Category: Western Publisher: Western Trail Blazer
ISBN-10: 146360114x
Type: Fiction
Pages: 178
Copyright: June 2011
ISBN-13: 9781463601140
The opening of the war against Mexico in 1846 promised high advanture. John Henry and his army buddies will defend their country and fight greasers. But when the Army of the West enters Santa Fé, John Henry's world is turned upside down. In Santa Fé, he meets Morita.
This is a love story and a western. Set in Santa Fe and the Southwest.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
“I’m telling you, John Henry, I been making a survey of all the cantinas, and this one is different. They got the best looking señoritas in the whole town. I mean including the high-falutin’ ones that walk the plaza of a Sunday. We’ll just sit there and enjoy the scenery and have a nice drink.”
“Or two”
“Or three”. Brad grinned.
The two buddies, dressed in the uniform of the United States Army, strode down a Santa Fé lane that was lined with modest adobe houses. Brad occasionally reached back to pull his pard, John Henry, by the arm to hurry him along.
John Henry accompanied Brad occasionally on his cantina forays, not from any particular enthusiasm, but just to fill the evenings. Brad, on the other hand, seemed to have found his home and his calling. He spent most evenings in the cantinas, with or without companions. He was limited only by money, duty or confinement for past excesses.
He caroused alone quite happily, but he preferred company. Following an agonizingly dry six-day trial of duty and illness, Brad was determined to have John Henry’s company and would not be denied. John Henry was happy to see his partner on his feet again and enthusiastic once more about something, even drinking, and agreed to go. Not without some apprehension. Brad was too eager.
Brad and John Henry were unlikely partners. Since John Henry’s enlistment and posting to Fort Leavenworth, he and Brad had become inseparable friends. They were com¬patible, but they were not alike. Bradford was impulsive and excitable, quick to draw conclu¬sions, the sort of person who can be swayed in a mob and be drawn back and forth as passions ebb and flow. John Henry weighed alterna¬tives and pondered before acting, to the point on occasion that others thought him in¬decisive.
John Henry Harris was a nice-looking fellow, though hardly handsome. Indeed there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about him. He was average height, muscular and hard. Without the severe life of a dragoon, he might have tended toward fleshiness. He had brown eyes, with a hint of green. His hair was brown, straight and cut shorter than most. It was always neatly combed in the morning, but within an hour or two and for the rest of the day, it was unruly.
Unlike many of his comrades, John Henry did not sport a mustache. Aside from that, in a group of soldiers he would blend, not standing out or apart. Yet, a careful eye would notice that his uniform was a bit neater, his body a bit cleaner, his manners and his speech a bit more polished. John Henry, if asked, would have acknowledged no difference, and his fellows noticed none.
Anthony Bradford, like John Henry a Missourian, was a shade taller and a bit leaner than his partner. He wore a neat mustache, had a quick wit and an infec¬tious laugh. He was perpetually enthusi¬astic. About food, cantinas, pay, prospects in general. His ramblings on the prospects for sex embarrassed John Henry, to Bradford’s delight. John Henry suspected that Brad’s experience with sex was equal to his own, which was absolute zero, but he never responded to Brad’s openings. Anyway, he didn’t think any boy of nineteen was likely to have experienced such forbidden pleasures, and Brad was only a year older.
Brad and John Henry, like most of the soldiers in the Army of the West, had been excited about the likelihood of a set-to with the Mexicans as the army approached Santa Fé. Like the others, they had been disappointed that it didn’t happen.
The conquest of Santa Fé had concluded quietly. The defenders of the capital had melted away, much to the disappoint¬ment of the dragoons of the United States Army of the West who had hoped for some action after the tedious march across the plains. The only shots fired were a salute from American army cannon on a nearby hill that terrified the people and shook loose the few glass window panes in the town.
New Mexicans did not seem overly bothered by the American takeover here in the early stages of the war between the United States and Mexico. There had been some anxious moments when the women expected to be abused and branded on their cheeks, just as the Americans branded their mules. When they found that the newcomers were not the bar¬barians described by the government and the priests, they were more open and mixed freely with their conquerors.
The officers were wined, dined and otherwise feted. Stephen Watts Kearny had another cause for celebration. He had only recently learned that he had been promoted from Colonel to Brigadier-General. The now-General Kearny found time to set up a civil government and promise the new Americans that their customs, religion and property would be protected.
The dragoons were quartered in the old military barracks at the opposite end of the presidio from the Governor’s Palace which fronted on the plaza. The “palace” had long served both as the residence of the gover¬nor and a fortress. Its adobe walls were over four feet thick. The flat roof was a platform from which defenders could fire on marauding Indians. Windows were narrow to prevent the entry of attackers. The palace was part of a walled compound that in-cluded corrals as well as the barracks and officers’ quarters.
