The Confidence Men

Oreana sat quietly atop the broad back of the big dapple grey gelding they had given her to ride, her hands now tied tightly behind her back.  She looked tired and bedraggled, her soft hair blowing in wisps across her reddened cheeks, then falling in matted curls down past her waist and onto the makeshift saddle blanket they had cinched to the animal’s girth, not having any saddles to spare.

Diego knew the corporal had only been trying to help by arguing that she needn’t sit directly on the horse.  But his suggestion had just made it harder for him to object when Endicott had agreed, saying the cinch would do well to anchor the rope he had cheerfully tied around her neck.  If the horse so much as stumbled, she might be killed—though Endicott seemed just as amused at the thought of provoking Diego as he was at endangering her.

From the moment Endicott had joined them late yesterday afternoon, Diego had noticed the carefully guarded looks he had exchanged with the two privates.  While he seemed as affable as ever when greeting Esquivel, clearly he had already seen that Muñoz and Zavala were frightened of witches and had decided to exploit their fears, probably by telling them he could protect them.  Meanwhile, the witch herself seemed anything but menacing.  She hadn’t slept all night, and Diego knew she hadn’t because he, too, had stayed awake watching her as she sat there, a little ways off, cross-legged, gazing up at the waning moon as if she were praying.

And he, too, had said a few prayers, though he wasn’t really sure his faith was as strong as hers, so he had spent the rest of the time trying to anticipate trouble.  Today, the road would take them inland to where they would cross the river just north of the Presidio.  Then they would head for Baja, following the shore of the bay.  Esquivel would probably not stop at the mission, a half hour’s ride upriver.  But he would have to stop at the Presidio to report to his commandante.  So they would probably camp beside the river for a while.

Perhaps that was when Endicott would strike—or at least Diego hoped so.  In a chess game like this, you couldn’t really predict an opponent’s moves unless you knew the layout of the board.  And Diego knew little of the land south of the Presidio.  So past that point, he really had no idea what Endicott might do, or when.  He only knew that he would have to be ready for anything.

The moon hung like a pale white patch of gauze in the quiet early morning sky just west of the meridian, melting into the distant ocean mist.  By noon it would be gone.  Watching it, Diego wondered about Bernardo.  He had assumed his servant was out there somewhere, keeping a discreet distance in broad daylight.  But why hadn’t he snuck in closer to their camp last night?  Surely he must have spotted Endicott.  Then Diego had a grim thought.  What if Endicott had spotted Bernardo first?

Bernardo wouldn’t be easy to ambush, of course, not with Tornado around.  But Endicott was well armed.  He carried, not just a pistol like Urbino’s, but, on his saddle, a fancy carbine with the same sort of firing mechanism and a rifled barrel, as Diego learned when he overheard Endicott explaining it to the soldiers around last night’s campfire.

Only his poise was reassuring.  He didn’t want Zavala and Muñoz to think he knew their prisoners any better than they did, so he hadn’t looked Diego or the girl in the eye, let alone tried to say anything to them, even while he was gleefully tying them up.  But Diego suspected that if Endicott had done anything to Bernardo, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptation to let the prisoners know.

So as they rode along, Diego tried to scan the horizon over his shoulder without being too obvious about it.  Endicott would be much more likely than the soldiers to realize they were being followed.  And he would be much less likely to think he was being followed by something supernatural, something he couldn’t kill—probably even less likely, thought Diego, than he himself would be.

All night he had been trying to dismiss Oreana’s remark about toying with magic, telling himself it was even more childish to think one’s idle wishes could be dangerous.  Still, he knew that yesterday something strange had happened.  Now, as he watched the distant hills, they almost seemed to be looking back at him, waiting to see what he would do next, or what he would ask them to do.

And he didn’t want them doing anything.  So he was grateful for the faint chill in the breeze that blew in off the ocean, not just because it seemed to have a soothing effect on the soldiers, but because it helped him to fend off his own drowsiness.  He had no desire to accidentally slip back into that daydreamy state of mind where one could presumably conjure up thunderstorms and flash floods.  Nor did he want to risk opening up even more strange doors he didn’t know how to close.

