San Domingo Read online

  Historick Dates to Remember

  First horses landed at Santo Domingo 1493

  He mouthed “Santo Domingo.” His excitement growing, he divided it into staccato syllables—San-to Do-min’go. The Domingo part fascinated him, rang like a melody in his mind. He liked the march of it, as if it held heartbeats or hoofbeats, or maybe drumbeats. He knew that Santo meant saint, but he didn’t expect an awkward little colt to be that. He’d shorten it to “San.” But the Domingo part he’d never shorten. He could hardly contain his joy at the thought of bringing up a colt with a noble name like San Domingo.

  “Yeh?” a naggling inner voice asked. “But do you own him?”

  “Of course I do! Didn’t Doc Slade give him to me? To be mine forever . . . ?”

  “If,” the voice reminded, “if he never came back.”

  “But Adam said . . .”

  “What’d Adam say?”

  “He said, ‘That scalplock hanging on the mare’s bit weren’t a good luck charm. That man’s a hoss thief,’ he said, ‘and hoss thieves just keep a-travelin’ till they get kilt.’ ”

  The inner voice persisted. “But what if the whole Sioux Nation comes after the colt?”

  “Why would they? They’ve never seen him! He was born after . . .” In sudden alarm Peter thought, “Suppose the colt grows up to look like the mare, and the Sioux see the resemblance?” Peter had no idea what she did look like, underneath all that dried sweat and dust. He’d worry about that later.

  Meanwhile his happiness held. For now he’d postpone his running away until the colt was a three-year-old and had its full growth. He drew a deep sigh of relief at the thought of staying. Now he wouldn’t feel a prick of guilt every time he thought of his mother’s needing him. He’d just keep out of Pa’s way, causing as little trouble as possible. . . .

  He heard quick bootsteps on the path. The door flew open, and in stomped Jethro Joab Abel Lundy, face flushed, beard parted in a grin of triumph. He hung his rifle on the deer antlers over the mantel and glanced around the room—at Peter busy with his hackamore, at the sleeping Aileen, at Grandma rocking, and Mrs. Lundy hanging a kettle over the fire. He looked from one to the other, silently commanding the braiding and the rocking and the housekeeping to stop. He was like an actor pulling his audience in to him. When he had the full and respectful attention of everyone but Aileen, he announced in stentorian tones: “Aye, sweet is the revenge of an eye for an eye; but why take revenge on a man when you can outwit him?”

  Peter listened, wanting to interrupt, wanting to tell about his trading. But who could interrupt Pa, especially when he had a good mood on?

  “Oh, Lord,” his father was chuckling, “not Thy will . . . but mine . . .” His laughter rang out until it bounced from wall to wall.

  Grandma Lundy in her hickory rocker tapped her toe as if in rhythm with some distant music. “That sounds like my boy!” she chirped. “Only he don’t look like my boy.”

  Peter’s mother added more chips to the fire. It roused and sent warmth to the farthest corners of the room. Soon a plate of cookies was set out, double oatmeal discs filled with wild plum jam, saved for special days like Christmas. Peter wondered what had come over his father to turn him into this happy, booming giant.

  With a mouthful of cookie Mr. Lundy was still chuckling. Then he began talking in doublequick time as one recalls a dream, quickly, before it vanishes. He spoke directly to Mrs. Lundy, over and above Peter’s head; yet the boy felt that what he said was somehow aimed at him.

  “I fathomed a double truth tonight,” he said, accepting a cup of tea. “In trading and in life, you might say.”

  “Yes?” Peter’s mother encouraged.

  “Number one is: Copy the ways of the hunting cat who sits patient at a mousehole.”

  Mr. Lundy waited for this to sink in, then went on. “Mr. Cat knows that a whisker spied is not a whole mouse. Nor is a snout. Nor an ear. Nor twin ears. ’Tain’t a whole mouse to him till he sees tail and all. Then his hunting instinct gives the order: ‘Now! Now’s the time!’ ”

  Peter nodded his head in agreement. He remembered a house mouse he’d caught on Christmas Eve when he and Grandma were reciting, “ ’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” He’d named it “Not even,” and kept it as a pet until it had babies.