Santa Fé was tranquil. Boring, if you were a soldier. The frontier farm boys had joined the army for some excitement and to escape the desperate life of the family farm. They wanted to fight Indians and shoot buffalo. When the war with Mexico broke out in 1846, they looked forward to following the flag and enjoying a little kick-up with the Mexicans. They were disappointed. Now they simply played the role of caretakers. Boring. Deprived of a fight, the soldiers looked elsewhere for their entertainment and reward.
Brad set a brisk pace. It was dusk, and they met dozens of people who had come out of their houses a half-hour after sunset to enjoy the evening’s cooling breeze. Walls of the adobe buildings which bordered the dusty road still radiated the sun’s warmth. Doors, often resembling gates more than doors, were open to the flat earthen floors but revealed little of the dark interiors. Windows were small and framed by shutters that opened inward.
The people strolled casually, going no place. They stopped from time to time to talk in front of houses, some puffing contentedly on their cigarillos, then walked on. There were a few scowls at the two soldiers, especially from young men, but most of the Mexicans smiled and stepped aside, nodding deferentially.
The people moved to the side of the road, watching the Americans. This movement became a ripple that moved ahead until, a block away, strollers stopped, distracted from their conversation, glanced down the street, and then moved aside. They stood in front of houses on both sides of the road, watching Brad and John Henry approach. The soldiers took no notice. They strode ahead, their boots raising little puffs of dust at each step, hurrying, talking and laughing about the evening’s promise.
They soon left the townspeople behind. There were fewer houses now. The street was quiet, almost deserted, with only an occasional passerby.
A block ahead, a mounted vaquero emerged from between two houses. The soldiers saw him and stopped. His clothes were worn and dusty, his wide-brimmed hat tilted low on his forehead. The horse’s bridle and saddle were lightly decorated with small silver stars and bars.
The vaquero rode slowly, directly across the road. The horse’s hoofs raised spurts of dust, making no sound. The rider gazed at his mount’s head, looking neither right nor left. He disappeared between adobe buildings.
The spell broke. “C’mon,” Brad said. He beckoned to John Henry and stepped off. John Henry hesitated a moment, looking after the apparition, then hurried after Brad.
As they passed a small adobe in the next block, they saw a pretty little girl of eight or nine years, leaning against the frame of an open door. She smiled shyly at the soldiers, then darted back inside the house. Another face immediately appeared in the doorway, an old woman, dark, leathery, wispy. She looked quizzically at the soldiers, then withdrew slowly into the darkness of the room.
John Henry suddenly felt depressed. Something’s all wrong here, he thought to himself. Suddenly he wanted to talk to them, the people of Santa Fé. He hardly heard Brad who continued to chatter excitedly, ¬with some nervousness, about the cantina. Brad laughed and gestured and did not turn to see the somber face of his partner.
The cantina was no different from the others John Henry had seen. Maybe a little darker. Candles provided a soft illumination that hardly reached the walls. The only furnishings were a bar and a dozen plain square tables and stools. The earthen floor was smooth, clean and rock hard. Patrons sat at tables, smoking, drinking from their tin cups and talking quietly. Three vaqueros and two women stood at the bar; three couples danced. Two guitarists and a violinist sitting in a dark corner supplied the music. An occasional guffaw added to the din.
John Henry and Brad sat on stools at a small table. John Henry’s back was against the wall, and he was glad of the support. He was sipping his third fiery aguardiente and decided that it was enough. Enough for him to feel good, light-headed, a bit dizzy, but good. Brad must have had three drinks to John Henry’s one and appeared to have every inten¬tion of widening the margin. He was smashed.
“Well?” Brad said, his head cocked to one side and smiling comically, his nose not a foot from John Henry’s face.
“‘Well,’ what, my friend?” John Henry smiled and drew back against the wall.
“Well, ain’t this about th’ greatest place in the whole American state of New Mexico? You haven’t told me what you think about it.”
“It’s a dandy spot; you sure can pick ‘em.” John Henry smiled thinly. “But I think we’ve just about drunk the place dry.” He wondered how his shoulders could be so heavy when his head felt so light.
“Not hardly!” With this, Brad raised his cup and brought it down hard on the table, sloshing the remaining liquid on the table, the floor and himself. The room was in¬stant¬ly quiet, every head in the room turned toward Brad.
Brad was beyond noticing. He drained the few remaining drops and raised the cup high. His head was down, and he was oblivious of the eyes on him. John Henry felt pinned to the wall by the eyes. There was no merriment on the faces, no indulgent smiles. He had not noticed before that they were all Mexican faces.
A voice. Another. A laugh, conversation. Couples re¬turned to their dancing, and the din resumed. It had been only a moment, but to John Henry it was hours.
