Paradise Valley Page 17

  “And they smelled bad, too. Did you see the look in the eyes of that one who took my kapp? There is no telling what they would have done if Domingo hadn’t stopped them. We are helpless in this country. Only Gott can defend us against men like that.”

  Miriam was silent for a moment, and then she raised up on an elbow to stare out into the dark landscape and said quietly, “Sometimes Gott sends a helper to guard His children.”

  “Jah, sometimes,” she said, wondering at the odd, wistful tone in Miriam’s voice. “Miriam, why does he always call you ‘cualnezqui’?”

  Miriam lay back down flat, staring at the stars beside her sister. “I suppose because I am his friend.”

  “But he only calls you that. Never me, or Dat. We are his friends too, aren’t we?”

  “Jah, I noticed. Maybe it’s just a pet name – his way of being nice to me. I think he feels sorry for me, his little friend.”

  “Mmm. Maybe,” Rachel said sleepily.

  As the moon rose above the mountains the music from the cantina stopped, leaving them with only the distant yipping and keening of coyotes.

  Chapter 23

  When they rolled into Saltillo early the next morning Caleb drove straight to the market and unloaded the sweet corn. Miriam and Rachel had brought a few spare boards and adobe bricks to set up a makeshift table where they piled as many ears of corn as they could. They piled the rest on the ground, because Caleb and Domingo needed the empty wagon.

  The open-air market was really nothing more than a great long wide street, made considerably narrower by the booths and tables and carts and barrows of peddlers lining both sides of it, hawking their wares. There were vegetables – tomatoes and squash and onions and all sorts of peppers – and fruits, from apples and oranges to melons and even bananas. There were live chickens and live goats, and hanging from hooks under a little awning, dead plucked chickens and dead skinned goats, fish and rabbits and beef and wheat. Almost anything could be found here. Domingo mingled with the people in the market for only a few minutes before he came back and told Rachel and Miriam what their corn was worth, by the ear or by the bushel.

  “But don’t give them that price first,” he warned. “If someone asks how much, you double it, and let them talk you down to the real price.”

  “But why not just give them the real price to start with, and stick to it?” Miriam wanted to know.

  Domingo looked at her like she was crazy. “Because they want a bargain, and you must not cheat them out of it!” he said. “If they have to pay full price, where is the dignity in that?”

  “But they are paying full price,” she said.

  “No they’re not!” Domingo pointed a finger at her and raised his voice a little. “Only a foreigner pays full price. The local people know better, cualnezqui.”

  He climbed up onto the wagon with Caleb, and then, as they were driving away through the crowd in the bustling market, Domingo turned, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Watch out for the niños!”

  Rachel turned to Miriam. “What did he mean by that?”

  Miriam shrugged. “Maybe he meant for us to care for them. When the children come around, to look out for them and be kind to them.”

  They did a brisk business in the morning. The toothless old woman in the long dress and colorful head scarf selling apples and summer squash from an oxcart right next to them said the morning was the busiest time. When the sun grew hot at midday most people would go to find shade, she said. In the afternoon it would be busy again, but not like the morning.

  Women came in a steady parade of twos and threes with big hand-woven sacks on shoulder straps, buying what they would need for the day’s cooking.

  At the busiest time, around nine o’clock, four little hatless barefoot kids came knocking down the street, laughing and hooting to each other, running here and there, peeking over edges and looking to see what was in the carts. The toothless old woman handled them roughly, squawking at them, calling them “gutter dogs” and chasing them off with a piece of kindling she’d been swishing over her apples and squash to keep the flies from loitering.

  The children’s clothes were ragged and dirty, but they had the faces of angels – black eyes with long lashes, raven hair and impossibly white teeth.

  One of them, the cutest little boy, ran over to Miriam.

  “Beautiful señorita,” he said, flashing her a smile full of sunlight and mischief, “you have such a kind face, surely you must have brought candy in your pockets for the children.”

