3 

Colonel Loring, of the Regiment of Mounted Riflemen, in anticipation of the acceptance of his resignation, left this place today, after placing me in the general charge of the affairs of the department.

—Major Ed. R. S. Canby

"Look, my dear, that's an old Indian city."

"Pecos," said Mr. Krohn, a fellow passenger.

"Like the river?"  Laura leaned forward to peer out of the window and glimpsed a heap of crumbling mud walls and the remains of a Spanish church.  The sun was behind it, sinking toward the stair-step mountains and hurting her tired eyes. 

The trail had left the river and begun to rise as it turned north and skirted the mountains beyond which lay Santa Fé.  Now that they were close to the journey's end, Laura was able to take more interest in the country they passed through.

"Just a mile or two to the next stop," said her uncle.  "The supper is worth waiting for, I assure you."

Laura sat back, making an effort to smile.  Uncle Wallace's assurances, she had learned, were generally exaggerated.  As they had stopped at a ranch not an hour before, she made up her mind not to expect less than ten miles in the next leg, which would bring them within a day's travel of Santa Fé. 

Rubbing her thumb along the peak of the clock in her lap, she stared out of the window at the cedar-dotted hills.  Though her middle seat had a poor view, it was better than staring at her fellow passengers.

Her mind returned to Fort Union, as it often had in the last few days.  Her uncle had expressed his disappointment in her behavior there; she had failed to captivate Lieutenant Owens, and she had interfered with Captain Sibley's "property" in a most unseemly fashion.  Laura had swallowed her indignation, but could not bring herself to apologize for a simple act of humanity.  It troubled her to find herself in a country where slavery was tolerated, and it troubled her deeply to know that her uncle acquiesced in that tolerance.

A cool breeze reclaimed her attention.  The trail had swung west again, passing between rising hills.  Pine trees began to appear, dwarfing the cedars and casting long shadows in the slanting sunshine. 

The stage slowed, mules laboring uphill as they entered a little canyon.  Ridges of rough, grey rock closed in on both sides.  The sun was hidden by the cliffs, and the air in this valley was much cooler.  Laura shivered at the sudden drop in temperature.  She was beginning to wish for her shawl when the trail rounded an outcrop and sunlight spilled through the window once more, dappled by a sea of fluttering green leaves.

"Oh!" Laura cried involuntarily. 

The valley had opened into a little bowl, surrounded by pine-covered hills and filled with rustling cottonwoods.  The trail bisected the grove, and in the middle a ranch house appeared, its mud walls glowing golden in the late sunshine, a rocky ridge overlooking it to the north with a blue, domed mountain beyond.  It was the loveliest place Laura had yet seen in New Mexico, and her spirits rose as the stage slowed to a halt before the house. 

"Here we are," said Uncle Wallace.  "Not so bad, was it?"

"No," said Laura, and this time her smile was heartfelt. 

As she stepped down from the coach she inhaled cool air tinged with the smells of wood smoke and forest earth.  Rock walls marked a large corral west of the ranch house.  A covered portal shaded the whole front of the house, which had three doors facing onto the trail. 

From one of these emerged a tall, lanky man in rancher's clothes, waving long arms in welcome and saying "Bonjour, bonjour!  Welcome to Glorieta!"

"Glorieta?" said Laura.  "What a pretty name."

The Frenchman's face crinkled in a smile.  "And you are a pretty lady, madame.  May I carry that for you?"

Laura sensed kindness, as though this gentleman drew great joy as well as a living from serving his guests.  His hair and mustache were black, just beginning to be peppered with grey, and his eyes had a merry twinkle.  She liked him, she decided, and allowed him to relieve her of her clock.

"Thank you, Monsieur―?"

"Alexandre Vallé," he said, bowing with a flourish.  "But I am also called 'Pigeon'."

"Thank you, Monsieur Vallé." 

Laura gazed around the valley again, drinking in its beauty.  It was a peaceful place.  The wind in the cottonwoods reminded her of the ocean, and instead of making her homesick, it made her feel at home.

