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  Ramon scrambled over the top of the wall and dropped into the courtyard. The group panicked and several tried to push their way through the gate. Father Esteban appeared, pushing his way through the escaping mob.

  “What’s going on?” asked the young priest, completely baffled by the scene.

  Ramon pointed to the bishop. “He needs help.” Father Esteban ran to the bishop while the sheriff ran to Fatemeh, drew his Bowie knife, and cut the ropes that held her to the post.

  The sheriff was leading her to the wall when Mrs. Chavez stepped into their path. “The witch is getting away!” she shouted, but no one listened. Most of the mob had gone and Father Esteban was too busy helping the bishop.

  Ramon drew his gun and pointed it at Mrs. Chavez’s nose. “I don’t want to shoot a woman, but if there’s a witch that’s going to die here today, it’s you, not Fatemeh.”

  Mrs. Chavez swallowed hard and stepped aside. Ramon led Fatemeh to the wall and hunched down. She climbed on his back and pulled herself on top. Once there, she held her hand down to the sheriff. He took it and she helped him scramble to the top of the wall. Together they dropped to the ground on the other side. They ran past several buildings until they were well out of sight of the church.

  Fatemeh and Ramon took a few minutes to rest and finally he looked into her green eyes. She smiled and said, “Thank you for saving me.”

  “I’m only doing my duty, ma’am,” he said. He started walking her back to her house. “I recommend you clear on out of here,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “When the bishop recovers he’s not going to be too happy.”

  She nodded and was silent for a moment. “Can’t you maintain the law and protect me?” she asked.

  Ramon chewed his lower lip and thought about that question. “I wish I could,” he said. “Thing is, around these parts, the Catholic Church is more feared than this.” He pointed to the tin star that hung from his shirt.

  “I thought there was freedom of religion in this country,” she said wistfully.

  “There is,” Ramon said adamantly, then added, “just some people don’t know it yet.”

  “Where should I go?” They reached her little adobe and she looked down toward the river.

  The sheriff shrugged. “You might follow the river south to Las Cruces and Mesilla. It’s more agricultural down there. They might take more kindly to your ways about being in harmony with the land.”

  “What about you?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to leave, too. I’m an elected official. Mr. Dalton and Bishop Ramirez will probably get me removed from office.”

  “Are there Catholics down in the South?”

  Ramon nodded. “Fortunately, though, I think most Catholics are more like Father Esteban than Bishop Ramirez.”

  “Perhaps you should come with me,” she said, “and help me avoid making more enemies.” Those sharp green eyes of hers pleaded with the sheriff more strongly than words. If he really believed she was a witch, he would have said she was working her magic on him. Maybe she was. Ramon looked down at the river and considered his options. He could stay and try to sort things out—maybe finish out his term as sheriff—but then what?

  “Do you have room in your wagon for a bachelor’s few belongings?” he asked.

  Chapter Two

  Electric Kachinas

  His name was Legion.

  For millennia, the nanite swarm that was his current form explored galaxies and visited planets populated by thousands of races. He hadn’t always been this way. Many centuries ago he had another name on a planet now nothing more than dust, gradually drifting outward from the exhausted core of a dead star. On that world, he’d possessed a mortal body. The thing called Legion remembered that world, and remembered his old body, and also the first computer he lived in, but he knew such memories meant little in the face of his immortal existence.

  Unconstrained by a mortal lifetime or the distance he could travel, Legion gathered information about everything he came across. The universe contained so much variety that if he grew bored in one location, he simply moved on to another.

  Eventually, he found his way to a small cluster containing two spiral galaxies and several dwarf galaxies. While ambling through one of the spirals, he came across a middle-aged yellow star that supported a handful of planets in stable orbits.

  Legion was especially interested in the problem of intelligence. How did it evolve? What was its purpose? In all of his travels, he had yet to find a satisfactory answer. This humble solar system looked like one that could nurture life.

