Friendly Betrayal Read online

  Regrettably, the group stopped for the night at an inn where Javier had unfortunately succumbed to his carousing ways. Dancing with the local girls and drinking too much peasant vino, he passed out. The brothers, under the impression that Javier had chosen to join their order, paid his tab and took him with them. It was high tide and time to go.

  The happy-go-lucky Javier woke up aboard the ship, Nuestra Señora de los Milagros, a ship owned by the influential Vasquez Family on its way to Veracruz. It still hurt him today to even think about it. That had been a crucial pivot in his life and he didn’t know where it was taking him. The uncertainty made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Chapter 3

  “Santiago Matamoros”

  Continuing on the path, Javier was still deep in thought in his momentary reflection of what brought him to this place. At that very moment, Risueño lunged at him like a madman, wrapping his arms around the friar, knocking him off balance. They fell to the ground, rolling into a field of tall grass by the trail. Risueño quickly put his hand over his own mouth. Brother Javier understood him instantly.

  “Quiet”, Risueño whispered once in his own language; adding the word “Comanche” while pointing ahead of the trail. Terrified at the moment, Javier breathed an apt short prayer, “Santiago Matamoros, protect us” and prepared for the worst.

  Lying on their bellies, they waited for a few moments. Indeed, a band of about ten natives came into sight. There were two women in the middle of the group. Oddly, one was wearing a red shawl over a black dress that reached to her ankles. She was taller than the rest, and Brother Javier could tell instantly that she was white and not a native.

  For one thing, she was the only one in the group wearing European style shoes. He didn’t know what to make of it. She did not look like a captive. Her hands were not tied together. She was also carrying a long walking stick with its top end sharpened to a point. She was keeping pace with the rest of her companions.

  Likewise, the young braves had long lances whose spear tips all pointed upward, no doubt to keep them sharp. Each of the young men carried a sheathed dagger tied with leather straps to their waists.

  Was the white woman with them a captive or not, Javier wondered? She certainly didn’t look like she was in any danger. He felt an urge to rise and introduce himself especially since he noticed most of them looked like mere children, but he clearly remembered Risueño’s word of “Comanche”. The way he figured it, if Risueño was afraid of people who more or less looked like him, Javier would also be cautious. That was enough to keep him from acting impulsive. He was learning to be patient. That was a start, he thought to himself.

  The two men waited a few additional moments before they noticed that the group went off the trail in a westerly direction. Rising from the ground, they dusted themselves of the dirt and dry grass. Risueño signaled to the friar that they rest under a large tree. Brother Javier welcomed the suggestion. It was already late evening and so they mutually decided to camp for the night. Risueño availed himself of a variety of fruits growing in nearby bushes to add to the dry meat they had brought with them.

  Risueño couldn’t resist asking. “Brother Javier, what was it you meant when you said, “Santiago Matamoros” back there? Javier explained to him that the prayer was a plea to Saint James to protect them from harm, just as his ancestors had used the same prayer to ask the saint for protection from the Moors. Risueño responded with a shrug indicating he didn’t quite understand Javier. He would have to tell him the whole story at a later time.

  Feeling very tired and worn out, Brother Javier had no trouble falling asleep. However, after a short time, Risueño’s hand on his shoulder roused him from his sleep. “Wake up”, he seemed to be saying, “Wake up.”

  “Yes, my friend, what is it?” Brother Javier asked.

  Brother Javier noticed Risueño, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, pointing toward a grove of trees not far from their campsite. At first, it seemed as if the breeze was playing tricks on him, but then he heard voices; in Spanish. They decided to investigate.

  Imitating Risueño’s lead, Brother Javier lowered his shoulders and stealthily approached the source of the noise. The voices became more distinct.

  Within shouting distance, Brother Javier stood up and called out,

  “We are travelers from Zacatecas on our way to Revilla. May we approach your camp?”

  The question was answered by a lone voice from behind them. Javier suddenly realized that the man was the very alert camp sentry.

  “Of course, strangers, you are welcome. As a matter of fact, maybe you could help us. Oh, forgive me father…” the man said as he tried to kneel and reach for Javier’s hand at the same time.

  “No, no. I am not a priest, my friend. I am a religious brother.”

  “Well, I thought you were the priest they were sending to our villa.”

  “Well, yes, that was the plan. But, no longer. I am to take his place for the time being as a deacon until a permanent priest can be sent.”

  It was then that they reached the larger party. As they joined the other men, their leader identified himself as José Manuel Gutiérrez, Captain of the Compañía Volante (flying squadron). He introduced the rest of his party to Brother Javier and Risueño.

  “We are looking for a small Comanche party. Have you seen them?”

  “Yes, earlier in the day. At least, I think we saw them. A white woman was with them.”

  “Yes. That’s who we’re following. And, no, she is not a woman, but a child of twelve. She is my own son’s playmate. She is, as they say, big for her age in both body and mind. Her name is Miranda.”

  As the leader of the armed group, Don José went on to describe how they had embarked on the search for this particular group of natives. As near as he could tell, there were several males and two females, plus Miranda, the white captive girl. He then retracted his statement and said that the girl may not be a captive. Then went on to say that she may have willingly joined the group. The facts were blurry, he told Javier.