Uncle Wallace trudged up with his portmanteau and Laura's traveling case.  "Hallo, Pigeon," he said.  "When's the next fandango?"

"You just missed one," grinned the Frenchman.  "For three days we were dancing."

"You'd outdance the devil himself," said her uncle.  "I see you met my niece."

"Ah!" said Vallé, turning to Laura.  "So this is Miss Howland?  You did not tell me she is so beautiful!  She will break all the hearts, my friend!"

Laura gave a cough of surprised laughter, and tried to frown at Vallé, but he was smiling and she found herself smiling back.  She had not been teased since her father died, she realized.  She glanced down at her dusty half-boots, suddenly lonely.

"Supper?" said Uncle Wallace.

"It will be ready in half an hour," said Vallé.  "Meantime, I will show mademoiselle her room, yes?" 

He waved them to the center door, through which the other passengers had already gone. The house was Mexican in style, like every other ranch they had stopped at since Fort Union:  thick walls made of the mud bricks called adobes, dirt floor covered with black and white checkered rugs, and wool mattresses rolled against the walls.  Two rough tables and several chairs formed the rest of the furniture.  One of the curious little beehive fireplaces common to the country was tucked into a corner, and a larger conventional hearth crackled with bright fire over which a pot of something savory was simmering. 

A diminutive Mexican woman with a long, glossy black braid down her back looked up from stirring the pot as they entered, and smiled when her eyes fell on Laura.  Very bright, those eyes, giving her an elfish look.

"Cruzita," Vallé called to her, and paused to exchange a few words in Spanish. 

The stage passengers were setting their bags on the mattresses, claiming their beds for the night.  Uncle Wallace hurried to secure one while Vallé led Laura to a door in the left-hand wall. 

The second room was as large as the first, though it had but one table and one fireplace.  Luxurious accommodations for a solitary female. 

"Shall I light the fire, mademoiselle?" said Vallé as he set Laura's clock in a little niche in the wall. 

"Yes, thank you," said Laura. 

Vallé knelt by the beehive fireplace, and Laura went to the front wall, where a door and a window faced the trail.  There was glass in the window―attesting to Monsieur Vallé's prosperity―and the curtain tacked over it was clean, if a little faded.  As Laura looked out, the mail coaches rumbled past on their way into the corral for the night.  Uncle Wallace came in with her traveling case, which he set near the fire.  "Well, now," he said.  "Quite cozy, aren't we?"

"Yes," said Laura.  "This is a beautiful valley."

"Knew you'd get to liking New Mexico.  It grows on you."

Laura glanced at Vallé and refrained from expressing her opinion of New Mexico in general:  hot, dry, dusty, filled with starving Mexicans and American adventurers.  Instead she opened her case and took out her black shawl. 

"I think I'll walk while there's still light," she said.

"Bien," said Vallé, dusting off his knees as he rose from the fireplace.  "When you hear the bell, supper will be served."

Laura went out into the crisp evening, crossed the dusty ruts of the Santa Fé Trail and found a stone well to the south of it, with a stand of young corn nearby.  Beyond the well was a small pond, fed by a stream that trickled down the valley from the west.  Spring had lingered in the shelter of the mountains, and purple and white wildflowers flourished at the water's edge.  A plink of water told her of fish, and she glanced up in time to see circles widening on the pond's surface. 

This place I could live in, she thought as she strolled into the woods that were something like the green she had known at home.  She had always loved the outdoors, both wild forests and civilized gardens.  She and her father had often taken long walks, looking for herbs to make into medicines, discussing philosophy and politics, pondering how to improve his career as a lecturer on health and homeopathy, making grandiose plans that had never been put into motion, and now never would be.

Laura's throat tightened, and she came to a halt in the middle of a little copse of trees, pulling her shawl closer around herself.  She had tried so hard to help her father's success.  They had struggled, the two of them.  They had made sacrifices, stood by their beliefs, and then he'd been drowned in a fishing accident―of all useless ways to die―just when he'd seemed on the verge of success. 

