The Awakening Land: A Novel of the Rio Grande Valley

The Awakening Land

A Novel of the Rio Grande Valley

James M. Vesely

Writers Club Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Awakening Land

A Novel of the Rio Grande Valley

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by James M. Vesely

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The Awakening Land is a work of fiction based on fact.

Aside from actual historic figures and historically factual events,

all other names, characters, places, and incidents are either

products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-13215-4

ISBN: 978-1-4697-7852-5 (e-book)

Contents

Preface

PART SEVEN

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

PART EIGHT

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

PART NINE

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

PART TEN

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

PART ELEVEN

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

This book is for Mary—who makes it all worthwhile.

Preface

The Awakening Land is first and foremost a novel—Book II of the Corrales Valley Trilogy, a multi-generational story of historic fiction relating the origins and history of the small New Mexican village of Corrales over approximately seven hundred years.

The Apodaca family, as well as the Bonneaus, and others whose fortunes the story follows are fictitious, as are their individual parts in the historical events described.

Much of the book is fact and some is fiction. In following the history of the settlement’s people through the centuries, I have tried to set them among individuals and events that either did exist, or reasonably might have. Occasionally it was necessary to invent historical detail, or even whole occurrences, to further the narrative.

With a wide range of characters, and with historical events and timelines as a broad canvas, The Awakening Land dramatizes not only Spanish and Indian, but later immigrations of French families into the small farming community along the Rio Grande.

In general, the records of Spanish conquest and everyday life on the frontier of New Mexico are plentiful—but in particular, any written history of the Village of Corrales is virtually non-existent. Prior to the early 1820s, there is little recorded of the village, except for the original grant of land to Spanish Corporal Francisco Montes Vigil.

Montes Vigil came up the Rio del Norte in 1692, a soldier in the army of re-conquest—led by Captain General Don Diego de Vargas—and later conveyed the grant to Captain Juan Gonzales, whom both history and Spanish records recognize as the founder of Corrales.

Aside from the meticulous recording of the land grant and an interesting census taken in 1870, little is really known about day-today life in the settlement’s very early history. Much of the knowledge of what occurred in the Corrales of the 1800s lies buried with the viejos—the old ones—beneath the soil of the camposanto near the old historic Church of San Ysidro.

Of the many fictional families in Book II, the Apodacas and Bonneaus both have quite common names related to their national origins. The derivations of these family names, and in the case of the Apodacas, the specific hereditary trait of clubfoot have been entirely invented for the purpose of the story.

Every place on earth, no matter its size or significance, is captive to the turn and tide of history. Corrales is no exception, and the story often ranges far from the small farming village nestled in the valley of the Rio Grande River to follow those critical events which ultimately affected the community, as they played out in the larger world.

Finally, if portions of this novel are not as history actually occurred—they are how it may have easily happened.

James M. Vesely Corrales, New Mexico February, 1999

The author wishes to acknowledge the following for their assistance in the research of this novel: Evelyn Losack for her gracious interview and eyewitness account of Corrales history. Barbara Pijoan, Martha Trainer and Marvin Schmaltz for their help, as well as the Corrales Historical Society for access to their archives. And finally my good friend and lunch companion, Larry Kaliher, for all his input over the years.

PART SEVEN

The Colonists

1

As Don Juan Oñate’s fully armored force sat upon their fearsome horses at the foot of the Acomé cliffs, Miguel and Tomas Lujan watched in fascination as the pueblo governor and headmen descended slowly from the top to meet them.

What is this place? Oñate whispered to one of the San Juan guides who’d accompanied them west.

It has always been known as Acomé, the Indian said in a broken, awkward answer of recently learned Spanish. These ones call themselves the People of the Rock.

With a squeak of worn leather, the governor shifted in his saddle. Acoma, he grunted, repeating the word as best he could. If memory serves, Coronado wrote of it in his reports.

The natives received the Spaniards with respect, again marveling at the wonder of their horses. They offered food and water, inviting Oñate to dismount and ascend the cliff by an ancient, narrow staircase to tour their citadel upon the rock. The governor agreed, taking one of his Pueblo guides along with Von Seeckt and two officers.

They followed the Indians upward, toward the low, squat houses whose rooftops could just barely be seen from below. Once on the mesa, the Spaniards were stunned by the size of this pueblo.

The village seemed strangely silent, and Von Seeckt was aware of black eyes watching them from every half-open door and window. Suddenly the vulnerability of their situation made the old soldier nervous. When the headmen motioned Oñate to follow them as they descended into a dark kiva, Von Seeckt reached out and grasped the governor by the arm.

Ve not go in there, he whispered. Ve should leave now. I do not like anything about this.

Oñate thought a moment and then agreed. With exaggerated thanks and friendliness, the Spaniards slowly backed away. The Indians whispered among themselves, turning sullen and angry as the governor and his men retreated down the staircase. Once back down on the desert floor, Von Seeckt felt relieved.

Ya, dot vas no good, he said. Ve should move on from here.

To the west? Oñate questioned.

Ya, vest. Ve go vest some more.

That night, still suspicious, the governor doubled the number of pickets as they camped three miles west of the cliff top pueblo. Miguel and Tomas were not among the small group that had gone up and toured the village, and they hadn’t shared the sense of fear Von Seeckt had felt.

But if something frightened Von Seeckt, the young officers knew him well enough to trust his instincts. For his part, the German was happy to be gone from there. When morning came with no attack, the entire party watered their mounts, saddled, and rode west again, with a heavy feeling of relief.

After the uncomfortable episode, Don Oñate’s impressive force of mounted officers and cavalry moved west towards Hawikuh and the Zuni towns—the somewhat downtrodden settlements that Fray Marcos de Niza had once identified as Cíbola—the legendary Cities of Gold.

