Follow The Wind

Book 2: Spanish Bit

by Don Coldsmith

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Don Pedro Garcia believes the drunken Captain Sanchez' claim that the Don's only son is still alive and living among the savages in New Spain's uncharted wilderness. The Don makes Sanchez his guide on an expedition to find the young man. Lieutenant Ramon Cabeza, a true soldier and friend to the Don, mistrusts this new socalled guide and discounts his wild tale of a "hair face" living among the native peoples. The mystery widens as the expedition continues, for no matter how quickly they travel the natives always seem to know their plans and movements in advance. Someone is shadowing the expedition as it is caught between the wars of the Head Splitters and The People. Someone who knows them and their ways too well.

Release date: October 1, 1987

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 192

Sample

Follow the Wind

1
Sanchez leaned his elbows on the rough planks of the table and sipped his wine. It was poor wine, but inexpensive. In his fuzzy half-drunken stupor, it didn't matter much anyway. One wine tasted much like another after so many hours of carousing. So he drank the cheap red house wine and wondered dreamily where his next meal was coming from.
He glanced around the tavern and decided that none of the clientele was worth his time. After all, the risk of being caught picking a pocket was hardly worth the few centavos, perhaps a peso or two. And surely, none of these patrons appeared affluent enough to have more than that. A very inferior quality of customers, he thought haughtily.
The sound of horses in the street roused Sanchez from reverie and he shuffled toward the door to look. He was careful to take his tankard with him. One could never trust anyone, he mused. Someone might drink his wine. At the thought, he glanced quickly around the room, but everyone had picked up his own wine, probably for the same reason.
Distrustful pigs, thought Sanchez. Unable to better his situation by purloining anyone's drink, he moved on toward the doorway, shoving between two other patrons to see better.
The procession was grand to behold. He blinked for a moment in the bright sunlight. As his eyes became accustomed to the sudden brilliance of the afternoon, he saw an elderly man, dressed in the finest of clothing, astride a magnificent gray horse. Uniformed men-at-arms flanked him on either side and a coach, pulled by four black horses, followed behind. Sanchez could catch a glimpse of a woman's profile behind the lacy curtains of the fancy carriage. A liveried footman sat beside the uniformed driver on the high seat.
Bringing up the rear were three more men-at-arms, well dressed, well equipped. The entire impression was that of wealth.
Ah, thought Sanchez, the rich know how to live! Curious, he shuffled back to the table and motioned to the tavern keeper, who came forward with ready jug. Sanchez shook his head and covered his tankard with cupped palm. He had no more money and wished to conceal from the host that he was nursing the last finger of wine very slowly so he could sit longer in the cool shade.
"Who is the old man in the street?"
"Ah, señor, you are truly a stranger to this town! That is Don Pedro Garcia and the señora, Dona Isabel."
Sanchez nodded and sipped his wine. The name nudged faintly at his memory. No, probably someone he had never heard of. There were many Garcias. He had asked only from idle curiosity. He was fascinated by those of wealth, largely because they had wealth, making them more profitable to steal from.
The tavern keeper was rattling on, the gossipy conversation of a local, telling an outsider about his town.
"--and it nearly killed the old man when his only son was lost in New Spain."
Suddenly, Sanchez became alert. Mother of God, could it be? That young officer, lost and presumed dead on the plains. His name had been Garcia, had it not?
"What was the son's name?" He tried to appear casual.
"Let me see," the tavern keeper mused. He remembered the young man, who had been a hard drinker, something of a rascal, in an exuberant, youthful sort of way. "Juan, I think it was. Yes, that's right. Juan Garcia. Their only child, you see." He shook his head sympathetically.
"And what happened to him?" Sanchez was certain now, but remained covert in his conversation. What a stroke of good fortune!
"Why, he was lost on an expedition to the north of New Spain. Killed by savages, I suppose. It was about five years ago. They found no gold either, I'm told."
Yes, too bad, thought Sanchez. He had counted on a share of that gold when he enlisted. But there had been no gold. Only mile after mile of the endless grassland.
And young Garcia. Sanchez remembered well the day he had struck off by himself with a lance. He was never seen again. The next day, the Capitan had turned back. The men had discussed Garcia's probable fate around the campfires on the return journey. Most believed that he had been killed by savages or that he had wandered until he starved. He could have been captured, of course. There had been that one other soldier he had heard of. What was his name? No matter. The story was that he had been found six years later, living with the savages.
And it was just this sort of unresolved doubt that began to incubate the seed of a scheme in the evil little mind of Sanchez. He could pretend to have information of the only son of Don Pedro Garcia. The old man might pay handsomely for the story. What matter that it was untrue? And who was to say that it was? The leader of the expedition, Sanchez had heard, was in disfavor with the authorities. Many of the group were dead now. By the time Don Pedro learned anything to the contrary, Sanchez would be long gone with whatever gold the old man had been willing to give.
He finished his wine at one gulp. This completely confused the tavern keeper, who had seen Sanchez nurse the same thimbleful for half the afternoon. Casually, the guestasked directions to the hacienda of Don Pedro Garcia and departed into the fading afternoon sun.
Sanchez was beginning to devise a tale of magnificent proportions. He would wait until full dark before his approach. Any tale is better for the telling by candlelight.
Copyright © 1983 by Don Coldsmith