Nothing in Skye’s previous life had prepared him for the mortification of being marched naked through a public place. To strip away his clothes was to strip away his mortality, reduce him to an animal.
Some of those who first saw him turned away, and he was grateful to them. But others stared, rapt, at the sight of him, and he had no defense against it. He finally stared back, eye for eye, one by one, and many of those who watched found themselves facing an intense stare, until they too fell away, embarrassed.
But then he had come to Childress, perched on his red cart, the author of his troubles, and so he stared at Childress too, a gaze so relentless that not even that fat fraud could endure it. And so it had passed, and the harm that came to him was not to his body, but to his spirit. The guard took him back to the room from whence he had emerged, and they untied his hands. His aching arms fell to his side and he massaged them.
Larrimer was still there, compelled to translate, and Archuleta stood by, a certain amused look in his dark eyes.
“You’re to put on the duds,” Larrimer said.
They handed Skye some pantalones of coarse hard cloth,
and a shirt of the same material. He donned them gratefully, feeling himself a human being once again.
Archuleta murmured other things, and Larrimer translated.
“You’re going to Santa Fe now for a trial. Governor Armijo will preside.”
“I want my wife with me.”
Larrimer consulted. “He says that’s not possible.”
“A man on trial is entitled to see his family.”
“He says fate has decreed otherwise. Spies do not receive such blessings.”
Skye started to protest his innocence, recite his intentions in coming here, but he held his peace. That litany would get him nowhere.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
This time Archuleta was more specific. “In the care of Padre Martinez,” Larrimer said. “She will be employed, and her friend as well, in peaceful labor suitable for an Indian woman.”
“What if she wants to go home?”
That produced a long exchange, and then Larrimer said, “She cannot, for her own good. The republic and the church must look after her body and soul, and put her to productive labor, so that she might see God.”
“Slavery.”
Larrimer did not translate, and Archuleta did not ask what was said. But he knew, anyway. “Slavery is forbidden in Mexico, by the republic, by the church,” he said. Larrimer translated.
“Will she be in service at the padre’s house?”
“No,” Larrimer said at last, “she will be placed with a hacendado as soon as she shows evidence that she accepts her new life. And the same for the other woman. They will be separated, to avoid small difficulties.”
“And does she have a choice?”
“No, she’s in debt for her food and shelter and some clothing that was given her. So is the Cheyenne woman. He says that in Mexico these things must be paid with labor, and it is a criminal act to run from creditors. Mexican law is strict and just and virtuous, protecting all. The alcalde says that these things will all be decided for the good of the women.”
“Are they going to feed me?”
Archuleta shrugged. He seemed to have understood more English than he admitted to understanding.
“How many days to Santa Fe?” Skye asked.
“Quatro, cinco,” the prefect said, not waiting for translation. He turned to the three soldiers, addressed them at length, in curt tones, obviously admonishing them to be on guard with this dangerous man, and then sent them off.
They marched him south along smooth clay streets that did his feet no harm, perhaps because many hundreds of bare feet tramped them each day. Four or five days along unpaved and stony trails. Skye wondered how long his bare feet would last. Three of the soldiers were on foot, one ahead, two lancers behind. But then another, a corporal, appeared on a horse. He wore a cutlass. There would be no chance of outrunning that one. They all wore the blue and white of the republic, but not shoes or boots. These men wore sandals, as did so many in Mexico. But at least they had thick cowhide under their feet.
The countryside immediately south of Taos took his breath away. He had not expected beauty, but there it was: the dark reaches of the Sangre de Cristos to the east, the golden plain, the bright green vegetation below, the pastures of lime-colored grasses, sheep, cattle, burros.
They passed a few peasants, cheerful and sunny people who stared at him and whispered. Many carried enormous burdens on their backs. One lashed at a burro drawing a creaky carreta full of fragrant green hay.
A great adobe church loomed to the southeast, its twin towers golden in the sun, its beauty utterly amazing to Skye.
This lovely building had been lovingly fashioned from the very earth by these people, and Skye found himself admiring these Mexicans for their artistry and industry.
