Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) (17 page)

It went up like a torch, both its occupants screaming and clawing to get away.
El
patrón
was wrapped in flames, fighting to escape. The girl shrieked and struggled to get out of the burning bed, and then her long, hennaed hair caught fire, too.

The boy’s eyes widened with horror at the sight as he backed toward the door.
El patrón
shrieked in agony, as he fought his way out of the flaming sheets and staggered across the room, his hair and skin aflame. He grabbed for the pistol hanging over the chair with his clothes. But at that moment, the boy threw his dagger as his Indian uncle had taught him, and it caught his father in the belly.

El patrón
screamed in agony and fury, grasped the blade in his flesh, then fell to the floor writhing.

Coldly, the boy strode over, pulled the dagger out, wiped the blood on the old man’s arm, and stuck the knife back in his boot.

The screaming girl staggered toward Romeros, her hair a mass of scarlet flames. Right at his feet, she collapsed on the carpet, which began to smolder. Her clawing hands reached up in appeal, but he laughed and stood there, staring down at her.

Her lips moved as she looked up at him. “. . . Satan will come for you,” she got out. “You will hear his chains rattle as he comes to drag you down to hell . . . he’ll come for you. . . . ”

Romeros had a sudden, eerie vision of the Lord of Darkness dressed in a black cape, horns gleaming, hooves where feet should have been, a long, forked tail.

The scent of acrid smoke, of burned flesh, made him gasp, made his eyes water. The boy laughed crazily, turned to run from the room as the flames spread along the carpet. He staggered outside, caught a horse, saddled it, and rode out. He paused on the crest of a hill, looking back. The whole hacienda was ablaze now, orange and red flames leaping against the black night sky.

He felt a thrill. So this was what it felt like to kill. Why it was even more exciting, more exhilarating than topping a woman.

He stared at the roaring inferno, reached absently to feel the lucifer matches in his pocket, smiled. “You were wrong,
el patrón
,” he said softly to himself. “I am more like you than even I myself realized.” With a bitter laugh, he turned his horse southeast and rode down into Mexico.

That had been a long time ago, more than twenty-five years. Romeros sat up on the edge of his narrow bunkhouse bed. Surely everyone in the house was asleep by now, even that stupid Texas cowboy.

The moonlight gleamed on the faded bull-fighter posters.
Sí
, he would have loved to be a matador, stick long swords into the backs of big, snorting bulls. When he went to the bullfights in Monterrey, he always thought of his father snorting and humping the girl. He thrilled as the sword was driven in when
el toro
finally lowered his head.

Romeros relived that scene in his father’s bedroom as he reached for a match, stuck it between his teeth, chewed it thoughtfully. The image of the man humping the girl from behind like a great stud bull, the memory of their violent deaths, aroused his desire, made him need a woman. He seemed to smell the blood and sperm, the smoke and flames. He stood up, paced restlessly. He wanted a woman badly enough to take the risk.

Romeros went over, paused before a faded poster—“The Moment of Truth.” That split second between life and death before the matador plunged the sword up to the hilt into the great black body. He fantasized about it, making the killing gesture over and over as he imagined driving the sword home. It was not unlike ramming his manhood into a quivering woman. Except one gesture gave Death; the other, Life.

Romeros stared at the bull-fighting poster, becoming more aroused. When he finally controlled both ranches, he would have that elegant Amethyst Durango, even if she were married to the stupid Texan. Women had no rights, they did what their husbands told them. And Bandit would be powerless to refuse to share her, not with what Romeros held over him. . . .

When Romeros had found his way to this ranch after he had killed the pair in California, Antonio Falcon was newly dead and the old man had no heirs. Romeros hoped he might work his way into the couple’s affections and their will. Then, late in life, they had a baby son of their own.

As Romeros watched the boy grow, he knew it was going to be like it had been the other ranch. Always, Romeros would be a vaquero, a servant, while another inherited the money and power. And Romeros had one other passion besides the bullfights—gambling. He could never keep his debts paid on his salary, even though it was generous.

