The girl had eaten nothing. Although she had also refused water when it was offered, Otio had seen her take some from the canteen when she thought no one was looking. Nor had he or any of the others been able to get her to speak. Not a word. She just stared at them impassively, not even showing grief for her dead companion.
The Basques had finally decided that the young warrior was neither her husband nor a relative, but probably an escort, since they seemed to have been simply traveling from one place to another.
“I am sure it was that,” Otio said as they discussed it. “He was young. He was probably a warrior, but I do not believe that they were related, for she does not show that much sorrow.”
“And surely they were not hunting,” said Little Marc.
“No—traveling.”
“He was a handsome young man. Yes, a warrior.”
“And she,” Ciriaco noted, looking at his nephew, “is beautiful.”
“She is an Indian,” Xerxes said gruffly, catching something in Ciriaco’s tone of voice.
Ciriaco threw his hands out in an elaborate shrug. “So—she is a beautiful Indian.”
Indeed, Otio Esteban was in full agreement. He found it difficult to keep his eyes away from her. She, for her part, was completely aloof, refusing every effort at contact from the sheepherders. She lay or sat on the blankets
with her legs and hands tied only when the guard might absent himself; otherwise she was not bound.
“A princess in captivity,” Ciriaco observed.
Otio spoke to her. “We keep you captive only so you will not tell the other Indians to come and fight us because of the young man.”
The girl said nothing. Did she understand English? They tried Basque on her, but there had been no response.
“The young warrior raised his rifle,” Otio explained. “He would have killed me. If I had not shot him, I would be dead.” Otio had never been given to explaining things, but in the present situation he felt the need. But he only said it once.
When they moved camp, the girl had to be tied onto one of the mules, for she refused to walk. Indeed, it was soon apparent that she had injured her leg or foot.
“She might be pretending not to speak the language,” Ciriaco pointed out, “that is, the English.” He made a face. “No one can be expected to understand the Basque.”
“She could pretend the bad leg too.”
“For certain.”
“They are clever, the redskins.”
Now they had reached their new campsite, high up, overlooking a great expanse of plain that ended at a large stand of timber on a rise at the horizon. Otio had told them that he wanted to look at the feed on the other side of the timber, for it was not good where they were.
“How long will we keep the girl?” Xerxes asked.
“Until we have decided what we will do.”
“But how? Should we not give her to the soldiers?”
“I do not know,” Otio said, and they could see that he didn’t want to talk about it. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we must go farther south and east, over there.” He pointed toward the timber.
That night she accepted both food and water. It
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seemed that it had been during the struggle with Otio after her companion had been shot that she had been hurt, for no one remembered seeing her limp before that moment. Still, she would allow no one to examine her foot or leg, whichever it was. And so, when finally she got up and walked about the tent, it was with a limp.
That evening, Otio tried again to get her to talk, but finally had to give up. He had been sitting crosslegged, facing her, and at last he got to his feet and went to the back of the tent to rummage in a pile of robes and blankets.
For the first time since her capture the girl showed some expression on her face when she saw the guitar. Otio pretended not to notice her guarded interest as he seated himself again, crossing his legs, and began tuning the shiny instrument.
“Aah!” Ciriaco exclaimed, entering the tent.
Otio began to strum, searching himself for a song. He started to hum. It was a song of the mountains, of the lush green Pyrenees of Euzkadi, the country of the Basques. With flowing ease his deep voice formed words in his native tongue. In a moment Ciriaco joined him. Now, through the tent opening came Michel and Little Marc and Old Enrique with the twisted foot from the day he was bom. The tent was suddenly full of men singing, clapping, or just listening.
The song over, Otio stopped as gently as he had begun, and the group sat in silence finally broken by the choppy bark of a coyote.
Two of the men started to their feet.
“The coyotl sounds from the barrankua up ahead, the canyon,” said Xerxes. “But we will see.”
“Take Pinto,” Otio said, and the dog, who thought he had slipped inside the tent unnoticed, rose with his tail wagging.
“Sing more, Otio.” Ciriaco looked at the girl. “He, Otio, is our true bertsulari, our troubadour,” he said, speaking directly to her.
Otio’s fingers had already started to stroke another song. “Julio,” he sang, “Julio, bring, oh bring the xah- akua! And we will drink and sing and be wise with wonderful wine!”
Everyone clapped their hands and laughed.
The sheepmen joined now in the songs, some of which Otio made up on the spot, others they had known since their childhood. And they drank the wine—but not too much, for there were the sheep, and Otio would not allow them to forget what they were there for.
He had doubled the guard, and sent out all the dogs. He tried not to look at the girl, though he could now and again feel her eyes on them as they sang. One or two of the older men even tried a few dance steps in the cramped space, to the laughter of their companions.
Otio played as he had never played before. It was good. It was really a good moment. And he knew that he was playing and singing not only to the sheep and the sun and the moon and the sky, to the whole of life. He was singing to the girl, the girl with the deep dark brown eyes and the raven-black hair hanging along her breasts in two long braids, and to her brown skin, soft and mysterious as dusk.
He stopped playing, his fingers just reaching the end of his song, the sound melting into the silence that now took over the tent.
He looked at the shawl the girl wore around her shoulders. “I will call you Yellow Shawl,” he said.
She said nothing, yet he felt a change in her. Then Ciriaco came back into the tent; he had been looking after the sheep.
“I will take a walk,” Otio said, putting down the
guitar. He wanted to stay near the girl, but the sheep must come first, always the sheep must be first. When he returned in a little while, the herders were telling stories.
Then Ciriaco took over. He imitated the soldiers, the Indians, and Otio. In outrageous pantomine he asked the girl if she was married, if she had a man. He was remarkable and indeed graphic, and always funny. The herders rocked with laughter. And finally—none of them could believe it—a smile stole into the eyes of their captive, who instantly looked down to hide it.
With her eyes down, she spoke. “My husband is gone.”
“She speaks!”
“She speaks English language!”
Ciriaco leaned toward her. “It was him, your husband? The one killed?”
“No. Twelve moons gone from the time there was the fighting at Big Rock with the Crows.”
Otio had been wiping his guitar with a piece of cloth. Suddenly he raised his head and found the girl looking at him.
“I am Morning Flower,” she said.