December in Santa Fe. Snow glittering like alabaster helmets on the domed peaks surrounding the town. The air so thin and brittle it almost hurt the lungs to breathe and the shadow of the sundial in the center of the plaza turning paler and paler under the waning winter sun as it marked off the endless hours for the somnolent old town.
These last months had seen a radical change in the Palace. With Amado as governor, the new regime was securely seated on the throne. Both Amado and Gomez realized they needed the Lower River if they were to survive. They had made their peace with Biscara accordingly, promising not to invoke the Expulsion Law if he would insure the support of his ricos of Rio Abajo. But Gomez had seen to it that the majority of seats in the Assembly were held by men from his Upper River, thus robbing Biscara’s party of its former power.
Teresa felt that her place was now secure. She knew that Don Biscara had put in a claim for her as his rightful property, and that Governor Amado had flatly refused it. Even though Teresa did little of the work around the Palace herself, she was busy from dawn till dusk managing the host of servants in the establishment.
Almost every morning, it was the shopping. Like a clucking hen with her brood, she led half a dozen servants from the main entrance about ten o’clock. The market hugged the protection of the Palace walls and ran westward for two blocks before it ended in the field where horse traders met. Squares of dirty canvas shaded the puestos—the stalls in which the wares were displayed. At this hour in the morning the whole market was filled with a cacophony of squealing pigs and gabbling turkeys and crying vendors.
“Jaboncillos, señorita, who will buy my soap? Pink like a rose, yellow for bleaching, rice powder for the shiny nose—”
“Tamales, man, smell my tamales, see my tamales, taste my tamales….”
Face half-hidden by her rebozo, Teresa haggled over neat piles of firewood, fingered the silver pyramids of onions and garlic, smelled the freckled beans. But somehow this morning she could not put her heart into the bargaining; there was a restlessness in her that had been growing for days. She was bored with the constant round of marketing, of jabbering at lazy servants, of overseeing the cooking and the cleaning and the serving and the seemingly endless details attendant to the management of the Palace. This was not what she had bargained for. She had taken it only as another step in her quest for freedom. But it had put her up against a wall. She didn’t quite know where to turn next. In seeking the safety of the Palace, she had trapped herself within its walls.
The plaza trembled beneath the tattoo of many hoofs and she turned to see a party of trappers coming in off the trail from Taos. There were four men, leading a score of pack horses, their apishamores sagging with baled beaver pelts. In the lead Teresa recognized Vic Jares, the trapper who had been with Ryker the night Villapando was killed. Behind him was a bald little Irishman and a huge, bland-faced man with a long tomahawk swinging from his shoulder belt. Bringing up the rear was Cimarron Saunders.
Despite herself, she felt a stirring of excitement. As they passed by, she stepped out and caught Saunders’s eyes. His broad grin suddenly brought his lips to light in the glowing brier of his hoary red beard, and he pulled his horse to a halt.
“Isn’t Kelly Morgan with you?” she asked.
The grin disappeared. Saunders ran scarred fingers roughly through the curly mass of his beard, scratching his jaw. “Him and Turkey ran out on us somewhere north of the Picketwire. Said they was goin’ to Colter’s Hell. Never know where that hothead’ll jump next.”
Something poignant ran through her—a disappointment, a sense of loss so intangible she could not define it. Then her lips compressed. She was being a fool. Kelly had been nothing but a big, crude beast. If she got this sentimental over him it was better that he had not come back.
Saunders pulled his horse closer, eyes running insolently over her ripe figure. “You don’t wanta worry about him anyways, honey. Why don’t we slick up and tie on some fuforraw and traipse off to some fandango tonight?”
“Not till you wash off that beaver medicine.”
“Honey, it’ll take a month to git that smell out.”
“You learn quick, señor.”