A great peace seemed to radiate from the church, and he sensed its holiness and sacredness. Not a soul entered through its massive doors, and it seemed to slumber there in the strong light of the noonday.
The smooth path and the church lifted him for the first time, and he began to think about things: how might he free Victoria and Standing Alone? He knew where they were—for the moment. How might he escape this escort? And if he did, how might he avoid swift recapture? The odds were terrible, and even worse for finding his wife and Cheyenne friend and spiriting them all out of Mexico, barefoot.
Whatever else he needed to survive, shoes or sandals would be high on the list. He began to observe what lay alongside the trail, something, anything that might spare a barefooted man anguish. But there was only rock and cactus and sticks.
The terrain changed; the soft dusty clay of the path yielded to sharp-edged rock patched with prickly pear, and his feet knew it at once. He stubbed a toe, and limped. Then he cut a sole on a tiny shard of rock projecting upward invisibly, and left blood in his steps. His left foot hurt, and he began to limp. A soldier prodded him along with the lance, enraging him. And yet … he knew he had a weapon now; his own blood.
They saw the blood, spoke among themselves, and as they did he slowed. His first and sole defense was to slow to a crawl, go as little as possible. He winced as he walked; he didn’t need to exaggerate the pain; feet unused to being bare are easily bruised. They prodded him again, the tip of the lance poking hard into his kidney, and he hurried for a moment, and then slowed again.
Thus by degrees he slowed them, only an hour out of
Taos. The longer this walk took, the better were his chances of coming up with something, anything.
Then they prodded him again, this time angrily, and he limped forward until he stepped on a thorn, which jabbed deep into the ball of his left foot, and he bellowed. He sat down, ignoring the threats. The thorn had broken off, and was not easily removed, especially without so much as a knife.
This time the corporal shot a string of invective at him. The other two lifted him to his feet and force-marched him forward. Skye no longer had any plan at all; the pain began to rake his feet and ankles and calves, and he could scarcely imagine going through five days of this.
Two of his wounds leaked droplets of blood; no great flow of it, but enough to speckle the trail behind him. He walked as slowly and carefully as he could, ignoring the sharpness of the soldiers, who began to harry him. He had experienced much worse pain in his life, but this was repetitive, the stabs coming again and again, each step of his left foot a torment.
He sat down, and the prodding of the lances failed to budge him. They wouldn’t kill him; he was certain of it. They fell into a discussion that became an argument, and though he couldn’t grasp the words, he understood the gestures. The two foot soldiers wanted the corporal to dismount and put Skye on the horse, and the corporal was not about to surrender his comfortable seat and emolument.
Skye listened to the clash of wills, rubbed his sore foot, dabbed away the blood oozing from the broken thorn, and waited, all the while wondering if he could escape once he had the horse and the soldiers were on foot.
It was, in fact, a plan, but whether it was utterly foolhardy he didn’t really know. What would a barefoot fugitive do with a posse of the Mexican army hot on his trail?
Then, suddenly, the argument subsided. The corporal did
not dismount. One of the privates turned to Skye, talking heatedly, but Skye could grasp none of it. The man pointed at the wounded foot, unsheathed a small knife, and sent fear rocketing through Skye. But the man pantomimed what he intended: there would be some minor surgery on the trail. Reluctantly, Skye extended his leg, and the private placed the foot in his lap, with surprising gentleness. He ran a hand softly over the wounds, grinned at Skye, and held his knife ready.
Skye clenched his teeth, waited. The soldier’s deft plucking with the tip of his knife extracted the stub of the thorn, which had run deep into Skye’s sole. He held it where Skye could see it. It looked like something off a cactus. Blood oozed. The other private rummaged through his field kit for a bandage, and wrapped Skye’s foot tightly. He wished they would have cleaned it first. The bandage would help, but wouldn’t last long, not in this flinty rock. They helped Skye to his feet, a definite kindness in them, even though the corporal stared darkly at the whole process.
And so once again they began, pacing themselves to Skye’s limping. Santa Fe looked even farther away than before, but maybe there was hope in that.