Colonel Childress drafted a bill of sale in duplicate: a used calash and team for a red cart and draft horse. He waved it in the air to dry the ink.
“Now, child, I want you to take this to him. Awaken him from his slumbers, do you understand?”
“I shouldn’t do that, señor.”
“Why not, Carmelita?”
“He is not himself. He will peer at me with big eyes, black holes, as if all color has left them, and he will frown, groan, and fall back into his bed.”
“And where is the señora? Does she sleep into the afternoons like the don?”
The girl shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“My little Carmelita, chickadee, listen carefully. Tell Don Amelio that the British Viceroy of Grenadine, Grand Bahama, Great Inagua, and Rum Cay requires the calash on urgent business for Her Majesty, the queen, and in return he will receive the Order of the Garter and a handsome red cart.”
“I can’t remember all that, señor, and I’m afraid …”
“Write it down.”
“I can’t read, señor.”
“Then remember it. Queen Victoria’s viceroy. Quick now, and don’t forget the pen and ink!”
She looked ready to bolt. “Remember the monkey,” he said. “It’s yours if you can keep it.”
“Don Amelio doesn’t like to be awakened after he has been smoking the pipe, señor. I might lose my position.”
“It’s a national crisis. I am saving Mexico from conquest.”
She stared long and solemnly at him, sighed, plucked up the papers and the ink bottle and quill, and slowly headed for the stairway leading upward to—who knows what?
He hoped the señora would not appear.
It took an infernally long time, and he paced the room, oblivious of its colonial charm, the whitewashed adobe, the mission-style furniture, the bultos, and the Navajo rugs scattered about.
Then at last she slipped down the stairs, looking rumpled.
“Let me see it, child!” He snatched the papers from her.
There, in a shaky hand, was a signature, barely legible. And another, on the other sheet.
“Ah! He agrees! Take this! He gets one copy, I keep the other. Now, my child, you must tell me what happened.”
She dimpled up. “He was fast asleep, señor, so I shook him gently, and he said, ‘not again, witch,’ and I said there is a nobleman from England who wants your calash, and he said, ‘bother,’ and rolled over, and I said it was a national crisis and you were the viceroy of … all that. And he said some cruel things to me, reached for the quill and bottle, and made the signs, señor viceroy. Do I get my monkey?”
“Of course, of course, if you can keep him.”
He walked to the great front door. “Shine, fetch!”
The little beast leapt off the Clydesdale, bounded inside, evoking a squeal, and began ransacking the establishment. He fastened upon a silver salt cellar, and leaped up to a mantel to shake it.
Carmelita trailed him, twittering and laughing.
“See now, child, it is better than having a niño. Catch him if you can.”
Childress hurried outside, led the Clydesdale to a nearby
pen and unharnessed it, and then returned to the calash and its weary team, studying the powerful black horses and the ebony carriage with its yellow wheels. Yes, perfect. The black calfskin leather was new and soft, the shining lacquer showed no scuffs or chips, and the hood raised and folded easily.
He wondered how long the poor horses had been standing there, decided to do something about it, unhitched them, led them to a watering trough, where they sipped water furiously. When he judged that they were again in good fettle, he hooked the chains to the doubletree.
“Shine,” he bellowed.
Nothing happened, and at once he was worried.
But then the hairy little rascal flew out of an open window, hung on a shutter as it swung, and landed on the ground, clutching something shiny.
But now it was confused. It eyed the ebony carriage and two sleek black trotters, hunted for the red cart, and discovered the Clydesdale unharnessed.
“Shine!” he bawled, but the monkey leaped up to the Clydesdale’s broad back, patted his friend, chittered softly in the ear of the giant horse, rubbed his eyes with his free hand, combed the mane, and reluctantly swung to the ground, not happy.
The big horse nickered affectionately, and clacked its teeth.
But what did it matter? “Shine, we are the masters of our fate,” Childress said. “I am Lord Childress, viceroy of the universe.”
The spider monkey glared at him, and pitched the shiny object to the dirt. It was a salt cellar.