  “No, I’m afraid I have no candy,” Miriam said, smiling, bending down to talk to the little boy. “What is your name?”

  “Me llamo Maximilian de la Cholla,” he said, thumping his chest. The name was bigger than the boy. “But you may call me Pepé.”

  One by one, the others saw Pepé talking to Miriam, and when they saw that Miriam was not squawking at him or calling him a gutter dog or swinging at him with a stick of kindling, they drifted over and crowded around her, tugging at her skirt, calling her “beautiful señorita” and asking for candy.

  “Well, Pepé,” Miriam said, “if you’re hungry I will give you an ear of corn. It’s not so good raw, but you can take it home to Mama and she will boil it for you.”

  A dark-eyed little girl peeked around Miriam’s skirts at Pepé. “Come on, let’s go,” she said impatiently. “Maybe the carnicerio will give us a salchicha.” She ran off, and then the others, laughing and slapping, ran after her.

  Miriam watched them chase each other down the street, and the smile lingered on her face right up until she reached into the deep pocket in a fold of her dress where she’d been keeping the money from the corn she’d sold. She pinched the bottom of the pocket, turned it inside out and shook it to make sure. The pocket was empty.

  She was still standing there with her arms folded on her chest glaring down the street when the toothless old woman shuffled up from behind, slapped a stick of kindling into her hand and shuffled back to her apples and squash, muttering to herself. Miriam hefted the kindling and swung it a time or two to hear the whoosh it made in the air, then looked over her shoulder and said, “Muchas gracias, señora.”

  Rachel, who had been busy with a customer, watched the whole episode unfold without saying a word. She walked up behind Miriam, who was still staring down the long street smacking the kindling against her palm, and whispered over her shoulder, “Miriam. Watch out for the niños.”

  After they left the girls behind at the market, Caleb and Domingo threaded their wagon through the crowded streets of Saltillo toward the industrial corner of town, stopping twice to ask directions to the foundry. Once they found the place and determined that they could indeed buy the windmill they needed, Domingo took over and haggled with the merchant for ten minutes, driving the price down by almost half. Caleb paid, and then they waited, sitting in the shade of a tin awning while the parts were located in the warehouse and brought to the wagon.

  Caleb opened his pocketknife and slowly curled off shavings from a stick to pass the time. “I keep thinking about that El Pantera fella,” he said idly. “Something about him felt . . . evil. He never harmed us, yet I was still very afraid of him and I don’t know why.”

  “Your instincts are good,” Domingo said. “There are bandits who will take your food and your horse, and others who will take your life, but there are a few who will do worse things. El Pantera is one of those. I would have told you this yesterday, but the girls were there, listening.”

  “What do you mean, Domingo? What could be worse than taking my life?”

  Domingo took his hat off and fanned his face with it – the morning had grown warm.

  “They say El Pantera takes young women.”

  Caleb stared at him, his pocketknife paused mid-stroke. “What do you mean, takes them?”

  “I mean he steals them. Kidnaps them. Always the young ones. The stories are all about Mexican girls, but I think it is only because there are not many white
girls. I’m pretty sure a white girl will bring a higher price.”

  “Price. You mean a ransom?”

  Domingo laughed softly. “No, Herr Bender. If El Pantera takes a girl, he will not ask for ransom. Not from her family anyway.”

  “What then? Does he take them for his . . . pleasure?”

  Domingo shook his head. “He takes them to sell. Have you never heard of the white slave trade?”

  Caleb shook his head. “Slaves? There are no more slaves. You cannot buy – ”

  “If a man is rich enough, he can buy whatever he wants,” Domingo said. “And we are not talking about the kind of slave who picks his crops or scrubs his floors.”

  Caleb stared at him for a long time before it began to sink in.

  “You mean to say there are men who will buy young women and keep them for their pleasure?”