Miguel looked hard for riches but saw only a low sprawl of poor, sun-baked adobe structures with food spread out and drying on flattened rooftops. The dwellings of Hawikuh were terraced and most were built to connect with one another. A random network of narrow, dusty streets and open plazas snaked through the settlement. Above the pueblo the sky looked gray and hazy. The crisp, early November air was full with the smells of cooking meat and piñon smoke. Dogs prowled everywhere, thin and skulking, as if the animals merely lived among these people but harbored no affection for them.

Warned by far-posted sentries, the Zunis were long aware of the Spaniard’s approach, and came out to meet them dressed in their finest clothing. The governor and headmen strode forward, and through interpreters, who still spoke a little Spanish taught to them in Coronado’s day, offered nervous greetings to Oñate and his tired army.

Our old people remember you from years before, the Zuni governor, a man named Red Hat, told his guests. We fought each other then, but that was long ago and we have no wish to fight you now.

Don Oñate dismounted and shook the governor’s hand. He himself was the new governor of Yunque, the Don explained, which he had since renamed San Gabriel in honor of an ancient holy man revered by the Spanish. He was here, he said, to bring greetings from the Spanish king across the sea, and to make Hawikuh and the other Zuni towns subject to his majesty.

What does your far off king offer us for such allegiance?

His protection against your enemies, said Oñate. As well as the opportunity to let your souls know God, our Holy Father, and the teachings of Jesus Christ.

Red Hat grunted, seemingly satisfied with such an answer, but he was more interested in seeing the Spaniards on their way again.

This is good. We remember your Christ from when the grayrobes first preached to us, and now we offer food and wish you well on your continued journey.

With this, many of the women came forward, spreading gifts upon the ground. They brought corn and tortillas, calabashes, beans and numerous hares and rabbits kept in cages, and ready for slaughter.

The Spaniards took all that was given, thanking their Zuni providers with trade beads and trinkets of colored glass. They left behind a priest to say Mass and to preach the gospel to all who would listen, promising the friar he’d be rejoined with them on their return.

From Hawikuh, the rested troops rode north and west, with gray skies and blowing weather reminding them that winter was fast approaching.

Don Oñate reached the far-off Hopi mesas by the middle of November and here their welcome was the same—they were greeted with hospitality and a great amount of food and gifts. The Hopi priests sprinkled the amused soldiers and their nervous mounts with powdered flour and finely ground cornmeal as a sign of peace and friendship.

Later in their talks the Hopi elders informed the governor of certain mines which might be found some distance to the southwest, offering a few of their young men to guide the Spaniards to them. The governor immediately dispatched Capt. Marcos Farfan de los Godos and eight other mounted men to investigate the deposits and to determine their value.

The day after Farfan departed, the skies to the north turned gray and snow began to fall. Fearing the unpredictable winter weather, Oñate decided to return to Zuni, with plans to wait for Farfan there, and to receive Juan de Zaldívar’s force of thirty more men.

Weeks later, Farfan returned to Hawikuh with encouraging news about the mines, but Zaldívar had still not yet arrived. They were in early December now—each man bundled in buffalo-hide robes with the worsening weather making them all uneasy. They would go back to San Gabriel, Don Oñate finally ordered, to observe the Christmas season, and then to make an expedition to the sea with all forces necessary for that purpose.

But only three days out of Zuni the governor was met by soldiers marching from the east, looking for him. They were hungry, weary, and relieved to find his company, but their news was grim.

Your Excellency, said Capt. Gaspar Lopez Tabora, who wept with both sadness and relief at being reunited with his fellows. Your beloved nephew, Don Juan, is dead—along with ten others—killed in dishonorable ambush and savage attack at the pueblo on the rock. Many more of us were grievously wounded. Some returned to San Gabriel, while I came west to find your honor and to relate the facts of this treachery.

Acoma, Oñate hissed in cold fury. Sweet Jesus, Von Seeckt had forebodings about that wretched place. Don Gaspar, tell us what occurred.

Tabora described how they were unexpectedly attacked upon the mesa top while requisitioning flour and corn. With hideous screaming, the savages rushed out of their homes and attacked. Men and women both—hurling rocks and clubs, shooting arrows into us—not only from the ground, but from the terraces as well.

Go on, Oñate said, with fists clenched tightly.

The Indians were so numerous, threw so many stones and shot so many arrows that they forced us back to the very edge of a high cliff. It was here that brave Don Juan fell, hacked to pieces, along with Captains Felipe de Escalante and Diego Nuñez.

This foul act must not stand unpunished, Oñate swore. We will avoid Acoma for now and strike immediately for the capitol, there to honor the blessed birth of our Lord, then regroup in force and bring the wrath of Spain and the Almighty to visit those who would treat us in such a manner.

The governor and his small party reached San Gabriel four days before Christmas. Although his mind was made up to take revenge upon the Acomas, Don Oñate would bow to protocol and confer with the Father Commissary and other friars in the capitol. These devout men considered all the many moral aspects of the situation, and it was Fray Martínez who delivered their unanimous conclusion: As the most noble purpose of war is to establish peace, then it is justifiable to exterminate and destroy those who would stand in the way of peace.

A requiem Mass was held for the slain soldiers and the holiness of the Christmas season was observed, but all thoughts were on Acoma and revenge.

Miguel and Tomas were chosen to be among the seventy-man army that would be led by Vicente de Zaldívar, in honor of his brother’s memory. They spent the first few days of the New Year making ready their weapons, equipment, and supplies. Every man would go protected by his armor, his shield and his steel helmet, and every weapon in the Spanish arsenal was to be seen among the ranks—long knives, halberds, maces, swords, and lances would be carried. Beside the harquebuses, two small pieces of brass artillery were brought along and many horses would be shielded by heavy, metal breastplates.

Neither of the mounts belonging to Miguel and Tomas were armored in such a way, and the two young officers were glad of it. It make animals too heavy, Von Seeckt had told them. Too slow and clumsy, ya? And clumsy horse can fall and kill you. Both men thought the German had made sense and preferred to take their chances on lighter, swifter mounts.

