Proverbs 10:11 - "The mouth of a righteous man is a well of life, inspiring the weary".
Van tossed and turned before he jolted awake, free of another nightmare of the Crimea. Rubbing his eyes, he cast his gaze about the star-lit camp. The Black Seminole, Day Long, snored, mouth open, his limbs at all angles. Nathan Drake, their scout, was silent beneath his furs. Van’s childhood friend Teven Har lay with a lock of his wife Jessica’s hair held in his hand from the rawhide tied around his wrist.
Day Long coughed and broke wind in a prolonged release. Van smiled and shook his head. The terrors in his nightmares of Azov were nothing compared to the horrific odor that rose from the Seminole warrior’s back end. Its smell, like the memories, lingered. The horses hobbled nearby snorted and whinnied. The stench was unpleasant even to their noses.
Van looked around. Something caused him to wake. He touched his forehead and thought of the battles on the Sea of Azov, his instincts and headaches that warned him and kept him and Teven alive. In the dim light of the stars, shadows loomed beneath boulders and rock formations resembling mushrooms and goblins. Perhaps the danger was closer at hand; they might die from Day Long’s foul flatulence.
No, young Christian Har still stood watch, sitting ten feet away, atop one of the goblin-like formations.
Van snorted, breathing through his mouth beneath his hand. His stomach gurgled. Rather than being sickened by the smell, he found he was hungry. What did that say, and had hunger awoken him? Patting the ground beside him, he found and drank from his canteen. His tongue tingled. He pulled a small packet from within a saddle bag and opened it. Delicate flakes fell from his new favorite food—piki bread. The flattened, thin, blue corn rolls almost resembled parchment and lay black in the night on his lap. Next, Van removed a second canteen, this one filled with honey. He sat back against his thick-horned, A-fork framed saddle, stared up at the stars, and thought of Aleya.
The morning of their journey south, Aleya gave Van a jar of honey. Van recalled how she looked that morning, fresh from a bath in the ranch’s nearby brook, “For luck, Honey Sly,” she said. She grinned and laughed to see Van’s eyes widen at the thought of honey, almost not hearing her affectionate nickname for him; borne of his love for the sweet nectar. The Mormons had only recently introduced honeybees to the region, but Van believed he’d go without honey after the move to the Colorado territory.
On the porch of their ranch house, speaking their goodbyes, Van whispered between them as he embraced Aleya. “When you look up at night, those will be the same stars I see.”
Aleya pulled back and laughed at the cliché, raised a finger to his lips, caressed his cheek with the backs of her fingers, and said, “Bring me the night that brings me to you.”
The sound of a cleared throat drew Van’s attention to the present. Day Long, propped up on an elbow, reached out his open palm with his other arm. He raised his chin and bobbed his head. Van looked down at the remaining portion of piki in his hand. Day Long wiggled his fingers.
Born on Andros Island, John Day Long traveled west as an Army scout and his heritage of Black Seminole and Carib Indian gave him a unique perspective on the tribes along their current journey.
Known as Johnny Day Long, he was just about the craziest, fiercest man Van had ever known. No one had a quicker temper than Day Long. He wasn’t long on patience. Van called on him to help them scout a suitable trail and locate the herds of wild Spanish cattle to drive east and then north into the Colorado Territory, around and back to his ranch in St. Maria.
Nathan traveled with them, dressed in his usual buckskin and wearing his hawk-motif buckle. Drake served as a scout and guide and thrived in the extreme conditions he encountered walking the Rocky Mountains from the Colorado territory to deep within Canada. He spoke French, employed conversational knowledge of Spanish, and several native languages; often mediating between native tribes and encroaching Easterners.
Teven stirred in his sleep, nose wrinkled. Behind him, Day Long made doe-eyes and pouty lips; his hand remained outstretched.
Van dipped the blue corn roll in honey and turned away. Day Long laughed. “Best I take over for young Mister Har,” he said. “After I drop a load.”
Van coughed. “Downwind and far away.”
“Absolutely, brethren.”
*
Galtero Gervaso Gasento looked down at his dust-caked boots for the third time. His pacing outside the old Gasento hacienda brought no peace to him. He stared out on his ancestral lands awarded by the Spanish crown centuries ago. He turned to a young mestizo servant. “Bring me a new pair of boots. Brown leather.” He spoke in Spanish, harsh and quick. The servant girl hurried up the stairs onto the broad front porch and into the aged house.
Galtero kicked one foot against the other as dust fell away. Above, the sun continued its descent in the western sky, and with it, the spring chill returned. The Zuni Mountains retained their winter snows painted in shifting sunset hues, dotted by dark pinyon pine, while cedars carpeted the closer escarpment.
A silken, deep, and thick voice sounded from behind him. “Galtero.”
