Though Mountains Fall Page 3

  Hidalgo seated himself behind the desk and folded his hands on the blotter. His hands were soft, the nails neatly manicured. Ten years younger than Caleb, the haciendado carried himself like royalty and he was dressed like a politician. His smile faded as he spoke.

  “Fuentes wrote to me about the bandit attack last summer, Señor Bender. We were all deeply saddened to hear of the loss of your son. A terrible tragedy. It must have been a very difficult time for your family.”

  Caleb nodded gravely. “Sí, we miss him badly, especially now, with spring planting to do. He was a good son, and an able worker.”

  “I was also informed that one of your daughters was taken, but she was later restored to you. Is this true?”

  “Sí. Rachel was kidnapped, but this young man”—Caleb glanced over his shoulder at Domingo—“and another were able to rescue her.”

  “Sí, that is the story I heard. You are lucky, Señor Bender. This El Pantera is a very bad man.”

  Caleb nodded. Pictures of his son’s last moments flashed across his mind’s eye. A bad man indeed.

  “This is what I came to talk to you about, Don Hidalgo. El Pantera. Even now he makes plans to attack us. They say he is full of rage and he seeks revenge.”

  Hidalgo’s head turned, just a notch, so that the stare he fastened on Caleb seemed slightly wary. “And what will you do?”

  Caleb looked down at the hat in his lap, already sensing resistance in the haciendado’s language. What will you do?

  “We were hoping you might help us.”

  Hidalgo nodded. “Sí, I will be happy to help. I have told you before, Señor Bender, you and your people are welcome behind the walls of the hacienda when bandits attack. You will be safe here.”

  Caleb sighed. “Gracias, Don Hidalgo. We are grateful for your protection, but you must understand that we are farmers. Even if we run to the hacienda, our livestock will be slaughtered, our houses and barns burned. We would lose everything.”

  Hidalgo squinted at him, puzzled. “Then perhaps you should band together and defend your farms from these men. There are ten families in your valley now, are there not?”

  “Sí, but we cannot fight. It is against the laws of our Gott to take up arms against our fellow man.”

  “Bandits—vermin, rabid dogs,” Hidalgo said with a shrug.

  “Men, still,” Caleb answered evenly. “Made by the hand of Gott. I talked it over with the others, and it seems to all of us that the only solution to our problems is to bring federales to the valley. If there are troops here, the bandits will stay away. But Señor Montoya—the official in Monterrey you recommended to us—he wanted money. Señor Hidalgo, we have given you nearly all the money we have to buy the land.”

  Hidalgo leaned back in his chair and a leery smile came into his eyes. He nodded slowly. “I see. You have come to ask me to pay Señor Montoya’s bribe so he will send troops here to protect you.”

  Caleb nodded thinly. “Sí, though I still don’t understand why a bribe must be paid at all. Montoya is a government official. Don’t they pay him a salary?”

  Hidalgo chuckled. “This is Mexico, Señor Bender. Montoya’s salary as a civil servant is a token. Anyway, why would any man aspire to such an office if there were no way to profit from it?”

  Caleb’s hopes were fading. The tone of Hidalgo’s voice had already told him what his answer would be.

  Hidalgo leaned forward, once again clasping his hands on his desk.

  “Señor Bender, I have the deepest respect for you and your people. You have worked very hard to build a homestead here in our mountains, and you have gained the trust of all those around you. But if you will not defend your own farms how can you expect someone else to defend them for you?”

  “In America there were policemen to protect the innocent.”

  Hidalgo’s eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose like a little hiss of steam. “America is a rich country with plenty of policemen to go around. But Mexico is a poor country, and we have just been through a bitter revolution. In Mexico these days there is never enough of anything to go around.”

  As he was speaking a paneled door opened behind him and a woman in the full regalia of a Mexican baroness glided silently into the room. Her face, her bearing, matched a regal portrait in a gilded frame hanging on the wall directly behind Hidalgo’s desk. His wife. Caleb glanced up at her, and Hidalgo, following his glance, turned and saw her. He held up a finger and said, “I will be with you in a moment, mi amor.”