On the dry, bitter-cold morning of January 12th, 1599, Miguel lightly put the spurs to Lancer’s flanks as the army moved out, riding off to the tinny sound of trumpets and a muffled beat of drums.

Determining it necessary to the colony that he not put his own life at risk, Governor Oñate elected to stay behind. Yet on that morning, fully clad in his own battle-armor, he stood with Fray Martínez and watched the cavalry move out, their horses jittery in the cold, blowing out heavy, smoky snorts of breath in the freezing air.

Por Dios y Santiago! The governor cried out, lifting his ceremonial sword high into the air.

For God and Saint James, the troops called back in answer, their uneven voices quickly lost in the thin, cold air. And for our king and governor!

Vicente de Zaldívar had proper orders from his commander. He was to first sue for peace and convince the Indians to abandon their high mesa pueblo—to come down to the valley where they might be ministered by the priests of the holy gospel—more easily taught those matters of the Catholic faith. Once this was accomplished, the pueblo was to be burned to the ground so it might never again be used as a fortress, and the Acomas were to be brought to San Gabriel to be tried and punished.

Inasmuch as we have declared war on them without quarter, the Don ordered Zaldívar. You will punish all those of fighting age as a warning to everyone in this kingdom. Those you execute will be exposed to public view as a salutary example. To carry out this punishment as you see fit, I grant you all the same powers I myself hold from his majesty.

Good friend, we ride to fight today, Miguel said, with hushed excitement in his voice.

Yes, but you must be careful of yourself, amigo, Tomas answered. For it was in just such a circumstance that your grandfather was struck blind and almost killed.

Sitting easy in his saddle, Miguel Apodaca ignored the warning. We ride to fight, he repeated softly to himself, as if the fateful thing for which he’d waited all his life had finally come.

The low pueblo of Acoma and the stark mesa on which it stood were etched against a bright blue wintry sky on the afternoon of January 21st. The column was halted at the foot of the narrow trail that wound its way up the heights to the narrow pueblo entrance. Brilliant New Mexico sunlight flashed off steel armor and weapons, including the two brass cannons. Seventy mounted men sat their nervous, prancing horses in a semicircle around Capt. Vicente de Zaldívar.

Farther out, on the snow-drifting plain where a thin trickle of water was available, camp tenders, Indian and Negro servants, along with vaqueros busied themselves unloading pack trains, building cookfires, and setting up a semi-permanent camp.

Loyally obeying the governor’s firm orders, Captain Zaldívar brought an interpreter forward with instructions to call upon the Acomas to surrender and bring themselves and their families down to the valley floor.

This request was met with hoots of derision from above. Some of the Indians carried Spanish swords and were dressed in coats of mail taken from the corpses of the earlier Spanish dead. Others pulled aside their breechcloths and wagged their penises at the Spaniards, while others urinated down upon them.

It was much the same at the river pueblo called Moho, Miguel said to Tomas. My grandfather told me of it years ago.

After he posted guards all about the mesa, an angry Captain Zaldívar rode off to his camp. The Acomas spent all night in loud singing and dancing. Huge bonfires were built on top the mesa, and the night passed with one warrior after another advancing to the edge of the cliff, hurling curses and insults and challenging the Spaniards to fight. Throughout that same night, among the small fires of the Spanish camp, Fray Martínez offered confession to all that asked for it, and shortly before dawn—a Mass was said.

Late in the day, after the army was assembled, Zaldívar made one more futile attempt to coax surrender from the jeering, howling Indians. When this was met with showers of arrows, stones, pieces of ice and curses, he knelt briefly to pray and then ordered the army to move on Acoma. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, January 22nd—the Feast Day of Saint Vincent.

The battle raged for three days. Leaving their mounts on the valley floor, Miguel and Tomas accompanied their captain in a strenuous climb up the sheer face of the cliff—an effort that was met by a thick hail of heavy rocks leaving them hurt and bruised.

The first attack had failed quickly, even though the arquebusiers kept up a slow, but steady fire from the valley floor, killing and wounding many of the Acoma defenders. Dusk was falling when Zaldívar ordered the siege to be maintained and all soldiers to remain on watch, fully armed, throughout the night.

Miguel and Tomas tended to their nervous mounts. Most of the horses had been either hobbled or held by servants during the attack and Lancer had been hit by thrown rocks. The gelding showed a jagged cut beneath the eye. When the rock hit him, the startled animal had screamed in fright and reared, pulling Simplicio off his feet where he fell beneath the animal’s sharp hooves. The Chichimec wasn’t hurt and he’d quickly regained his footing and brought the horse under control.

Knocked senseless by thrown rocks, Tomas Lujan said that night. He was shaking his head and chuckling at the humor in it. We are equal in skill to any force that Spain can field, and yet forced to retreat from stone-throwing savages who laugh and curse and squirt their piss down upon us.

They ate a supper of beans and salted meat and Miguel could feel the ache of two or three large bruises on his back and shoulders. He could see the irony and truth in Tomas’ words. In the past, when Miguel had thought of war, he’d visualized himself hurtling into battle upon his gallant charger’s back, trumpets sounding, his sword in hand, flags and guidons flying.

But this today was nothing like that. Instead it had been as children playing war—climbing the Acoma cliff, he’d torn his fine uniform and been hurt and bruised by thrown stones. He was disillusioned. It was not the kind of fighting that Grandfather Primitivo had described.

Tomorrow we will see success, he said, hoping it were so.

Only if Don Vicente has the mettle to press an assault, reasoned Tomas. Many are saying that Acoma is a defensive position that only God and his army of angels could take.

Does not the Lord fight on our side?

Of course.

Then we will win the day, Miguel reasoned, finishing his beans.

On January 23rd—which the friars reminded them was San Ildefonso’s Day—another Mass was given before further assault was made. The Indians on the rock, encouraged by their strength of the day before, continued the fight with determination and fury. Once again, Vicente de Zaldívar made an effort to end the conflict. He called out for surrender, and once again the Indians jeered at him and refused.

