A Woman Clothed in Sun by Jeanne Williams

Author:Jeanne Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2016-03-15T04:00:00+00:00

XI

Matt rolled up a last thin round tortilla, dipping it into the succulent mingling of roast kid, beans, rice and thick chili sauce. He smiled unashamedly at the Don, who watched him with amused interest and clapped for María who brought them silver bowls of caramel custard. Doña Anatacia had sent her excuses, probably, Matt thought, because he was a gringo.

“You have a good table, Don Celestino,” Matt complimented him. “Worth crossing the Rio for.”

“It’s pleasing to see a guest eat with appetite,” returned the Don. He pushed back his carved chair and led the way to the veranda, where María brought them crystal goblets and a tall amber flagon. She stole a glance at Matthew and scurried away when he thanked her, though at the door she glanced back and smiled.

“If Luz saw that, you might get worse than a wounded arm,” observed the Don, pouring brandy. “And by the way, Don Mateo, what happened to your arm?”

“What do you suppose?” asked Matt, sitting stiffer and narrowing his gaze.

“Perhaps you caught a steer’s horn?”

“A two-legged steer with a bowie knife?”

The Don nodded appreciatively, stroking his lean hard jaw. “So you found Quil. Did you bury him?”

“No. He bound up my arm. I’m surprised Luz didn’t tell you how faithfully he carried out your orders.”

Don Celestino laughed, sipping the richly colored thick brandy. “I only told him to make sure you were strong as your words, señor! When you came back alive, I knew you must be!” He sobered, and his dark eyes fastened on Matthew with a grip like an eagle’s talons. “If you’ve found my hospitality a little strange, please know that I defended my country against invading United States troops in 1848 when you took much land from us, and my only son died in that same war. He was sixteen, a cadet, and when he and his classmates could defend Chapultepec no longer, some of them jumped from the parapets rather than surrender.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said slowly, “but where does it all end? You’re of the blood of conquerors who put Aztecs to the sword, and they had conquered the earlier Toltecs. My people have driven many peaceful Indians west, but that won’t keep me from fighting Comanches who want my scalp. We are where we are and we do what we must—if we can.” He finished his goblet. “This is fine brandy, Don Celestino.”

“It is made from my peaches. When—if—you go back to your place, I will give you some young trees for planting.” The Don filled up their glasses and settled back. “Now, having established our philosophy, how shall we act?”

Next day, escorted by several vaqueros, Don Celestino drove off in a wagon to Chihuahua. He would, he said, point out to the Governor of that Mexican state, who was his friend, that Tres Coronas was assuming the responsibility of the army and was entitled to weapons; also, more to the point, if Tres Coronas rebuffed the raiders, Chihuahua would escape much harassment.

Matt, accompanied by all the men who could be spared from work, rode toward the Rio.

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