Why? she asked silently, as she'd done a thousand times in her prayers.  God had a reason for everything he did, but this she had not yet been able to understand, and she was tired, so tired, of the weariness of grieving.  She tilted back her head and closed her eyes, inhaling the smell of forest earth, hoping still for an answer.

"La glorieta," said a soft voice.  Laura started, and looked up to see Monsieur Vallé at the edge of the glade.

"Forgive me," he said.  "I did not mean to frighten you."

"You followed me?" said Laura, anger replacing the momentary fear.  Her heart was still racing from surprise.

"I am sorry," said Vallé.  "When I saw you go into the woods, I came to be sure you were safe.  Many people travel on this road, mademoiselle," he said, gesturing toward the Trail.

"Oh," said Laura.  "I see.  It's kind of you to be concerned."

"Also, it is almost time for supper," said the Frenchman.  "Shall I walk back with you, or do you wish to be alone?"

"Let's go back," said Laura with a glance at the hills behind which the sun had dipped.  Twilight was falling in the forest, and she fell into step with Vallé, who kept a respectful distance as they walked up the gentle slope to the trail.  "What did you say?"  she asked.  "Glorieta?"

"Yes," said Vallé.  "That is what you were like, standing in the middle of those trees.  Like a glorieta.  The Spanish give that name to any place where something special is surrounded by trees.  A fountain, a shrine, a statue―"

"Are you saying I looked like a statue?" asked Laura in mock indignation.

"It was not how you looked," said Vallé.  "To me it is the feeling that makes a glorieta.  There is a special feeling . . . eh, bah.  I am talking nonsense.  Please pay no attention."

Laura looked at his sun-weathered face, wanting him to continue.  Shyness prevented her from asking; she did not know him, and didn't wish to be rudely inquisitive.  Yet she had the feeling that what he had been about to say was important.

The clear sound of a bell broke the silence.  They reached the house as Cruzita was hanging a lantern from the portal's roof.  The coachmen started coming in from the corral, and with a last glance at the whispering cottonwoods, Laura followed her hosts in to supper.

"It's grown," said O'Brien as he and Hall rode into Denver City.  A jumble of tents and shacks clustered the town's outskirts on both sides of the South Platte and eastward along Cherry Creek.

"Yes, there's always another fool trying to find his fortune out West," said Hall.

O'Brien shot Hall a look, then glanced back at the cold Rocky Mountains, the wind rolling down from their rugged peaks out to the eastern plains.  He was not such a fool as to let Joseph Hall annoy him.  Hall was still in a prickly mood, though he'd come back to Avery much sooner than O'Brien had expected.

"So, what do you think of him?" said Hall.

"This bag of bones?" said O'Brien, patting the thin withers of the horse Hall had loaned him. 

It was the first horse he'd had a leg over since New York, and the worst excuse for a horse he'd seen since leaving Ireland.  He hadn't mentioned it to Hall, because Hall could turn such things against one, but in fact he'd grown up around horses in Racecourse, and loved them, and hated to see them broke down like this poor old nag. 

He shook his head, and said "I think he has maybe a year or two left in him."

"Well, he's in better shape than when I bought him.  Let you have him for fifty dollars."

O'Brien laughed.

"I could get twice that," said Hall.

"And you paid half as much, I'll be bound," said O'Brien.  "No, save your breath.  I've got no fifty dollars to give you.  Dooney only gave me ten for a week's diggings, and I need every penny for clothes.  I've a hole in one boot that's as big as a dollar."

"Well," said Hall, "I just happen to know where you could get that fifty dollars, and more besides.  Did you hear our new Governor's planning to call for volunteers?"

"That again.  Aye, I heard."

"Hear he's going to make any man a captain who brings in twenty-five men?"

O'Brien had not heard that.  "I see," he said slowly as they headed down Larimer Street.  "And when am I to congratulate you, Captain Hall?"

Hall laughed.  "Oh, not me.  I'm too lazy to be a leader of men.  A captain's got to be able to knock heads together; I'd just want to shoot 'em and be done with it.  I was thinking of you, my friend."