Instead, he tried to focus on the conversation Endicott was having with Esquivel, asking him all sorts of questions—about his life in the army, his childhood, his education, his family.  The corporal, it seemed, was following in the footsteps of his father, a Creole army officer who, until recently, had been stationed in the mining town of Hermosillo.  Like Diego, Esquivel had gone to military school, and while his family hadn’t been able to afford to send him to the university, he, too, had developed a taste for books.  He spoke some English, even a little French.

Diego nodded as Oreana shot him a quick glance.  Clearly, she also saw what Endicott was doing.  By the time they got to the Presidio, Muñoz and Zavala would probably be convinced that their corporal had been in league with los brujos all along.

Oreana let her gaze drift back toward the two privates, then quietly bowed her head and stretched her fingers just a bit, as if to restore the circulation to her hands.  Then she glanced up at Diego again and, with her eyes, motioned toward the corporal.  Diego felt his own eyes widen, but then he knew she could be right: Endicott could very well be planning to have Esquivel arrested.

Chewing thoughtfully on a cold piece of carne seca, Silvio squinted and adjusted the brim of his hat as he scrutinized the thin line of smoke that drifted east toward the hills.  In one sense, yesterday had been an easy day, just under seven hours in the saddle between Capistrano and San Luis Rey.  But in all that time, Don Alejandro still hadn’t strayed far enough from the two padres to make himself a viable target.  And by now it was clear they meant to stay with him, at least as far as San Diego.  They weren’t on any separate errand.  So by now, having spent another five hours in the saddle since morning, traveling over relatively flat, open terrain, Silvio was starting to feel the time slip away.

He had only another four and a half hours at best before the old man disappeared for the evening inside the walls of the San Diego mission, or maybe even the Presidio, where Silvio could never get at him.  And even though Padre Eusepio had gained the trust of all the local authorities, Don Alejandro might still be able to sway them.  He was an honest man, after all, and no doubt he really did think his son was innocent.  At the very least he might persuade someone to investigate.

So Silvio had been considering another course of action.  Not that he was really very good at such cold-blooded schemes, of course—not like Endicott or Don Urbino.  But he figured it was the only way, by now, that he would ever be able to get close enough to Don Alejandro to kill him and maybe get away undetected.

Washing down the dried meat with a couple gulps of water from his canteen, Silvio got on his horse and headed straight for the distant campfire, rehearsing his story as he went.  He knew it wouldn’t be long before they noticed him, and once they realized who he was, there would be no turning back, even if Don Alejandro tried to shoot him.  But somehow he didn’t really think that would happen.  Despite his temper, Don Alejandro was not a man to act rashly.  He would at least hear a fellow out.  And there was a fair chance he might even believe what he heard, Silvio thought, since it would be more or less the truth.

When he finally got close enough that the three men saw him, he wasn’t surprised to see them all get to their feet.  Carefully, he slowed his horse to a walk and raised his hands above his head.  The two padres backed away, but Alejandro headed straight for his horse and the carbine on his saddle.  And it would have been so easy, Silvio thought, just to pull the pistol from his cinturón and have this over with.  He himself would never have left the carbine so far out of reach.  But the don must have realized the same thing once he saw the ornate handle of the pistol sticking out from between the front panels of Silvio’s jacket.  He pulled the carbine out of its holster but kept the barrel low.

"Silvio.  What are you doing here?"

"I come to ask for protection, Patrón."

"Protection?"

"Sí, Patrón."  Silvio could see the man’s mind working quickly.  He knew everything.

"You helped them kidnap my son."

"Sí, Patrón."

"And you know where they’ve taken him, don’t you."

"Sí."

"And you’ve been following us.  They sent you out here to kill me."

Silvio kept both his hands in the air as he swung his leg over the saddle horn, then dropped lightly to the ground within arm’s length of his victim.  Visually marking the distance, he nodded, then looked up and let his clear green eyes meet Alejandro’s just for an instant.  Finally he glanced at the pistol.  "Take it," he said.

"Why?"  Alejandro studied him carefully.  Then he stepped forward and, with his left hand, pulled the weapon out from under Silvio’s jacket and handed it to Padre Luis, who clearly did not want to touch it with either hand.  He gave it awkwardly to Padre Felipe, who held it out by the barrel, trying to figure out how not to point it at anyone.  "How do I know you won’t just stick a knife in my back the first chance you get?" Alejandro added.

