Aztec Revenge Read online

  He snarled up at me, pulling his knife from its sheath as he rose. Once he was up on his feet, he charged at me.

  He swung the blade at my face, and I caught his wrist and twisted it until he dropped the blade.

  Jerking out of my grip, he stumbled again and tripped, falling backward, hitting the back of his head on the anvil.

  One of the Spaniards bending down beside Héctor looked up at me with disbelief.

  “He’s dead. You murdered him!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “I—I DIDN’T kill him, it—it was an accident,” I stammered.

  The Spaniard stared at me. “You murdered a Spaniard, you half-breed!”

  “No—”

  The commotion attracted other Spaniards into the stable from off the street, and I backed away from them as I saw their accusing faces.

  “A lépero’s killed a man!” one of them shouted.

  El Mestizo pushed his way through the group that was forming. He looked at me and asked, “What happened?”

  “I was attacked with a knife and I defended myself.”

  “He’s just a stable boy and I saw him hit Héctor. He killed him,” a man yelled at El Mestizo.

  “I will take him to the constables and explain what happened,” El Mestizo told the man.

  “Constables, hell!” another Spaniard yelled. “Get a rope; we’ll string him up right here.”

  “No!” El Mestizo stepped in front of the man, causing the man to back up. “There will be no lynching. It was an accident.”

  “He’s a mestizo, too!” someone shouted. “Grab the lépero! I’ve got a rope!”

  As the group of men came at me, the stallion spooked and reared, raising its powerful hooves, causing the men to collide with each other as they stumbled backward from a horse that weighed almost as much as ten of them put together.

  I grabbed the rein as the stallion reared again and it jerked me back. I held on with both hands as it lunged forward, knocking aside men and sending others scattering as it burst out of the stable and onto the street.

  Running head-on at an oncoming carriage, the stallion swerved. As it broke its stride, I hopped on the ground and pulled myself up with the reins.

  “Go!” I shouted in Rojo’s ear, and off he went, taking me down the street and out of town, the wind in my face, any pursuit behind me eating my dust.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I RODE WITH the wind in my face, but I had none of the exhilaration that I imagined I would experience when I broke out of the confines of Oaxaca and stepped into the unknown.

  In my daydreaming I had imagined my journey would be one of adventure and discovery.

  Instead, I rode from the only life I had ever known with the feeling that all the hounds of hell were snapping at my heels.

  Rojo had taken me where the stallion wanted to go. I had just hung on, images of what had happened back at the stable burning in my head: Héctor going at the horse with a shovel, the blow that sent him down, Héctor coming back up with a knife to carve out my heart.

  “It didn’t happen!” I shouted to the wind.

  When the big stallion paused to rest, I stared stupidly around, wondering where I was.

  Looking at stone effigies, I realized where the stallion had carried me: Monte Albán, the ruins of the great Zapote civilization.

  Dismounting, my stomach twisted in knots, I hid among the ghosts and silent edifices of the past.

  I was no longer shaking, but my thoughts were jumbled, ricocheting like a musket ball bouncing off rocks—I should return and explain to the chief constable that I did not mean to harm Héctor. Nothing will happen. God and El Mestizo are my witnesses—

  No! I’m a half-blood stable boy, a lépero with clean clothes. Héctor was Spanish and his widow would demand my blood.

  Nor was there any certainty that I would even get to tell my side of the fight to the constable. Those who saw what happened wanted to hang me immediately. If men like that got their hands on me, my version would only be told to el diablo himself because I would be carted off to hell.

  And I was a horse thief, too. El Mestizo’s defense of me no doubt faded when I ran off with his prize stallion. Now he would probably even tighten the noose around my neck if he got the chance.

  I was only a couple hours’ walk, half an hour’s ride on a good horse, from the town, but it was the farthest I had ever been away from home.

  From here, where the only people were etched in stone, I had no idea which direction to go.

  Had a search begun for me? It was only midday, but I knew on other searches that had been launched from Oaxaca that the constables were slow to get started and needed to gather provisions, mounts, and men, preferring to head out early in the morning.

  The distance a wanted man put between him and the searchers mattered little because there were few places to go and ultimately word traveled faster than horses and there would be no place for the criminal to hide.

  I knew the sun rose in the east and that the capital was somewhere to the northwest, but that told me as much as knowing that heaven was over my head and hell beneath my feet.

  Rojo found grass to graze upon, but I had no food and no weapon to kill game with. When night fell I would have to sleep on the bare ground without covers.

  Ayyo! I was confused. I didn’t know what to do, where to turn. The only route that I knew was back to town, but my gut told me that would be sure death for me.

  I walked around the ruins, my nerves raw, trying to get my thoughts in some sort of order. I knew a little about the ancient site, that Monte Albán was one of the great Zapote indio sites that existed before the conquest.

  The priests at the cathedral in Oaxaca spoke many times about the site, not to praise it but to damn it as representing a religion that they called barbaric and godless.

  But there were gods, not the same as the one the Spanish priests worshipped, but powerful indio gods that made the people of Monte Albán a great and mighty empire centuries before the child Jesus was born.

