Comanche Dawn (71 page)

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“I know by the size of the bands,” Archebeque insisted, his frustration building. “If you will ride two more leagues downstream, I will show you where Whip's band camped. Acaballo and Whip will not camp together, for they have broken off all communication. Acaballo has more people, and many more ponies. The larger trail is obviously his, and the lesser trail, Whip's.”

Lujan glared at Archebeque with obvious hatred. “You know too much about our enemies.”

“The Comanches are not our enemies. The governor made that clear when he asked me to guide this expedition. What happened in Taos was not an act of war. It was a crime against God and the Crown. Whip is the man we seek. He and his men are criminals. Leave Acaballo out of it. He has done nothing.”

“He did this,” Lujan said. He removed his iron helmet and used his quirt to point to the place on his head where the flesh had grown back together like a hairless battle scar on a fighting dog. “This was his act of war.”

“That one little scar on your scalp is nothing compared to the scars on Acaballo's back from the whipping you and Ugarte gave him.” He sidled his angry eyes at the friar. “His flesh looks like a map of Spain, and yet he is satisfied with the revenge he took on the export caravan. If you go after him, you will be making a mistake. Whip will get away with his crime, and you will bring war down upon the Kingdom of New Mexico such as you have never dreamed possible. You do not understand the power of the Comanches. They have already caused the Apaches more grief than all the combined efforts of your Spanish military over the last hundred years. Your small force of soldiers will be no match for them.”

Lujan's smirk revealed his disdain for his guide's advice. “Fray Ugarte, what do you say?”

The Franciscan mopped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his heavy robe. “It is God's work to follow in the tracks of the greatest number of heathens, that we may chance to save more souls among them.” He knew this would enrage Archebeque. The trader had never appreciated the logic of the Franciscan Order.

Archebeque gathered his reins. “Then, may God go with you, for I will not. The two of you would let a rapist go free in order to carry on your foolish vendetta with Acaballo. I wish to take no part in promulgating an unnecessary war.”

“The words of a coward,” Lujan said.

Archebeque trained his eyes on Lujan like a brace of pistol barrels. “If you are lucky enough to survive your ridiculous quest,
Capitán,
you may choose swords or pistols, for you will have an affair of honor to face upon your return to Santa Fe. I will not be termed a coward.” He spun his mount all the way round, piercing Lujan again with a glare that now spoke more of amusement than ire. “However, I suspect that Acaballo will rob me of the pleasure of killing you.”

Father Ugarte breathed a sigh of relief as the tattooed Frenchman spurred his horse and headed back up the trail to the pass. The guide had been at odds with Lujan since the very start of this expedition. He was a half-savage heathen himself, his soul blackened as surely as his skin by
Indio
heresy. The expedition was better off without him.

Often, over the years in Santa Fe, Ugarte had been tempted to report Archebeque to Inquisition authorities. Perhaps the trader had the secular authorities fooled, but not the friar. The Frenchman was a good friend of the governor, and a suitor to the governor's daughter. As such he represented a danger to the entire Kingdom of New Mexico. He treated with barbarians. It was said that he had participated in heretical ceremonies with shamans and witches.

“Shall we go after him?” a soldier said. “He is deserting.”

“Let him go,” Lujan growled. “I will look forward to dealing with him upon our return to Santa Fe.” He glanced at the friar. “We are going to ride hard,
Padre.
Are you ready?”

“I will not fall far behind.
Vámanos.
”

*   *   *

The trail was plain. It led north, then east across the plains. At the end of the day, the soldiers still had not found the next Comanche campground. Instead; an advance scout came galloping back to Lujan's column of twenty soldiers, shouting, “
Capitán! Capitán!
A large body of
Indios
approaches. There must be two hundred!”

Lujan ordered defensive preparations. Men loaded muskets and pistols and took cover in a nearby arroyo. When the savages appeared, Ugarte counted no more than sixty. Still, he understood how they had seemed to number more to the excited scout. Lujan sent a
Tompiro
guide out to speak with them.

“They are Apaches,” the
Tompiro
said, when he returned. “Battle Scar is their chief. He wants to help the soldiers fight Acaballo's people.”