"Me?" laughed O'Brien.  "A captain in the army?"

"Why not?"

"Because they don't want my sort for officers, even if I had the money.  They want the fine gentlemen for that."

"You weren't listening, Red.  You don't buy a commission here the way they do in Europe.  All you need is twenty-five men, and you can get them in Avery."

"You've got it all planned, have you?" said O'Brien.

"Yep," said Hall, smiling as he leaned back in his saddle.  "It should be a cavalry company, I reckon.  Twenty-five brave fellows, galloping into Denver.  What do you think?"

A shadowy army of warriors appeared to O'Brien, descendants of King Brian Boru, bright swords aglitter and proud horses snorting.  It pulled at his heart, that vision, and whispered of honors to be won.  He drew in a deep breath, and just as he did so the nag stumbled―a bad omen. 

"I think," he said after he'd steadied the horse, "that you're hoping to sell me your breakdowns for this fairy-tale company.  Best look elsewhere."

"Now, Red―"

"Joe Hall!" called a voice down the street, and O'Brien glanced up.

"Hey!" shouted Hall, breaking into a grin. 

He waved to the man who had hailed him―a tall fellow with a wide, friendly face and mutton-chop whiskers―and kicked his horse into a trot.  O'Brien followed, reining in beside Hall, who had dismounted and was pumping the tall fellow's hand.

"Good to see you, Logan," Hall said.

"Likewise," said Logan.  "Come have a drink―I'm meeting Hambleton at the Criterion."

"How'd you get him to go in there?" said Hall.  "I thought he didn't care for Southerners."

Logan grinned.  "No, but he knows Charley Harrison's got the best whiskey in town."

O'Brien slid from his saddle, and Hall glanced his way.  "Sam Logan, I'd like you to meet my very good friend Red O'Brien.  He's got a claim up in Avery."

"Oh?" said Logan, shaking hands.  "And how's mining in Avery?"

"Cold and dry as a witch's teat," said O'Brien.

Logan laughed.  "Come on along, then.  You can warm up with a glass of whiskey."

"I'll catch up," said O'Brien, nodding toward Wallingford & Murphy's Mercantile nearby.  "Need to buy a few things."

"Don't be long," said Hall, throwing an arm around Logan's shoulders.  As they continued down the street, O'Brien tied his borrowed nag to the rail outside the merchant's and went in.

"Good morning, Mr. Murphy," he said, taking a grey woolen shirt from a stack near the door.

"Morning," said Murphy from behind the counter.  He seemed preoccupied in unwrapping some cloth.  O'Brien chose two pairs of trousers, some socks and long underwear, and carried his purchases up to the counter, where Murphy added them up. 

"Six dollars and thirty cents."

"How much for the boots?" said O'Brien, pointing to a shelf behind the counter.

"Seven dollars a pair," said the merchant.

"Could I pay you on credit?" asked O'Brien.

Murphy shook his head.  "Sorry.  Cash only."

"Then where can I find a good cobbler?"

"Independence," said Murphy with a laugh.

Annoyed, O'Brien paid for the clothes and went down the street to the shop of a saddler, who agreed to add some leather to his boot soles for fifty cents.  O'Brien left the boots and the horse with the saddler and walked barefoot back toward the Criterion.  Before he had reached it a shouting arose up ahead.  He passed by the saloon to see what was the matter.

A crowd was collecting outside Wallingford & Murphy's.  On its roof was a flag he'd not seen before; one wide, white stripe between two red ones, with a circle of stars on the blue corner.  Murphy stood before his door exchanging hard words with the crowd.  O'Brien moved closer, and caught the words "damned secessionist."

"That again," he muttered.

"You got something to say about it?" demanded a hostile voice nearby. 

O'Brien looked up to find a great buffalo of a fellow glaring at him.  "Not a thing," he said.  "What flag is it, then?"

"It's a damned Confederate flag, that's what!"

"They call it the Stars and Bars," drawled Hall's voice from behind them.  O'Brien turned.  Logan was there, too, frowning at Murphy's new flag. 

