A Lady Bought with Rifles (17 page)

Oh yes, even the horrors didn't startle me more awake than the fleeting bittersweet memory of his touch, of his eyes, his voice.… Court Sanders? He roused me, too, but in a confusion of attraction and dislike that was close to fear. He was like a lynx or wild cat—handsome, amoral, yet at this time my only chance of refuge.

Too exhausted to be uncomfortable, I held the reins mechanically, kept jerking awake. I hoped Sewa wasn't too tired. She'd napped that day and hadn't done anything very active, but I was afraid her stump might be sore from prolonged contact with the boot.

After what seemed a century, Felipe stopped again. We let the horses drink at an earthen tank and this time we tossed the saddles down and hobbled our mounts. I helped Sewa off with her boot and cuddled up with her against the saddles, mumbled thanks to Felipe, who spread a serape over us. Ku, in his nest by Sewa, gave us a sleepy croak, ruffled his feathers, and composed himself.

Face touching Sewa's hair, which smelled cleanly of orrisroot, I identified the pungent odor of Felipe's corn-shuck cigarette and fell into heavy sleep with only a flicker of wonder that Miranda Greenleaf, late of Miss Mattison's school for young ladies, in flight from the sister who should have been my haven, huddled with a Yaqui orphan, a crippled raven, and a renegade vaquero under the stars of Sonora.

8

The night and ride would never end. We were snared in a pattern of darkness, muted hooves, weariness where time had stopped and our destination moved farther away the closer we came. My spine ached; I ached all over. Yesterday's perilous ride with Reina seemed to have taken place a century ago. I'd been in the saddle most of the last twenty hours, and the hours between the time Reina had shot the
burra
and Sewa and I left with Felipe had not exactly been restful.

The east began to lighten. Streaks of coral and red appeared, glowed more intensely as the horizon behind us, broken by distant mountains, exploded with the sun.

“We're almost there,” Felipe assured me. “The Switch is just beyond these little hills.”

It was, marked by a shed and some corrals. We watered the horses and
burra
, turned them loose so they could make their way back to familiar grazing. Felipe put my saddle, bridle, and Sewa's in the shed where Las Coronas people should find them, but he kept his own riding gear. It was all he possessed after thirty years at the ranch.

We ate, drank water while we wished for coffee, and Sewa and I tidied ourselves as much as possible. Thoroughly awake but feeling hollow and shaky, I turned to Felipe in sudden dread.

“Could the train have come already?”

“Early?” His dark brows shot up. “Señorita, what a compliment!”

“Well, it would seem possible,” I said defensively, ruffled at his mirth, though it was reassuring.

Felipe convulsed with laughter, straightened, gasping; “May I tell you a joke, señorita? I would not give offense, but it will tell you about trains in Mexico.”

“Please do,” I said.

“A lady was on the train and at last she sought out the conductor. ‘Señor,' she told him, ‘the train must stop. I am going to have a baby.' ‘But, señora,' protested the conductor, ‘you should not have got on the train if you were in that condition.' ‘Señor,' the lady answered, ‘when I got on the train, I was not in this condition!'”

I had to laugh in spite of the impropriety, and that eased my fears enough to make me suspect Felipe was deliberately trying to amuse me. For which I blessed him. But I certainly hoped the train would come before the pursuers I was sure Reina would send after us.

If Sewa was nervous, she didn't show it. I envied her calm as she leaned against a paloverde's scarred trunk and played her flute to Ku. Felipe smoked and braided rawhide into a rope. He must have been worried, too, because if Reina caught him helping me, she would find some terrible way to punish him. But he whistled and sang and soon he and Sewa were harmonizing appealingly.

They fell silent as I raised my Hand. “Was that a train whistle?”

It came distinctly. Felipe nodded, getting to his feet. Ten minutes later we were safely on board and heading north. As the train pulled away from the Switch and the road to Las Coronas stretched blankly away, I breathed deeply for the first time in hours.

We had made it At least for now.

If Court would only help … I set my jaw. He would, one way or another. He
had
to. The train chugged on and I leaned back in my seat next to Sewa's. The sun was hot on my face, so I tipped my hat over my face. In a few minutes I was asleep.