“Padre Ugarte,” Lujan said. “Does this alliance have your blessing?”

Ugarte placed his hand on his chin. If Archebeque's warning about the strength of the Comanches proved half-true, it would not be such a bad idea to have some
Indio
allies along. In addition, this smacked of an opportunity to increase the tally of souls he had ushered to the gates of salvation. “If Battle Scar's warriors agree to be baptized and christened,” he said, “they may join our party. We go on together as Christians, or not at all.”

The
Tompiro
guide took the decision to the Apaches, and returned. Ugarte and the soldiers could see the glow of the pipe as Battle Scar's warriors passed it and conferred. At dawn, Battle Scar himself came to the Spanish camp and said, in broken Castilian:

“My name … Christian name … Carlana.”

“Very well,” Ugarte replied. “You must kneel.” He recited a terse version of the Latin liturgy, and then ended, saying, “I christen thee, Carlana.”

One by one, the Apaches came forward for Christianization until Padre Ugarte grew weary of reducing them individually, and told the rest to kneel at once. He mumbled the rites, named them all Carlos, and urged Captain Lujan to mount the troops.

The day's ride was a dry one, and the men used all the water in their canteens. The next day, Lujan's force found an abandoned Comanche campground at a lake out on the plains. There was not much water left, but enough for horses to drink and men to cook with.

“They are not far ahead of us,” Lujan said to the Franciscan that night at dark. “We will rise three hours before dawn, and be upon them by noon tomorrow.”

Noon passed the next day, but Ugarte caught no glimpse of the Comanches. Evening came without water or any sighting of the enemy. Drinking the last drops from their canteens the next morning, the Spaniards and Apaches set upon the trail again. They traversed a country of bluffs, dry streambeds, sage, grass, and plains. Their horses were stumbling from exhaustion when they came over a rise and spotted a small lake on the plains where the Comanches had camped.

“How could they have covered the distance between the last lake and this one in a single day?” Ugarte wondered aloud. “They have their women and children with them. We have ridden hard, and still the same ride took us almost two full days.”

Lujan licked his dry lips and stared down at the water hole, the sun now glinting invitingly off its surface. “Let them continue to push on this way. Soon, their ponies will be dying. Then, we will have the advantage.”

They rode on down the slope to the lake, but found the water muddy and foul.

“They know we are following,” Lujan said, bitterly. “The savage bastards made their ponies stand in the water all night. It reeks with filth.”

Fray Ugarte recited vespers at a wretched camp beside the stinking water that night. Afterward, he spoke to Lujan as they prepared to sleep.

“I am weary,” he said. “I will sleep well.”

“Why did you insist on coming along with this expedition,
Padre?
You might have sent a younger friar as chaplain.”

Ugarte shook his head. “It is my duty. I have reason to believe that she is with Acaballo's band.”

“Who?” the captain asked.

“The girl.”

“What girl?”

“You remember. The raid on the caravan, eleven years ago. A young girl was taken. Her mother was a mestizo prostitute. Her father, unknown.”

“
Ay, sí.
That was a long time ago. Why do you concern yourself now with the daughter of a whore?”

“Every Christian soul lost to paganism concerns me. She must be rescued from the heathens and restored to Christ. I only hope she has not been corrupted beyond salvation.”

Lujan snorted and fell almost instantly to sleep.

The next day the trail led to a third lake on the plains, this one made more turbid and foul than the last. As the men strained and boiled water to drink and cook the last of their beans, one of the Apache guards spotted several mounted warriors watching from a distant rise.

“Muskets!” Lujan shouted, jolted suddenly to action.

Fray Ugarte felt his heart pound. He was far from civilization, in the country of savage
Norteños.
He had not seen a tree in three days. Savage warriors were looking down upon him. He had written of this expedition to the bishop, the viceroy, and even to the cardinal. If he did not return, his martyrdom would be well known. Perhaps his penance was at hand. Perhaps Fray Gabrielle Ugarte would finally know peace with God.