Silvio nodded carefully, studying his fingers.  Then he glanced from Alejandro to the padres and back down at his feet again, looking almost embarrassed.  "Señor Endicott, Patrón.  He wants us both dead."  Alejandro’s eyes widened just a bit under his knotted brows, but he said nothing.  "I saw him kill someone," Silvio explained.

"The girl.  The one from the tavern."  Alejandro glanced at the padres, who nodded as Silvio lowered his hands a little and looked away.

"Sí, Patrón," he said at last.

Alejandro sighed deeply.  "What kind of monsters are these men," he said as he turned away, shaking his head.  "To kill an innocent girl like that—just to discredit el Zorro."

"Oh, no, Patrón," said Silvio earnestly as he finally let his hands fall to his sides in a helpless shrug.  "We killed Señor Zorro.  He is dead."

"Santa María," said Padre Felipe, crossing himself, but Padre Luis cupped his chin, pressing his lips into his knuckles.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"Sí, Padre."  Silvio nodded, knowing he wasn’t really all that certain, but thinking he may as well confess, even to an unconfirmed sin, as long as it was a priest who was asking.

"So are you telling us that this Señor Endicott killed that girl just because— "

"He is un pocito loco, Padre."  Clasping his hands behind his back, Silvio studied his feet, knowing he was stretching the truth a bit, but not much: Endicott had meant to ruin Zorro.  But that hadn't been his main motive; in fact, ruining Zorro had been little more than a pretext.

"If they sent you to kill me," said Alejandro, "then they must no longer care about collecting any ransom. . . ."  As his words trailed off, his face also seemed to fade and freeze like ice.  Silvio didn’t try to keep the trace of pity from his voice.  Actually, he did feel sorry for the old man, who had obviously concluded that his only son must already be dead.

"Oh, no, Patrón," he said.  "Padre Eusepio, he did not tell me to kill you.  Señor Endicott, he was the one.  Maybe he thought you might kill me instead, eh?  But Padre Eusepio, he has no wish to kill Don Diego.  He wishes only to save him from el diablo.  And from la bruja."

"La bruja?"

"Si, Patrón.  She has him under her spell."

"That would be the Señorita Venancio?" said Padre Luis.

Silvio nodded.  "Her magic is very strong, Padre," he said.  The young priest cupped his chin again and twisted his lips, frowning thoughtfully as he, too, nodded his head.

"Indeed," he said.  He let his eyes shift toward Padre Felipe, but without really looking at him.  Then he motioned Silvio toward the campfire, waving at a rock while he himself sat down on a nearby log.  Silvio sat down, too, and dangled his folded hands between his knees.  Alejandro cocked a quizzical brow at Padre Felipe, who merely shrugged and handed him Silvio’s pistol.  "Tell me more about this witch," said Padre Luis, leaning forward attentively.  "Do you know how to tell, Silvio, if someone really is in league with the devil?"

"Sí, Padre.  Creo que sí."

"So tell me.  How do you know?"

Silvio pondered the question for a moment.  "It is like a tree," he said at last; "Padre Eusepio, he says you can tell what kind of tree it is by the fruit it bears."

"That is right," Padre Luis assured him gravely.  "Of course, sometimes it is not so easy.  Did you know, Silvio, that there are many different ways for a heretic to reveal himself?  The Jews, for instance, may do more than simply eat meat during Lent or practice circumcision.  They might blaspheme the Virgin, or recite the psalms without the Gloria Patri, or refuse to make the sign of the cross.  When baking bread, they often secretly burn a portion of the dough to symbolically desecrate the body of Christ.  And naturally they will deny that these actions have any real significance.  But this is why we have priests who study these things very carefully."

"Sí, Padre.  The inquisitors."

"And Padre Eusepio—he is one of these, no?"

"Sí, Padre."

"So perhaps he mentioned something to you?  Does she possess a mark somewhere on her body?  Or can she command the elements, perhaps?  Or communicate with certain animals?"

"Sí, los caballos; she is very good with them," Silvio nodded.  "She talks to them."