A coyote howled somewhere outside in the night, startling Romeros from his musings. The lonely cry echoed and reechoed through the purple hills around Falcon’s Lair. Romeros felt his groin tighten, and remembered that he needed a woman. There were plenty of women he could force himself on at this ranch; he’d done it often enough. The girls were ashamed and embarrassed to complain to the Falcons, and somewhat afraid since he was the foreman of this spread. But tonight he wanted a forbidden woman. One that was the property of a powerful
patrón.
The danger of discovery increased his ardor.

Quiet as his stealthy Yaqui kinsmen, Romeros sneaked out of the house, went to the stable. The hay smelled sweetly fragrant as he reached for a saddle. Should he take his own black gelding? Did he dare ride the prized stallion? He had done it before.

In its stall, the blue-eyed pinto snorted and stamped its hooves. Romeros knew that Señor Falcon planned to give the stallion to his newly found son. He frowned. It wasn’t fair. He deserved that stallion for all he’d done for the old man, and that was a fact.

Defiantly, Romeros led the horse out, saddled it. It snorted, reared, and stamped its feet, not liking him. He cursed it, hit it with a quirt. “That damned Texan is too kind to you!” he growled.

Stealthily, he led the stallion away from the corral, then mounted up. Upon its back, Romeros truly felt like the heir to Falcon’s Lair.

He put his spurs to the pinto’s sides, took off at an easy lope for the Durango spread. Romeros enjoyed the ride through the darkness. The scent of leather and horse, the slight creak of the saddle, the steady rhythm of the pinto’s hooves along the trail were enjoyable. Tomorrow the stallion might be given to that damned Texan, but tonight Romeros could still pretend that he was the old man’s heir. They would probably all sleep late in the morning, being tired from the party, and Romeros would get the horse groomed early. No one need ever know.

The coyote howled again, and the sound echoed and reechoed through the shadowy hills. Romeros took a deep breath of the warm May night, the mesquite, the cactus blooms. The stallion’s long legs ate up the miles as Romeros urged him on.

He entered the gates of the Durango ranch, paused. The pasture where they kept El Satanás Negro was out of his way. Did he have time to torment the beast?

Romeros grinned with relish. He’d make time. The woman could wait. He rode to the pasture and dismounted, looking through the sturdy fence.

Behind it, the giant old bull grazed. The beast raised its head, standing blackly silhouetted in the moonlight, twitching its tail. The light reflected off the ivory-colored sharp horns. It snorted as it seemed to recognize the horse, pawed the turf with its sharp hooves. A ring gleamed in its nose and a short length of chain jangled from the ring, to be used when anyone led the beast.

Romeros laughed with anticipation, as he stared at the old scars on the great bull’s withers. It had taken many pics and banderillas that long-ago day. And many times when no one else was around, he’d come here to torment and torture this huge beast.

“You black devil,” he muttered under his breath, “you cheated me of seeing you die in the ring, but I’ve made up for it.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw the Mexico City arena where he and Señors Falcon and Durango had gone to attend the bullfight. How many years ago? Eight? Ten? He didn’t remember. But this was an old bull now, graying around the muzzle.

Romeros leaned against the fence, remembering. The arena had been hot and crowded that day. Falcon and Durango had not really wanted to attend
las corridas de toros
, the bullfights—they were in Mexico City on ranch business—but Romeros had insisted. If there was the smallest bullfight in a nearby village, Romeros always attended. And that day, there had been several great bulls, and the white sand was stained scarlet with blood of man and beast.

The president, from his box, waved the green handkerchief, signaling the oxen to come in and drag away the dead bull.

Señor Falcon said, “Let’s go home. Bullfighting seems useless and cruel.”

Fat old Durango stood up. “I think so too,
amigo
. We wouldn’t even be here if your foreman hadn’t insisted—”

“We’re not leaving yet?” Romeros was aghast, “The main event, the best bull, is just coming into the arena. Please, I would like so much to stay.”

The two ranchers looked at each other uncertainly.

Then Romeros said, “Señor Durango, this bull is from the ranch of one of your friends, see?” He pointed to the program. “You will offend him if he sees you leaving as his bull comes in.”

