so much older than herself, was baffling to her family and friends and every young man who had ever wooed her. Some believed she was marrying the Yankee because he was a man of secret wealth and she had somehow found out. Others said she was probably attracted to his power—if only because of his closeness to Diaz, the gringo was clearly a man to reckon with, and power was an attribute many women found even more alluring than wealth. But some only shrugged and said maybe there was no reasonable explanation for Raquel’s decision to marry him, maybe she was just in love. Which was in fact the case. The man’s name was Edward Little.
The wedding was performed in a church within sight of Chapultepec Castle. Attending from the bride’s side were Raquel’s few relatives and friends, but the groom had no family other than his son, who was not present at the start of the ceremony, and no friend but Diaz, who was his best man. To give the occasion a greater size and sense of festivity, Diaz had invited three dozen army officers and their female companions, plus a handful of stags to serve as extra dance partners at the reception. The officers were in full dress uniform, including their sabers.
It was Sofi’s first look at Diaz in person and she thought him even more striking in the flesh than in the photographs she had seen. He was tall and lean, with intense black eyes, unkempt short black hair, the downturned mustache of a pirate. He radiated ready quickness. But his manners were of the field camp. He was chatting with some officers just outside the church doors as Sofi was about to enter, and she saw him turn and spit into a bush behind him. And not until he was in the church and the ceremony had begun did he think to remove the toothpick from his mouth.
Diaz himself was recently wed, married but two months to a pretty mestiza named Delfina Ortega, who was sitting in the front pew on the groom’s side of the aisle. At age twenty, she too was much younger than her husband, and hardly better versed in the ways of polite society. She was also, Sofi had heard it whispered, her husband’s niece.
The ceremony was near conclusion when Sofi saw a black-suited young gringo come down a side aisle and take a seat at the far end of the pew where Diaz and his wife sat. By his long yellow hair and short beard Sofi knew him for Louis Little. During the final minutes of the mass, she looked his way again and saw him staring at Gloria where she stood at her post as maid of honor. Just then, as if she’d felt his gaze on her, Gloria turned her head and their eyes met. And he winked at her. The indiscretion was so shocking Sofi could hardly believe it. And even more incredible was the smile Gloria gave him in return. Sofi cut a look at Julian Salgado at the far end of the adjacent pew and saw that he was staring out the nearest window, his boredom with the ceremony as obvious as his unawareness of the exchange between Gloria and the gringo.
Then the service was over and everyone—including Father Benedicto, the old priest who had performed the ceremony and was known to have an affection for tequila—set off to the reception, which was being held in a mansion only a block away and owned by a friend of Diaz. On the walk there in the fading light of early evening, Sofi looked about for Louis Little but didn’t see him anywhere. Nor did she see him in the ballroom. She kept an eye out for him even as she waltzed with one young officer or another. During respites from dancing, she sat at a table reserved for the bridesmaids and their escorts, next to the dais on which the bridal couple shared a table with General Diaz and his wife. Sofi wanted to ask Gloria about the byplay with Louis Little in the church, but with all the other people at the table and all the coming and going between the table and the dance floor and Julian Salgado almost constantly at Gloria’s side, there was no opportunity for such private talk.
When the reception was in its second hour and there was still no sign of Louis Little, Sofi concluded that, for whatever reason, he wasn’t coming. Then an officer came to their table and told Julian there was a civilian in the parlor who wished to speak with him. Julian asked who it was but the officer said he didn’t know, he was just delivering his message. Sofi watched Julian heading toward the parlor hallway on the other side of the room, then turned to her sister, thinking she at last had a chance to talk to her—and was startled to see Louis Little standing at the table and Gloria smiling up at him. His eyes were dark blue, Sofi saw, his face sunbrowned, his smile confident. In his fractured Spanish he asked Gloria if she would honor him with a dance. She said it would be her pleasure, and he took her offered hand and escorted her onto the floor.