“Brad, what d’you say we get some air? It’s blue in here.”
“Ya havin’ trouble breathin’? Look, if ya’ get down here close t’ th’ table”—Brad leaned over the table until his nose was flattened on the tabletop—“th’ air is better.” His arm remained stretched straight up, the empty cup waving in the air.
“All right, I’ll try it. What d’ you say we try another place? This place is getting crowded.”
Brad sat up, turned on his stool to look toward the bar on the far side of the room. His arm was still in the air. He waved the empty cup.
“Agardentee!” he shouted at no one in particular.
The room was suddenly silent. Dancers stopped. Mexican eyes again glared at Brad. John Henry again shrank under their gaze. Why, he asked himself? Brad isn’t the loudest one here.
“Pinche gringo,” softly, from the shadows, followed by a murmuring from different quarters. Conversation gradually resumed, but the din did not reach its previous pitch.
The bartender walked over and handed Brad a fresh drink. He took the empty cup and a coin from the handful that Brad offered him. The bartender pointed to John Henry who smiled thinly, raised his hand, palm outward, and shook his head.
Brad raised his cup and half emptied it in two gulps. “Now, what about th’ señoritas?”
“What about them?”
“What d’ya think about ‘em?”
“Well, there are sure some fine-looking women here,” said John Henry, “I’ll agree to that.” His eyes swept the room and rested on a girl standing near the wall on the left side of the room. She wore a loose-fitting brown cotton skirt and a white, short-sleeved, fitted blouse that was embroidered down the sleeves and around the low-cut neck.
She was listening to the cantina band. Her left arm was across her waist, the hand cupping her right elbow, her right hand on her cheek. She leaned against a table, and her shoulders swayed with the music. Her waist-length hair, pulled back and tied neatly, waved gently with the rhythm.
Her face was clean of the paint he had seen other Mexican women wear¬ing. Her nose was small, and John Henry swore that he saw candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. Even at this distance, he could almost feel the softness of her cheeks. The lips of a perfect mouth were parted, as if she were singing softly.
Shortly after they arrived—had it been minutes, or hours, or days?—he had caught her eye as she cleaned a nearby table, and she had turned away quickly. Later, as she worked across the room, he had stared until she looked his way. This time, she did not look away. She returned his stare, then as she moved away, smiled a little smile, looking at him from the corner of her eyes.
“Not that one, ya dummy, she’s a servin’ girl. I mean those.” Brad pulled roughly at John Henry’s sleeve and gestured toward the other side of the room. Three women were dancing with partners and two others, sipping drinks, leaned against the bar. Their cheeks were blood-red, and their hair shone amidst swirls and combs. They wore dresses of thin, shiny silk. The dresses had no sleeves and were cut low in front, exposing most of their breasts. The women moved so gracefully that John Henry thought they could take flight.
“I’ve sure never seen nothing like that,” John Henry said.
“See! Didn’t I tell ya!” Brad beamed.
The numbers in the cantina diminished as patrons made the rounds, saying their goodnights. Those remaining just danced faster and laughed harder.
By mid¬night, few remain¬ed. Three men sat at a table near the bar, two couples danced, two men and three women stood at the bar, drinking and talking softly. Two or three sat in the shadows beyond the candlelight.
Brad emptied his glass, stood up, swayed backwards, then forwards and grasped John Henry by the arm. “C’mon, hoss, le’s dance.” He pulled at John Henry’s arm.
John Henry slowly removed Brad’s hand. His head was aching now, and his stomach was just beginning to rebel at the night’s treatment.
“No, pard, I’ve had enough and so have you. It’s time to go.” John Henry stood up, still leaning against the wall. He put his hands to his temples to stop the throbbing.
“Go?” Brad jerked upright. “Go? Hell, I hadn’t done no dancin’ yet!”
“Brad, I’ve got a terrible headache, and my stomach’s boil¬ing.”
“Okay, okay. Just one dance, and we’re on our way. Jus’ one. Promise.”
John Henry slid down the wall to his stool, his hands still on his temples. Brad weaved his way toward the bar, empty cup in hand. He collided with a chair, almost falling, and bumped into a dancing couple. He stepped back unsteadily.
“S’cuse me,” he said politely and bowed deeply. The woman smiled thinly; the vaquero frowned.
John Henry closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head and neck with both hands.
“Le duele?”
John Henry opened his eyes suddenly. The serving girl whom he had been watching was standing beside him.
“What?”
“Le duele la cabeza?” She touched his temple gently.
“Yes.” He rubbed his temples.
“Sí.”
“Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Sí.” She nodded her head and pointed at John Henry.
“Oh, sí.” John Henry smiled.
The girl smiled. She took his empty cup and wiped the table.
“Thank you,” John Henry said.
“Gracias.” She pointed at John Henry.
