He must have called me that last night to give me courage.
I almost choked on a swallow of coffee. âIâI was thinking stupid goats enjoy life, too.â
Traceâs blue-green eyes widened. His long mouth twisted in a way that held back laughter. âIâm sure youâre right,â he granted. âBut itâs sadly true that any stupid creature is more likely to fall in traps and be less able to defend itself than brighter individuals.â
âBut mightnât there be some valuable traits that donât necessarily go along with ability to survive? Would you call Socrates less valuable to mankind than Attila?â
Trace gave me a long, considering look. âI never heard of either manâif they were men,â he said. âBut of course thereâs more to life than being strongest or richest or smartestâor even most beautiful. There are things we all can do. Breathe good air, enjoy the food we get, look at whatâs happening in the world and how lovely and cruel and great it is.â
âAs if he read my thoughts, Cruz added, âSewa can do these things and many more. If being lame makes her slower, she may see and savor what many run past.â
âI must look over the horses and pick a few for Court Sanders, who runs Mina Rara,â Trace said. âThe ride might interest Miss Greenleaf if you can look after the child till evening.â
âI must watch her closely today in any case,â Cruz said. âPerhaps you could count my goats on your way. There should be six kids.â His ash-colored eyes scanned me. âSeñorita, the sun has burned you. Before you ride today, let me give you an ointment.â
âGood idea,â said Trace. âAnd wear my hat. Iâve got another I can pick up.â
My face did feel well-boiled and I hadnât done my hair that morning. Just as well there was no mirror, especially after Cruz carefully smeared a greenish stuff on my face and neck, explaining that it was aloes. I sighed ruefully at my stained riding habit, which was by now snagged in numerous places. It was past repair, though my skin should right itself in time. Again I told myself it was lucky I neednât be at pains to spare my clothes: I could follow Trace through any brush without worrying.
âYouâre sure Sewa wonât need me?â I asked.
âYou would only tire yourself watching by her today,â said Cruz. âTomorrow it will be important that you are close, and that will not be easy. Any good hours you can have today will help you and Sewa, so enjoy them with a free heart.â
I went in to see her while Trace was getting the horses. She slept, face tucked against her arm, the flute under her hand. Merciful that Cruz could give her sleep, but soon she would have to face the loss of her foot. Iâd do whatever I could. Perhaps an artificial foot could be made. But nothing could restore the bend of her ankle, the use of a living part of her body. Nothing could bring back her family.
Brushing hair from her face, I bent suddenly to kiss her, a deep fierce tenderness rooting itself in me. She would be my sister and my child. I would take care of her. For the first time since my mother died, I felt less alone.
The horses of Las Coronas were loosely separated according to color. There was a predominance of blacks because the primal stallion of these horses, brought over by the Spaniards, had been a magnificent black. But now there were duns, bays, roans, and grays. Each band of thirty to eighty had its own range and was kept in line by a lead mare and the stallion who protected and utterly dominated his harem.
âCourt wants a gray gelding about sixteen hands high,â mused Trace as we turned up a box canyon where a gray herd found such graze as it could. âI think Roque has a good three-year-old thatâll do, providing itâs free of blemishes.â
âMr. Sanders dislikes