During the afternoon, Miguel and Tomas, along with a good number of other soldiers, again climbed under a cover of heavy gunfire, and this time managed to reach the top, but not without a few of them hurt and wounded. Several houses were set afire, and as the Acomas retreated, more Spaniards poured up the narrow rock staircase and entrenched themselves behind a ring of low walls surrounding the pueblo. Now, for the first time in the Acoma’s remembered history, there were men with guns and cannon on the mesa. The ancient fortress village, impregnable to attacks by marauding bands of Dineh or Inde’ for centuries, just could not stand before the determined onslaught of soldiers armed with such new and terrible weapons.

Night fell again and the battle lessened, as both sides were content to hold their positions and wait again for morning.

The next day, Captain Zaldívar began by turning his two brass cannon on the buildings in the main portion of the village. He loaded them with stones and grapeshot and proceeded to fire upon the people hiding there. This, combined with a continuing blanket of fire from the arquebusiers brought signals of surrender and pleas for mercy from the Indians who could no longer withstand the devastating destruction of lead and powder.

The firing began to die away. Acoma men and women emerged from their houses offering blankets, robes, and food. Vicente Zaldívar spat in the dirt and disdained the gifts, ordering the prisoners to descend to the valley where they would be held. A line of men, women and children, many of them wounded, moved slowly down the twisting stairs.

Suddenly, from a house located far back in the pueblo, a man and woman, and two small children, were dragged before the captain and forced to kneel at his feet.

Ve find dem hiding, Von Seeckt said, pointing to a low house now on fire, clouds of thick, black smoke billowing out its windows. Dey try to fight—voman and children, too. But ve bring dem to show you.

With a scream of rage, Don Vicente realized the Indian was wearing the armor of his brother. Three priests had followed the soldiers to the top and these now turned away as Zaldívar, out of his head with anger, lifted each child above his head and hurled them, screaming, down onto the rocks below. Two soldiers held the children’s father as the man’s wife looked to the sky and began to pull her hair and howl out her grief.

Vicente Zaldívar grunted and drew his weapon, running his double-edged rapier through the woman’s throat, penetrating up to its silver-filigreed basket guard. Her anguished moaning turned quickly to a wheeze and a suck of air as she slumped to the ground and died.

The wildly protesting husband was held on his knees with arms pulled behind him and Von Seeckt’s knee in his back. Don Vicente brought curses down upon the man, reached for a heavy halberd and lifted it high, bringing it down again with such great force that it cleaved the Indian’s head in half like two neat pieces of a melon.

Even now, hundreds more of the defeated Acomas still refused to surrender, remaining hidden in the dark kivas and other parts of the pueblo. Miguel and Tomas were sickened by Don Vicente’s treatment of the man caught wearing his dead brother’s armor. They knelt behind a crumbling wall, trying to remain hidden from Von Seeckt’s searching eyes as a still-enraged Zaldívar sent soldiers into the pueblo streets to bring the hiding Indians out one by one. As they were dragged before him, they were hacked to pieces, and limbs, heads, and bodies were thrown over the sheer cliff.

Sweet Christ, I did not become a soldier to butcher children, Miguel whispered hoarsely, recoiling from the slaughter. Moments later, he and Tomas Lujan would use the confusion of the moment to mingle with the surrendered Indians as they filed down the cliff.

The light of the winter’s day was faded before the killing was completed, and Zaldívar ordered the kivas and living quarters to be set ablaze. Many were burned alive in these places—men and women, some with children clutched tightly in their arms—while others suffocated in the smoke. All possessions were likewise burned, except for blankets, robes and food, which Zaldívar ordered taken.

Over eight hundred natives died at Acoma, and the smoke from its burning buildings could be seen as far away as Hawikuh. In addition to those killed, more than five hundred prisoners, men, women, and children, were taken back under guard to face Governor Don Juan de Oñate at Guipui, which he’d now renamed Santo Domingo, and where he anxiously awaited the arrival of his victorious nephew.

On the afternoon of February 12th, with the clear air mild from a false spring, Oñate sat as a one-man Supreme Court of New Mexico, and with Vicente de Zaldívar and Fray Martínez standing at his side, stated the varied punishments to be suffered by the Acoma prisoners:

All the children under twelve years of age, the Don began, after first clearing his throat and calling down the blessings of the church on his decision. "I declare free and innocent of the grave offenses for which I will punish their parents. I place the girls under the care of our Reverend Father Commissary, Fray Alonso Martínez, in order that he, as a Christian and a qualified person, may distribute them in this our kingdom or anywhere else—in monasteries or other places where he deems they may attain the knowledge of God and the salvation of their souls.

"The boys under twelve years of age I entrust to Capt. Vicente de Zaldívar, in order that they may attain the same goal.

"All males between the ages of twelve and twenty five years will be sentenced to twenty years of personal servitude.

And finally, all males who are over twenty five years of age, Oñate said, after waiting a brief moment to let the drama of his words sink in. Will have one foot cut off and are likewise sentenced to twenty years of personal servitude. May the Lord God bless us, these proceedings are done.

Once the interpreters translated this last, a gasp of disbelief went up from the assembled captives. A few attempted to run, but they were caught and beaten back by armed guards. Many more began to look about and wail as the friars ran among them, attempting to calm their fear.

Early the next morning Miguel volunteered to take a detail of Indians, along with two mule-drawn carts, west of Guipui and down to the bosque to gather wood. He wished to be far away from the pueblo, sick and heartsore with thoughts of the day’s butchery about to begin.

As the Indians fanned out through the river forest searching for thick, dead limbs to be piled upon the carts, Miguel took Lancer across a shallow ford and rode off alone. Throughout the entire three days at Acoma, he’d not once confronted the enemy in fair fight. There was no shame in it, for it was the nature of the weapons and the fighting that had governed this—only guns and cannon, powder and shot had kept the Indians away from Spanish steel.