Padre Luis pondered this news carefully.  Then he said, "You know, Silvio, sometimes evil people can do good things.  Our Lord, you see, is infinitely good and infinitely powerful.  So He is able to extract universal good from particular evils.  He brought about our very salvation, didn’t He, from the vile act of Judas Iscariot, who betrayed His son into the hands of the Jews.  So you see, it is easy to get confused, eh?  At times, only God can tell who His true enemies are and who should be punished."

"Sí, Padre."

As he got to his feet Padre Luis patted Silvio on the shoulder.  Then, lacing his fingers and bringing them to his lips, he turned to Padre Felipe and Don Alejandro again.  "Señor de la Vega," he said, "your son may indeed have fallen under the influence of sorcery, and this is not to be taken lightly.  As a representative of the Vatican, I will have to question him and the Señorita Venancio myself.  Members of her family have been accused before, so she would be under grave suspicion, since witches usually dedicate their children to the service of Satan."

Don Alejandro’s eyes grew just a little wider.  Then his gaze fell and finally drifted back to Padre Felipe again, who scrutinized his young colleague carefully, then took a deep breath.

"Well, perhaps we should be on our way," he said, raising his hand to Alejandro’s shoulder as he turned, but keeping his eyes trained firmly on Padre Luis.  "Clearly we will want to talk to the authorities as soon as possible, both at the mission and the presidio."

"You cannot be serious," said Alejandro at last in a voice like rusted iron.  "My son is taken, abducted by these—these self-confessed murderers?  And now he stands accused?"

Padre Luis looked utterly inscrutable.  He simply picked up the small tin kettle from where it had been setting on a rock near the campfire, then tossed the last bit of coffee onto the flames as he kicked dirt on the remaining bits of kindling.  "It is vital that all those who have been accused be permitted to respond, he said quietly.  Even Padre Eusepio."  Glancing down at Silvio, he added, "If this witch really is as powerful as you say, mijo, the padre himself may not be safe.  It can be dangerous for an inquisitor to work alone.  Entiendes?"

"Sí, Padre."

"And we must make sure that you are protected from Señor Endicott, if you are indeed the only witness to his crime.  Do you know where he is now?"

"No, Padre.  He could be in San Diego by now, or anywhere, I guess."

"Anywhere between here and el Descanso.  This is where they are taking the witch, no?"

"Sí, Padre."  Silvio nodded.  No sense denying what they had already figured out.

Padre Luis smiled a faint but beneficent smile.  "Then this is where we must go as well," he said.  "You have done the right thing coming to us.  God has guided you, and we will see to it that you will not be punished for your part in Señor Endicott’s crimes.  And this evening, if you wish, I will hear your confession."

Silvio nodded—"Sí, Padre"—and got to his feet also, not knowing how to refuse that offer, though he wasn’t exactly happy about it.  It was one thing, now, to let them think they could talk him into betraying Padre Eusepio, as this priest was clearly trying to do.  But it was another thing altogether to lie in confession.  That was lying to God.  He would have to think of some way out of that.

Or maybe there was a chance that this priest would understand why the de la Vegas had to be stripped of their land.  Now that criollos like them were in power in New Spain, it would be only a matter of time before the missions would be secularized, the land divided up and parceled out among the wealthy.  Los Inditos, los morenitos, los pobres —they would all be left to fend for themselves, a scattered helpless flock.  And their shepherds, the stupid priests who claimed to care for them, like this old one here, the one who was so fond of el Zorro—they would all be sent back to Spain.  What good could they do then?  Corruption and violence would flourish, and the whole country would go right to the devil.  They may as well just give it back to los Astecas and let them and their demon gods rebuild the sacrificial altars.

As the young priest walked him to his horse, Silvio tried not to look at the old one, or at Don Alejandro, at least not for more than an instant, lest they somehow read these thoughts in his eyes and realize that he hadn’t really changed allegiances, no matter how he felt.  Don Alejandro still didn’t think his son could be guilty.  You could see that well enough in his eyes.  And even if he did, he would fight to keep his land.  No, this was not a matter of personal feelings.  This was a war.  And Silvio was a soldier.  He would do what he had to do.

And he would have to do it soon.