  It seemed that the Indians had camped not far from their settlement. Once or twice, members of the community had observed the Indians talking to Doña Modesta, Miranda’s mother. That in itself was not unusual, since there was quite a bit of interaction between the two groups, especially if the townspeople wanted to hire the natives to do housework or work in the fields.

  In truth, the folks in town often invited the natives to set up camp nearby; providing a ready labor pool. The way Don José figured it, due to their numbers, the clans could overwhelm the white settlements just in sheer size. However, they were curious and eager to learn new skills. As such, some form of co-existence had begun immediately after contact between the two such different groups.

  To prove his point, Don José entertained Javier with a humorous story. It seems that during the first year at their settlement, the sereno (night watchman) had alerted the group at first light one day with yells of “Indios, Indios”. As the adult men reached for their muskets and the women sheltered their children in the larger of the stone buildings, a native worker calmed the residents by shouting that the visitors meant no harm. It seems that the settlers had set up their camp right on a thousand year old Indian path.

  Awed and gawking in amazement at the white strangers, the small clan had continued on their journey without missing a step. The excitement that had started with shrieks of fear and uncertainty gave way to fits of laughter from the residents, puzzling the passing clan even more. It was not the Indians who had intruded into their space, the town’s wise alcalde (mayor) reasoned correctly, but the other way around.

  In a very real way, Don José was right. It was the white race from Europe who had moved in to the Americans’ homeland. He added that whites were the ones who would have to find a way to coexist with indigenous ways and traditions. It was certainly a different way of life. Si
nce they had no knowledge of land ownership, they came and went as they pleased.

  As a rule, if the small bands dotting the landscape wanted to move, they did so with little fanfare. Using the dirt to design a rough map Don José showed the friar how and when the nomadic clans moved their camps to follow herds of buffalo in their never-ending quest to find better sources of food for their families. The friar could tell that the indigenous people had a friend in Don José, who admired the natives’ tenacity, endurance, and love of the land.

  The conversation then went back to the subject of the young girl, Miranda. Don José found it interesting that the group was heading west and not south. He would have to adjust his rescue plan in the morning. As the leader of the Revilla settlement, his father had assigned him the task of returning Miranda to the settlement and he was going to do his duty.

  Don Jose asked Brother Javier and Risueño to join the Compañía Volante at their camp. They had an ulterior motive. They wanted to know the latest news from Zacatecas. Brother Javier didn’t let them down.

  “By the way,” Don Jose asked, “Did you happen to run into my brother, Don José Maria Gutiérrez? He is in the Zacatecas territory to recruit vaqueros. He is wrapping up his affairs to move here permanently, but we need workers so badly that he is using his contacts with local clans to try to convince them to move here to help us out. You can’t miss him. He has a covered wagon pulled by two very large horses that serves as his place of business and his home when he’s out in the wilderness.”

  “No, I can’t say that I saw anyone like him in Zacatecas or on the road. But, what are vaqueros? What do they do?”

  “They are workers who tend vast herds of cattle and horses.”

  “I don’t understand. For what purpose?

  “Let us say, Brother Javier that they are as sheep herders back home, mounted on horses due to the vast terrain they must cover.”

  “Yes, now I remember. They look like sheepherders on horseback. I saw them working at an estate as we neared Zacatecas when we first arrived. As I understand it, they are in need there as well.”

  “You are correct. Although your answer sounds humorous, there is no better way to describe new experiences than by comparing them to familiar things. Anyway, the herds are kept in large land partitions called Rancherias where locals help in managing the herds.

  The more skillful workers are good at leading the herds and are called “vaqueros”. That is the toughest job and not everyone in the rancho is a vaquero. Many try, but are not cut out for it. There is so much work to do, that more of them are needed to fill jobs in support areas – peons, sheep and goat herders, cooks, and the like. It is that simple. Anyway, the roundup is a sight that you have to see to believe. Never before have such large herds of God’s creatures been controlled in this manner by human beings.”

  “Something else I noticed is that the men seemed to be playing a game with the cattle. They roped the running animal and once they caught it, they let it go again. The rest of the men stood up and cheered. An odd spectacle, I thought. Others jump on large bulls and horses. They ride them until they’re thrown off. People gather around the enclosures and cheer, applaud, and laugh a lot. How curious that behavior is. Don’t you think?”

  “It appears you have witnessed a rodeo where the young vaqueros practice their skills to hone them to perfection. It’s a necessary game, as you call it. But, it’s far from a game like children play. Once they’re out there on the range on their own with a multitude of cattle under their care, there is no time to learn the skills. It could be a matter of life and death.”

  “Who would have thought?” asked Brother Javier as if to himself. “Ganado para ganancia!” (cattle for profit). Amazing concept.”

  “Well, the viceroy keeps putting more and more demands on the settlers to make this land prosper for profit. Those who are not looking for precious metals in the ground are milking God’s creations for all they are worth. There are great plans for developing this area. One day, they envision great cities here. We are the vanguard. Life here is not for the squeamish. We are to clear the land and develop plans for many who will follow later on. Hard to imagine, but that is the viceroy’s plan. Sometimes, he gets impatient.