“Sí. Gracias.” John Henry removed his hands from his temples. She smiled and walked away. John Henry watched her go.
Brad finally reached the bar, after bumping every table, post, and customer at least once. He set his cup gently on the bar beside a pretty señorita who leaned casually against the edge.
“One for me and one for the lady,” he said to the bartender. He turned toward the woman, supporting himself by holding the edge of the bar. “How’s ‘bout this dance?” Brad gestured toward the dance floor.
The woman turned to face him. She saw his expectant look. “No, señor, es muy tarde y además ya está muy borracho.”
Brad took her arm gently and stepped away from the bar toward the dance floor. She did not move. “C’mon,” he said softly, “le’s dance.”
She replied softly, but firmly. “No, señor, esta noche no. Otra noche, posible.” She smiled and pulled her arm back, but he did not let go.
“What’s ‘is? I don’t know Mex, but I do know ‘no’!” he said loudly.
Conversation in the room ended abruptly. The dancers stopped while the musicians played on. Every eye was on Brad. Two vaqueros sitting at a table adjacent to the dance floor stood up slowly. They stepped up behind two other vaqueros who stood at the bar.
John Henry jumped up, upsetting his chair. He reeled momentarily as a sharp pain shot through his head. He stumbled past tables and chairs to the bar. He took Brad gently by the arm.
“Brad, we don’t need trouble, and you’re just about to buy some. Let’s just walk out the door quietly. Time to go.”
“Fer Chrissake, we cain’t go yet! I hadn’t even danced! I come here to drink and dance and I hadn’t danced yet!” Brad was shouting, and his face was red. His grip on the girl tightened as she tried to pull away.
Another vaquero at the nearest table to the bar stood slowly.
The bartender hurried around the end of the bar and spoke to John Henry. “No es primera vez que viene aquí su amigo, pero nunca se ha portado así.” John Henry shook his head, squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his temples. He wanted desperately to understand, but he understood nothing.
The bartender motioned to the musicians, and the music stopped. He put his hand lightly on Brad’s arm that held the girl. “Ya es muy tarde, señor. Estamos cerrando. Otra noche mejor.” He applied the slightest pressure to Brad’s arm, pulling it away from the girl.
“He-e-e-e-e-ey, hey, hey, what’s ‘is, what’s ‘is? I bin drinkin’ yer rot’gut all night, ya never minded ‘at, now I wanna dance, ya stop th’ music and take away th’ wimmin. No deal! No deal!” Brad’s face was deep red, con¬torted.
It was a face that John Henry had never seen, and he was shaken. “Let’s go, Brad. It’s not important. We’ll come back another day. We’ll go to another cantina now. We’ll try to get into Tules’s place. C’mon, you said you wanted to go to Tules’s some time to gamble with the big boys.”
“No, by God! They got no right!” He released the girl and jerked loose from the bartender and John Henry. He stood spraddle-legged and weaving. Five vaqueros faced Brad and John Henry. They moved a step closer.
“Brad, if we don’t go now, we’ve got real trouble,” John Henry said softly. “It’s not worth it. Will you go with me now, because I’m asking you?”
“Leave him be.”
John Henry wheeled around. The voice was soft and firm. The figure was at the edge of the candlelight. His face was obscured. John Henry squint¬ed, but could not make him out.
The figure stepped into the light. John Henry recognized Dougal. Everyone in John Henry’s unit knew Dougal, but no one called him friend. A model soldier on the post and in the ranks, Dougal, muscular and stoop-shouldered, had a reputation for brawling in town. He walked over slowly.
“Leave him be,” he said again. “Th’ greasers ain’t goin’ t’ close this place if that’s what they’re aiming to do, not if an American soldier wants it open. We own this country, and we’re callin’ th’ shots.”
John Henry had already tangled with Dougal. On the long trail from Fort Leavenworth to Santa Fé, the troopers one evening were besieged by mosquitoes. “Here, pull up closer to the fire, John Henry?” Eddy was a career soldier, a small man who was content to do his duty day by day and take whatever providence served him. He tolerated life, and he was univer¬sally liked by his comrades. “We’ve decided this country is good for nothing but to grow Indians, gnats and mosqui¬toes, every one as pesky as th’ others.”
“Well, you said it, Eddy,” John Henry replied. “This is their territory. Every¬thing is fit for them, and that’s just the way they like it. They don’t see many critters not like themselves coming through here. Right now, they’re just coming visiting, to find out what you’re doing here. You’re sitting right in the middle of their parlor, you know. You can’t expect ‘em not to be curious. Maybe a little upset.”
“What’re we talking about, muskeeters or In-dins?” said a voice from behind. The soldiers turned toward the voice. The speaker was sitting back from the campfire, at the edge of the circle of light. As the low flame waved and flared, the shadows played about the trooper’s face. He had not taken part in the conversation until now. It was Dougal.