  All this scurried through his mind while Mr. Lundy took a second cup of tea and helped himself to another cookie. “Patience is the ticket,” Mr. Lundy said between bites. “Let a man talk hisself out. More he talks, more he reveals. And more you know, the keener you trade.”

  Peter’s ears were big with listening. He was impatient to tell of his own trading. But Mr. Lundy was holding two fingers in the air, not minding that one was half missing.

  “Point number two,” he said, “is observe every man who crosses your path. Each man is one of a kind. Some peculiarity, like a red birthmark, or a cleft chin, or eye colors that don’t match, or”—he seemed to gloat over one peculiarity not named—“any special mark can trigger your memory to a point in time right outa long ago.”

  There passed such a look of understanding between his mother and father that Peter felt himself an outsider.

  “You met such a man tonight?” Mrs. Lundy asked quietly, her eyes searching her husband’s. Peter could feel some deep and hidden meaning in the simple question.

  “Aye,” said Jethro. “I met him—and I let him go. But first I showed him I could outwit him and outtrade him.” He rose and stretched his arms high above his head, as if celebrating a victory. “ ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. Well, I’m satisfied to let the Lord take over.”

  In the little silence that followed, Aileen awakened and clapped her hands in seeming applause. Then she held up her arms to Mr. Lundy.

  A great guffaw of joy escaped him. He swooped the baby into his arms and held her high overhead, watching her fingers reach for the firelight dancing on the ceiling. As he did so, his deerskin jacket fell open, revealing a buscadero belt and an extra holster which hung in a slanting position so a left-handed man could make a cross-draw.

  Peter’s hand covered his opened mouth. His pa was not left-handed.

  War Bonnet and Shield

  PETER NEVER did have a chance to tell about San Domingo, but he felt happy that night as he skinned into bed. He was warmed by his father’s laughter and for the first time saw justice in his trading—no matter how little he’d given in exchange for the beautiful buscadero belt! Anybody who’d kick a good dog like Dice and who’d run a mare and her colt near to death was a bully and deserved to be trounced, beaten, outfoxed, and pounced on—catwise. Besides, what had the man done to Pa long ago?

  Under his breath Peter mumbled his prayers. And this night he slept soundly, feeling closer to his father and happy about the colt.

  Before breakfast next morning he was out of the house, hurrying to the corral with a pan of milk, warmed and sweetened with molasses. He couldn’t keep from running, spattering the milk over Dice, who stopped to lick his coat and beg for more.

  The animals were bunched as usual, oxen chumming together, and horses huddled near Gabriel, who was acting very bossy and possessive, like some stallion-protector guarding his family.

  Peter couldn’t see Domingo at first, so he leaned over Gabriel’s back, and the shock of what he saw caused him to splash milk in every direction. There was the little fellow all right, being vigorously tongue-scrubbed not only by Gabriel but by his real mother!

  Peter’s voice cracked. “So that’s it! Pa traded swaybacked Kate for a young Injun mare, three pistols, and a buscadero belt!” He gave a short, nervous laugh in admiration, almost letting the pan slide from his fingers.

  All mouths were eager and pushing for the milk, all except the mare. “And she needs it most,” Peter thought. But would she come to him? Or would she remember the blacksmith smell of him, and link him with Slade? He elbowed the others aside and held the offering in
his outstretched hand. Instantly, her eyes walled and her tail went up in a loop. Yet she stood rooted. Then her nostrils flared, scenting the sweetness of milk and molasses. She tested the wind for danger. Finding none, she stretched forward, neck reaching, lips questing, and all in a moment her muzzle in the pan. In slobbery draughts she sucked it clean.

  Up until now Peter had regarded the pony and her young one as ill-treated creatures in need of peace and each other. But he studied them with a different eye this time. Last evening when Slade rode in, night was closing down and the mare’s coat was caked with mud and sweat until he had no idea of the coloring or markings beneath. The colt, too, had looked like nothing but a quivering clay model.

  Now in his new ownership Peter sized them up. He saw the mare dozing on three legs, head low, mane and tail a tangle of tumbleburrs. His heart went out to her. The colt, taking advantage of her stillness, wheeled around to nurse. He had been scrubbed so clean by his mother’s washcloth of a tongue that his body markings were distinct and curiously beautiful. Pure white he was, with a cluster of red-brown spatters on his rump and along his belly. It was as though he had been caught in a gust of autumn leaves, or as though some Indian paintbrush had created a mystical design on his body.