Pulling her shawl over her bare shoulders, she turned and went back to the stalls. She heard Saunders’s booming laugh break out behind her. Then he put heels to his horse and galloped across the plaza, lifting a thin cloud of dust that made the shopping women cover their faces with shawls and the vendors curse him. She saw him join Jares and the others as they passed through the zaguán gate of the new trading post Ryker had opened on Palace Avenue, just off the plaza. Before they disappeared, a squad of lancers appeared, filing past the scrawny cottonwoods in the center of the square. Perea was in the lead, a proud and haughty figure in his handsome blue coat and glittering accouterments. He had been north on a scout and the strain and weariness of the long ride planted haggard shadows in his windburned face. He gave an order that sent the troop clattering on toward the Palace and drew his own horse to a halt before Teresa.
She looked at the insignia on his uniform and smiled. “I see you have your new bars on, Captain Perea.”
A prideful flush touched his sharp cheekbones. He dismounted, saber clattering, and bowed gallantly. She asked him about his scout. For a moment he was no longer the young gallant, but a mature soldier sobered by his knowledge. He told her the Pueblo Indians were still gathered at La Canada. They were in sullen mood and seemed to be gathering new forces and arms. The uprising was by no means over.
“Enough calamity howling. It seems like years that I was gone, Teresa. I thought of you constantly. I made up a million fine gallantries to say when I returned. Now it’s like you tied my tongue. Why am I so stupid with you? With other women I can say the pretty words and make the handsome gestures.”
Her smile softened. It was a curious relationship developing between them. At first she had been suspicious. She had met too many betrayals, had seen too much of the animal in men to believe that any relationship could be devoid of it. She knew that Perea’s attraction for her could not be completely asexual. He was a handsome, sophisticated young man with the normal appetites. He’d had more than one affair here in Santa Fe. Yet he never showed her anything but the most impeccable chivalry. He was a veritable Galahad in his devotion.
“Sometimes I think you’re being very foolish, Hilario. I think I’ll hurt you.”
“It wouldn’t matter. A man looks for something all his life, Teresa. Maybe he can’t name it even when he finds it. But when he does find it—he knows.”
“You could have any woman in town.”
“They are nothing. There’s a quality about you, Teresa. I don’t know what it is. I still can’t say whether you are a witch or an angel.”
“And if I’m a witch?”
He bowed his head. “I would still be at your mercy.”
She laughed. “We sound like a couple of poets.”
He moistened his lips, like a little boy getting up courage. “Would you consider celebrating my return? Perhaps at La Fonda, tonight.”
The thought of getting out of the Palace excited her. She smiled brilliantly. “Would you risk the jealousy of a governor?”
He answered her smile recklessly. “For you, señorita, I would risk the wrath of the devil himself.”
* * * *
With the money she had won at the monte game in Santa Cruz, Teresa had bought new clothes in the marketplace. Her snow-white camisa had short embroidered sleeves and a trimming of lace; its pleated yoke was worn off one gleaming shoulder and gave tantalizing hints of swelling breasts. She brought a tint to her cheeks by prickling them with mullen leaf, wrapped her bare shoulders in an ivory shawl with a spray of roses in its center, and stepped out of the door to meet Captain Perea at eight o’clock.
He was fresh and clean and in his dress uniform—glittering brass buttons and rich blue broadcloth and polished black leather. Together they crossed the plaza to La Fonda. This famed inn at the end of the Santa Fe Trail stood on the southeast corner of the square, a one-story building sprawled about a central patio, with a huge main gambling sala and a ballroom, and smaller rooms opening off the patio for private card games.
Dragoons from the barracks stood beside barefooted farmers at the faro table, clambering to buck the tiger with their few tostóns; minor politicians and their mistresses mingled casually with the richest of the gente fina and their wives. But it was the monte games that fascinated Teresa. The layouts were permanent, painted in gaudy colors on the bright green covering of handsome walnut tables with fantastic clawed legs to support them and fancy inlay and carving at their edges.
Captain Perea made way for her through the sweating, excited crowd. But when they had almost reached the monte table she stopped abruptly, breath catching in her throat. Standing before a gleaming pile of silver at the table was Don Tomas Biscara. He had already seen her. His thin lips pulled back off his chalky teeth in a malicious smile and he inclined his sleek black head mockingly.
“You grow bold, señorita. Is this the first time you leave the Palace without the governor’s protection?”
Perea drew himself up. “The governor is not her only protector, señor.”
