On the evening of August 17th Governor Amado was due back from Apache Pass. Late that afternoon Pepita informed Teresa that Don Augustín Gomez requested an audience. She told Pepita to take him to the now famous room off the patio. He was seated in Amado’s great leather chair by the table when Teresa went in, savoring the bouquet of the governor’s private brandy. He rose, assayed a courtly bow. He was heavier, his hair almost white, the veins a purple latticework in his doughy jowls. She closed the door softly, smiling, watchful.
“A truce talk, Augustín?”
He sighed. “I am getting too old to carry the burden of battle, Teresa. How can a man be so astute in some ways and so stupid in others?”
“Perhaps when he wants something very much, Augustín, he becomes blind.”
“I suppose that was it. I was naïve as a child. But at last I have seen the sneer behind their smile. The gente fina still think me a pig. I know now they are merely using me.”
“So now, having gained their trust, you betray it.”
Some of the old cynicism returned to his faded eyes. “You and I always understood each other. I am getting too old to ask much. Merely that you find some minor post for me, perhaps customs inspector at Taos, with which I can regain the dignity and respect an old man should have.”
“And in return?”
“What I have is of utmost importance to you.”
She studied his unhealthy, parchment face, his lips graying with senility. Was she really dealing with an old man too tired to fight any longer? Or was he setting another trap? It didn’t matter. She could lose nothing by talk.
“It’s a deal.”
His eyes squinted with strain. He rose, hands locked together. His gray lips trembled as he told her.
O’Brien’s true mission had not been completely hidden, Gomez said. Rumors were already circulating that Amado had accepted a bribe from the United States to capitulate. Whatever Biscara’s politics, he had a hatred of the gringos and would do anything to keep them out. But the Army of the West was too close, and things would be in too chaotic a condition for him to do any good if he waited any longer for Amado to step down. The whole thing was a culmination of Biscara’s long struggle for power.
He had such a great fear of Teresa’s spy system that he knew he could not trust any hired assassins, or even any of his own people. It had all been done within the inner circle of his trusted conspirators. Gomez had not yet shown Biscara any of his resentment or disillusionment; with his old Machiavellian tendencies he had convinced Biscara of his allegiance, waiting for the moment when something would be put into his hands which he could turn to his own gain. So he was one of the four in the plot, along with Biscara, Captain Uvalde, and Valdez.
They were each dead shots, and each stationed in a building at one of the four corners of the plaza. When Amado returned from Apache Pass, he could not fail to pass one of them. His death was certain. And as soon as he died, the machinery of the Lower River would go into action, putting Biscara in his place, and he would hold the town against the Yankees he hated.
As soon as Gomez finished, she grasped his wrist tight. “Augustín, if you are telling the truth, you will stay here till it’s over.”
He nodded, hand trembling. She pulled her shawl about her bare shoulders and hurried out. She told one of her Navajos to watch Gomez and stop him if he tried to go out. Then she went into the sala to get Gato. Before she could tell him what was happening there was a clatter of accouterments outside and the doorman ushered in Colonel Perea. His blue coat and mitaja leggings were filmed with dust, his face haggard and tired-looking.
“Hilario,” she called, sharply. “You aren’t with the governor?”
He rubbed red-rimmed eyes. “He sent me ahead to clear the plaza and make things safe. He’s about a mile behind.”
She hurried to him. There was no time for privacy. In a tense mutter she told him of the plot.
“You’ve got to get to them,” she said. “Uvalde has rented one of the private gambling rooms at La Fonda. Biscara’s supposedly making a friendly visit to the Arballos. Their sitting-room window looks out on the plaza.”
He shook his head. “I almost think it would be best to let them go through with it. You should have seen him this morning. A pig, a pompous pig. He is crazy with power. He had Crespin Vigil sent to La Garita for neglecting a salute. He knows nothing of engineering. The defense he plans will get us wiped out. I think he would cheerfully suffer that if it meant more fame for him.”
She shook his arm. “It’s not him you’ll be saving, Hilario. It’s your people, your country. If Amado is killed everything will go to pieces. The Americans will conquer us without a shot. Biscara could never pull things together. We have to save Amado. Between us we can control him, we can still make something decent out of this town—”
“You’ve told me that so many times before. It’s just gotten worse. What can we win, if he capitulates anyway?”
“He won’t. I’ve found the guns for the militia. You’ll have an army that will overwhelm the Americans.”
She saw it reach the military man in him. His eyes took on a shine and a fine sweat broke through the film of dust on his cheeks.
“There’s no time to explain. Just believe me. We’ve got to save Amado,” she said. He hesitated, then wheeled toward the front door. She caught his arm. “The Palace Avenue door. You’ll be under Biscara’s gun on San Francisco.”