  Domingo nodded. “Jah. My father told me about this. There are men in Europe, Herr Bender, and even some in the East, who have so much money they can buy anything. Anything. It is said that some of these men, if you know how to find them, will pay a king’s ransom for a young girl. It is also said that El Pantera knows such men.”

  Caleb’s pulse quickened, thinking of Rachel and Miriam, alone in the street market. The world had grown colder and darker. Suddenly there was more evil in the world than he had ever imagined. He stirred, and started to rise.

  “We must go,” he said. “We must get to my daughters.”

  Domingo shook his head, put a steadying hand on Caleb’s arm. “They are safe, for now. El Pantera always stays in the hills, where he cannot be caught. Your daughters are safe in Saltillo, and he will not bother you on the road as long as he knows I am with you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Domingo shrugged. “This is Mexico. Nothing is sure.”

  Caleb sat back down, thinly reassured. He stared straight ahead, his jaw working.

  “I am curious, Herr Bender,” Domingo said, his eyes narrowing. “Would you fight now?”

  Caleb’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you say your people do not fight. You told me before that you would not fight even to save your own life. But after what I have told you, Herr Bender, would you not kill El Pantera to save your daughters from such a fate?”

  Caleb pondered this for a long moment, staring at his hands. This young man had risked his life to protect Caleb and his daughters. He had earned an honest answer.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and shook his head. “No, I would not. Though it cost me an unthinkable price, I could not defy Gott. I would not risk hell.”

  “Never?”

  He shook his head sadly. “We do not live by power or might, but by the Spirit of the Lord of hosts. It is better to suffer in this brief life than for all eternity. If it is sin to kill, who do I serve by killing? I will accept whatever Gott allows.” Caleb meant what he said, and he would live by it, but such thoughts crushed him with the weight of the sea.

  Domingo flashed him a curious sideways smile.

  “But you did not mind when I stood against El Pantera. Is it not hypocrisy to approve of this?”

  “I didn’t say I approved, I only said ‘thank you.’ Anyway, the law I cling to is for my own instruction. I do not judge you by it.”

  Domingo smiled, shaking his head. “Herr Bender, you are either the most honorable man I have ever met or the most foolish. I have not decided which.”

  Caleb pondered this for a second and shrugged.

  “Neither have I.”

  By midday the streets of Saltillo were much warmer than the lofty fields of Paradise Valley. Miriam and Rachel found a patch of shade under the upturned end of a produce wagon and sat down to eat lunch.

  “Dat’s right,” Miriam said thoughtfully as she munched on an apple. “Right now I’d like to swat every niño in this whole country with a piece of kindling, but it wouldn’t do any good. It won’t change anything. Dat’s right, the reason they steal is because they are poor.”

  “We’re not rich ourselves,” Rachel said absently, polishing her own apple on a sleeve. “Anyways, I’ve seen some Amish who were really poor, but they wouldn’t steal yet.”

  Miriam shook her head. “They were rich compared to these people. This is a different kind of poor. For generations the mestizos couldn’t even buy a piece of land. The haciendado owned everything, and everyone had to work for him or starve. They never had a chance.”

  “I thought the revolution was supposed to change all that,” Rachel said, twisting the stem from her apple.

  “How? There is land for sale now, but no one has the money to buy it, and most of them still can’t read and write. They can’t even read a newspaper. What will they do?”

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said. “All I know is, in Mexico things have been this way for hundreds of years. Are you going to change the whole country all by yourself?” She took a bite of her apple and looked absently down the nearly empty street.

  “Maybe I can’t change the whole country,” Miriam said, “but I can do my little bit.”

  Rachel turned to stare at her sister, a chunk of apple bulging in her cheek.

  “How?”

  “I’m thinking Mary’s boys will be old enough to start school in the fall, and there will be many more little ones in the spring when the others come.”

  “Jah,” Rachel said, “but there’s no school here. That’s why we came in the first place.”

  Miriam nodded. “I’m talking about an Amish school, Rachel. In Mexico we can do what we want.”