  As he approached one of the inner, rocky worlds of this system, Legion grew excited. The planet contained large bodies of water broken up by landmasses, not unlike the world where he evolved. As he drifted closer, he saw straight lines cut into the ground and regular, geometric patterns of growing things. Not only was there life on this world, but there was life that altered its landscape. That indicated intelligence. Legion decided on a closer look.

  On the world, he found corporeal beings, similar to the creature he once was. Legion realized these beings might be at the perfect stage to help him answer a few of his questions about the purpose of intelligence. They had developed agriculture and industry. However, they still appeared primitive. All the devices he saw could have been built by hand or through the use of rudimentary machines. The creatures of this planet appeared to be on a path to become as intelligent as he was, yet they were still primitive enough he might be able to glean some understanding of how that intelligence came about.

  He sought out an intelligent being so he could study its neural structure and attempt to interpret its thoughts with minimal interference or detection. Because of that, he chose to seek out a being in a sparsely inhabited area. He found a river valley he hoped would serve his purpose.

  It was windy in the valley and Legion allowed his component parts to ride the air currents. The wind came in gusts, propelling him some distance, but then quieting, allowing him to regroup and scan his surroundings. He passed what appeared to be a military fortification near the river and then he saw ruins of much older habitations. Walking among the ruins was a lone creature, who looked around with interest.

  The being was perfect. He was clearly the same type of creature who had altered the landscape. Moreover, the creature was alone. If Legion affected the creature adversely, detection was unlikely.

  Before the next gust of wind, Legion drifted over to the creature.

  The being took a deep breath and some of the components entered its nasal passages. Those components traveled into the being’s lungs and ultimately into the bloodstream where they were carried to the brain, scanning and transmitting information as they went. Other components scanned the ruins and still others, further down the river valley, analyzed patterns of technological development and settlement, then compared that information to data collected from other worlds.

  << >>

  Alberto Mendez belonged to a team of men installing telegraph lines between Santa Fe and El Paso. The team consisted of carpenters, electricians, linesmen, post hole diggers and even lumberjacks. Mendez helped to wire up the electrical equipment at each of the telegraph stops. They had arrived at Fort McRae that afternoon and would begin installing the telegraph station in the morning. The soldiers at the fort told him about some Indian ruins nearby and he decided he would take a hike and have a look before settling in for supper and a night’s sleep.

  Despite his Spanish name, Mendez was an Indian from the pueblo of Tortugas. His ancestors used to live in the pueblos around Fort McRae. They used to be called the Piro.

  In 1598, a group of Spaniards emerged from the harsh desert south of the ruins led by a man named Juan de Oñate. The Piro provided food and water to the dying men. The pueblo was a city as grand as anything the Europeans had in Mexico and it was the site of America’s first Thanksgiving. Despite that, the pueblo would be abandoned within the year. Over 250 years of wind and rain had all but erased the pueblo�
��s existence.

  Mendez put his hands on his hips and looked around at the low walls that surrounded him—sad reminders of the grand pueblo that used to stand in this place.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A few minutes later, as he continued along the path, strange words formed in his mind. They weren’t English, Spanish or even the few words of Piro that were still known, but somehow he understood them just the same—or at least some of them.

  “...DNA analysis confirms this being is a descendent of creatures that inhabited this site 278 planetary years before...”

  Somehow Mendez knew that meant he was, in fact, a descendent of the people who once inhabited the pueblo ruins where he now stood.

  “...archeological evidence, along with memories from this being, suggests two waves of invasion...”

  After the Spaniards left the Piro Pueblo, they went north and enslaved the other peoples they encountered. Not wanting to incur the wrath of the Spaniards, the Piro refused to join when the other pueblos revolted. Like Oñate and his men, the Piro were driven south, toward El Paso del Norte. Shunned by their own people and abandoned by the Spaniards, the Piro were just as much victims of the invasion as the northern pueblos.