Rather it was the bloody work that followed which now preyed upon his mind. In two years of service to Don Juan de Oñate, Miguel had distinguished himself in no honorable fighting, found no gold or riches, and been forced to hang three fellow Spaniards, causing one of them to shit himself before he died. Then, although he’d done no slaughter at Acoma, he’d been a part of those who had.

Now, as he sat in his saddle, surrounded by the bare limbs of ancient cottonwoods creaking gently in the wind—men little different than himself were being held down as their feet were severed at the ankles. Their shinbones would be shattered with steel hammers, and then cut through with saws, leaving only stumps to be cauterized with torches.

Jesus God, what would his family think of him? What would Grandfather Primitivo have to say about such things? Did Jesus Christ and the Holy Mother truly smile down upon acts like these? Miguel forced himself to ask such questions but he received few answers in return. In Primitivo’s day, the old man was blessed with the wisdom and guidance of Fray Alonzo, but the priests who’d accompanied Don Oñate seemed little short of scoundrels themselves, unconcerned with questions of morality, preferring instead to turn their heads away from cruelty and torture.

The wind died briefly, and for a moment, Miguel was certain he heard muffled drums and then an eerie wail from the pueblo of Santo Domingo. He shut his eyes against the unholy sound and with a cry he balled his fists up tight and jammed them in his ears.

2

It was almost as if the two women were blind.

Moving only at night, Hands-That-Sing and Summer Grass traveled slowly. On those cloudless nights when the moon was full, they did a little better, but for the most part the desert was black dark and cold, even as the daytime weather warmed.

One night, tired and confused, Summer Grass gave a little cry as she stumbled and fell down the rocky slope of a small arroyo—badly scraping herself and turning an ankle, forcing them to make a permanent camp and stay put for almost three weeks. They were stuck until the ankle strengthened and she could once more walk on it—an unfortunate circumstance that frightened them both. Unable to move each night, their chances of discovery were now increased, while at the same time the stores of dried food, no longer fueling any movement toward the river, began to be depleted.

On moonlit nights, Hands-That-Sing now tried to hunt. At first, her efforts were unsuccessful, but she practiced with the throwing sling until she was able to hit a sitting jackrabbit or a prairie chicken on the ground. But her skill and luck were inconsistent and many nights they were forced to depend on their dwindling supply of pemmican for strength.

Later, as her ankle healed, Summer Grass began to learn the throwing sling as well, and from that point on, the two women would take turns venturing out at night and stalking small game to eat.

They crept on slowly westward, into late spring and through the dry and windy summer. As autumn came again, the prairie turned cold and rainy. Neither woman had any good idea of how far they’d traveled or how far they had to go. The time lost in healing Summer Grass’s ankle had hurt them badly as far as weather was concerned. Each day the skies turned grayer, and many nights saw lashing thunderstorms with heavy rain and snapping streaks of lightning so intense that neither thought it wise to travel. As the weather worsened, their progress slowed. Now, they began to wear their buffalo robes as they walked at night and slept under them during the day.

Often, the pinpoint lights of cook fires could be seen in the distant desert darkness. More than a few times they were forced to hide huddled in some dry wash or arroyo, Hands-That-Sing holding her knife at the dog’s throat should it even begin to whine or cry, and give them away.

Most of those from whom they hid were Querecho bands—farranging plains Inde’ who’d never been overly hostile to the Kwahadie or any other Koh-mahts people. But Hands-That-Sing and Summer Grass remained wary. They were two women alone, often lost, and they suspected that in this empty wilderness in which they moved, no more vulnerable creatures existed than themselves.

Once, they saw a large band of Kiowas moving south, with women and children in tow, carrying everything they owned. It seemed to Hands-That-Sing that an entire village was on the move, including its dogs. That time she’d lain on top of their own cur with all her weight, muzzling the confused, excited animal with both hands until the Kiowas had passed.

But usually the plains were empty, especially at night, and by the time they saw their first light snow of winter, they’d safely struck the swift-flowing waters of the little river that flowed south through Cicuyé. Hands-That-Sing briefly considered changing direction and following the stream north to that town that she still remembered, but they’d only wintered there one time many years before. Reasoning that she and Summer Grass would just be strangers to the people living there, she decided to continue west toward the great river even though it might take longer.

If any Tse’wesh were still alive who might remember her and take them in, they would be in that direction, in the village called Nafiat. Her destination would remain unchanged. This was where they’d go, she told Summer Grass—to Nafiat—the place where she’d once built a house.

Shortly after the battle of Acoma and the mutilations that followed at Santo Domingo, Don Juan de Oñate gave up his plan to personally lead an expedition to the South Sea. Exploration in other directions—to the north and east—were tempting him, and the assignment of finding a trail to the Gulf of California was given over to Vicente de Zaldívar.

On the first part of his journey, Captain Zaldívar and thirty men first traveled south and eastward beyond the neighboring Manzano range—to the salt-gathering Piro pueblos where the people mined the nearby saline lakes and bartered salt for their necessities of life.

Zaldívar visited the small settlements of Abo, Alle and a larger place called Agualagu, demanding provisions and supplies of salt, but offering nothing in trade for it. The Indians they met were Tompiros, the ancestral people of Hands-That-Sing. Although fascinated by his horses, the Tompiros outnumbered Vicente de Zaldívar and disdained both the presence and demands of this Spaniard and his little force. Rude and inhospitable, they bluntly refused his requests for food, blankets, or anything else.

We only trade salt, the Piro chiefs told the Spaniards. We are too poor to give it away as gifts. Leave us three of your strange animals, or some metal knives and weapons, and we will give you salt.

There are far too many to press our demands, the captain grumbled to his lieutenants. But the governor must be made aware of this insolence.

With additional supplies not forthcoming, the Spaniards reluctantly left the sullen Piro towns. Zaldívar took them west, while at the same time sending a runner north along the river, back to San Gabriel with a message to Oñate, telling him of the insulting treatment they’d received.