"Take it easy, Hambleton," added Hall.  "O'Brien's all right."

The crowd was getting bigger, and the shouting louder.  A man pushed at Murphy and he yelled back in anger.

"Someone's going to get hurt," said Logan, and began to push forward. 

Hall and Hambleton went with him, and O'Brien followed, mindful of heels near his feet.  Logan reached the store and climbed up on the rail out front.  This distracted the mob, which paused in haranguing the merchant to watch Logan scramble up onto the roof. 

In two steps he was at the flagpole and hauling down the banner.  A cheer went up, and Logan jumped back to the ground with the bundle of cloth in his hands.

"Keep it to yourself, Murphy," Logan said, handing it to its owner.  "Your neighbors don't like this flag."

"I have a right to display whatever flag I wish on my own property," said the fuming merchant.

"Colorado is a Union Territory!" shouted someone from the crowd, and a roar of agreement went up.

Hambleton stooped to pick up a rock, which he aimed at the store's expensive glass window.  O'Brien jostled his arm, and the rock struck the wooden wall instead.  Hambleton turned on him, eyes blazing with fury.

"I wouldn't," said O'Brien, his thumb stroking the hilt of the sharp hunting knife that a flick had brought into his hand. 

Hambleton glanced at the blade, and then back at O'Brien's face.  O'Brien knew the look; a fighter thinking, wondering how strong his opponent might be and if flesh could be quicker than blade. 

"Try it then," said O'Brien softly, shifting his grip on the knife. 

Someone screamed, and the crowd melted away, leaving Hambleton and O'Brien facing each other across two yards of dirt.  Logan hurried up to put a hand on the buffalo's shoulder. 

"Enough, Josiah," he said.  "It's over."

Hambleton, nostrils flaring, stared hard at O'Brien, then strode to the merchant and pulled the flag out of his hands.  To the crowd's great delight, he threw it in the dust at Murphy's feet and ground his heel into it. 

"No one flies that rag over this city!" he shouted, and the crowd cheered.

Logan came between his friend and Murphy, and began coaxing Hambleton away.  The buffalo tossed one malevolent glance at O'Brien, who watched him away down the street, then looked at the merchant. 

"Best get inside," O'Brien said with a jerk of his head. 

Murphy, still angry, picked up his flag and went back into his shop.  Left with nothing to look at, the watchers began to disperse.  O'Brien put away his knife.

"That was good of you, Red," said Hall slowly.  "You a friend of the Confederate cause?"

"Just a decent citizen trying to keep the peace," said O'Brien. 

Privately, he thought he was more a damned fool who reacted without thinking.  This quarrel was none of his business.

"You deserve a reward, then," said Hall.  "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

O'Brien glanced at the Criterion, famous for two things; good whiskey, and the rowdy Southerners who made it their haunt.  "No, I'm not in the mood any more," he said.  "You go on."

Hall frowned at him, looking puzzled.  "Murphy's no friend of yours, is he?" he asked.

"No." 

O'Brien looked at the empty flagpole atop the store.  No, he wasn't a friend of secession, but he'd seen enough hopes trampled down in the dust to last him a lifetime. 

"A flag doesn't belong in the dirt," he said with a shrug.

A corner of Hall's mouth turned up.  "Why, Red!" he said softly.  "I do believe you have the makings of a patriot!"

West of the mountains at last, the Santa Fé Trail turned northward and began a gentle descent.  Laura leaned forward eagerly, trying for a glimpse of the city, but the country was hilly and still rural; scattered with adobe houses and patches of corn and beans.  The houses grew closer together, and at last the coach splashed through a stream running along a stone gutter, and rattled to a stop at the top of a hill.

"Exchange Hotel," shouted the shotgun, and began hauling luggage off the roof of the coach.  Laura stepped down to the corner of a large, dirt square, sparsely shaded by young cottonwoods and inhabited by burros, a few Mexicans, and several sleeping dogs.

"Welcome to Santa Fé," said her uncle proudly.