  Now, there was another group of invaders forcing Indians from their homes. This time the invaders came from the east. Mendez looked over his shoulder at Fort McRae.

  “...topological and technological analysis indicates a 97% probability this area will be the site of a hydroelectric facility within the next century...”

  A picture formed in Mendez’s mind of a great wall being built on the Rio Grande. The mighty river would be trapped and the valley where he stood would be flooded, all for the benefit of the newest wave of invaders.

  Alberto Mendez did not have to think too hard to know where the images were coming from. He was on the land of his ancestors. The wind—a mighty elemental force—whipped through his hair. He must be in the presence of an elemental spirit. His people called such spirits kachinas. Alberto Mendez believed this kachina had selected him for a mission.

  << >>

  Ramon Morales was bone-weary when he finally saw Fort McRae on the opposite side of the Rio Grande. The landscape around the fort was more barren than around Socorro. It was as though the land near the river could not drink enough to grow vegetation. The mountains that bordered the Rio Grande Valley were covered in scrub brush instead of trees and seemed less friendly than they did further north.

  Washes ran down from the mountains and cut through the flatlands of the valley, but did not actually carry any water this time of year. They left the land looking like a cracked and dried husk. Ramon wondered, not for the first time, if fleeing south had been such a good idea.

  He took off his hat and wiped gritty sweat from his brow. It had been a long time since he’d spent the better part of a day on horseback. At least it wasn’t windy like it had been a couple of days before.

  Fatemeh Karimi, who rode in a wagon next to him, also looked bedraggled. Her black dress was coated in a fine layer of dust. Rivulets of sweat etched dirty streaks down Fatemeh’s skin. Strands of wiry, black hair jutted out here and there. “Maybe we should go up to the fort and see if they’ll put us up for the night,” Fatemeh said.

  “Nah.” Ramon shook his head. “We’ve only got a couple more miles until we get to Palomas Hot Springs. My cousin Eduardo has a small hacienda there. He can put us up and we can get a hot bath.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Fatemeh’s smile lit up her face and her green eyes sparkled.

  Ramon’s heart leapt at the sight of her renewed energy, but a hollow feeling soon formed in the pit of his stomach. He’d just thrown away his job as sheriff of Socorro to help her and yet he didn’t know whether she would stay with him once they reached Las Cruces. He still didn’t know whether she honestly liked him, or if she was merely using him as a protector and guide until they reached their destination.

  At last, they topped a rise and could see Palomas Hot Springs. It really wasn’t a town as most people would think of one. It was more like a wide spot in the road before entering a bad stretch of desert called Jornada del Muerto—the journey of death. There were a couple of rooming houses, a livery stable and a few meager haciendas. They all traded with the fort a few miles north. There were no stores, saloons or other establishments in Palomas Hot Springs.

  What really drew people to the area were the hot springs themselves. The Apaches and the pueblo people considered it a holy place and neutral territory where they could trade. Medicine men would use the curative power of the hot springs to heal warriors after a battle. Anglos and Spanish folk were welcome to trade there, too, and the Indians didn’t seem to mind the few settlements.

  The austere scenery around the area certainly gave it the feeling of a holy place. Sheer cliffs of multi-colored rock walled in the barren valley and there was a dramatic butte, shaped a little like an elephant, near the river itself.

  As Fatemeh and Ramon rode into Palomas Hot Springs, they caught sight of an Indian sitting on a blanket in the shade of an overhang. He had a wooden crate overflowing with wood and other odds and ends that looked like they could be springs or rolls of wire and tubing of some sort. Surrounding the Indian were little wooden dolls. He seemed to be whittling one of them.

  Fatemeh pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon. Ramon tried to motion that they should continue on. He was tired and wanted to get to his cousin’s before dark. He really didn’t want to sit around while Fatemeh bartered with an Indian.

