several seconds later. “A way up the trail, I’m afraid. I hope I’m wrong.”

“Is that bad?” Madelaine asked, anticipating his answer.

“It isn’t good if it cuts us off here,” said Hagen bluntly.

Mineata put her hands to her face in terror. “What will we do?”

“I suppose we’ll have to find another way,” said Madelaine coolly. “We cannot remain here.” She made herself shrug. “And it may be that the avalanche is not on this trail at all; the way these mountains echo, it could be miles away from where we are going.”

“That’s right,” said Hagen, much too heartily.

Mineata crossed herself, unwilling to believe them.

The Conners’ Mine, near the Cimarron Crossing, 17 November, 1856

I suppose we shall have to make the best of this. We cannot travel again until spring, not with the ice everywhere and snow coming. It is already in the higher peaks, and the wind is unforgiving. . . .

There are nine families here at the mine, six of them Irish, the others from Holland; all are Protestant, and wary of us, because Mineata is Catholic, and they fear I may be, as I am French, and from the wrong part of France to be Huguenot. I have implied that some of my people are followers of Peter Waldo—and so they were, centuries ago—which has served to ease their worst fears. I have offered good pay for shelter for the winter, and they have set their apprehensions aside to take us in. With the hunting skills of Mister Hagen and Carlos Nisachii added to the bargain, they are inclined to overlook our religious affiliations, and we do not force the issue. . . .

We have been given a two-room wooden house, the outer walls packed with sod. It is warmer than I thought it might be, but it is also dark and smoky, and impossible to keep clean. Mister Hagen has pronounced himself satisfied with the arrangements and is constructing new stalls in their stable for our mules. . . .

Conners’ Mine, 25 December, 1856

Being good Protestants, the people of this little community have passed this holiday in Bible reading and feasting. The fare was hearty enough: goose and venison, bread pudding and potatoes in an onion sauce. I explained that those of my blood fast at this time, which is close enough to the truth to make it credible. Mineata prepared a sweet of sorts using dried berries and cream whipped into a froth and then put in the snow to chill. . . .

Of late I have been longing for Tecumseh, and not only for our shared gratification; I can sense a discontent in him that wears at him, which serves to make me want to be with him, though what I could do about that restlessness, even if I were with him, I cannot guess. . . .

I have discovered that two of the men here are eager to be visited in dreams, which thus far has sustained me. They are filled with simple desire and strong appetites that they admit only in sleep. Yet I dislike having to live in such close and continual proximity to them, for it might well lead to trouble if they come to make the association between the images of their dreams and me.

A crude washroom and laundry had been constructed at the back of the stable, and it was here that large barrels were used to melt snow to provide water for all those at the Conners’ Mine. The premises were presided over by Zenobia Bliss, whose husband served as sapper for the mine; she was a formidable woman of middle years, thick-bodied and rugged-faced with her curly faded-russet hair contained in an untidy bun. She was boiling shirts in the main tub when Madelaine came into the steamy room, and she looked up as if she resented the intrusion.

“I have a few things I would like to wash,” Madelaine said.

“With hands like yours?” scoffed Zenobia, her brogue rich and musical. “You’d have a maid do it, if you could, or were you planning to ask me to?”

“I am fortunate in my skin,” Madelaine allowed without bristling. “It stays soft through no effort of mine. But I need no maid to tend to my needs, just a good tub and hot water. I have my own soap.”

Zenobia regarded her with patent disbelief. “There’s tubs against the wall, and a washboard, if you need one. We’re all out of blueing, and we’re low on bleach. Won’t have more till spring.”

“Thank you, I have what I need,” said Madelaine, annoyed to be wearing skirts again; it was worse than being hobbled.

“I hope you don’t expect me to help you. You’re going to have to tend to yourself here. Ladies like you don’t often bother getting their hands wet, I know. But I got my own work to do,” she said, indicating the boiling pot and a stack of trousers and jackets on the floor.

“I know you do. And though I appreciate your . . . concern, I will manage for myself, thank you.” She set about her task efficiently, doing all she could to stay out of Zenobia’s way. Once she had enough hot water to begin her work, she said, “Do you mind if I use that stool?”

Zenobia shrugged, and stirred the boiling shirts with a long wooden paddle. “If you want.”

They worked side by side in the steam-filled room, saying nothing as the evening dark closed in around them. Just as Madelaine was leaving, her wet wash gathered up in a canvas bag, she was startled to hear Zenobia say something to her.

“Pardon?” she asked, feeling foolish for not paying attention.

“They tell me you’re writing a book,” she repeated in condemning accents.

“I am.” She spoke more firmly, aware that most of the people at Conners’ Mine were illiterate and preferred to remain so.

“What about?” asked Zenobia, with a trace of interest.

“Indians,” answered Madelaine.

Zenobia considered this response. “So long as it’s not about slavery,” she said at last, and went back to her work.

Conners’ Mine, 4 April, 1857

The roads are clear enough for us to leave without mishap, though not all the snow is gone from the mountains. It is warm in the day, but cold at night, with a nasty wind, making our tents slight protection. Mister Hagen is tending to the mules, and Carlos is fixing the tack for us; he is planning to shoe the mules tomorrow, having kept them barefoot all winter, to prevent disease of the hoof. We will be away in three days. . . .

It is clear that the miners will be glad to have us go, in spite of the money they have received. And I will be pleased to visit other men in their sleep than these, not only to lessen my risk but to find greater variety in my fare. . . .

Kansas Junction, 19 May, 1857

At last we have reached a place where I may send my papers on, though it is nothing more than a wagon supply stop with what passes for a hostelry in this part of the Kansas Territory. And what a lot of pages there are, since I had so much time during the winter to expand my notes; in a sense the time I have had here has allowed me to do me work without distraction. This leaves me in a dilemma, for I can send my pages back to San Francisco to Euphemia Stephens, or I can send them to St. Louis, to Lucas and Turner there with instructions that they be sent on to Amsterdam.

I cannot write that name and not think of Tecumseh, and I wonder how he is faring in San Francisco, if indeed he is still there, for I have sensed a change in him of late. Whatever he is doing I hope it will bring him the satisfaction which thus far seems to have eluded him. He has such turmoil within him. I want to know what has become of him, though it is foolish of me; he is still married and would not want me disrupting his life again.

Carlos Nisachii has told me he will be turning back in a few days, hiring on as an extra guide for a group of settlers bound along the old Santa Fe Trail. He has said he would carry my work to Yuma and see that it was handed over to one of the more reliable shippers to be taken to San Diego or San Francisco, as I wish. . . . One way or another the pages will be sent.

Mister Hagen has assured me he will see me into Indian Territory; with all the fighting going on in the Kansas Territory, he does not think it safe for me to attempt to travel without escort, so bitter is the dispute over slavery in this place. I have tried to comprehend the argument between the slave-holders and the abolitionists, but the proponents of each position seem terribly muddled, resorting to Biblical quotes when reason fails them. . . .

A cloudbank gathered over the western sky, dark and massive; to the northeast the Cimarron River wound toward the Arkansas and then the Mississippi. “You won’t have to go all the way to the old Father of Waters,” said Hagen as he recalled the land ahead of them from his previous journeys. “Once we reach the Arkansas, we’ll be pretty near your destination. That is, if you’re still determined to study the Choctaw.”