  When the colt looked up, whiskers beaded with milk, the wind blew aside his foretop, revealing more brown—a solid band across his forehead, that continued upward and out until it completely covered both ears, like a bonnet. And underneath his throatlatch and down his chest to the upside-down V made by his legs was a whole shield of brown, edged with flower spatters of this same beautiful color!

  Peter was stunned. He had seen Chief Red Cloud in ceremonial dress ride a white stallion with a browband of red, and a shield of red, and flower clusters of red. He had thought the designs were painted on for special occasions, like warring or rain-making. But all the time they were real! He was tempted to lick his finger and rub it across Domingo’s markings to make sure the pattern did not come off, but the mare’s tongue had already made sure.

  He wondered: If she too were scrubbed clean, would she be wearing a war bonnet and shield? He ran to the well and pulled up a bucket of precious water. It would not be wasted. Pa would see what a special pair stood in his corral.

  Peter’s hand went quietly along the mare’s neck, wiping away all fear. She leaned in his direction, barely turning her head at the sound of light footfalls.

  “Peter?” His mother had stepped up so that not even the colt had shied. “You forgot your breakfast,” she said, “but who wouldn’t with a brand-new colt to care for?”

  “And its ma!” Peter said. He was busy dipping his fingers in the water, removing mud and brambles from the mare’s mane. He lifted her forelock and washed the place underneath where there might be a brown band. He rubbed behind one of her ears where she couldn’t possibly reach to scratch herself, and with his other hand trembling in eagerness he washed away, very gingerly, the sweat and the mud. His heart missed a beat.

  “Ma!” he whispered in awe. “Look, Ma. She wears a war bonnet . . . just like the colt’s!”

  All around them Gabriel and the others formed a circle of watchers.

  Mrs. Lundy’s laughter rang out. “Why, it does look like a bonnet!” she exclaimed. “The kind horses wear in fly time.”

  “Only hers and the colt’s are grown on, permanent!”

  “They are indeed. But, Peter, how did she find her way back here? Did she run away from Doctor Slade?”

  Peter smiled at his own reasoning. “Why, Pa took her in trade,” he said, with a touch of pride for his father.

  “In trade for what?”

  “For Kate, the Narragansett Pacer.”

  Mrs. Lundy sighed happily. “And now a little family is back together again. Oh, Peter, it’s just like a storybook.”

  She reached into the basket over her arm and took out two biscuits and a piece of dried meat. “You’ve no time now for these,” she said, tucking the biscuits into his pocket, “but I won’t leave until you are chewing like a cow with her cud.”

  Peter tore off a piece of jerky and poked it into his mouth. He could keep on working while he chewed.

  “Now I must get back to Aileen and Grandma,” his mother said, with an uneasy glance toward the house.

  “Wait, Ma!”

  “What is it, Peter?”

  “Please, will you name her? I named the colt San Domingo and I was figgerin’ to name his ma Emily after you, but then how’d you know if Pa was yelling for you or her?”

  “That would be confusing,” his mother agreed.

  The colt made his way toward Mrs. Lundy’s straw basket, started to lip it. The mare darted between and nipped him away. “Nosy colts get bit,” she told him with her strong incisors.

  “Think quick, Ma! She should have a new name right away so she forgets her Indian one.”

  “Mmmm . . .” To help her thinking, Mrs. Lundy began humming a few bars of “Santa Lucia.”

  “Ma!” Peter shouted. “That will do fine.”

  “What will?”

  “Loo-chee-ah.” His voice softened as he spun out the familiar name. “Loo-chee-ah,” he repeated again.

  Even with a mouthful of jerky, it sounded beautiful.

  • • •

  When his mother left, Peter went back to hand-washing the mare . . . slowly, carefully . . . and with much palaver in as low and deep tones as he could muster. He tried out all the Indian words he remembered. “Chikala! Chikala! (Little one),” he was muttering when his father spun him about.