Biscara turned insolently to him. “Do not let your new rank go to your head, Captain.”
A black anger ran into Perea’s face but before he could react there was a new eddy in the crowd and Teresa saw the manager of La Fonda pushing his way toward her. He was Alberto Maynez, a pompous little bluejay of a man with slack gray jowls and eyes blue-shadowed from a lifetime lived at night. He bowed and scraped before Teresa, rubbing his hands together and jabbering excitedly.
“My humble establishment is honored, señorita. The whole country thrilled to your daring gamble for the brave captain’s life, señorita. Surely you have not come to buck the bank. Such a famous gambler can only grace the house by dealing.”
Teresa knew his motive. Her gamble for Perea’s life had given her a notoriety that would benefit his tables, if she accepted his invitation. But she couldn’t help feel the excitement. The play had stopped and all the men were watching, waiting. A man clutched her arm.
“Take the cards, señorita. These men must learn what luck you bring.”
She turned to see the swarthy, bucolic face of the farmer with whom she had won from the card shark in Santa Cruz.
“I thought you would be with the Indians, Pablo.”
He flushed proudly, flattered that she remembered him. “I am Mexican, señorita,” he said. “The proper governor is in now. We are not savages, to have a wild Indian in the Palace.” He tugged at her arm again. “You will deal? You must. Your fame has spread all over Mexico. How can we lose with the cards in your hands?”
She could hesitate no longer. The sallow-faced dealer handed her the deck of forty narrow Spanish cards. She shifted her elbows to shuffle and it pulled the shawl tight over the taut swell of her breasts. It was a straight deck and she planned nothing but a legitimate deal. Yet her mind slipped automatically into the agile habits to which Johnny Cavan had conditioned her. When she was finished shuffling she knew where most of the cards in the deck lay.
Chortling like a happy baby, Pablo put seven reales on the queen. “Alza, the blond queen rides toward me.”
Insolently, Don Biscara moved a whole buckskin sack of coins onto the ace of swords. Matching his insolence with her smile, Teresa handed him the deck. He bowed his head sardonically, cutting the cards. It did little good. Her mind made the compensation and she still knew where they lay.
“All bets are down, señores,” the lookout announced. “No more play on the table.”
Teresa began to deal. The third card out of the gate was the blond queen. Pablo went into ecstasies.
“What did I tell you, compadres, with her dealing I cannot lose. She is the blond queen herself.”
It had been a straight deal, but Teresa saw what it did for Pablo. He was flushed with victory, puffed like a pouter pigeon with importance, the center of attention, a great bravo among his dozen barefooted compatriots. And she saw what it did to Biscara. His thoroughbred nostrils were pale and pinched, his thin lips compressed. To have a pobre win while he lost was hard on his pride.
She began to wonder if she could do it, right under their eyes. She hadn’t planned on it when she had shuffled. But she knew where the cards lay. And revenge would be sweet.
Pablo put all his money on the gold five, shouting good-naturedly to Biscara. “Follow me, señor. With her my luck is incredible. Bet on the gold five. You will become rich.”
But Don Biscara could not follow a pobre. Deliberately he made his bet on a trey, a pair of money bags this time. The blood began to pound at Teresa’s temples. Very well, she would accept the challenge. Her skill against Biscara’s arrogance. He was angry now and would watch her hands closely. She would have to resort to the trick, then. Misdirection, Johnny Cavan had called it. An ancient device, known to magicians, necromancers, and broad pitchers.
“All bets down, gentlemen. No more play on the table.”
She knew there was a queen and a jack on top. She gave them the bait, dealing the first two straight, matching none of the bets. She knew the next card was a trey, Biscara’s bet. But five cards beneath that was the gold five. Now was the moment. The roof of her mouth went dry and cottony; a faint sickness ran into her stomach.
In the moment before the deal, she turned her head in a coquettish motion to the right. Her jade earrings flashed into the glittering prisms of light. She saw it catch their eyes, for that single fraction of a second. Misdirection.
While their attention was diverted, her sensitive fingers did their job. The gold five came out of the deck instead of the trey. Pablo went crazy. The room echoed to his howls of delight. Men were drawn from the other tables to crowd about the layout.