“I always have sat above the salt,” Childress said, cheerfully.
He discovered Carmelita at the great door, oozing tears down honey-colored cheeks, weeping sadly. That innocent child did want a monkey and was tricked, but all that could not be avoided. He snapped the lines over the backs of the
two trotters and was rewarded by a swift tug and the soft sway of the calash as it rounded the long circular drive out to the dusty road. He had things to do, and little time. Within days, his friend Skye would be drawing a black bean or a white bean.
Childress drove his fine calash back to the plaza, while his monkey sat on the seat beside him, studying his new conveyance and sucking his fingers. It knew better than to jump onto the backs of the trotters.
Slowly, the Colonel drove around the plaza looking for a cobbler. He eyed the windows, and cased the few second-floor quarters, but he could not find a maker of boots. He tried each side street, wheeling up clay alleys, stirring up the floury clay, looking for anyone who might have footwear. Finally he asked an old woman, and she pointed back at the plaza. He parked his calash and undertook to survey the plaza on his bare feet, but could find no bootmaker. The Mexicans mostly wore sandals or slippers that looked very similar to Indian moccasins. The few caballeros who had boots probably had them custom made in Santa Fe. Childress sighed. Very well, it would be Larrimer, then.
He entered the cool store, enjoying the redolence of leather and fabric and coffee beans.
Larrimer approached. “They let you out, Brother Childress, eh?” he said, coldly.
“Mr. Larrimer, I am in dire need of some boots, or at least shoes, and you have some ready-mades, I believe?”
“Show me some cash and I’ll show you some boots.”
“I haven’t a cent. The Apaches made off with everything.”
“Even your habit, I see. Unless you’ve renounced your orders and taken up with some woman.” Larrimer’s thick eyebrow shot upward.
“I regret announcing that I was a monk; I was desperate,” Childress said.
“You might have won some sympathy by saying so. But not now, Childress. Not ever.”
The Colonel knew he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he tried a new tack. “Mr. Larrimer, I have a fine trading outfit on the Arkansas River, just across the international boundary. We do a business with the Utes especially. Childress and McIntyre, sir. I only regret that whatever I say will meet with skepticism because of my previous indiscretions. But it is so. And I would most eagerly give you a chit for merchandise from our stores in exchange for boots. In fact, sir, merchandise worth ten times the price of your boots.”
The odd thing was that Larrimer did not laugh.
“Well? My goods are, what, a hundred miles distant? I’ll add something for transportation.”
“What’s there?”
“Blankets, kettles, axes, hatchets, knives, saws, a few rifles, flints and steels, bed ticking, flannels, calico, salt, molasses, pure grain spirits, tobacco in plug and leaf form, vermilion, beads, awls …”
“I suppose you’ll want some boots for Skye, too. What’s his size?”
“I don’t know,” Childress said, marveling at the man.
“You’ll want some ready-made duds for him, too, I suppose. Shoes or sandals, and some clothing. Weapons, powder, food, gear …”
What was this? Childress could scarcely fathom it. “I can draft an agreement, Mr. Larrimer.”
“How will I know your subordinates will honor it?”
“The monkey’s paw, sir. I press it into an inkpad, and press it onto the document. It’s our sign and seal, the paw of Shine.”
“What is the total worth of your stock?”
“Why, Sah, given that I haven’t been there for some little while, I can’t say. But perhaps three thousand at wholesale.”
Larrimer grinned, and not kindly. “All right. You sell me your goods and the premises, and I will outfit you and Skye up to three hundred.”
“But … but …” Larrimer would profit tenfold.
“I know it’s there, Childress. You don’t have to persuade me. Childress and McIntyre Traders. Several travelers have reported the place to me. I even know what prices you charge, how many men you have, and what tribes are camped there. I’m willing to gamble.”
“Ah, would you keep my help employed?”
“Your Texas pirates? No, I’ll send my own man to operate the place. He’ll take inventory … and if there’s trouble, be warned: I have my means.”
“Mr. Larrimer, Sah, done!”
Larrimer grinned sardonically.