Laura's arms tightened around her clock as she gazed in dismay at the flat-roofed adobe buildings surrounding the square.  Nearly all had long, covered portals.  Some seemed to be private residences, others housed merchants and wineshops, but none looked remotely like the shops she had expected. 

There were no graceful houses, no green parks.  Except for the flag hanging limply from a pole in the square's center, it was a Mexican village, like every other they'd seen, if perhaps a bit larger.

"This is the Plaza," said her uncle.  "Over there's the old Spanish governor's palace.  It's the military headquarters now."

"Palace?" said Laura, unable to see any structure that came close to deserving the name.

"There," said her uncle, pointing to the building that ran the length of the plaza on its north side. 

To her it looked more like a stable.  A number of soldiers lounged near a doorway, where two mules and a horse stood tied to some of the wooden pillars of the portal.  A pair of dogs began to wrestle in the dirt, growling good-naturedly.  The entire image presented by the plaza of Santa Fé was that of a dusty, packed-earth barnyard.

"Come, my dear," said Uncle Wallace as the mail rumbled away toward the Post Office on the square's west side.  "You'd like to settle in, I expect." 

Laura turned to see him poised in a wide, double doorway set at an angle into a building on the plaza's southeast corner, marked FONDA by one sign and EXCHANGE HOTEL by another.  Beyond, at the end of the street to the east, stood a large Spanish church with the blue mountains rising behind it.

"We're staying here?" she asked.

"Of course," said her uncle.  "It's the best place in town."

"I―assumed you had a house," said Laura.

"House?  Lord, no!  D'you know what it would cost to build a proper house out here?  Come along, now."

Chastened, Laura followed him into the hotel's office, which besides a desk boasted a real Turkey carpet on the floor and two cushioned chairs.  An open doorway beyond led into a cantina; she could see the dark wood of a long bar. 

"Mr. Howland!" said a man in a white shirt, vest, and dusty trousers, looking up from the desk.  "Good to see you back!"

"Thank you, Phillips.  Where's Parker?"

"Around somewhere.  Want your usual room?"

"If it's free, yes, and one for my niece."

"Yes, indeed!" 

The clerk's gaze made Laura uncomfortable.  She looked away, only to find a couple of men in the doorway of the cantina staring at her as well.  She drew down her veil.

"Number four," said the clerk, handing keys to her uncle.  "It's on the placita."  Laura thought she saw him wink.

"This way, m'dear," said Uncle Wallace, starting toward a closed door.  "Fetch in her trunk, will you, Phillips?"

"I surely will," said the clerk in a lazy tone, going through the double doors to the street. 

Laura sighed as she followed her uncle.  So far, Santa Fé was a great disappointment.

"Damned fool thing," muttered her uncle, fiddling with the door latch.  "Ah, there we are."

The door swung open, and Laura was surprised to see that it led outside again, into a garden entirely surrounded by the hotel.  Portals were set back on all sides, shading doors.  The center, a rectangle perhaps ten feet by sixty, was filled with rose bushes just starting to bloom, raising a heady scent in the afternoon sunshine.  Beneath them hid pansies, oregano and marjoram, and along the ground grew tendrils of thyme covered with tiny purple blooms.  Mockingbirds sang from wicker cages, and vines climbed the great tree-trunk pillars of the porch roof.

"A glorieta," Laura whispered, enchanted.

Uncle Wallace led her down the portal to the centermost door on the western side, which he unlocked and held open for her.  As she peered into the dim apartment Laura saw a small fireplace, an actual bed, pegs for clothes, and a rough-hewn table and chair.  A patch of the black and white wool rug which Monsieur Vallé had called jerga covered part of the floor. 

How humble I've grown, Laura thought, smiling.  Back east she would have been insulted at being offered such a room―even her father's scant means could command decent lodgings―but compared to the accommodations she'd had along most of the Santa Fé Trail it was palatial.

"That opens on the street," said her uncle, pointing to a second door opposite the first.  "Keep it locked.  If you need anything ask Phillips, or come and find me.  I'm in number eight, on the far side of the cantina."

"Thank you, Uncle."  Laura set her clock down on the table.