He turned, irked to be caught off-guard after awaiting her arrival. Victoria Vargos strutted across the yard, flanked by two enormous wolves. Odd, he thought, coyotes being more common, and he suspected why. Victoria was considered a bruja—a witch. It gave Galtero some concern, but confidence, too, in what the Vargos heiress wanted. An impossible goal, a dangerous one that drove their people to war.
She spoke in Spanish. “Have you considered my offer?”
Galtero frowned. “How do I do this thing? How have you escaped the eye of your Watcher?”
Victoria laughed. “You worry too much about our Tezcate overlords. They are distracted by the presence of the Sepul to the north.”
“DaFaca has watched my family for decades…”
“And?” Victoria interrupted. “His kind have watched for hundreds of years but seldom act.”
Galtero scoffed and gestured at the sky. “They enforce the will of the gods.”
“We are free of the gods, they are dead or in hiding. The Sepul saw to that. We, the Escuridado, will no longer suffer under the rule of others.”
Galtero raised a hand to her. “DaFaca replaced our previous Watcher. He is a soldier and wanderer and was sent for a reason. My brother is loyal and cautious. He will not align the family with yours.”
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“Don Gasento has made that clear, and yet I speak to you. Your family supports the Caddite goal of a sovereign Caddoan Republic. To reclaim Texas and all lands north and west of here.
Galtero shook his head. “That is different, and entirely a political matter, concerning mortal man and our right to these lands.”
“I disagree. If we do not hold the spirit of the land, we have no foundation. You or your brother must turn over the spirit of your lands. Allow us to act. We are at war, and your lands hold some of the remaining gateways which must be destroyed.”
Galtero rubbed his forehead. “This is no war, but an endless, foolish uprising.”
Victoria scowled. “Since before our births, and I will see it end with our victory. I believe I was born to do so.”
“And if I say no?”
Victoria glanced at the wolves on either side of her and sighed. “I can't accept that.”
Galtero watched the sky turn crimson over the pinyon-studded slopes to the west.
*
The sun crested the eastern mountains, as Van and the boys rode south through the desert sands and sun-blasted rocks of the newly minted New Mexico Territory. The land was harsh, and not a spoonful of water for miles before their destination—Fort Red Clay trading post and desert haven. Van considered the likes of the men and women within the trading post. A mixed lot. Stock herders, horse breakers, prospectors, confidence men, thieves, and slavers. Souls who lived apart from society, whether seeking new lives or any life. He couldn't help but think how similar he was, seeking a different life, running from the horrors of his past.
Van squinted, lowering his black planters hat over his brow. The trading post seemed to float above the plain, held aloft by shimmering waves of heat. He turned to Christian Har. “First, we see to the remuda. Get them fed and tended.”
Christian saluted.
Teven slowed his mount to ride beside his younger brother.
Van gestured toward the brothers. “Settle in and learn whether the Semos brothers gathered up local drovers. Vaqueros with some knowledge of the land and hostiles.”
Leading the group, Nathan nodded. “Navajo and Apache come through regularly, but they ain't hostile of late.”
Teven and Van shared a glance.
Day Long laughed. “That’ll be short-lived. What with Fort Defiance abandoned? This is the heart of Navajo country.”
The five mounted men passed through the gate in a low adobe wall encircling the post. Dust billowed around them, causing each to blink and cough as they approached the small cluster of buildings and corrals. To their right, they crossed a long, low building constructed of brick. A painted sign mounted above a set of crude windows stated RED CLAY. The party rode on, Christian and Teven separated and led the fifty spare horses towards the livery.
While the main trading station stood as a stone and brick building, four rude wooden longhouses formed a perimeter with a low fence, corrals, and a livery stable. The sound of a hammer on metal drew their attention to a blacksmith's shop beyond the stable. Van grinned and prompted his Appaloosa down the side street of packed, dry earth.
Day Long brought his mount up. “What are you doing?”
Van rode on, thumb over his shoulder. “Entrusting. Take your mounts to the livery. Find the Semos brothers. I'll be along.”
*
Day Long and Nathan led their horses over the short span to the livery stables. Across the corral, Teven haggled with the livery owner as Christian guided the spare horses into the first pen.
A commotion drew Nathan's attention. Two young mestizos, a man and a woman, argued with three rough and trail-worn men. A fourth man held the reins of a bay mustang the young woman grasped at.
“We done chose this hoss, an’ we mean to have it.”
The woman sneered back. “The mare is paid for. It is ours.”
The first man, his stubble thick with yellowed tobacco stains, laughed. “Paid? How'd you earn enough to scrape that sorta money together? On your back?”
Nathan looked to Day Long, who sucked on a chicken leg. Before he could ask the Seminole where he'd found it on their way from the gates to the corrals, a cry arose, coupled with the dull thud of fist to flesh.