God’s mercy on these ignorant savages, the impatient governor seethed as he read the message and crumpled it in his fist. Why do they not learn our strength and understand our resolve?

Perhaps they are as children, suggested Fray Martínez. And must be taught not once, but twice or thrice.

Christ’s blood, good Father Commissary, was not Acoma enough? Oñate groaned in frustration. Must we burn their homes and cut the feet off each and every one before they submit to Spanish rule?

The governor was soon supplied and on his way with a company of cavalry to punish the Indians for their insolence towards Zaldívar. His nephew and a few other officers, including Tomas Lujan, had been promoted to Oñate’s staff, and along with Gerhard Von Seeckt, Tomas now rode at the governor’s side as they galloped south.

With a handkerchief over his nose and mouth to filter dust, Miguel Apodaca remained one of the junior officers bringing up the rear of the company. He’d quickly been passed over for promotion when his unusual eagerness to gather firewood during the time the Acoma punishments were taking place had been noticed by the priests and dutifully reported to Don Oñate.

Three days out, they entered Tiguex Province and passed Coronado’s old, abandoned garrison of Alcanfor. On seeing it nestled by the river, framed by the greenery of cottonwoods, Miguel could only visualize the men he’d hung there—for a crime no more traitorous than those thoughts which now danced rampant in his own head.

He’d become increasingly disillusioned with the soldier’s life, at least the one to which he’d so far been exposed. It had been different for his grandfather. Perhaps old Primitivo had never seen or done such things as he himself had done. Miguel shuddered at the grisly knowledge that at Santo Domingo, while prayers to the Blessed Virgin were being said, over one hundred human feet had been hacked off at the ankle, thrown on a pile and burned to blackened char—all under the approving nods of the gray-robed priests.

A week’s hard ride from San Gabriel brought the Spaniards to the Piro pueblos. They approached the little settlement of Abo, a low cluster of poor adobe dwellings surrounded by small gardens of melons, beans, and squash. Don Oñate dismounted, along with Tomas Lujan and the rest of his staff, and received the governor of Abo and his headmen. Miguel remained in the saddle, holding Lancer in place, grateful to be quit of the dust.

I am Captain-General Don Juan de Oñate, the governor stated through his interpreter. Governor of this, his Majesty’s Christian kingdom of New Mexico. He waited impatiently as the interpreter translated these words into the Piro tongue. We have lately received disturbing reports of unfair treatment to one of my officers and his company.

The governor of Abo seemed unimpressed. He was a short, heavyset man named Pesh’taki. Shaking his head, the governor answered. Your officer demanded things we did not wish to give him.

Then you will surrender them to me.

We are a poor people, Pesh’taki insisted, spreading his arms. Look about you and see that this is true.

Miguel gazed upon the settlement and could see how poor they really were. The pueblo was single-storied and run down, not even a quarter the size of San Gabriel. The gardens were tiny. A few skinny dogs slunk through the streets and the children all appeared dirty and hungry. Most of the women looked tired and worn, their clothing consisting of the simplest cotton dresses with little ornament, and nothing at all in the way of jewelry.

Nevertheless, Oñate stated. I am here to exact the tribute that was denied Captain Zaldívar. Have you shining metals?

Metals? Pesh’taki asked, confused.

The governor rapped on his iron breastplate and then brought forth a delicate chain and crucifix of gold. Oro o plata, he said, holding it to the light. Gold or silver. The metals that shine like sun and moon.

Pesh’taki understood. He’d occasionally seen bracelets or necklaces of gold and silver in the possession of traders from the south, but none of it ever remained in Abo.

No, we have no shining metals.

Then give us food and blankets, Oñate ordered. A tribute of three fine blankets for each of my courageous soldiers.

Gathering up his robes, Pesh’taki took his leave and returned fifteen minutes later with one trussed turkey, a single bushel of corn and fourteen threadbare blankets.

This is all we have to give, and we give it to you freely so that all might remain as friends.

A pittance such as this is not acceptable, Oñate shouted. The governor had lost both his patience and his temper with these people, and to Miguel’s amazement, orders were given to torch the town.

Burn it, the governor cried. Leave nothing standing. God’s blood—only fourteen blankets! These ignorant savages will be taught a lesson.

The houses were fired, and the screaming Abo people sought to flee. Six men of fighting age were quickly cut down and killed, while a number of others, including Pesh’taki, were wounded by the soldiers. Again, Miguel hung back and the action was over so quickly that he’d been spared from taking any part in it.

Satisfied with the day’s work, Don Oñate sat his horse as black smoke rose from tiny windows in the burning houses. The village was empty. Except for the dead and wounded, all those who’d run now hid in the desert, weeping as they watched their settlement burn. The Spaniards made little sense to them. Even the Inde’ and Dineh, when they raided, left the river settlements alive and standing, to be plundered once again next year.

Oñate’s army put out pickets and prepared to spend the night at Abo. That evening, with a small keg of good port, the governor would bid his staff to join him and toast to their success, firmly convinced no more disrespect would be forthcoming from the Piro pueblos.

But fate would prove him wrong. Months later, five more soldiers deserted the capitol and fled on foot for Mexico. Indians caught two of them in the vicinity of Abo, and in revenge, their tongues were cut and brutally torn out, their genitals sliced away and thrown to the dogs. The twisting Spaniards were dragged to stakes and covered with burning faggots—slowly roasted alive with no tongues left in their heads to scream.

The other three fugitives, two of them officers, were slightly wounded but managed to escape. They struggled back to San Gabriel, praying the governor might find the mercy to forgive them. Disgusted by their disloyalty, the Don refused to listen to any pleas for pardon. The morning after their return, he found them guilty of desertion.

Gerhard Von Seeckt carried out the sentence, happily hanging the three from one of the old bent cottonwoods growing along the river.