I woke to jarring, wheels grinding slower and slower as the train shuddered like a stricken monster. For a moment I didn't remember where we were—who we were, for that matter—till Sewa's fingers tightened on mine and Ku gave a croak of annoyance. Felipe, sitting across from us, peered out the window.

He sat down at once as if his knees had buckled.

“What is it?” I asked.

His lips moved several times before he could speak. “Yaquis. Sierra Yaquis.” He reached inside his shirt, pulled a knife from the sheath dangling around his neck.

I could scarcely understand. My brain moved sluggishly, as if by refusing the situation a normal one could be substituted. “What do they want?”

Felipe stared as if I were an idiot. “Money, jewelry, clothes—whatever we have. And blood.”

“Sewa is Yaqui. She can tell them—”

“Maybe, if she has a chance.” Felipe concealed the knife up his sleeve. “Do what they say, señorita. I will try to protect you, but there are a score of them and they have guns.”

I had enough wit to unclasp the little crucifix my mother had sent me. It wasn't worth much in money, but it was my most prized treasure. I slipped it into my mouth, the safest place I could think of.

The conductor appeared in the door, shouted into the rising commotion as passengers, most of them prosperous Americans or Mexicans, realized why the train had stopped.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please step outside quietly. Do as you are told. Otherwise you may be killed.”

“But—but you must protect us!” spluttered a plump American woman who was traveling with her scrawny husband. She wore a dress of peacock blue, pinned with an amethyst and sapphire brooch. Peacock feathers trailed from her elaborate velvet hat. Her husband was in black, but a heavy gold chain draped across his waistcoat and his tie stud sparkled like a real diamond. I suspected it was.

“Madam,” pleaded the conductor, “they have cut the throats of our two armed guards. If you wish to preserve your own neck—”

“Come, my love,” said the small man briskly, extending his arm, managing to propel her bulk along the aisle.

“But, Harry—”

“Goddammit, Ruby, keep still for the next ten minutes or you may not have a tongue!”

His profanity shocked her into obedience. They were first off the train. Urged by the conductor, the others followed. We came last because of Sewa's foot. She held fiercely to Ku and I thought how bitter it was that a child should be afraid of her own people. Would she know any of the robbers? Would they recognize her as Yaqui and spare her, at least?

Yaquis. I had known Sewa, and Cruz, and had witnessed the slaughtered group in the foothills. Now I saw the aspect that made Yaquis feared, turned them into bogies to frighten children. It wasn't a large band, perhaps twenty souls, but each was a shout of ferocity, ruthless, determination, from the apparent leader, a squat man with coarse black hair splayed about his face, to a boy not much older than Sewa.

There was one woman. Lean in flank and face, her breasts swelled under a khaki shirt, defined by crossed bandoliers. She had long black hair tied with a red ribbon and her face had the harsh beauty of carved stone.

“Your jewelry and watches, your money,” she said in slow good Spanish.

Some of the passengers must have known only English. They looked puzzled for a moment till other passengers, with more or less speed, began to follow the order. The youngster walked along, collecting watches, earrings, necklaces, rings, wallets, and money. Another man followed, inspecting pockets and handbags, confiscating objects some had hoped to secrete. Several robbers were tossing suitcases and trunks off the train, rifling them for valuables.

“But that's my mother's wedding ring,” objected one man whose wife had just been stripped of a plain gold band. “It's not worth much to you, but to us—”

“Please, sir, don't argue,” cautioned the conductor. “If we don't anger them, we may get off with our lives.”

“Outrageous!” bawled the woman in the peacock dress. “My husband has invested heavily in this dreadful country. If we can't be protected—”

“Ruby, shut your mouth,” advised her husband, yielding his gold chain. He removed her brooch and handed it to the boy. The second Yaqui flipped off her hat, stuck it rakishly on his head to the mirth of his comrades. The woman gave a wail of impotent rage.

As they neared us, Sewa spoke to the boy in Yaqui. I got the gist of it. She was telling him about her murdered family and that Felipe and I had helped her.

The boy gave her an astonished look, but the man behind him had heard. He held up Sewa's face, asked her a few questions. Then he called out to the woman and leader. The woman dismounted, came to examine the girl with intent dark eyes, frowning at me.