“What did I tell you!” yelled Pablo. “Four to one. It is incredible. San Augustín is with me tonight.”
She knew she could not try the trick again. Biscara was white with rage and suspicion. The slightest slip might expose her. Yet, watching Pablo, it came to her how she might use this. He was from Santa Cruz, the center of the rebel forces, and would know things that never reached official ears. She leaned across the table.
“You should quit now, my friend, while you are ahead.”
He looked at her, mopping sweat from his coarse face. “Ay de mi, señorita, why should I quit when I cannot lose?”
She looked steadily into his eyes. “San Augustín himself can lose at times. A true gambler has a feeling for the cards. It should tell him when they have gone against him.”
Perhaps the fixity of her gaze conveyed the warning to him. His smile faded a moment. Then she saw it come back again, and she sensed what was going on in his mind. A true gambler, she had said. It could elevate him even higher in the esteem and awe of his simple friends. He nodded mysteriously.
“You are right. I have the feeling. The cards are not with me now.” He swept off his hat and raked the coins into it. “Come, compadres. The drinking is on me tonight. Everything is on me.”
Whooping and yelling, they left the table in a rush. But others closed the gap. Teresa was the center of a sweating, excited mob now. Perea stood protectively at her side, face shining with admiration. She knew she had to deal straight now. Biscara bet heavily again. He won a couple of deals and regained some good humor. But luck and the percentage was with Teresa. The game went on into the small hours, and Biscara lost steadily, till he had no more cash.
Pale and stiff with the nervous tension of exhaustion, he moved back from the table. She could see what an effort he exerted to maintain his ironic air.
“You have remarkable luck, señorita. It is easy to be a winner when you do not have to play again.”
“But she will play again,” Maynez insisted. The fat little manager was at her side, cajoling, wheedling. The attraction she had constituted tonight had poured money into his table. “I will offer you this layout, señorita. Think how your fame will spread. The chief monte dealer at La Fonda.”
She frowned, staring at him. The offer was unexpected, almost frightening. Yet she knew what a good dealer would make, on a percentage basis. It was the escape from the drudgery of the Palace that she had been looking for. Then she glanced at Biscara’s haughty face. Could she risk getting even this far from Amado’s immediate protection?
“I’ll consider it,” she said.
She shrugged her shawl up over tawny shoulders and Perea made way for her through the crowd. Outside, Pablo and three friends stood by the door, singing a drunken song.
“Un momento,” she told Perea. “He’s an old friend from Santa Cruz.”
She walked to the farmer and pulled him away from his friends. “You were wise to quit when you did,” she said. “Do you like to win?”
“Like to?” He was enraptured. “Señorita, when a man wins like that, he is a king. For a night he owns the world—”
“How would you like to win every time?” she asked. Again his eyes went blank. She smiled wisely. “It could be arranged, my friend, as it was arranged tonight.”
“You mean—”
“It wasn’t luck, Pablo.”
He looked at her hands. “It is hard to believe.”
“But true. And it could be done again. Not big winnings. Not like breaking the bank. When it’s arranged, it’s dangerous to win too much. But you could win enough. Every night you would be muy bravo. Women who never spoke before would want to share your luck. Friends would flock to you.”
His eyes began to shine. “But how? Why?”
She was still smiling, but her eyes grew veiled. “You are one of the people of Rio Arriba. You hear many things that could be valuable to me. You tell me those things—and you will win whenever you come to my monte table.”
Conspiracy brought back his slyness. His pouched eyes tilted up at the tips and he grinned, moistening his lips.
“How could I refuse such a fine arrangement?”
“You won tonight.”
“And will seal our bargain.” He glanced around. The other men had started toward the river, still reeling and singing drunkenly. Captain Perea waited for Teresa by the door of La Fonda, frowning confusedly. Pablo whispered in her ear, “The Pueblo caciques are planning to offer peace to Amado, if he will come to Santa Cruz and discuss the treaty. But bad things have come to my ears. They hear that it is a plot to kill Amado. The Indians will ambush him near Black Mesa. He should not go.”