Further enraged on learning of the tortures endured by the other two fugitives, the governor declared war upon the far southern pueblos.

No different than their comrades, he declared, with the agreement of his priests. Those men were deserters to be tried and hung—but they were Spanish soldiers, too, and Spaniards will not be denied the most holy Catholic sacraments of death, only to be tortured and cruelly murdered, without a high price being paid.

Vicente de Zaldívar, recently back from his unproductive wanderings to the west, was commissioned to conduct the new offensive. Anxious to redress his earlier embarrassment, Zaldívar drafted Miguel Apodaca and a hundred other mounted men to ride south again—to strike a blow for the little Spanish colony that none might soon forget.

The Tompiros of Abo, busy rebuilding their smashed town, were warned by traveling traders of the approaching Spanish force. They left their half-built homes and took up arms. This time, Pesh’taki would not let his people be intimidated and beaten by surprise. He sent out warnings in all directions, and from neighboring pueblos managed to assemble some eight hundred warriors, lightly armed with bows and rabbit clubs. Days later, Zaldívar passed through Alle and found it deserted—and the same with Abo.

But just past Abo, as if purposely left undisturbed, the soldiers found what remained of the deserters who’d been tortured and killed. In death, the muscles and tendons of the blackened, mutilated bodies had tightened and drawn up. The victims’ arms were stiffly bent and reaching, as if in some grotesque greeting to their fellow Spaniards. The troop nervously dismounted and broke out food and water. Indian servants were given the task of digging graves and once the friars had led the assembled company in hymn and prayer, the bodies were interred with proper Christian rites.

Those wretches would have been better served by Von Seeckt’s rope, Tomas Lujan speculated as he and Miguel shared a cold meal of tortillas and beans.

Miguel agreed. Von Seeckt had proven himself to be a master with the noose. He could make a man die quick, or very slowly. Is all in der knot, the German had once told them. Ven knot is brought up tight under man’s ear, he drop and break neck. It is quick, ya? Not even feet vill jerk or tvitch. Then he shrugged. But if knot wrong, man just choke to death.

Von Seeckt was purposeful in choosing how the men he hung would die. The knot was always wrong for anyone he disliked. Yet, those men he respected, even if guilty of committing murder, went to God with a minimum of fuss, while conversely, all convicted deserters died slowly on the rope.

Once the two charred corpses had been buried, the troop remounted and rode on. Further south, the pueblos of Chiu and Axuatl were similarly empty, populated only by dogs. Impatiently seeking enemies to confront, Zaldívar found them waiting behind the walls at Agualagu.

Halting the troop, Captain Zaldívar and his staff rode forward to make the one required effort, through his interpreters, to persuade the defenders to surrender. Miguel was surprised to suddenly see the officers dig in spurs and wheel their mounts, narrowly escaping injury under a barrage of arrows.

Now a fight was assured. Two years ago Miguel might have relished such a prospect, but no longer. He would fight, to protect himself if nothing else, but for him there was no glory in it anymore.

Considering himself humiliated once again, Zaldívar wasted no more time in negotiation. Stationing his men in strategic positions around the town, he ordered them to open fire at will. To shoot down any Indians who showed themselves on the terraces or rooftops.

For six days the fortressed Tompiros stubbornly held out, repulsing every attempt the Spaniards made to scale the walls. In the fighting Miguel was cut and bruised, but never seriously injured. He himself had wounded three men and felt certain two of them would die. He felt no emotion as he thought about it later, thankful only that he was still unhurt.

On the third day of siege, after a night of strange, eerie singing, the Tompiros mounted their own attack, swarming painted and howling out of the low-lying pueblo like angry hornets.

But they paid a high price for their courage. It was in this attack that Pesh’taki was killed, pierced through the chest by a Spanish lance, then knocked off his feet and trampled under the hooves of rearing horses.

Miguel was in the saddle when the attack occurred, and found himself suddenly surrounded by naked, screaming Indians. It was as if a sea of brown hands were reaching up to drag him down. He felt the blows of clubs on his mail-covered legs and saw an arrow shot at him, its angle causing it to chink harmlessly off his breastplate. He kicked out at the reaching hands and used his double-edged rapier to stab and hack at his attackers with increasing anger. To him, these Indians did not seem enemies and he wished instead they might just run away and leave him be. But it would not be the way he wished, and on this day four more Indians fell beneath his sword—one warrior pierced through the eye and brain, a mortal wound that killed the man almost instantly.

Just as at Acoma, after six days of fighting, powder and shot again won the day—and once more Vicente de Zaldívar upheld his reputation as a butcher. In the one-sided course of battle, he and his soldiers killed over six hundred Piro men, women, and children, burned Agualagu and two other neighboring pueblos, and took four hundred prisoners. The Spanish had lost only twelve men and half that number of horses.

With a flourish of false benevolence, the still-living women, children, and elderly people were set free. Zaldívar would have his order dutifully recorded as a kindness, but in reality he understood a surplus of servants already existed in San Gabriel and feeding these others would present a problem with which the colony could not have easily coped.

Calling upon the love of God and The Holy Mother, the gray-robed friars began to move among the frightened captives, uttering prayers and blessing each huddled group of prisoners. Those who turned away or hid from the priest’s ministrations were dragged out from the crowd and promptly slain in full view of the assembled company—many of them beheaded.

To Miguel, who could only stand by looking on, these last executions were a final obscenity to both his concept of God’s love and to his own sense of honor and self-worth as a man.

When a loud Spanish cheer rang out over the killing ground of Agualagu, and the first severed head fell to the ground, rolling hideously in the dirt—it was a moment that something changed inside Miguel, and the future course of the young man’s life was forever altered.

After Agualago, each Spaniard who’d survived, whether private soldier or officer, was given a captive male slave as compensation for the hardship he’d endured. Miguel was awarded a middle-aged Tompiro named Taash’nata—a huge bull of a man, extraordinarily tall for an Indian, with a large head, and shoulders as broad as an ox. Seemingly unruffled even in defeat, Taash’nata boasted a physique that would have been the envy of much younger men.