  The might and power of these ancient gods was obvious to me as I walked hundreds of feet along what appeared to be the main square of the site.

  I passed stone edifices of naked men in twisted poses, some of them with their manhood cut off; other carvings showed naked women, dwarves, and what appeared to be some sort of medical procedures, even drilling into people’s heads.

  I thought about my indio blood and the power of it in times of old as I walked among the shattered ruins.

  Although there were sporadic uprisings, the indios so greatly outnumbered their masters that if they had rose as a whole, they could have driven the Spanish from what they once called the One-World. But even before the conquest the indios had no unity.

  Before Cortés and his conquistadors defeated the Aztecs and ripped apart the fabric of indio society, the One-World had been divided into regions by language and customs—Aztecs, Zapotecs, Mixtec, Tarasca, Otomi, Maya, and a dozen other groups.

  By the time the Spanish were landing at what came to be called Vera Cruz by Cortés, the Aztecs had already dominated over half of the One-World, rising to power about a hundred years before the arrival of the Spanish.

  The Aztecs had been a savage northern desert tribe that slowly fought its way into the lush, wet garden now called the Valley of Mexico.

  Once in the green valley, the barbaric horde first stole the culture of the peoples they fought and conquered, and then their treasures. While the indios never occupied a large part of the One-World, their legions moved swiftly and brutally to ravage kingdoms and force them to pay tribute.

  Their domination was a brutal one in which the demanded tribute was not only treasure and women, but often thousands of slaves to be sacrificed.

  Ayyo! Those were the days when indio gods demanded human blood to quench their thirst and refused to give the people rain and sunshine needed to grow food if their need was not satiated.

  To the Aztecs who wanted to keep the good life th
ey were enjoying, that meant sending a constant stream of sacrificial victims up the temple steps to have their hearts ripped out at the top.

  The blood of the victims obtained as tribute fed the gods well, with the gods in turn giving the Aztecs victory in battle.

  My own blood includes that of the proud Zapotec, a longtime enemy of the Aztecs. For sure my mother was indio, perhaps Zapotec or a mixture with Aztec, but I did not know my father’s blood.

  Because I am taller and fairer than most indios, it was assumed by the whores in the house where I was born that a Spaniard laid with my mother and that I am a half-breed mongrel.

  A telling blow against the unity of the indios to resist was the way they permitted their masters to throw them all into the same pot.

  Despite the many indio cultures that the Spanish found in the One-World, they called all indios Aztecs rather than referring to the individual ethnicity of the various nations. Even the name Aztec was a false one. The Aztecs had called themselves Mexica, but the Aztec name was applied to them because of a misinterpretation by the Spanish.

  Not only was it simpler for the Spanish to call all indios by the same name, even if it was the wrong one, it also permitted the conquerors to show their disdain and to aid the indios in losing their individual identity.

  That same planned contempt was also part of the Spanish scheme of complete conquest, which included the burning of the books containing indio history when they set fire to thousands of their codices, the dismantling of their temples where the Spanish said they had worshipped pagan gods, and, the final blow, the enslaving of indios until they were little more than farm animals working for Spanish masters.

  The complete subjugation meant not only that the backs of millions of indios that occupied the lands were bloodied as the conquerors went on a bloodlust for wealth but also that the priests that followed them burned at the stake any indios who failed to worship the Spanish god—a deity that they assured the indio was all-loving, kind, understanding, and merciful.

  But even though the ignorant Spanish referred to all indios as Aztecs, the truth was that there were many indio cultures, and a brave few of the indio groups were still resisting the terrible bondage the Spanish had enslaved them in. Every few years since the conquest in 1521, indios rose up in anger about the way they were treated.

  In the Oaxaca region there were Zapotec and Mixtec, and each took a turn battling the Spanish, even up to now.

  Ayyo! I didn’t know what any of it meant, but the images did nothing to remove the gloom and doom I felt.

  Finally, I rounded Rojo up, stroking his warm coat as I led him to a walled area where we would not be easily spotted if someone passed nearby. Like his sire, the chestnut stallion accepted me and permitted me to guide him with little effort.

  As I lay shivering in the cool night, curled up in a fetal position to conserve heat, I wondered again what I would do.

  New Spain was a big place, but it was controlled by the Spanish, and mestizos were not as plentiful as either indios or Spaniards.

  That the search for me would be relentless was obvious. Killing a Spaniard was considered a greater crime than killing a hundred indios, though I hoped that the zeal of those in town who knew Héctor would be tempered by the fact that they knew he was a drunken swine.

  I wondered how far I could get with Rojo. I had heard that the farther north one goes, past the silver mining towns, past the great deserts beyond the silver mountains, were green areas where there was freedom from Spanish rule and only small populations of indios.

  I lay awake that night, wondering what it would be like to be free and not have to worry about the pursuit of men who wanted to take my life.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, from a high point on top of the Monte Albán ruins, I saw the posse coming from the south. They were still a couple of miles away, but moving fast up the slope.

  Almost immediately the horsemen split into three parts, with the center group coming straight for the ancient site and the other two wings moving to approach from the sides.