  She nodded, and remained.

  Hidalgo stared at Caleb a minute longer as if waiting for a rebuttal, but Caleb could think of nothing more to say.

  “My offer stands,” Hidalgo said, and there was an air of finality in his tone, like the banging of a gavel. “You may bring your people here, behind the walls of the hacienda, and I will guarantee their safety. But with all due respect, Señor Bender, it makes no sense for me to pay a king’s ransom for troops when I have no need of them myself.”

  Caleb nodded, his jaw working, his eyes downcast. The irony of Hidalgo’s words seemed lost on Hidalgo himself. But Caleb, with a farmer’s common sense, saw quite clearly the hypocrisy of an aristocrat, sitting in the grand library of his palatial estate with his fine clothes and manicured nails, complaining that there was not enough to go around. Caleb braced his palms on the arms of the chair to rise, but Domingo’s hand pressed firmly on his shoulder. Domingo came around him then and leaned his fists on the edge of Hidalgo’s desk, glaring at the haciendado.

  Hidalgo bristled, staring up at him. There was only indignation in his eyes. The man was too powerful to fear any peasant.

  “Don Hidalgo,” Domingo said softly, with a little bow of the head to show at least the pretense of respect, “I think in his haste my American amigo has failed to mention one or two things that may interest you. First, everyone knows Hacienda El Prado enjoyed the favor of Pancho Villa, and while he lived none of his men would dare lift a hand against you. But Pancho Villa is dead.” Again, Caleb noticed Domingo making the sign of the cross on his chest as he said this. “You no longer have him to protect you, my haciendado, and if El Pantera comes all this way with a hundred armed men, do you really think he will be satisfied with the spoils of a few poor gringo campesinos?”

  Caleb glanced up at Hidalgo’s wife. Her eyes widened perceptibly.

  Domingo leaned a little closer to Hidalgo and said very calmly, “El Pantera will never stop with the outlying farms, Don Hidalgo, and you know it. His men are fierce and well-trained. They learned how to storm a hacienda during the Revolution. You and your family can sail away to Europe if you wish, but when you return your fancy furniture and your beautiful paintings will be gone, and your grand hacienda will be a smoking pile of rubble.”

  Caleb caught a glimpse of outright fear in Hidalgo’s wife’s face, and the involuntary opening of her mouth before she raised a black-lace fan to hide it.

  There was fire in Hidalgo’s eyes, and his chair slid back roughly as he rose to his full height, jerking stiffly at the hem of his tunic.

  “Your audience is at an end, Señor Bender. I will not be intimidated in my own house. My servant will show you out.” With a hard glare at Domingo he added, “And take your insolent peon with you!”

  ———

  Driving back home, neither of them said anything until they were clear of the hacienda village and Caleb quietly asked, “What do you think he will do?”

  Domingo laughed out loud. “Did you see the look on his wife’s face when she heard what would happen to her lovely hacienda? You are a married man, Señor Bender—you tell me what he will do.”

  Caleb couldn’t suppress a grin, though the ethics of it bothered him a little. “It was wrong to lie to him, Domingo. El Pantera doesn’t have a hundred men.”

  Domingo met this with a shrug. “It was not exactly a lie. I only asked what he will do if El Pantera comes with a hundred men. I did not say he would.”

 
; In the evening, just before sundown when the Benders were gathered at the supper table, Caleb heard hoofbeats rounding the house and went to the back door to see who it was.

  Diego Fuentes, Hidalgo’s right-hand man and overseer of his estate, cantered up to the corral on his big black Friesian. As he climbed down from his silver-studded saddle Caleb strolled out to see what he wanted.

  “I have something for you,” Fuentes said, handing him an envelope bearing only the name Montoya on the front. “I am told it contains a letter and a cheque. Don Hidalgo instructed me to give it to you, and that you would know what to do with it. He said he would have attended to the matter himself but he is far too busy with the affairs of his estate just now.”

  Caleb smiled, running a rough thumb over the fancy wax seal. “The haciendado is a proud man. Tell Don Hidalgo it will be done, and tell him muchas gracias.”