John Henry turned back to the fire. “Both, I suppose,” he said, “they both seem to live where it pleases them, and anybody who invades their territory better watch out.”
The others nodded assent, but Dougal responded, “You’re not suggesting that In-dins have any claim on the land, are you?”
“They sure don’t have a property deed paper, if that’s what you mean,” John Henry said. He did not want to argue with Dougal. He had avoided so far being drawn into any of his frequent disputes. They were never useful. Dougal would admit no con¬trary view to his own.
“No, they don’t have no paper, and they don’t have no rights. People have rights, and In-dins ain’t hardly people. They’re just part of the country that has to be whipped down before civilized people can take over. If a tree’s in a farmer’s way, he cuts it down. If a muskeeter buzzes ‘round your head, you swat it. If a In-din gits in the way, you cut the savage down.” The others chuckled, but Dougal’s grim face told them that he was not making casual jokes.
John Henry did not reply. The conversation soon drifted back to the hard lot of the overworked, underfed soldier. After a minute of this, John Henry glanced back at Dougal and saw by the dancing firelight that his eyes were still fixed on him.
“Dougal,” John Henry said, “you know damn well that if we don’t walk out of here right now, we’re going to get bloodied up and thrown out in a basket. What’s right or not right doesn’t matter at this point.”
“Oh, it don’t? I say it does,” Dougal said, “and I say the three of us can handle the lot of th’ greasers if it comes to that.” Dougal was looking at the half dozen vaqueros that now confronted them. He turned to John Henry and looked him in the eye. “Or is there only two of us here?”
Dougal stepped up beside Brad, who managed to look both resolute and confused. John Henry stood beside and slightly behind Brad. He looked at Brad, then at the vaqueros. It was too late.
No one spoke.
Then: “No hay otro modo?”
“No que yo vea.”
The Mexicans spoke softly to each other, but their eyes were on the soldiers. Lightning bolts pierced John Henry’s head, and the pain throbbed like it was alive.
“Vamos a tener dificultades.”
“Ni modo, no hay otra.”
“No!” said the bartender. The vaqueros ignored him.
“Estamos de acuerdo. Cuando diga.” The speaker paused, then . . .
“Ahora!”
The Mexicans charged the soldiers, and all went down. Brad wrestled with a heavy vaquero who had put a shoulder in his chest. Dougal sprang up, pulled a Mexican to his feet, then floored him with a punch to his jaw. John Henry struggled to his feet, confused. A vaquero who had scrambled up beside him grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his side. John Henry felt a sharp pain in his stomach, then a sensation of falling slowly into a well that became wider and darker as he spun downward.
Señora Santa Ana,
por qué llora el niño?
--Por una manzana
que se le ha perdido
--Si llora por una,
yo le daré dos,
para que se duerma
como el Niño Dios.
The song was clear and sweet and surrounded him, but where was it? It was beside him, then only faintly heard from a distance. Then it was gone, and there was nothing but the darkness. He slept.
Later, how much later he could not say, John Henry opened his eyes. It was daylight. He saw a smooth earthen floor covered with a dark-colored carpet and a sideways doorway, the shade of a porch, and beyond, the glare of sun on the yard and an adobe wall. He lay on his back on a low bed. No, it was a mattress on the floor. He rubbed his eyes. What is this place?
He closed his eyes tightly, squeezing the cobwebs from his head. He pulled at the edges until he remembered. He opened his eyes and saw the same open door and sandy yard. There were patches of green at the base of the wall. One of the patches bore red blossoms. Roses. He pushed off the light blanket that covered him. He was wearing what seemed to be white cotton pajama bottoms.
The room was cool. The expanse of the whitewashed wall opposite the door was broken by one small window. The only furniture besides the bed was a long, low chest against another wall. The sides and top of the chest were carved, but he could not make out the design. Otherwise, the chest was unfin¬ished. A small crucifix on the wall over the chest was the room’s only adorn¬ment.
He listened, but not a sound could he hear. Is this place lived in? Have I been abandoned, he asked himself.
There! A bird song. A mockingbird! The sweet song of a mockingbird, the first he had heard since leaving Missouri. Oh, what a heavenly song!
He listened, staring at the ceiling. Then, mingling with the bird’s call, that other song:
Señora Santa Ana,
por qué llora el niño?
--Por una manzana
que se le ha perdido.
Just as the song ended, he heard the regular pat-pat-pat that was now as familiar to him as a cock’s crow. Someone was making tortillas. He rolled on his side to face the door.
“Ah!” A sharp pain shot through his chest.
The pat-pat-pat stopped. No sound an¬nounced her, but he knew she was coming.
