Now’s not the time for us to pause and take in Sandy’s revealing neckline, but it’s important to note that among those in the know she’s called Eagle Zero.
Carlos, the Cuban, hears the shot when he’s passing through the swinging doors of the Café Ronsard. In his role as Eagle One he was waiting for Nepomuceno to leave, and as soon as he saw him get up from his chair he slowly picked up his canvas bag and the violin he plays in the evenings—alone or with his close friends, he’s no cowboy or some travelling minstrel who goes around making his violin screech tunelessly—and casually follows Nepomuceno, intending to have a few words with him when he mounts his horse (the Eagles’ top secret business is handled with utmost discretion), so no one notices.
The matter is urgent, but he must exercise caution. The rules of espionage require it. That’s why he doesn’t follow him immediately out of the Café Ronsard; he hears the shot, looks up, and sees Nepomuceno holster his Colt. He doesn’t move, stuck between the two half-doors, holding them so they don’t swing. He didn’t hear the insult that provoked Nepomuceno and doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. No matter what happened, for the good of the Eagles—Nepomuceno would agree—he should hang back. He doesn’t take a step or make a sign. He raises his eyes, pretending to look at the sky, and half closes them; out of the corner of his eye he observes what’s happening in the Market Square and does his best to breathe calmly.
The only person who notices Carlos stop dead in his tracks is Dimitri. He’ll remember this later. But for the moment he watches Carlos and finds satisfaction in the fact that he appears to be a coward.
Inside the Café Ronsard are: Wild, the buffalo hunter recently arrived from the prairie (a shameless and violent opportunist); handsome Trust, his side-kick; and their three slaves (One, Two, and Three), all with .50-caliber Sharps rifles on their shoulders. Wild hears the shot in the Market Square but doesn’t move from his chair. Teresa runs upstairs to see what’s happening from the balcony of her room. She’s done this before; the view from up there is excellent. The bartender begins to hide most of his bottles under the bar in case bullets start flying. Wild makes a sign to handsome Trust with his head.
Trust motions to One, Two, and Three to follow him, and they file out into the street, pushing past Carlos the Cuban. They pass through the saloon doors and leave them swinging.
Dimitri (who’s from the steppe) watches them from his table and observes that Carlos appears not to notice either being pushed or the stench of Wild and his men (who all reek of blood). Dimitri takes all this in as if he sees straight through Carlos—it’s because of the differences in the climates where they come from, which have forged them differently: the flat light of the tropics, and the darkness and veiled light of the north. The climate and luminosity of the tropics have made Carlos a good actor, skilled at pretending (though this is a contradiction), while the darkness of the Northern Hemisphere has made Dimitri adept at seeing things. But Carlos doesn’t understand the blinding light that shines on the stage, while veiled light has taught Dimitri to observe carefully, though he can’t stand bright light. Trust walks along the north side of the Market Square without approaching the scene of the crime. He nearly bumps into Nepomuceno’s servant, Fernando, the one with the round face.
By the time Trust returns with the news, Wild already knows everything. His boss rebuffs and insults him: “Thanks for nothing, slowpoke.”
(Trust is like the buffalo-hunter’s shadow, resentment building inside him. He was so young when he began hunting some say his very bones are made of dead bison. Handsome Trust—there’s something graceful, even sensual, in his melancholy and strange docility—has the same dream every night that he sodomizes a buffalo, or the buffalo sodomizes him. When he can’t sleep the dream haunts him, bewildering and shameful. The pleasure he feels when he’s asleep is dark and powerful, and when he recalls it upon awakening the muscles of his thighs contract, his chest and his abdomen throb; his pleasure is more intense when he penetrates the buffalo.)
After unhitching the horses and approaching Nepomuceno, Fernando the servant was the second to flee. Alicia, Captain Boyle’s wife, was the first. It’s not that she’s jumpy, just this morning as it was getting light out the Captain urged in his broken Spanish:
“You run if pistol smokes.”
“Why are you speaking to me like an Apache all of a sudden, my Captain?” She uses his title as a term of endearment.
“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