A few minutes later Julian was back and looked annoyed. Sofi asked what was wrong and he said there hadn’t been anyone in the parlor waiting to see him. He asked where Gloria was and Sofi pursed her lips and shrugged. He scanned the other tables. Then the dance floor. Then spied them. Talking and laughing as they waltzed round and round. He caught Sofi looking at them too and asked who the gringo was. She said she didn’t know. He sat down and poured a glass of champagne and watched them until the waltz concluded. But they remained on the floor, talking in evident earnestness, and then another number struck up and they again began to dance. Julian stood and Sofi’s heart jumped as he started toward them, sidestepping dancing couples as he went.
Gloria saw him approaching and said something to Louis Little. They stopped dancing as Julian came up, his face tight with anger. Louis Little looked at him without interest, and then in his faulty Spanish thanked Gloria for the dance.
“It was my pleasure,” she said. Her use of English was as galling to Julian, who did not speak the language, as the smile she was giving the man.
As Louis started to walk away, Julian said, Hey, gringo. Louis stopped and turned. Don’t bother to ask her for another dance, Julian said. I won’t permit my fiancee to take any further risk of contracting fleas.
“Julian!” Gloria said.
“The only fleas I ever had,” Louis Little said in his soft southern English, “I got from your mama.”
Julian needed no translator to comprehend “mama” and that he had been insulted.
Watching from the edge of the dance floor, Sofi saw him give Louis Little a hard shove rearward—and a woman cried out as he unsheathed his saber faster than Sofi would have thought possible. Just as suddenly, Louis Little was brandishing a massive knife drawn from under his coat. There were startled squeals and the couples nearest the two men backed away from them as they began to circle each other with weapons ready. Some of the officers shouted bets on Lieutenant Salgado but could get no takers. A Bowie knife was no match for a saber in the hands of a cavalry officer and they all expected the lieutenant to drop the gringo with his first sally.
Diaz stepped between the two men and they froze.
Put up your blades and come with me, he said. They traded hard looks as they followed him to a side door, where Diaz paused before a clutch of officers and said, “Pistolas.” Several ranking officers beckoned their aides, who came at a trot from their posts near the doors, each them with a revolver on his belt. The guns were unholstered and held out butt first for Diaz’s inspection. He took one and unbuttoned his tunic and slipped the pistol into his waistband and then selected two more, one in each hand. He told the officers at the door to make sure everyone else stayed inside and then ushered Lieutenant Salgado and Louis Little out into a large lamplit garden. An officer shut the door behind them. Up on the dais, Edward Little stood with his hands behind him and his eyes on the garden door. Only the two young women at the table could see he was holding a gun.
The orchestra was told to resume playing but nobody wanted to dance—they were all too tense about the imminent duel. There was loud debate about its outcome, a flurry of wagers offered and accepted. The odds were in heavy favor of Lieutenant Salgado not only for reasons of partisanship but because he was known to be a good shot, while no one knew how well the gringo could handle a gun. It was said he had fought in the American Civil War, but even if true, that fact revealed nothing about his ability with a pistol. Some of the older officers, more experienced with the ways of duels, bet that there would be no winner. The combatants would either kill each other or, as in most duels, both be wounded but neither fatally.
Sofi sat with her sister and found out what had been said in the confrontation. Gloria’s eyes were as bright as when boys had fought over her in girlhood. Sofi could not have denied that her own dread was laced with a strange elation. It wasn’t every day a pair of men fought a duel over your sister.
Out in the garden Diaz picked a spot that would put the two men in equal illumination at a distance of some thirty paces and where an errant bullet was unlikely to hit anything other than a tree or a wall. He asked if either of them wanted to end the contention with an apology. Neither one did.
Very well, Diaz said. He showed them that both revolvers were fully-loaded Kerr single-action five-shooters. Then made them stand back to back and handed each of them a pistol. He told them to begin pacing when he began to count. When the count reached fifteen they could turn and fire at will.
If either of you turns before I call fifteen, Diaz said, drawing his own pistol,