  “The viceroy gets pressure from the crown and his investors and he then puts pressure on us. That is the way tension works. Someone pulls on the rope and sooner or later it gets to you. Oh, well, that’s life. Anyway, as proof to the crown that we are making progress, the viceroy regularly sends his emissaries to ensure the king’s Quinto (fifth).

  They often ask for it in advance to avoid making another arduous trip to see us. To many of us, it’s as if we pay a regular ransom or tribute, not unlike our ancestors did to the Roman tax collector. Something about that aspect of living here in America bothers me.”

  It may not have seemed so at the time, but such is the manner in which New Spain citizens began to share thoughts of independence from Spain.

  “Well, I wish your brother luck.” responded Javier. “It won’t be easy getting volunteers. The miners ruthlessly guard their supply of workers. As I understand it, there are few Indian groups left that have not been coerced to work in the pits.

  Some are being lured to the silver mines around Zacatecas. I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t have their raiding parties lurking around here. I understand that they pay by the head and that those who “enlist” in this manner never return to their villages. I have not been in Zacatecas that long, but here is what I’ve learned in that short period of time. The mines are the closest thing to a prison without chains.

  “Imagine, my friend, spending your whole day in darkness and having no fresh air to breathe. I know that I would never be able to do it. Often, they are forced to dig with their bare hands. Sadly, the ores that the Indians bring up are quickly converted into the most precious and delicate pieces for the rich. They belie their true origins in the pits of hell itself. From the little that I know of the industry, I would bet that no conscientious woman would wear their jewelry if they knew how it came to adorn their bodies.”

  “You have been to the mines, then?”

  “Only once. I helped deliver some supplies to members of our brotherhood that are posted there. To be honest, I was appalled to see the dire conditions. I could see plainly why this one subject is more discussed more seriously during daybreak at morning prayers than any other. At evening prayers as well, the abbot spends more time asking God for divine guidance and mercy for the natives.

  Taking his consistent praying to God as a sign, I went straight to him as soon as I returned. When he heard my report, he was reluctant; so I went to see the bishop myself thinking I could make a different. I was in for a rude awakening. While the holy bishop seems to be truly concerned for the mine workers’ situation, he is too trusting and so cannot see that he is being manipulated by the mine owners. He heard what I had to say, and promised me he would look into it.

  The next day, both he and the abbot went on what both described as a fact finding trip. To make a long story short, the Obispo (bishop) went in like the proverbial lion and came out like a lamb. The rich mine owners are masters at getting what they want from the crown and anyone else for that matter. Like they say, money talks.

  As a result, the bishop returned to his diocese proud of his silver-adorned biretta and cloak. Included was a beautiful chalice. Ironically, the vessel that will hold agua bendita (holy water) for mass was created by the sweat and suffering of the mine workers.

  That payoff, my friend, is the real agua bendita. Also included was a 100-piece silver serving set. I have not seen it, but those who have say it’s worthy of the king’s court. The abbot returned happily with funds to help build the new center for the abbey. His gifts included an enormous chandelier that will now require that the apse of the new chapel be extensively modified to accommodate it.”

  “And the results of the fac
t finding trip?”

  “I thought you would never ask. Well, it was a “promise for a promise” exchange. The mine owners promised the bishop they would see what they could do to make things better for the indigenous people and the bishop promised the mine owners he would continue to pray for the indigenous miners.”

  “Was that it?”

  “Well, not exactly. The abbot did come to his senses after he got back. He fasted for several days as atonement for allowing himself to be used in such a manner. After his hiatus, he conferred with the more senior brothers of my order and he corresponded with the bishop. Here’s the plan.

  We are to go in groups of twos and threes to the mining villages and post ourselves there permanently to minister to the needs of the poor miners and their piteous families. Since we do not directly work for the bishop, the bishop will claim ignorance, saying that our order is committed to what we do best – to provide basic services to our community. We are to become involved in evangelization, education, and teaching the natives the true faith. Then, once we strengthen our position, we can better advocate for the native people. That is the plan, plain and simple. By the way, I am to be posted in one of those villages when I return to Zacatecas.”

  After talking in this manner for hours, all finally went to sleep. The smell of strong coffee awoke Javier early the next day. Risueño was nowhere in sight. One of the men told him that he had wandered into the brush. No sooner had he taken his first swallow of the hot coffee when he saw Risueño approach him with an armful of Javier’s favorite staple of root bulbs, nuts, and fruits for breakfast. While not appetizing in their raw state, it didn’t take long for Risueño to use the fire to prepare a quick, tasty snack.

  As soon as everyone was ready, Don José announced that while he and his party would pursue the Comanches, he would provide them with one of the three spare horses they had. It was an offer that Javier could not refuse. He missed riding and so it offered him an opportunity to hone his riding skills. Unfamiliar with riding, Risueño preferred to walk. However, once he did accept Javier’s invitation to ride the horse for a short distance. Although this was the first time that he had mounted a horse, the experience made him feel natural on the saddle. He liked it. He promised himself that one day, he too would own a horse.