She stepped into the doorway and stopped. She smiled down at him. She was wearing the same cotton blouse and skirt she had worn last night. She was barefoot.
“Pensé que ibas a dormir todo el día.”
John Henry sat up, holding his side, and pushed back slowly to lean against the wall. He smiled as she walked to the bed. Immediately, an old woman, wrinkled and angular, appeared in the doorway. She wore a limp black cotton dress and an expression to match. Her arms were folded across her chest. She glared at John Henry.
“Te duele la cabeza?” The girl touched his temple.
“No, my head . . . Gracias, no.” He took her hand. “Gracias . . . for this.” He touched the pajamas. She slowly withdrew her hand.
“Bueno.” She smiled at him. “Tienes hambre? Seguro que tienes hambre.”
“Este no es propio!” said the old woman.
The girl did not turn. “Anda y càllate, tía. Tú qué sabes!”
John Henry glanced past the girl to the old woman.
“No importa,” Morita said. “Voy a traerte algo de desayuno.” She made signs of eating.
“Th . . . Gracias.”
The girl turned to go and walked from the room. The old woman glared at him a moment longer, then withdrew from the doorway.
John Henry slid down on the bed and pulled the blanket to his chin. He smiled and closed his eyes.
“Abre los ojos, ven a comer algo. En qué estás pensando? A qué viene esa sonrisa?” The girl stood beside the bed, holding a tray. John Henry opened his eyes and smiled. He sat up, slid backwards to sit with his back to the wall. He smoothed the blanket across his lap.
“Ah, what luxury, a beautiful woman and breakfast in bed.”
“Qué dices?” She looked at him questioningly. “No importa.” She set the tray gently on his legs. John Henry took her hand and held it.
“You sweet thing. I wish I could talk with you.”
“Qué dices? No sabes hablar?” Her tone was serious, but a smile played about her lips. “Si no me dejas ir, nunca vas a desayunar.”
John Henry tried to pull her gently to him, but she withdrew her hand, shaking her head slowly and smiling impishly as she backed away.
“Ahora, come! Crees que te lo traje nomás para que lo vieras?” She paused as she passed through the doorway and looked back at him. The sunlight from the yard outlined her legs through the thin dress. She smiled and walked away.
He stared through the doorway where he saw her last, and the shade of the porch and the dusty, glaring yard beyond with its scattered green patches along the adobe wall.
He smiled. She was singing again.
He turned back to the tray. He still gripped the sides. There were tortillas with meat and chili, a peach and apricots, and a cup of chocolate.
He was famished and ate as if he had not eaten in days. When he was finished, he held the tipped cup to his mouth to drain the last drops of the rich chocolate. He replaced the cup gently on the tray and set the tray on the floor beside the mattress. He put his hands on his stomach, patted it with both hands, then slid down on the bed, his arms extended and his head on the pillow. In less than a minute, he was asleep.
An hour later, the girl awakened him. She laid his clothes on the bed. The old woman stood stiffly at the door.
“Adiós,” the girl said. “Gracias.” She turned and walked out, followed by the old woman.
The next night, John Henry went alone to the cantina. He opened the door slowly and stepped in. He stood in the shadow near the door and looked about the room. Some vaqueros sitting at a table near the bar turned and glared at him. The bartender saw him and saluted him gravely with a raised hand. He pointed to the table where he had sat last night. John Henry returned his wave and walked to the table.
He looked around. She was not there.
He stayed all evening. He stayed until every other patron had left, but she did not come.
John Henry walked toward the door.
“Adiós, amigo,” the bartender said.
“Adiós,” John Henry said, “gracias.”
The following evening, John Henry went again to the cantina. Brad had agreed to take his duty for him. When he arrived at the cantina door, he hesitated, reached for the door latch, stepped back, reached for the latch and opened it. He stepped inside. She was standing across the room, looking straight at him. She smiled and walked to the table where he had sat the first night. John Henry walked over and sat down. It was early. The cantina was empty but for two vaqueros who were talking softly with the bartender.
“Can you sit down?” he said. She looked blankly at him. He pointed at the stool beside him. She looked toward the bartender, who nodded, then sat down slowly.
“Why weren’t you here last night?”
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“Por qué . . . antes?” Why . . . before?
“Antes? Quires deir, anoche? Esturiste aquí anoche. Me lo dijo José.” It was John Henry’s turn to look blankly.
“José, ese José.” She pointed toward the bar.
”José!” she called. The bartender smiled and held up his hand in greeting. The vaqueros did not smile.
“Por qué? . . . anoche. Anoche?” Why? . . . last night. Last night?
“Sí. Anoche. Esture enferma.” She rubbed her stomach, then turned her head to the side and put her arm across her forehead. She dropped her arm and giggled, putting her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, you were sick. . . . enferma?” He pronounced it slowly, imitating her pronunciation. “Are you okay now? Bueno now?”