  Rachel lowered her apple. “What do you mean, Amish school?”

  “I mean reading, writing and arithmetic. Just the basics, and only once a week, or maybe two times for half a day. Rachel, I could teach the little ones to read and write. I could do that.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Okay. So teach the little ones to read and write. But what does that have to do with . . . ohhh, now I see.”

  “Right!” Miriam grinned, gesturing with a half-eaten apple as she went on. “The children will have to learn Spanish. If I can teach an Amish child to read and write Spanish, why, it ought to be easy to teach a Mexican child to read and write Spanish. Why can’t I start a school for whoever wants to learn to read and write? I can do that!”

  “Do you really want to be a teacher? I’m glad to see you excited about this, but school? I don’t even like to go to school. I certainly wouldn’t want to teach it.”

  “But don’t you see? Didn’t you hear what Domingo said about Pancho Villa?”

  Rachel shrugged, shook her head.

  “He said because Pancho Villa learned to read and write he became governor of a province. In a country like this where so many are poor, a little thing like that can make a big difference.”

  Rachel stripped the seeds from her apple core, tossed away what was left and stood up, wiping her hands on her dress. “Well, just remember it’s probably not so easy. Domingo said Pancho Villa was a bandit first, then he learned to read, and then he became governor. Just because a man learns to read and write doesn’t mean he will become governor. He probably has to be a bandit first.”

  Business in the market that afternoon turned out to be every bit as slow as their toothless old neighbor had predicted. The few shoppers who were there took their time, strolling along at a leisurely pace, enjoying the day, but the ones who stopped took time to admire the girls’ corn. They pulled back the shucks and ran a thumb over the plump yellow kernels and showed it to each other and nodded with appreciation. There were fewer customers, but those who came through bought corn by the bushel instead of only a few ears. By late afternoon, when Caleb and Domingo returned with the wagon, there were only two bushels left.

  As they were pulling away, the toothless old woman in the next booth was threatening two niños with her kindling. Miriam waved to her and shouted, “Muchas gracias, cualnezqui!”

  The old woman didn’t answer. She just tilted her head and frowned quizzically as t
hey drove away.

  “You should have just said amiga,” Rachel said. “Obviously, she doesn’t speak Nahuatl.”

  An hour later the wagon – carrying four people and a heavy load of steel parts, piles of angle iron and pipe, boxes of bolts and nuts, and sheets of corrugated tin – trundled slowly down the road toward the collection of adobe and terra cotta that was Arteaga. A tall church steeple rose above the town, a white cross at its top.

  Holding the reins loosely, Caleb looked over his shoulder at the westering sun. “I’m thinking there are two hours of daylight left,” he said to Domingo, riding beside him up front. “We can make a few more miles before we have to stop for the night. It will put us closer to home, but it will also put us in the mountains. Is it safe?” El Pantera was very much on his mind, though he didn’t say it out loud.

  “I know a place,” Domingo said quietly, and his tone let Caleb know that he understood what hadn’t been said.

  By the time the sun dropped below the western peaks, their wagon had skirted Arteaga and climbed up into the edge of the mountains, once again connecting with the main road south, toward home. Domingo took the reins and drove off the road, down into a little arroyo for a few hundred yards and then turned into the neck of a narrow canyon where they could not be seen from the road.

  “We will camp here,” Domingo said, taking off his hat and staring up at the strip of purple sky between the rocky cliffs. “There are no clouds. If a storm came to the mountains, we could be washed away in this place, but the sky is quiet. I think we will be safe here for the night.”

  When they had made camp and fed the horses, Domingo built a small fire in a smooth place under the overhanging rock, and they ate a meager dinner in silence while their shadows danced on the red rocks overhead.

  “We will need to get an early start,” Domingo said to Caleb, stirring the embers of the fire with a stick.

  Caleb nodded, worry written plainly in his weathered face. “I just hope we don’t run into any more bandits.”