  Caleb hitched the surrey and left two hours before daylight the next morning, picking up Domingo in San Rafael and making it to Arteaga in time to catch the afternoon train to Monterrey. They arrived in the bureaucrat’s office bright and early the next morning. Once Caleb presented Hidalgo’s cheque he found Montoya much more amenable than he had been on Caleb’s last visit. There were no federales available at the moment, Montoya said, but he promised an entire company within a fortnight.

  “I only hope they will not come too late,” Caleb said.

  They caught the train back to Arteaga before nightfall, shaving a whole day off the trip—a good thing, since there was planting to be done. Camping by a little stream outside Arteaga for the night, Domingo seemed preoccupied. The young native had never been talkative, but for the last two days he’d said virtually nothing. Sitting across the campfire from him that evening, Caleb found out why.

  “Señor Bender, I need to talk to you about something very important,” Domingo said. The night air was chilly, and he held his palms to the fire.

  Caleb chuckled. “More important than bringing the federales to the valley to keep bandits from killing us all?”

  Domingo considered this for a moment, but he did not smile at Caleb’s little joke. “A different kind of important,” he said. “I am in love with your daughter.”

  Caleb was sitting on a log, elbows on knees. Now he straightened very slowly and his head tilted, staring at his young friend.

  “Miriam?” It could only be Miriam. Rachel was promised, Ada was simpleminded, and the other two were too young.

  “Sí. Miriam. We are in love, and we are planning to be married.”

  Caleb blinked and his head recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “You want to marry her? How did this come about?”

  Domingo looked up and there was a note of sadness in his eyes. “How do such things ever happen? It was fate, Señor Bender—too strong. Neither of us could resist it.”

  Caleb was stunned speechless for a moment as scraps of memory flashed through his mind. He had seen the signs—the glances, the quiet words exchanged when they thought no one was looking—but blinded by his love for his daughter, and for Domingo, he’d told himself it was nothing, told himself they were only friends.

  He saw the future, too. Amish girls had married outsiders before. The outcome was always the same, inescapable. Miriam would be banned.

  “I’m sorry, Domingo, but I cannot give my blessing to this union. I must refuse.”

  The young native shook his head and spoke gently. “You misunderstand me, Señor Bender. This is not a petición de mano—I am not asking you for her hand—but out of great respect for you I am simply telling you what is about to happen. Miriam has told me what to expect, and I assure you I am grieved by it as deeply as you. But our course is set, the decision made. I already know you cannot give us your blessing.”

  Caleb nodded absently, staring into the fire. “I admire your honesty, at least.”

  Then a thought occurred to him, a slim but fervent hope.

  “Domingo, have you considered becoming Amish? You would be welcomed with open arms.”

  But Domingo shook his head. “It would only be a lie. I was raised to be a warrior, Señor Bender. I cannot change, and I will not pretend to be something I am not.”

  “But I have seen you make the sign of the cross. Have you become a Christian?”

  “Sí, your God came to me at El Paso de los Pericos, and He has changed my life, but I am too much like my Nahua father to ever be a pacifist. The Catholic Church does not require it of me, and besides,” he added with a chuckle, “Father Noceda says I am not even a very good Catholic.”

  Caleb’s rough hand rubbed the tired muscles of his neck as his eyes wandered, lost. “I don’t think you understand how difficult this will be for Miriam. And for her mother.”

  “Perhaps not. But it can only be as difficult as you make it. Miriam’s feelings for her family will not change.”

  There was nothing more to be said. His mind reeling, Caleb got up and went for his bedroll, though he already knew he would not be sleeping much this night. Most of all, he dreaded breaking the news to his wife.

  Chapter 4

  It was the end of a school day. The children had all gone home and Miriam was straightening up the buggy shed when her dat came home from Monterrey. The whole family turned out to welcome him, but after he corralled the horse he came to put the buggy away. Alone with Miriam in the buggy shed, he sat down on one of the school benches and patted a spot beside him.