“Si. Bueno. Okay.” She smiled broadly.
They looked at each other a moment. She smiled.
“Tus amigos están bien? Brad, se llama, y el otro?”
“Brad? He’s okay, banged up a little.” John Henry touched his hand to his cheek, his nose, and his chest.
Morita smiled. They looked at each other.
“What is your name?” he asked. She smiled slightly and shrugged her shoulders.
“My name,” he said, pointing at his chest, “is John.”
“John,” she said. “John? Juanito!” She touched his chest gently. “Juanito.” He took her hand and held it.
“Me llama Morita.”
“Morita,” he repeated softly.
“Tengo mucho que hacer.” She pulled her hand back and stood up. “Quienes un bebida?” She made a drinking motion. He smiled and shook his head.
“Y tú qué quienes, Juanito?” What do you want, Juanito?
“Morita.”
“No Morita.” She smiled playfully. “Aguardiente.”
“Aguardiente.”
He watched her walk to the bar. She leaned against the bar and turned to look at him as the bartender poured his drink. She brought the cup to him, put it on the table, took his coin, and walked away.
John Henry sat alone at his table while the little cantina filled. His eyes followed her as she waited on other patrons, all Mexican, as she walked to the bar, as she waited for drinks, and as she took the drinks to tables. She often glanced toward him and could not suppress a smile. Customers noticed and followed her glance to John Henry. They did not smile.
John Henry sipped his aguardiente slowly. His body floated, and his head spun. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself.
“Otro vez te guedaste dormido, Juanito?” Sleeping? John Henry jumped and opened his eyes. Morita stood by his side. She tilted her head and put her head in her hand.
“Dormido? No. No dormido,” he said. No sleeping. “Dreaming.” She shrugged.
“Otra?” Another? She pointed at his glass. He gently touched her outstretched hand.
“Morita?” He held her hand gently.
“Qué?” What? She slowly withdrew her hand.
“Otra.” Another. He pointed at his cup. She smiled, took it and walked toward the bar.
The cantina was almost empty. John Henry was the sole patron. José, the bartender, Morita and another serving woman stacked dishes behind the bar. Morita walked to John Henry’s table.
“Hora de irse, Juanito. Ya puedes irte a dormir.” She tilted her head in her hand and pointed at John Henry.
“Morita?” he said.
“Morita, Morita,” she said, smiling, “y qué tal Morita?”
“Morita. Can I go with you to your house?”
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“Morita and John . . . Juanito. Morita’s house . . . casa?” John Henry pointed to Morita and to his chest, then pointed at the door.
“Mi casa! Quierez venir a mi casa? Oh Juanito, me gustaría por tú venir a mi casa, pero . . . te quiero Juanito, pero . . . no, Juanito.” She touched his hand tenderly. “No, Juanito, lo siento.”
“No.” John Henry sighed. “Okay.” He took her hand only for a moment, then released it. He stood up. “Adiós, Morita.” He walked to the door.
“For-ward, march!” shouted the sergeant. The squad stepped off in broken unison in the field that the army had commandeered for drill. John Henry kept his eyes front and walked woodenly. Drill had never bothered him before. Sometimes it had stoked his patriotic fervor; sometimes it was even fun. But now it was irksome. He endured it, and when it was done, and they were dismissed, he walked off the parade alone.
“Hey, Johnny!” Brad shouted.
John Henry continued walking, ignoring Brad’s call.
He walked slowly to the upper end of Santa Fé and sat down on the bank of the acequia. He watched the life-giving stream splash and eddy as it flowed by, bound for the fields and homes of Santa Fé.
A half dozen patrons sat at tables and talked softly in the gloom. Morita set her tray on the bar. She put two cups on the bar and turned away. The door creaked and opened slowly. She started at the noise, smiled hesitantly and took a step toward the entrance. A vaquero came in. Morita stopped. She glanced at José who had watched her with concern all evening. She turned away.
John Henry leaned against the corral, cradling his musket loosely on his arm. He stared at the shadows of corral timbers cast on the ground by the dying sun on the horizon behind him. His head lowered. “Morita,” he said softly.
John Henry stood in the deep shadow of an adobe across from the cantina door. For the last hour, he had watched patrons entering and leaving. He walked slowly across the road. He stopped at the door. He pondered. He slowly slipped the latch and opened the door. He stood in the opening. Morita was wiping a table across the room. She looked up and saw him. She straightened and smiled broadly. She dropped the towel on the table and walked quickly to the table where he had sat.
John Henry hurried to the table. He felt light as a feather.
“Buenas tarde,” good evening, he said.
“Hello,” she replied. They laughed.
John Henry sat down. She leaned against the table. John Henry touched her arm, traced his fingers down her arm and took her hand. Morita turned to look at José. He smiled.