"I've got a few things to see to," said Uncle Wallace, patting his pockets.  "I'll come back in an hour and we'll have some supper.  Oh, here's your key," he added.  He pressed it into her hand and withdrew, leaving the door open behind him.

Laura sighed, untied the strings of her bonnet, and hung it on one of the pegs.  She drew out her small gold watch, which she had taken to wearing on a long chain inside her dress to protect it from the dust. 

Monsieur Vallé had given her the correct time that morning.  She set the mantel clock, then pulled out its weight, which had been wrapped in cloth and tucked into the case, and carefully rehung it.  Winding the clock with the key which she kept on her watch chain, she smiled as it began its gentle ticking.  It was almost the half-hour. 

Laura lay on her side on the bed, watching the minute hand slowly move toward the six, waiting for the musical chime.

"Where d'you want it, miss?"

Laura jumped, and got hastily to her feet.  The desk clerk stood in the door with her trunk, wearing a grin. 

"By the wall, please," said Laura, regaining her composure.  "Could someone bring me water and a basin?"

The clerk carried the trunk in and placed it near the foot of the bed, then straightened up and gave her a long, appreciative look.  His grin widened. 

"Sure thing, missy," he said on his way out.  "If you need help with your bath, let me know." 

He slipped out before Laura could reprove him, and she threw the door shut with a snap.  This is not a civilized country, she thought, in the resulting darkness. 

She pulled back the window curtain to let in some light, then unlocked her trunk and took out a candle and matches.  With candlelight dispelling much of the gloom, she covered the window again and sat on the bed to remove her dusty half-boots. 

The place might not be civilized, but she would remain so.  Her feet rejoiced at the freedom of slippers, and she knew that with a fresh gown draped over a proper hoop, she would feel more herself.

A soft knock heralded the arrival of a Mexican maid with her wash-basin.  "Thank you," said Laura, letting her in.  "Set it on the table, please."

The girl looked apprehensive.  "No entiendo," she said.

"Here," said Laura, touching the table.

"Ah, sí," said the girl, brightening.  She set down the basin and a towel, bobbed her head, and turned to leave.

"Thank you, thank you very much," said Laura smiling and nodding as she closed the door.  "I suppose I should learn Spanish," she added to herself. 

She went to the table, removed her gloves, and splashed the cool water on her face.  Spanish didn't interest her, but it appeared she would need to know it if she remained in Santa Fé. 

The clock chimed once.  Laura straightened, wondering for the first time just how long she would be here.  She picked up the towel and dried her face, then undressed and began sponging her weary body. 

Surely this dusty village in what was, to all purposes, a foreign country would not be her permanent home.  The idea that her uncle intended to stay in this dingy hotel astonished and worried her.  She had meant to keep house for him, as she had done for her father, and thereby earn her support, but it appeared that was not to be. 

How, she wondered as she dressed, did her uncle pay for his accommodations?  She had assumed he had some profession, but he had not described his business to her, and while he seemed to have money enough, she felt precarious all at once. 

An ache came into her heart, an intense longing for green Massachusetts.  Suddenly she couldn't bear the dark, tiny room, and snatching her gloves and bonnet, she hurried out into the garden.

Her hoops kept her from going out on the narrow path among the roses, but it was just as well, for the sun was intensely bright after the dimness of her room.  She strolled along the portal instead, gazing out at the roses.  Their scent soothed her, and the warmth of the sun-baked walls made her drowsy.  She found herself at the end of the portal, facing a pair of doors that stood open to a dining room. 

"May I help you?" said a man inside, noticing her.  He came to the doors, smiling.  He wore a neat coat and waistcoat, and had dark hair, thinning a little, and bushy side whiskers.

"No, thank you," said Laura.  "I'm just exploring.  Forgive me for disturbing you."

"Not at all," said the gentleman.  "If I can be―"

"Parker!" called her uncle, coming up beside Laura.  "Been looking all over for you!"

"Mr. Howland!  Welcome back," said the gentleman.

"This is Mr. Parker, my dear," Uncle Wallace informed her.  "He owns the hotel.  My niece, Miss Howland."