Her rough but melodious voice drilled but questions. She touched Sewa's boot, listened to how she had lost the foot, crossed herself at the mention of Cruz's name. Then she took Sewa's hand. “You must come with us,” she said in Spanish. “We live hard and fight the Mexicans, but it is a better way for you than to be the house pet of this gringa.”

Sewa didn't struggle but neither did she follow. “I want to be with Miranda,” she said in Yaqui so slowly that I understood most of it. “She is my sister-mother.”

“Nonsense! She is your enemy!”

“I am lame,” Sewa reminded them. “I would be a hindrance.”

“That is true!” called the leader. “We have enough mouths to feed, Tula. Let us get on with our business.”

For a moment I thought the panther woman would argue with him, but then she shrugged and let Sewa go, stepping back.

“Now, señores and señoras, we will have your clothes,” she commanded. “We need them more than you. It is cold in the Sierra.”

A gasp went up from the women. “Harry!” shrieked the fat one, clutching her debrooched bosom. The young man who had pleaded for his mother's ring stepped in front of his wife.

“Such dishonor—” He choked. “I—I'd rather die!”

“Nonsense,” said Tula. “No one is raping your wife.” She spoke, not unkindly, to the terrified young woman. “If you want your brave husband to live, give us your things quickly. You may each keep an undergarment.”

“Please,” the wife whispered to her husband. “This only lasts a few minutes. You would be dead forever.”

“She is more intelligent than she looks, señor,” observed Tula, and strolled toward me. “I can use those skirt-trousers,” she told me. “No, little one,” she said to Sewa, who was struggling out of her things, “we do not rob our own.”

I took off my jacket and vest, fumbled at my skirt. Why did training make it so hard, even under threat of death, to cast off our coverings? The fat matron, amply corseted, buried her face in her hands while the peacock dress lay on the earth. Her husband looked like a plucked chicken in his long-legged drawers. If it hadn't been for the shame and fear, we were a laughable sight. Tula discarded her ragged skirt and pulled on my divided one, surveying it with delight. It was easy for me to imagine her at Sewa's age, orphaned and hounded. I couldn't hate, though I certainly did fear her.

The young wife stood in her camisole and petticoat. One of the men shouted something that Tula translated. “Your underthings are so pretty that he wants them for his girl friend. Here, you can hide yourself with my skirt.”

She thrust the rag at the flinching girl, whose husband seemed to go mad. Springing on the Yaqui who was just picking up the peacock dress, the young man wrestled him to the ground, stumbled up with the rifle, fired without aiming into the robbers.

Tula cut him down from the side, but a husky American had charged the horsemen. He died from a machete swing that opened his body under the ribs, almost severing it in half. The leader shouted in Yaqui.

“Now there has been death, we must kill them all so it can seem the work of any robbers.”

The Yaquis raised their guns and machetes. Tula snatched Sewa out of range, though the child screamed and tried to get back to me. So this was the end of it, on a clear fine morning under a bright sky?

So unreal I couldn't believe it. The leader's gaze fell on me. He spoke to Tula, who scowled but pulled me away from the edge of the group.

“You can't do this,” I pleaded, speech stumbling because of the crucifix concealed in my cheek. “These people haven't hurt you.”

A crash of bullets drowned my words. There were a few who had to be finished with knives or machetes, including the fat woman who flopped about in her own blood till the leader severed her jugular.

The young woman's camisole and skirt were so blood-soaked that the man who had wanted them turned away in disgust. I ran to Felipe. Bloody froth pumped from his mouth and nostrils.

“Señorita,” he panted. “Señor Winslade—the night he brought back you and the child, he—he—” Felipe convulsed, tried to form another word, died as blood gushed from his mouth.

Tula grasped my arm. “Come! Lío says we must not kill you because you helped this small one, but God only knows what we can do with you.” She handed me my shirt. “Put it on. If that fair skin cooks, you will be even more trouble. You can have my skirt.”

The youngest Yaqui, whom they called Domingo, offered me his horse, a scrubby dun. Tula had Sewa, clutching her flute, lifted up behind her, and Domingo, at Sewa's begging, brought Ku in his leather nest. We rode away from the stranded train and the half-naked dead. Though my body wouldn't be found along with Felipe's, Reina would scarcely bother to search for me. It would be convenient to blame robbers for my death, and in time she would doubtless inherit the mine, since I had no other close relative.