“Morita?” John Henry said.
“Sí. Juanito?”
“Sí. Aguardiente.”
“Sí. Aguardiente.”
Morita walked to the bar and spoke to José. Two vaqueros who stood at the bar frowned at her. A woman who leaned on the bar looked quizzically at her and turned her back to her. Morita glared at the vaqueros. She put her hand on the woman’s arm and pulled her around to face her. Morita raised her chin to the three and turned back to José. Another woman who had just walked up to the bar raised an eyebrow to Morita and smiled.
When the last patron had left and the tables cleared, Morita and John Henry left the cantina together. In the dark street, John Henry took her hand and she turned to him. They kissed tenderly and embraced.
Morita pulled back. “Mi casa?” she said seriously, but her eyes twinkled.
“Si. Your casa.”
She laughed, and they ran down the road into the darkness, hand in hand.
The days that followed were a dreamy idyll in which day was but an interval without substance between nights. John Henry performed his work dutifully, he was cooperative, and he was happy, blissfully happy. Evenings, he spent with Morita, a few nights also when he dared and when Brad agreed to share the risk by covering for him.
The risk was considerable. They knew—indeed the entire army and the town knew—what had happened to one troublesome fellow recently. A court-martial had sentenced him to six months’ hard labor with ball and chain. That was to be followed by ten days of solitary confinement on a diet of bread and water at reduced pay. When all this was finished, he was to be dishonorably dis¬charged from the army.
John Henry walked to his customary table. He waved to José, who saluted him. A vaquero waved and spoke to him. Others waved. He said a few words of Spanish to them. Morita saw John Henry and hurried to his table. Patrons smiled at each other.
A vaquero called to Morita: “Ey Morita, ven aquí! Necisitamos más aguardiente!” Everyone laughed.
“Morita, ayudeme por un minuto!” a woman behind the bar called. More laughter. John Henry smiled.
“Juanito, vamos a la cantina de Tules. Yo conozco las muchachas allá!” another patron shouted.
“Juanito, hay una muchacha se llama Lupe. Está bien para tí. Vamanos!” from another.
“Estonces, ven,” Morita said. “Tal vez ellá enseña algo. Necisitas ayuda.” Loud laughter and back-slapping.
A woman at the bar responded. “Morita, ven aquí, y te digo sobre del amor—y otras cosas.” Loud laughter.
“Si tu sabes hacer el amor,” Morita said, “has lo más que pue das porque pronto se te descolorar tu belleza y estorás vendiendo jabónes en el bazaar.” Table-thumping laughter. John Henry joined in. He laughed because he was happy. He understood nothing.
Each evening, except when he was on duty, John Henry went to the cantina, sipped his drink and watched Morita work. The Mexicans whom he saw there regularly, bartender, musicians, vaqueros, townspeople, had resented him, a gringo, part of the invading army. But many of them had known Morita for years, and they saw love in her eyes when she spoke to him. They came to know him and welcomed him with smiles and greetings that he began gradually to understand and to which he soon was able to reply. They would look at Morita when he came in, smile and exchange knowing glances.
Morita responded with a feigned haughtiness or real shyness. Sometimes, when there were only friends in the cantina, she replied with good-natured contempt, suggesting that a particular male tormentor was incapable of love or making love and that a female tormentor had better follow her example soon for her beauty was fast fading. Taunts and jeers mixed with hearty laughter and good aguardiente and rapid-fire Spanish that John Henry knew was for his benefit since the speakers often gestured toward him. John Henry was warmed by the aguardiente and their friendship, and he felt secure.
Each night, John Henry and Morita walked together, hand in hand, to her home. Morita was a pixie, full of life. She danced barefoot in the street, bathed in moonlight, swinging her sandals, forcing John Henry to frolic with her. Then they would stop and cling to each other and kiss softly.
In the coolness of her room, they undressed each other and went to her bed where they made love. Then they lay uncovered, whispering love in two lan¬guages, under¬standing nothing and everything.
The evenings always ended too soon. John Henry would get out of bed slowly, trying not to disturb her. Sometimes, when she had fallen asleep, she awakened and watched him dress in the moon glow that filtered into the room through the open door and window.
When he was ready to go, he would come to the bed. She would sit up, take his face in her hands and kiss him. Then she would get up and walk to the door with him and stand there and watch him as he walked to the gate. He would turn at the gate to see her once more, her naked body dimly illuminated by the moonlight. Then he would go, her image burned on his memory, and it would remain there until he saw her again.
Story inspired by life of the author's great grandfather, a Black Cowboy who kidnapped his Native American bride after a cattle drive from Waco, TX to Dodge City, KS. Their story, him a master horseman and her a trained to be a healer with herbs and