"How do you do?," said Mr. Parker, his smile widening.  "I trust you've been given everything you need?"

As Laura began to reply a great ringing of bells commenced from nearby.  Mr. Parker beckoned her and her uncle into the dining room, and shut the doors against the din.

"It's the parroquía," he said, gesturing eastward.

"The Spanish church down the street?" asked Laura.

"Yes.  There are others, too, which you'll hear if you walk about the town at all.  Would you care for some dinner?  I was just about to sit down, and I'd be honored if you would join me."

"Delighted," said Uncle Wallace. 

He and Laura followed Mr. Parker to a table near the kitchen, where they were served a lavish dinner of roast beef and potatoes, peas, scalloped onions, rice with tomatoes, and fresh bread.  There was also a dish of pork in bright red sauce, called cárne adobada, just the smell of which made Laura's eyes water.  She declined to taste it, but the rest of the meal was delicious, and she ate hungrily while listening to her uncle catch up on gossip with Mr. Parker. 

He seemed mostly to be inquiring which of his numerous acquaintance were presently in town.  He must be reasonably prosperous, she decided, to know so many people.

The cook brought out individual dishes of caramelized custard for dessert.  Mr. Parker poured the coffee. 

"You will find very pleasant society in Santa Fé, Miss Howland," he said.  "There are a number of Americans in town, and some of the better Spanish families are quite cultivated.  There are also some good people with the military, though they're all at odd's ends just now.  I heard Captain Sibley resigned."

"Yes," said Laura.  "We saw him leaving Fort Union."

"Did you?  He laid out that depot, you know.  Knows every box of biscuits in it."

"He appeared to be taking a number of them along," said Laura dryly.

Parker shook his head.  "It's a bad business.  Most of the West-Pointers are going south.  Captain Ewell, Captain Wilcox, Major Longstreet.  And I understand Colonel Loring's resigned."

Uncle Wallace's brows went up.  "I thought Loring was the Departmental Commander," he said.

"He is.  Was.  He's packing up to head for El Paso right now.  Wanted to take the Fort Marcy troops with him, but Canby's blocked it."

Laura raised her head.  "Major Canby?" she said.

"Yes.  You know him?"

"I met him at Fort Union."

"He's about the only loyal officer in New Mexico," said Mr. Parker.  He glanced at Laura, and seemed to decide the topic was too grim for her tender ears, for he smiled and changed the subject.  "Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Howland?"

"Yes," said Laura, laying down her spoon, "though I have not been dancing of late."

"Oh, of course not.  Forgive me," said Mr. Parker.  "I was just going to mention that we have little bailes here occasionally.  This room has the best floor in town, you see," he added with pride, gesturing toward the long expanse of wood.

Laura smiled.  "I'm sure it makes an excellent ballroom."

"They have concerts, too," said Uncle Wallace.  "There's a bang-up band at Fort Marcy Post."

"I shall look forward to hearing them," said Laura, rising from her chair.  "Thank you for the excellent dinner, Mr. Parker.  Will you pardon me if I retire early?"

"That's right, you rest up," said her uncle.  "Tomorrow I'll come round and show you the town."

The gentlemen rose, and Laura left them to seek the quiet of her room.  The dinner had done much to restore her spirits, and as she went out into the garden she sighed. 

It would be impossible, of course, for this place to compare with home, but it was not so very unpleasant, after all.  Mr. Parker was certainly a gentleman, and had said there were other good people in Santa Fé.  If she could find intelligent company, who perhaps even shared her views, she thought she would do very well.

She glanced past the garden at the opposite portal, where sunlight was beginning to slant in beneath the roof.  No guest rooms on that side; only a door into the kitchen and another, standing open now, which appeared to lead into the cantina. 

A form moved inside, and the hotel clerk came out to lounge in the doorway.  Laura quickened her step, feeling the clerk's gaze on her as she hurried to her room and locked the door.

Glorieta Pass copyright © 1999, 2009 by P. G. Nagle.  All rights reserved.

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