She studied his broad and sweating face. She could think of no reason why he should lie. At last she smiled and nodded her head.
“When you have more news, come to La Fonda again. This could be profitable for both of us.”
She joined Perea and they crossed the plaza. Near the portal of the Palace she became aware of how intently he was looking at her, and slowed down. There was a taut look to his cheeks.
“Teresa,” he said.
She stopped by one of the pine posts supporting the portal roof. She looked expectantly up at him.
“Yes, Hilario.”
Like a snuffed candle, the light went out of his eyes. He looked down. “Nothing,” he said. “I will see you inside.”
* * * *
Once inside, she was too busy thinking of what Pablo had told her to dwell long on Perea’s strange mood. This night had proved many things to her. It had proved that she could venture safely outside the Palace. In Perea and Amado she had protectors Biscara respected. They were as powerful as he now and he would hesitate to cross them.
She remembered her restlessness of the morning, her sense of being trapped within the Palace walls. Perhaps this was her chance to get out. Possibilities began to form, vague, tantalizing. Alberto Maynez thought her reputation could bring him more business. Why give him the business? Why not take it herself? If a man could have a gambling sala, why couldn’t a woman?
The idea excited her. What could be more natural? She had already demonstrated her skill, had seen how the incident at Santa Cruz had spread her reputation. And tonight would only add to it. She would have the freedom, the independence she had dreamed of.
She began to see how she could use Pablo’s information. If true, it would save Amado’s life. How much would he give in return? She smiled to herself. That depended on how important she made it seem to him. If he could see profit in it for himself, she might be able to convince him.
Instead of going to her room she crossed to the audience chamber. The door was ajar and, as she had suspected, Amado was still up, playing cards with a pair of his officers. She pushed the door open and they all looked up.
“What is it?” Amado asked.
“A word,” she murmured.
He pouted, looked at his hand, then shrugged. “Not very good this time anyway, amigos. Allow me to pass.”
He put the cards down and came toward her. She turned and led him down the hall to be out of earshot of the others.
“What a pleasant diversion,” he chuckled. “I only indulge in these games as an excuse to avoid my atrocity of a wife. And now an angel beckons me to a tryst. Where could one find so much ripeness, so much resiliency, so much—?”
“Cabrón!” With a curse she slapped his pinching fingers away from her buttock. “Persist in this clowning and I’ll leave the Palace. Alberto Maynez offered me a job dealing monte.”
His mood changed instantaneously. His jowls grew dark with anger and his voice rumbled. “If you wish my protection, you’ll stay here.”
“Very well. But you’ll give me a gambling sala of my own. I want that house on Burro Alley that you confiscated from the Carbajal family. It will cost you nothing.”
“What?”
“It will be the most famous gambling sala north of Mexico City. Men will flock to it from everywhere. There will be private rooms for them, special games. They’ll be drunk and flushed with victory. They’ll boast and brag and let things slip. I’ll hear things you would never know otherwise.”
“You are being fantastic. I know everything. I have already established a spy system second to none.”
“Do you know about the peace treaty?”
“The what?”
“And the ambush the Pueblos plan for you when you go north to discuss it?”
Suddenly he was no longer the clowning lecher, the buffoon, the pompous governor. His eyes grew slitted and suspicious. Before he could speak, she asked:
“Did I ever advise you wrong, Nicolas?”
He considered it a moment. Some of the ugliness left his face. Finally he shook his head from side to side.
“You could test it easily enough,” she said. “When the Pueblos ask you to come north to discuss the treaty, you could send an empty coach. Only you and I and the troops escorting it would know. If the Indians attack, the troops could withdraw.” She moistened her lips. “And you would still have your head.”
Amado settled his chin against his broad chest, eyes veiled. All the suspicion was gone from him now. He began to chuckle sibilantly. She had seen that expression on his face before, and she murmured his favorite axiom.
“It is better to be thought brave, Nicolas, than really to be so.”
He nodded, still chuckling. “Exactly my thought, little one. Very well. Let’s consider it a test. And if it proves out, perhaps there will be a new gambling sala on Burro Alley next week.”