  Either she didn’t see Ramon’s gesticulating or she didn’t care. She climbed off the wagon’s seat and stood before the Indian. He looked up as if noticing her for the first time. Gasping, he reached out as if to collect up the dolls. Ramon rolled his eyes and brought his horse to a stop. After climbing off, he wrapped the horse’s reins around a nearby hitching post.

  “These are kachina dolls, aren’t they?” asked Fatemeh. “I didn’t know any Pueblo Indians this far south made them.”

  “All pueblos respect the kachinas,” said the Indian, looking around nervously, as though trying to find an escape.

  “May I see one?” Fatemeh reached for the nearest doll.

  The Indian waved his hands. “They are sacred.”

  Fatemeh knelt and nodded, solemnly. “I know they are. That’s why I’m interested.” As she took hold of the kachina doll, her eyes went wide and she gasped. She quickly released the doll and brought herself to her feet. “What was that?!”

  “The kachinas are displeased,” said the Indian. Ramon watched as he carefully reached out, took a doll by its head and hefted it into the box. The little wooden doll was apparently heavier than it looked at first sight. “First the Spanish came and caused this land to be taken from my people. Now the Anglos are coming and taking it from the Spanish. When will it stop?” He hefted another doll into the box. “Mark my words, great flood waters will come and destroy the land.”

  “I’m neither Spanish nor Anglo,” said Fatemeh. “I’m Persian.”

  “Perhaps your people will be the next wave of invaders.” The Indian grabbed the last kachina doll. “You must face the truth of the kachina’s displeasure and leave, or you will face consequences. Mark my words.” The Indian stood, gathered up his blanket and placed it in the box. With a heave he picked up the box and started waddling down the road.

  Fatemeh looked at Ramon with wide eyes.

  “What happened when you grabbed that doll?”

  “It’s hard to describe,” she said with a shrug. “It was a tingle like my hand fell asleep, but it was also like a bite.” She climbed back up on her wagon.

  Ramon’s brow creased as he considered what might have caused the sensation Fatemeh described, but nothing came to mind. Too tired, hungry, and saddle sore to consider the matter further, he gathered the reins and mounted his horse. Besides, Eduardo might already know something about this Indian and his kachina dolls.

  A few minutes later, Ramon
and Fatemeh found themselves in front of Eduardo’s small adobe hacienda. Eduardo came outside and greeted them with a warm smile. He looked much like Ramon would without glasses. He was a little taller, thinner, and—if one were to judge by the girls who fawned over him when he was younger—more handsome.

  Ramon led his horse to a watering trough, then helped Fatemeh unhitch her two horses. Once the animals were tended, Eduardo ushered Ramon and Fatemeh into the kitchen, all the time casting sly glances between them. The former sheriff did his best to explain the events of the past two weeks in Socorro.

  “Ah, Búho.” Eduardo winked. “I always knew your desire to do the right thing would get you in trouble with someone.”

  “All I ask tonight is a meal and a couple of rooms,” Ramon said.

  “And a hot bath,” interjected Fatemeh.

  “Of course.” Eduardo grinned. “Alicia is making a big caldo de rez this afternoon. You may stay as long as you like. This is a place to rest and recover before moving on.”

  “So, Ed, why haven’t you moved on?”

  He held his arms out wide. “I haven’t finished resting and recovering!”

  Later that evening, Eduardo’s wife Alicia prepared a beautiful supper for Ramon and Fatemeh. Alicia was a little shorter than Ramon and wore her hair tied back in a neat bun. Ramon noticed she was a little heavier than when he’d last seen her. In her clean, blue dress, she looked a lot like his aunt. Her appearance was a stark contrast to Fatemeh’s now-wild hair, rumpled black dress and fiery green eyes. As they ate, Ramon thought about how he had tried to catch Alicia’s eye when they were younger, but she pursued Eduardo instead, as though she had been under his spell. Casting a glance toward Fatemeh, Ramon felt drawn to her, but he was concerned she didn’t reciprocate his feelings.