  Someone must have spotted me because they knew I was here—the posse had split up to trap me by covering the flanks. That only left one route they could not get to fast enough—directly to my rear. But, carefully scanning the hilly region, I spotted three constables on mules, moving faster than the rest of the posse that was saving the strength of its mounts as it came up the slope.

  A mule was not as fast as a horse, but as the offspring of a male donkey and female horse, it inherited some of the best qualities of both and had more endurance than a similar-sized horse.

  The posse’s plan was obvious—they knew I would have to flee to the only way out, to the north, but even if I got past the three mule riders, those constables would continue to pursue me long after the volunteers and the rest of the constable’s men returned to Oaxaca. No doubt the three were on the biggest mules in the chief constable’s herd.

  The objective would be to ride me to the ground, to keep up a relentless pursuit until my horse collapsed from exhaustion.

  I knew their strategy from conversations with Gomez when we shoed the chief constable’s herd.

  “They run ’em to the ground using mules with the most endurance,” Gomez said.

  As they anticipated, I mounted Rojo and set out north, the only route open to me.

  “You have to outlast them,” I told the chestnut stallion.

  The men on the mules would be made from the same mold as the cadre of constables: indios and mestizos with bellies pregnant from frijoles and indio beer. Their mules would also be carrying tack—saddle and harnesses—plus the men’s bedrolls, food, water, muskets and balls.

  Rojo was younger, bigger, and faster than the mules. I was lighter and carried no weapon, food, or water, and was riding bareback.

  The mules would drop from exhaustion before Rojo did.

  My life depended on it.

  I set out, not knowing what lay over the next hill, not knowing where my next meal would come from, or where I would find blankets to cover myself with at night or a saddle and other tack so I could ride more comfortably.

  My taste of freedom so far was bitter.

  I had learned much over the years at the stable—I was a master horseshoer, horse doctor, and horse trainer—but none of those talents would help me because word would spread like wildfire about a mestizo wanted for killing a Spaniard. Wherever I went, working at a hacienda or in a town stable, the hunters would eventually catch me.

  I had one talent ingrained in me that I knew would help me survive.

  I was a thief.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE MULE PURSUIT lasted only a day and a half. I suspect the men gave out before the animals.

  Even when I was certain the hot pursuit was over, I kept going, northward first and then west. I chose the direction of travel without any real thought, but perhaps I turned west because I knew that the capital lay somewhere in that direction, a couple weeks’ journey. A lot of people were in Mexico City, and perhaps I could hide among them.

  I paid a visit to a hacienda stable late at night to get a saddle—one used for wrangling cattle on the range and not the kind to impress señoritas on the paseo—and kept myself in maize and fruit by picking them along the way.

  I rubbed blackberry juice on the stallion’s reddish coat, hoping that it would fool—at least at a distance—anyone who was looking for a stolen chestnut.

  It was easy to avoid people and places: the land was wide open, and there were few fences anywhere in the colony and few roads except the dirt ones between towns and the narrower paths to villages off the main routes. Between the small towns and villages along the route, most of which were a day or two apart, were small clusters of indio shacks where women sold tortillas, water, and other fare to travelers.

  I might have enjoyed quiet, relaxing days and seeing new territory if I didn’t have to constantly look behind me to see if beer-bellied constables on sweaty mules we
re bearing down on me.

  Eight days away from Oaxaca I had my first serious encounter with people—that is if you consider a gang of bandidos as human beings.

  Five of them found me napping by a river. Rojo was grazing nearby. The horse’s whinny had warned me that strangers were coming, and I watched with half-closed eyes as they approached.

  I could have made a run for it, but I recognized immediately what they were—and wondered if there wasn’t an advantage for me in their coming.

  Ayyo! “Bandidos” was a compliment to the filthy, disgusting lépero trash that surrounded me. Four were armed with branches they used as clubs; the other I took to be the leader because he was the biggest and had a knife and a rusty pistola that looked more likely to burst its barrel than propel a ball.

  They had a skinny mule that had a swollen ankle and two donkeys, all almost as dirty and skinny as they were.

  The animals smelled better than the bandidos.

  I got to my feet and leaned against a tree, leaving my knife sheathed, but keeping a limb within reach that I could use as a club.

  “What are you worthless léperos doing so far away from where you can beg for food even a pig wouldn’t eat?”

  Insults were the only way to deal with this trash. Too stupid not to bite the hand that feeds them, they would take a pleasant greeting as a sign of weakness and jump on me like a pack of hungry dogs.

  The leader pointed the rusty pistola at me. “We are rebels fighting the gachupins.”

  He had the square pug nose and mean eyes of a swine and a name for him immediately popped into my head: Cerdo—pig.

  I burst out with a guffaw I couldn’t hold back. “Eh, Cerdo, you are rebels from soap and water.”

  The pistola shook in his hand, but he didn’t attempt to pull the trigger, which was probably locked by rust.

  Rojo neighed and stamped his hooves as one of the trash approached him.

  I nodded at the horse.

  “Amigo, you can have him if you can get in the saddle, but you won’t be able to. As bad as you stink, the horse will treat you like vermin that needs to be stomped.”