That settled it. With a sigh, the two ranchers sat back down, and Romeros licked his lips in anticipation, leaned forward to watch the president wave the white handkerchief to signal the next bull should be brought in. The great bull charged into the ring to the roar of the crowd.

It was a
toro bravo
, a brave bull, everyone could see that. Romeros glanced at his program. El Satanás Negro.
Sí
, that was a most apt name for the beast. The crowd roared with approval as the bull pawed the sand, tossed its head, horns glistening.

As the fight progressed, Romeros pretended that he was the matador who would kill the great creature.
Death in the afternoon. The moment of truth
. He closed his eyes, loving the roars of the crowd, the scent of blood and sweat, the jostling of the bodies around him.

He imagined himself in the suit of lights, the magnificent costume of the matador. In his mind, he saw himself swaggering about the arena, waving to the crowd. He paused before the president’s box, where he pretended the lovely Amethyst Durango sat. Bowing low, he indicated that he would dedicate the bull to her. Over the
paso doble
, the traditional music, the crowd roared approval. Flowers rained down around him as ladies sighed and hoped to catch his eye.

But Romeros, the great matador, saw only one girl in the crowd, the one in the president’s box. Amethyst took a sprig from the wild forget-me-nots in her hair, kissed it, threw it down to him. He imagined that he caught it, took a deep breath of its scent while looking up at her. She promised him love and romance with her eyes.

Romeros tucked the flower in his glittering costume, next to his heart, then took the muleta, the red-lined cape, and the sword from an assistant, and strode to the center of the ring where the bull waited.

The great beast stood there in the churned-up sand of the ring, sharp banderillas sticking at odd angles from its hump. It was a brave bull, a great bull. Scarlet blood from the sharp sticks embedded in its ebony hide ran down its powerful neck and shoulders to mix with the foam and sweat that dripped to the sand. Romeros would kill it today. Or it would kill him this fine Sunday afternoon.

He made two veronicas, swirled the cape around. The bull charged, roared past him so close that black hair and blood clung to his glittering matador’s costume.

The crowd went wild, coming to its feet, shouting his name.
RO-MER-OS . . . RO-MER-OS
. . .

The musical chant was a song in his heart, a roar in his brain. He would kill the bull. The crowd shouted that he should be awarded one ear—no, both ears—and the tail which only the best matadors ever received. He felt dizzy with the acceptance of the idolizing crowd.
Bravo
toro . . . bravo matador . . . RO-MER-OS . . . RO-MER-OS. . .

He was loved, accepted, a hero. Romeros the Great. All he had to do was finish his moment in the arena, slay the bull. He would be rich and famous. Everyone would want to be his friend. He would be praised and accepted in the best circles. Old Gomez Durango would give him Amethyst’s hand in marriage.

The sword glistened in his hand. The bull lowered its great head, blood running from the banderillas sticking in its back. It was time for the moment of truth, the most dangerous time of all for the matador. That time when he moved in close enough to drive the sword into the great beast’s back, reaching in over the horns that might hook and impale him.
Hasta el puño
. Clear to the hilt.

RO-MER-OS . . . RO-MER-OS
, the crowd chanted. He felt sweat running down his back under the glittering costume, smelled the fetid lather of the bull, saw its blood. His mouth tasted so dry and salty, he could not swallow. His fingers seemed to ache from clutching the sword handle. The sunlight reflecting off the sharp blade almost blinded him. An ecstasy built in him that made his manhood harden. This was what it meant to be a man. It was exciting to kill. And when it was done, women would want him in an orgy of hot-blooded sexuality. He imagined throwing the lovely, high-born Amethyst down right here on the blood-soaked sand of the arena, mounting her from behind as a stud bull would.

He aimed the sword. But now the crowd changed. The words were a murmur at first, then were building into a roar:
“Indulto! Indulto!”

Romeros jerked out of his daydream, looked around the stadium where he sat with the two men.

“Indulto!” The pleas of the crowd became a roaring demand.
“Indulto!”

Now both Falcon and Durango had joined the crowd, had come to their feet, shouting, “Indulto!”

“No!” Romeros protested, jumping to his feet. He must feel the thrill of seeing it die. “No!”

Below him in the arena, the matador faced the great brave bull, hesitated.