Twisted Cross

“We ought to think about how we’ll get out of here,” Sal said. He lost patience with Blas, who seemed resigned to talk to the horses all day. He had the nice animals to take care of; Sal’s ten were mean and pushy. “I’m going to talk to the other stable hands tonight. At least they’ve got good stories to tell,” Sal said.

He now knew most of the men who worked the other pens. Their stories were mostly lies, the kind desperate men told to pass the time. But those hombres found a way to share a bottle every night and played poker, too. Sal even recognized the same bragger from their voyage to Vera Cruz, the man they called Coronel Jimenez.

“Come on and join us, Sal, we’ll deal you in,” Jimenez said. To his own surprise, Sal missed the companionship among the Brothers and blacksmiths at the Mission. He missed their work at the foundry, the hot food at the midday meal and the quiet, simple routines. After living among the good Brothers, Sal had to admit; he slipped back into a rough life with the soldiers. He played poker and drank himself into a stupor every night and tried to forget the life he lost. Why not? Blas kept to himself. Sal thought he could forget everything when he joined the other stable hands for a drink and a hand of poker.

“How long since we got paid? I’m not working for free,”Jimenez said. He came from a family of businessmen. “We don’t even get fresh food anymore,” he complained to the others in the drinking circle.

Sal agreed. During the weeks he spent here, there were no deliveries of fresh supplies to the Presidio from Spain or anywhere.

Jimenez came up with an idea, “Bueno, here’s a plan. We take these old tools and trade with the Pueblo Indians, maybe get ourselves a little fun in the meantime. By my calculation, the Viceroy owes us for all our labor, doesn’t he? ¿Y tú? How about you, Sal, what do you think of my proposal?”

“Bueno. ¿Como no? Deal me in,” Sal said. If no one else was going to take care of him, he might as well turn to a life of crime. This fellow Jimenez had ideas.

“It won’t be the first time a squaw gets traded for a shovel,” Jimenez said. The men responded with laughter and snorts, shifting their pants in anticipation of female company. Sal heard the crude words. 'trade for a squaw' and thought of La Señorita Xichete’s beautiful face. Why did he keep company with these men?

Remembering his real friend, Brother David, he felt guilty and tried to change the subject away from stealing tools and trading for squaws.