He turned back and she ran with him through the countless rooms and halls to Palace Avenue. They hurried down the Avenue to the square. This was the only safe corner of the plaza, for it had been Gomez’s post. The dozen dragoons that had come with Perea were spread around the square, pushing the crowds back against the walls, clearing the way for the governor. A horse-holder stood with the two sentries at the Palace door, holding Perea’s handsome black mount. The colonel ran across the square toward the black, calling to a corporal.
“Lopez, gather your men here—”
Then—like a pall of smoke staining the sky above the flat roofs on the south side of the plaza—Teresa saw the dust. Amado, coming in off the trail.
She called sharply to Perea. But her voice was lost in the clatter of accouterments and the tramp of horses as the dragoons crossed the plaza from every side to form in front of Perea. He hadn’t heard Teresa, and he hadn’t seen the dust. By the time she reached Perea, the governor would be in the plaza. She was the only one who could stop Amado in time.
Picking up her skirts, she ran across the plaza toward the south side. Coughing in the dust raised by the dragoons. Shouldering through the knots of confused people. Hoping against hope that Biscara or Uvalde would not see her in the general confusion. Passing the cottonwoods. The sundial in the center. Seeing the yellow walls of La Fonda ahead. Seeing Amado’s mountainous figure on his great mule as he galloped down the street toward the plaza.
“Nicolas,” she called. “Stop, turn back—”
Ten feet from the square, he started reining in his mule. Skirts held high, stumbling and gasping, she reached the corner. Uvalde’s room in La Fonda was directly across from her now. He must have seen her, must know what it meant. Still running, she saw shadowy movement in the open window.
She knew she had but an instant left. As the mule ran by her, skidding to a clumsy halt, she reached up and grabbed Amado’s belt. She threw all her weight against it. The governor’s mouth popped open in surprise and he toppled from the saddle. As he fell, three shots cracked out in the plaza.
One of the bullets struck the mule and the beast screamed and reared. At the same time Amado hit the ground beside Teresa, his weight making the earth tremble. Hand still caught in his belt, she was pulled to one knee.
The wounded mule was running wild through the plaza. Perea’s dragoons had split into four squads, each squad charging toward a corner of the plaza, lances down. The sight must have panicked Captain Uvalde. With a wild shout he jumped from his window and tried to run for it. Two lancers caught up with him and spitted him from behind like a pig, lifting his body up, kicking and squalling, before they dropped it into the road and loosed their bloody blades.
Crouched by the governor, with the dust settling about her, Teresa saw that Perea led the squad charging Biscara’s post on the corner of San Francisco. The colonel waved his saber in a signal to his men, his shout cutting through the other babble.
“A pair of you down Galisteo to the Alameda. I’ll take the front.”
As they split up, Amado heaved his bulk to a sitting position. He was wheezing, stunned. He looked about him, the glazed look receding from his eyes. He glanced at La Fonda, then at the wall of the house behind him. There was a bullet hole in the wall, about the height of a mounted man’s chest. He drew a shaky breath, trying to grin.
“Gracias, Chiquita. Had you not pulled, that bullet would be in me instead of the wall.”
She hardly heard him. She rose from her knees, watching Perea as he swung off his horse before the Arballo house. The door opened before his rush and he disappeared inside. The two dragoons following ran in after him. Another dragoon came at a gallop through the crowd.
“Valdez has escaped by the Alameda. Corporal Ortiz took a detail after him—”
“Join them,” Amado squealed. “Follow him down. Kill him!” He puffed and wheezed, trying to get to one knee. “Teresa help me up.”
She paid him no heed. Wondering why there was so much fear in her, she started toward the Arballo house. Perea and his two men had left their horses at the door and a crowd was gathering around the stamping animals. Teresa was halfway to the corner when the muffled shots came from inside the building.
A moment later a man staggered from the door. He had a smoking pistol in one hand. The crowd spread from him in fright. Looking over his shoulder at the house, he stumbled three steps into the street, then fell forward on his face. It was Don Biscara.
Before Teresa reached him, one of the dragoons ran from the door. He went to Biscara and turned him over. The man was dead.
The dragoon straightened, saw Teresa. “We came in from the back,” he said. “Drove him toward the front of the house. The colonel met him in the sitting-room—” He hesitated, lips pale. “You had better come.”
Colonel Perea lay on the sitting-room floor. His blood made a spreading stain on the black and white jerga beneath him. He had both hands clenched against the bullet hole in his chest and his handsome face was pale and drawn with pain. She knelt beside him; he heard the rustle of her skirts and opened his eyes. His voice was feeble and shaken.
“Have they sent for the priest?”
“He’s coming, Hilario.”
“Teresa,” he whispered. “Where are you?”
He reached up, pawing frantically for her. She caught his hand and held it against her breasts. Then, with a sob, she bent to him and took him in her arms and put her face against his and began to cry softly and hopelessly while the daylight faded from the windows and the darkness crept in.