“I not joke, things go bad … You, run if pistol smoke.” Of course the Captain is joking, but for good measure he tells Alicia a few stories to convince her that if bullets start to fly it’s best to get outta Dodge.
Today of all days she’s carrying the new clay pot she just bought in the market to replace the frijolera that belonged to her mother (which was so well-used that eventually it cracked and started to leak, not much, but it would eventually break completely; anyways it needed to be replaced because it constantly dripped bean broth onto the fire, stinking up the kitchen).
As she races along, Alicia glimpses Glevack out of the corner of her eye.
When she’s about to turn into Charles Street in the direction of James Street and down to the dock — she’s still running full speed ahead — she sees the Lipans’ knife fight.
Better keep going straight.
So she continues along Elizabeth Street. But at the next corner (Fourth Street) she turns toward James Street. Before she reaches it she pauses to catch her breath, leaning against the Spears’ house.
She waits for her heartbeat to recover from the shock of Nepomuceno’s gunshot, her sprint, and the vision of the two savages attacking each other with knives. She breathes deep. Once. Twice. Alicia feels an unsettling sensation of pleasure similar to what handsome Trust felt when he saw the Lipans brandishing their knives at each other. But she wants to shake the feeling off, get rid of it. She turns her attention to her pot, lifting it to get a better look. Its curves are beautiful. She taps it with her knuckle.
“Goodness, it sounds awful!”
For a moment she ponders returning it to the pot merchant, but then she remembers it’s full of berries, that’s why it doesn’t sound right.
She sticks her nose in to get a good look at the berries.
“Heavens, they’re all mushy!”
Pitiful. Bruneville is no place to grow or buy such berries; it’s far too hot. Alicia glances at them again:
“They look like they’ve turned into jelly already, they’ve cooked in the heat, or from being all shaken up.”
They don’t look like jelly, however, but something much darker and deeper. They awaken that same unsettling sensation of pleasure again. She embraces her pot once more and runs off down the street.
The Lipans have injured each other. Strong Waters has a cut across his cheek that hurts but doesn’t bleed much; Blue Falls has been cut across three of his fingertips, barely a scratch but they’re bleeding profusely. They embrace, contrite and ashamed. They mount their horses and head out of town at a vigorous trot, packhorse in tow.
Blue Falls’ fingers drip blood on the cobblestones. After passing the Bruneville dock, it becomes more noticeable, drops of red ink on the dry earth.
By detouring to avoid Main Street on his way to the market, Nat, the messenger, almost bumps into the fighting Indians; he sees one of them drop his dagger. He doesn’t take his eyes off it for a second, disregarding all else; he doesn’t even see what the Lipans are doing, he only has eyes for the knife.
Nat glances around. There’s not a soul in sight. He looks around nervously again. The coast is clear. He bends down, picks up the dagger, and shoves it into his waistband. He feels the knifepoint against his belly and contracts his stomach muscles, hotfooting it down to the river. He can’t run at top speed with the knife where it is, but he goes as fast as he can, walking with long strides, his shoulders hunched.
Olga watches him pick up the knife and goes to tell Judge Gold, he’ll pay attention to this news for sure.
In the Market Square, Sandy stands rooted in place for ten seconds. Then she takes flight; where she’s headed it’s not clear. Standing on the other side of the market, Father Rigoberto would like to call her over and admonish her for her neckline — she always looks like this — but he begins to stutter and can’t get his words out. It’s her décolletage’s fault, it does funny things to his blood. Damned woman. She comes closer and he catches a glimpse of what her dress leaves uncovered. An overwhelming desire for sleep overcomes him. There’s a crate of alfalfa at his feet; he squats and lies down — that’s how he’s dealt with nervousness since he was a kid — he lies down and goes to sleep, he’s not the type to go racing away.
Sandy keeps on running. (They didn’t make her Eagle Zero for nothing; while she runs she takes in everything she sees.) She detours inland, to go check out what’s happening on the outskirts of Fort Brune.
(An aside about Fort Brune: its moment of glory is long past. Nowadays there’s only half a dozen lazy soldiers that live there, and they spend more time at Mrs. Big’s than standing guard. It’s been so long since King and Stealman got sick and tired of requesting military reinforcements that now they each have their own gunmen. King’s are the most famous — and the toughest — especially with Mexicans; people call them kiñeros or reyeros [since King in Spanish is rey].)
Fernando, the servant, runs and dives between the hides in the buffalo-hunter’s cart; you’d have to be desperate to put up with that stench.
No sooner has he hidden himself between the hides and the carcasses than he begins rebuking himself. “I’m a coward, I should never have buried myself here among dead buffalo.” But he doesn’t dare come out. “They’ll kill me! They’ll say I’m one of Nepomuceno’s men and not even God could protect me.” He repeats, “I’m a coward, a pathetic coward!”
Patrick, who sells persimmons (he arrived in Matasánchez from Ireland as a kid, and has earned enough to afford his own horse and pistol) clearly hears Shears call Don Nepomuceno a “greaser.” His eyes glaze over, like some of the customers tempted by the fruit he sells, he’s trying to make sense of what just happened — it’s not that easy for him, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed — until he announces in a loud, serious voice, “It’s John Tanner, the White Indian. He’s back! We’re screwed!” in a tone that instills fear in all who hear him. Especially Toothless, the old beggar, because he knows what Patrick’s talking about.
Luis, the boy who was looking at rubber bands for his slingshot in the market, the one who was carrying things for Miss Lace (Judge Gold’s housekeeper), realizes his bosslady has left. And then he remembers that he’s supposed to go pick up his sister before his aunt leaves for you-know-where. He’d better hustle down to the riverbank or else he’ll get a whipping. He runs to deliver the shopping baskets, certain they won’t give him a tip; his aunt will slap his neck: You were standing around with your head in the clouds like you always do, you good-for-nothing boy. The thought torments him as he stands before Judge Gold’s door.
Luis knows he’s not a good-for-nothing, it’s just that sometimes he gets distracted. It’s like time stops for him; what seems like half a second to Luis is an hour for normal folks. And sometimes it’s the reverse: one second seems like it lasts hours to Luis. He loses all concept of time.
The door opens. “The shopping baskets?” Thump, thump. Luis sets them down and shoots off like a firework, thinking it’s getting late.
The woman who sells fresh tortillas (she has them wrapped up in her shawl) sees him coming and calls, “Luis! Luis!” She’s fond of him, he works so hard and he’s always hungry. She puts a rolled-up, salted tortilla in each of his hands, “Here, sonny, your tacos.”
Toothless, the old beggar who’s more wrinkled than Methuselah, sidles over to see if there’s a handout for him, too. The tortilla-seller pretends she doesn’t see him — she can’t stand him, she knows him from back when he used to say he was a monk and chased anything in a skirt; then word came out that he wasn’t a monk at all; he had tried to become a priest but they kicked him out of the seminary. She goes on her way.