An unusual specimen, Tomas Lujan remarked, as Miguel gave the Tompiro over to his own two Indians. Until you have to feed him.

He will feed himself, Miguel answered. As my Chichimecs do.

Miguel was to later learn that Taash’nata was from the nearby pueblo of Axuatl and that his name meant Kicks Head in the Piro tongue. Days later, once the three Indians had learned to communicate—Taash’nata told Simplicio and Manuelito that in his younger days, he’d been a famous, well-respected wrestler throughout the southern mountain pueblos.

Perhaps I will wrestle you myself one day, suggested Manuelito on the march back north. We can make a wager on the outcome.

Then do not wager much, said Taash’nata with a wide grin. For the outcome would be of little doubt.

Did Taash’nata lose anyone in the fighting? Simplicio asked.

No, said the big man, shaking his head slowly. I am recently a widower. My wife and I were given two sons, but one was born sickly and died young. The other married a Maguas woman and moved away.

The three Indians walked silently for half a day, remaining off to one side of the marching column to avoid the dust. When Captain Zaldívar called the Spaniards to a halt for water and to graze their mounts, the Chichimecs and the Tompiro sat apart, sharing a small meal of corn cakes and tortillas.

You are men much like myself, Taash’nata said. How came you to be allies of these strange, light-skinned people?

They are Spaniards, Manuelito replied.

Spaniards— Taash’nata rolled the sound of the word on his tongue. And who are these Spaniards—these men who ride upon the backs of beasts and bring so much ruin and death to all they meet?

They are high-born men, Simplicio explained. Who pray to a single god. It is said their fathers came from far-off lands across the sea. In the length of two years they marched across our country and took it away from us.

Did you not fight them?

Just as you did, and for a much longer time. But they are hard men and they whipped us badly.

Our leader, the one called Pesh’taki, was confident we could beat them, Taash’nata said. But we were defeated just as yourselves.

No, not as we were, Manuelito argued. It took a hundred Spaniards only seven days of war to beat you. They lost twelve men doing it. But we are Chichimeca warriors who fought our ancient enemies, the Mexicas, as well as the Spaniards for many years.

And yet you are slaves—no different than myself.

Taash’nata is a slave, Simplicio reasoned simply. Manuelito and myself are servants. Charged with the care and comfort of our young soldier, Miguel Apodaca of Coatepec.

His grandfather and father were good to our fathers, Manuelito added. Give him loyal service and you will live a long time wrestler, but should Taash’nata attempt to harm him or escape, we will kill you.

Taash’nata shrugged and shook his head. No harm will come to him from me. My people fought against his and lost with honor. The Tompiro have never been strong, and have often been taken as slaves. If not by Spaniards, then by the Inde’ or the Dineh.

Then you simply trade one master for another, Simplicio pointed out.

Is our Spaniard a good master, then?

Far better than most, Manuelito offered, standing up and walking off to urinate. Taash’nata should consider himself fortunate.

3

On the third morning following the company’s triumphant return to the capitol, Miguel was forced to seek out Hippolito Muñoz, the colony’s Sergeant of the Guard, with a report that his three Indians were missing, and with them a mule and all his horses. Miguel voiced the opinion that they must have crept out in the night.

The sergeant was sleepy and irritable at such an early hour. All due respect, sir, he said, with a trace of annoyance in his voice. The colony cannot afford to send out patrols after a mule, three Indian deserters and a few horses.

Certainly not, Miguel assured him. Even a single patrol would be unnecessary. I beg only to recruit a friend for assistance, and to borrow a sound mount from among those in our corrals. These men are only Indians. I would hunt them down myself.

Sergeant Muñoz gave a grunt and nodded. In no mood to argue with young officers, he wished Miguel success. Choose an unbranded horse from the barns, along with a surplus saddle and bridle. Have you decided on whom you wish to accompany you?

Lieutenant Lujan.

The governor’s young aide?

Yes.

Very well, Muñoz sighed. If he is given leave to go, first report to me so I might make note of your departures.

They rode out together before noon, Tomas on his tall chestnut gelding and Miguel on a short but serviceable dark gray barb stallion named Gallo—Rooster. In addition, they led another gelding packhorse, loaded down with food and water. I think you’d be wise to choose the stallion, Tomas had advised. He is a foul-tempered brute but said to be a hard traveler and he’ll more quickly scent your mares.

The two men at first rode slowly, tracing a wide circle around the colony, staring intently at the ground for sign. Tomas had brought his own Indian along, a Tarahumara named Pedrito, and this one loped along ahead of them leaving no stone or brush unturned.

Miguel’s stolen mule, the one called Hardhead, had a tendency to drag a foot, leaving an eight-inch furrow behind every step. This was what they looked for and this is what Pedrito found.

Aqui! The Indian called out, pointing to the ground. The tracks were in plain sight, simple to read—three shod horses and a foot-dragging mule. Miguel reckoned that Manuelito and Simplicio were riding, for there was only a single set of human footprints to be seen, and these were of such large size they could only belong to the Tompiro wrestler.

My Chichimecs learned to ride as I did, when all of us were children, Miguel told his friend. There is no reason they would walk.

I fear you’ve indulged your Chichimecs, compadre, Tomas said, somewhat critically. You were much too kind to them. Now these same men have betrayed you.

And they will die for it, Miguel swore quietly.

The tracks took them southeast, sometimes faint and hard to read, but always angling farther from the river. They knew it was possible the deserters might have had as much as a twelve-hour start and Tomas began to fear that catching up might not be easy.

Nonetheless, Miguel insisted. We must attempt it. I would see all three at the end of Von Seeckt’s rope.

A half-day’s hard ride brought them to high country—mountain slopes heavily timbered with aspen and pine. They were far from any rivers but instead struck a small, cold running