The young woman stood over the first man, his yellowed stubble now stained with blood. She whirled on the man, who held the reins, catching him unawares. He fell to the amused roar of his fellows.
Her brother leapt forward. “Sende!”
“Listen to your brother, girl.” Said the second of the men.
Sende spun on the man and was slapped back off her feet. Her brother followed.
The first man, his beard still bloody, stood. “Girl, you'll be payin’ for that tonight. On your back.”
The third and fourth man settled the startled mustang as Sende fought off tobacco beard.
Nathan placed himself between tobacco man and Sende. Tobacco withdrew with his chin pulled into his neck. “Hell?”
“Leave her be. Discuss this with the liveryman.” Nathan said.
Tobacco grinned and went for his pistol. Nathan was on him, twisting the man’s wrist and removing the weapon from the holster in a quick motion. The remaining three men drew their guns and Tobacco cursed, shocked.
Nathan and the other two men followed Tobacco’s line of sight. Day Long held the chicken bone in the ear canal of the largest man. “All I need do is give this bone a push. Short an’ sweet. You and your friends best leave. Sale is done. The lady owns the mustang.”
Wide-eyed, the largest man stared at Tobacco. The two remaining men turned to and fro between Nathan and Day Long, weapons trailing the thrust of their bodies.
Sende sat up, wiping her mouth. Her brother doted on her, she pushed him away.
Day Long made the slightest angling to the chicken bone and the large man winced and cried out. The Seminole added a push of his thumb behind the ear, urging the man to his knees.
Tobacco spat on Nathan’s feet and pointed at Sende. Whatever he was about to say cut off as Nathan cracked the man in the skull with his own pistol.
“I would go.” Nathan said.
Tobacco stumbled forward, hand to his head. By this time, the livery master braved to appear. “Ah, Mr. Katz, Abraham, the mare is sold. Paid for, has been for two days. The Semos brothers purchased all their…”
Abraham Katz, “Tobacco”, waved off the livery master and pushed his brother Isaak as Day Long released the largest of the Katz, Nils.
The third Katz, cousin Jonas, stood, mouth agape, pistol in hand, unsure.
“Jonas,” Abraham slapped the third man’s forearm, “Put that away.”
The Katz glared at Day Long as they passed him, Nils with his pinky finger in his offended ear. Day Long blew a kiss, much to Nathan’s chagrin.
“What have you two gotten yourselves into?”
Day Long dropped the waxy chicken bone. “Oh oh, momma’s here.”
Teven ignored him, looking at Sende. “Who were those men?”
“The Katz are important people around here.” Sende said.
Nathan looked back and down to Sende, standing, but short, beside her brother Hernan. “The Katz family run this place? The post?”
Hernan shook his head. “No, the Terry family do.”
Sende tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, the Katz do. The Terry’s allow them.”
Day Long grinned.
Nathan huffed. “We best be on our way soon, then.”
Teven nodded. “Agreed. Nathan, go find Van, while Christian and I finish with the spare horses.”
Day Long leaned against the corral post and unwrapped a bar of salt taffy as Nathan passed him. “That's right, Silver Hair, go find poppa.”
*
Traders, travelers, and a mix of Navajo and Ute made their way along the length of longhouses and wagons filled with all manner of goods. The ever-present sting of creosote and burnt limestone dust mixed with the smell of horses and manure from the corrals and pens across Red Clay. A tanned, and honey-haired, middle-aged mestizo man leaned against the wall of the second wooden longhouse from the livery and what little, fleeting, early morning shade it provided. Day Long stood beside him as Nathan led Van toward them.
Nathan gestured at the man. “Van, this is Señor Juan Semos. Señor Semos, this is Mr. Bran.”
“Ah, ‘Bran’, Señor Van? El Cuervo, si?”
Van shrugged, “Raven? Yes, in my native Welsh, and as Duke du Corvo, I suppose. A Portuguese title in my family, so I understand most Spanish. My family has a long and varied history.”
“Ah, yes. And Señor Har? Where is he?”
Day Long chuckled. “The Lords of the Gray are seeing to the spare horses, brethren. Have you seen to our spare men?”
Nathan’s eyes bore into Day Long, who swatted the blonde scout on the shoulder.
Van raised his hand to them. “As you can see, Señor Semos, I've a need for some adults on our venture.”
Juan Semos smiled. “No, no, son bueno chicos. Those two stood up for our young cousin Sende.”
Van nodded as Juan Semos turned. “Marcos!”
A younger, toned, and fit man jogged up to join Juan and Van. “This is my brother, Marcos.”
Marcos nodded.
“Have our cousins and their friends made ready for the drive?”
“Doce.” Marco said.
Van glanced at Day Long and Nathan in their squabble. “Twelve should be more than enough.” He stepped forward, stretched out both hands, separating the scouts. “We meet beyond the southern gate at noon, gentlemen. Gracias.”