  “Domingo told me,” he said, and then took off his hat and rubbed his bald head the way he did when he was very tired or very worried. There was a great sadness in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it’s terrible news to you, but, Dat, I love Domingo more than anything.”

  “More than your family?”

  Coming from her father, the question pierced her heart. She took a deep, shuddering breath and fought back tears.

  “Dat, I didn’t choose this. Things just . . . happened. The time I spent alone with Domingo and Kyra in the mountains was like heaven on earth, and I was overwhelmed. Domingo is the one. I believe Gott himself put us together, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Everything else will just have to work itself out. It makes me very sad to think of the grief it will cause my family. I only hope you can all forgive me.”

  On the verge of tears, he whispered, “You’re still my daughter—at least until the church says otherwise—but this is a hard thing, Miriam. A very hard thing. How many of my children will this country take from me . . . ?”

  Miriam couldn’t hold it back. She wept for a lost brother, and for a softhearted father whose pain she felt as keenly as her own.

  “I will not try to stop you,” he said wearily, “but you already know what is coming, and you know I will not defy the church. As for Domingo, I only wish I could have talked him into joining us, but—”

  “I know. He’s a warrior. Dat, he was raised in a different world, but in his heart he’s as good as any man I know.”

  He nodded grimly. Neither of them spoke for a minute as a sad resignation settled over them both. Finally he asked, very quietly, “When will it happen?”

  It, he said, the way he would ask a doctor how long before someone died. Staring at the dirt floor she thought for a moment.

  “In a few weeks, at Iglesia El Prado. We’ll have to go talk to the priest first.”

  There was another long silence before he said, “Perhaps it won’t be so bad, since there is no bishop here.”

  She knew what he meant, and she appreciated it. He was saying perhaps the family could bend the rules a bit after she was banned. There would be restrictions, yet beyond those the law was somewhat flexible, especially in the absence of an official overseer.

  “Thank you for that, Dat.” Then another thought occurred to her. “Will you let Domingo keep working for you?”

  He seemed surprised, caught off guard by the question, but then he shrugged. “As long as the others don’t complain. Domingo is a good hand. Besides,
he has done nothing wrong, except to fall in love with my daughter. I can’t hardly hold that against him.”

  ———

  The word was out, and it divided Miriam’s heart right down the middle. Mamm was deeply hurt, as expected. She managed to function, cooking dinner as always, but she spoke only when necessary and sniffled off and on through dinner. She ate very little, refusing to even look at Miriam.

  But Ada misbehaved at dinner. Confused by the somber mood she kept making little attempts to stir things up and create the lively banter she was accustomed to seeing around the dinner table. When she spilled her water—on purpose—she laughed too long and too loud until Mamm finally shushed her with a stern word. Then she sulked, pooching her bottom lip and refusing to eat another bite. Even Miriam’s younger sisters were all deathly quiet.

  ———

  Breakfast the next morning was no different. A black gloom hung over them all, and Mamm still wouldn’t eat. Miriam couldn’t take it. As soon as she finished her chores she told her mother she needed some time alone.

  Mamm nodded without looking at her. Miriam crept silently out the back door, past the barn and up along the face of the ridge.

  Even now she was wracked with doubts, and as she wandered aimlessly along the tree line her soul cried out. Where was Gott in all this? Was it not Gott who led her to Domingo in the first place, and he to her? Was this not Gott’s will? Was it only selfish desire? She knew in her heart that desire played a part in her choice. She was young and unmarried—how could it not? And if Gott led her to this place, where was He now? Why did she feel so utterly alone, so deeply wounded by the silence of her family? These questions, and others, poured from the deepest recesses of her soul as she fought with herself, even now, resisting what lay ahead of her.

  It was not too late to turn back. She had said no vows; she was still Miriam Bender. But if she turned back now what would it do to Domingo? To hurt him like that would crush her even more than the disdain of her kin. And what of her future, knowing as she did that this was her one chance for happiness? Even if she abandoned Domingo at this point she knew his shadow would remain forever, and she would never love another. No man would ever measure up to Domingo, and she would remain alone for the rest of her days, an old maid schoolteacher.