  There was a look on Mr. Lundy’s face that Peter knew. Disgust. Contempt. He was brandishing a white card, and his knuckles matched the whiteness. Even with the card upside down, Peter could make out the line: Flour, Buy at 12½¢, Sell at 50¢.

  His name was called. “Pe-ter!” The r rumbled like thunder, and the voice was a quirt, lashing about his ears.

  Domingo let out a surprised squeak and sprang to Lucia’s side, upsetting the pail of water over Mr. Lundy’s boots. Quickly Gabriel and the others sidestepped the water. Dice, his tail tucked under, hid himself in Peter’s shadow.

  A cold perspiration came out over Peter’s body. He felt like a creature roped, and the rope being pulled hard and slow, tightening about his throat. He heard the water from the pail gurgling into the parched earth. His throat felt parched, too. He forced himself to look up into the glowering face that was mostly beard and brow. Only the eyes alive, but cold, like the eyes of the glass cat on the hearth when the fire is gone.

  Again the whip-sound of his name. “Pe-ter!”

  “Yes?” A voice so small the wind almost blew it away.

  “You stood in my place at the trading counter yesterday.”

  “Yes, s-sir.”

  “You ever see this list?” Mr. Lundy waved the card.

  “Y-yes.”

  The colt made a whuffing sound and began suckling his mother. Seeking comfort, Peter stole a look at them.

  Mr. Lundy stamped his wet boots. “To blazes with that consarn colt! He’ll be a troublemaker ’til he’s gone.”

  “ ’Til he’s gone? Pa, he’s mine! Doctor Slade gave him to me.”

  “Doctor Slade!” A laugh that was not a laugh came on strong. Mr. Lundy’s concern went back to the card. He pointed to the line. “Ever hear of the staff o’ life?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it? Speak up!”

  “Bread.”

  “What’s it made of?”

  “Flour.”

  “When I buy flour, what do I pay per pound?”

  “Twelve and a half cents, sir.”

  “And when I sell?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  Now the anger mounting. “How many pounds did you buy yesterday?”

  “A hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “And what did you pay the man?”

  The white teeth in the bushy beard terrified Peter. He pressed his leg against the warmth of Dice. “Fifty cents a pound,”
he answered.

  “And that makes my profit what?”

  A dead weight of silence, broken by two small spoken syllables. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing!” The tone was icy cold now. “N-o-t-h-i-n-g. And that spells Peter Lundy. Ah . . .”

  Peter braced himself for the hail of words.

  “Ah, you’ve time enough for reading at your mother’s side. Yellow hair and yellow hair together—reading, laughing. But figures?” His thumb closed over his fist and clenched the card into a wad. “What is twelve and a half from fifty?” he spat out the question.

  Peter guessed wildly. “Thirty-six and a half, sir?”

  “Oh, Emily,” the lion roared, “see what you’ve done to this boy!”

  Peter looked around, but his mother was nowhere near.

  Arms upraised, Mr. Lundy was crying to the heavens: “Emily! How will the boy ever fend for himself if he can’t do simple arithmetic? You are making a milksop of him!”

  Into the awesome quiet that followed, Gabriel let out a “Hee-haw” to match Mr. Lundy’s howling.

  The man turned on his heel as if he had lost the argument.

  “I Hear Eyes . . .”

  LONG PAST noon Peter sought out his mother, wondering if she had suffered because of his blundering. As he lifted the latch and peered in, he found her and Grandma Lundy stringing big wooden beads. They looked up quickly, then smiled, relieved that it was only he who had caught them in such foolishness.

  With a curve of her fingers Grandma summoned Peter close. Her eyes were bird bright. “I hears you got the purtiest suckling colt. And its mamma!”

  Peter’s misery eased. He nodded.

  “I got a hankerin’ to see the both of ’em,” Grandma went on. “Now if you was to ride by the door, I’d stir my old bones outen this rocker and come take a look.”

  “It’s a fine idea, Peter,” his mother said. “This is one of Grandma’s good days.”

  “And you can make it even better, lad. Only be quick about it afore I doze off. Then the devil hisself couldn’t rouse me.”

  Peter glanced sidelong at his mother. If she had been caught in Pa’s storming, she was hiding it well. He would try, too. It was better this way.