As the soldiers primed their weapons and tightened their saddle cinches, Ugarte swung onto his mule bareback.

“Padre!”
Captain Lujan shouted. “Wait!”

“I will order them to turn over the rapist, his accomplices, and all white captives,” the friar shouted over his shoulder. “Do not concern yourself with my safety. God goes with me.”

He flogged the flanks of the mule until she broke into a lope. Approaching the party of Comanches, he recognized Acaballo riding his famous pinto stallion, flanked by half a dozen warriors.

“You are lost, Black Robe,” Acaballo said.

“I am not lost. I have come to punish those who sin against God and against Spain. You must turn over the warrior who raped the girl at Taos. Also, any white captives in your camp.”

“You have followed the wrong trail. There are no white captives among my people.”

Ugarte was somewhat taken aback. He had not stood face-to-face with Acaballo since the day of his flogging. Now, the savage's Spanish was flawless, and the insolence in his voice obvious. “Eleven years ago you stole a girl from the trade caravan. Have you murdered her? Did you sell her as a captive to some other tribe of heathens?”

Acaballo began to chuckle, yet his mouth failed to make a smile. “Eleven winters ago, you and your soldiers captured me, tortured me, and tried to make a slave of me. This is what I remember best. The girl taken in the raid on the carts is now called Sunshade. She is my wife. My third wife. She is a very good wife. She is not a captive.”

Ugarte felt his rage rise. It made his jowls tremble. “You must give her back, or the soldiers will attack, and then may God have mercy upon your wretched soul.”

“I will ride back to my camp, and ask Sunshade if she wishes to return to the Spaniards. If she does, I will bring her to you myself. If the soldiers attack my camp, they will all die. You are in my country now, Black Robe. You ride with my enemies, the
Na-vohnuh.
Powerful spirits protect me. You are in much danger.”

Ugarte reached into his robe and pulled out his silver cross. “Your pagan spirits mean nothing to men of God! Return the girl, or you will taste Toledo steel. You must submit and swear allegiance to the king of Spain, and the Lord, Jesus Christ, or burn in hell forever!” He began to recite the King's decree in Latin—the decree that required allegiance to Spain. But Acaballo merely turned to the northeast, followed by his warriors. Ugarte watched them canter away, awed by the distance they quickly covered, seemingly without the slightest effort by ponies or riders. He thought of himself plodding after them on his mule, and could already feel the exhaustion of the many leagues of pounding travel before him.

“Was that Acaballo?” Captain Lujan asked when the friar returned to the soldiers by the lake.

“Sí.”

“What did he say?”

“He refused to return any criminals or captives. The girl taken from the caravan is with him. He called her Sunshade, and said he had taken her as his wife. He would not return her. He dared your men to attack.”

Lujan smiled.

The next day, the party found a snakelike line of timber winding its way through a broad valley. Riding closer with the soldiers and Apaches, the friar began to see the tops of the hide tents between the trees, like exposed vertebrae along the backbone of a serpent. Through the
Tompiro
translator, Battle Scar identified the stream as the River of Arrowheads, which Ugarte knew to be the Napestle. Seeing no sign of alarm among the Comanches, Lujan's men began preparing to attack. They primed their pistols, donned their leather armor.

“Should we take our horses to water first?” one of the younger soldiers asked. “We could go upstream, out of sight.”

“No,” Lujan replied. “A bellyful of water will only slow your horses down. If they are thirsty, the smell of the river will make them charge more furiously into the camp. Use your pistols first, then your swords. Do not hesitate to kill any woman who takes up a weapon, for she will kill you. Beware the young boys, as well. Each is anxious to take his first scalp. Father, say the prayers. We must go quickly, before we are discovered.”

Fray Ugarte looked at the soldiers. Most were veterans of many such campaigns. They were tough. Their love of fighting and hatred of
Indios
showed in their faces. Some already had twenty or more
Indio
kills to their credit. Lujan himself had led dozens of such assaults on enemy camps, sometimes slaughtering a hundred hostile
Indios
in a single charge against Pueblos, Apaches, Navahos. They would stagger the arrogant Acaballo and his heathen warriors.