Midnight Rider (41 page)

“I only came to del Robles a few months ago,” Rita said. “Before that I was in San Miguel. Your father is dead. That is why I left Monterey, where we had been working.”

“I am sorry, Mama, I did not know.” Miranda swallowed and glanced away. “I tried to find you, but Inocente was never in one place long enough. You were right about him, Mama. I never should have married him. He was a hard man, often he was cruel. Sometimes he even beat me. I was not sorry when he was killed.”

“Pobrecita,”
her mother crooned, smoothing the thick black hair away from her daughter's pretty face.

“His family was nice, though. I went to visit them at a rancho called El Tejon at the end of the great central valley. They wanted me to stay, but I decided not to. I learned you were here from one of the vaqueros. That is why I returned to Llano Mirada, the place where Inocente took me before he was killed. That is where I met El Dragón.” Miranda didn't mention she had slept with Ramon de la Guerra, or with Ruiz Dominguez, after Ramon had gone.

Rita crossed herself. “Senor Austin and the others, they have finally captured the outlaws.”

“
Si,
I was there. I am lucky I escaped.”

“
Por Dios,
how did you get away?”

Miranda sighed heavily. The journey from Arroyo Aguajes was a long one, but she'd felt she had to come. She wasn't sure when she would see her mother again.

“When the shooting started, one of the vaqueros, a man named Ruiz Dominguez, led the women and children deeper into the mountains. Always we had planned that if anything should happen, we would meet at a cave in the hills. The men are gathered there now. They plan to ride into San Juan the night before the hanging and free those who were captured. I heard them talking.”

“
Por Dios
—they will all be killed!”

“I do not think so. They will go in quietly, break into the jail, then ride out to the south through an old dry arroyo that circles the town. The plan is a good one, I think.”

Rita hugged her daughter, her pendulous breasts in contrast to Miranda's slender form. “You must say nothing more of this. Senor Austin would be angry.”

“I told you only because I cannot stay. I am returning to the mountains.” Beneath her dark skin, her cheeks grew slightly flushed. “I am going away with Ruiz. He is a fine vaquero, Mama, and I have come to care for him.”

Rita's plump hands cradled her daughter's face. “I am glad you came. Once you are settled, you can visit me again, no?”

“
Si,
Mama. That is what I am hoping.”

“You must eat before you leave. You are too skinny.” Rita squeezed her daughter's hand. “I have just made tamales and a batch of fresh tortillas. You will have time for that, no?”

Miranda smiled. “
Si,
but I must hurry. I am told Senor Austin's niece is here. If she discovers I am also here, I will no longer be welcome.”

Rita frowned but said nothing more. She was worried about her daughter. She wished her child could stay for a visit, but for now it was not safe. She was only glad Senor Fletcher would not hear of these things. If he did, he would be waiting the night of the raid. Her daughter's
novio
might not live to return to the hills.

*   *   *

Angel de la Guerra sat alone in his cell in the small uncomfortable jail in San Juan Bautista. In another cell at the opposite end, Pedro Sanchez and three of El Dragón's vaqueros curled up on the thin corn husk mattress or sprawled on the hard wooden floor. Sheriff Jeremy Layton sat in his office in a separate building a dozen yards away.

In the square across from the mission, a makeshift gallows held four lengths of rope, each of them looped with a thirteen-coil knot. A hangman's noose. And one of them was waiting for Angel de la Guerra.

Sitting on the floor of his cell, a corner of his mouth twisted up. Always he had known it would end like this. He'd been lucky to escape the gallows after the first man he had killed. Even telling them he wasn't El Dragón would not save him. He had been in hiding at Llano Mirada. He had been firing at the vigilantes, had wounded at least four of their men.

And he was wanted for murdering one of the guards at the prison during his escape.

He almost smiled. Andreas was El Dragón but Andreas was dead. Ramon de la Guerra had used the name as well. Angel was also a de la Guerra. Why shouldn't he have a little of the glory? In fact if he was going to die, why shouldn't he have it all?

His chest rumbled with humorless mirth at the thought. Ramon would never admit the truth and neither would any of his men. Angel would go down as a legend. An outlaw almost as renowned as Joaquin Murieta.

Yes, if he was going to hang, this was the way he wanted to go. His head fell back against the cold hard wall of the cell. A cockroach skittered across the floor at his feet, and the smell of dampness and urine assaulted his nose. If the choice was death or more years in a place like this, he would choose death for sure.

He squashed the cockroach with the heel of his boot, the crunch of its shell echoing off the walls of the cell. Perhaps it was poetic justice. Ramon had always bested him, always come out on top. Now Angel was gaining a place in history—a fair exchange for the night he should have spent in his cousin's pretty wife's bed.

*   *   *

“I hope you're sure about this.” Fletcher Austin threw a hard look at his tall rangy foreman, Cleve Sanders, who stood next to him outside the barn while they finished saddling there horses. Dusk had fallen, a dark purple glow that hovered on the horizon.

Sanders merely smiled. “Sure as I can be, considering my sources. I told you what I heard, but you can always ask the woman yourself.”

Fletcher frowned. Rita wouldn't utter a word against her Spanish friends. He'd have to beat it out of her and he wasn't about to do that. Not unless he had to. “I think we know as much as much as we need to. We'll let them go in, then be waiting for them when they come out. That way no one in town will get hurt when the lead starts flying, and we'll have the bastards dead to rights.”

“Makes sense to me,” Sanders said with a satisfied smile. “We know which way they'll be heading out. All we gotta do is sit and wait.”

“Exactly.” Fletcher pulled the cinch tight on his saddle, bridled the horse, drew the reins up, and swung up on the animal's back. Impatiently, he sat waiting for the others to finish and join him. He was gazing back toward the house, eager to be away, when he saw the curtains flutter and his niece's face appear at the window.

The next thing he knew she was opening the door, running toward him across the yard, her plum silk skirts rucked high above her ankles. Damn, would the girl never learn to behave like a lady?

“Where are you going, Uncle Fletcher?” She stopped beside the horse, a little breathless and obviously unnerved. “I didn't know you and the men were riding out tonight.”

“It's nothing to worry yourself about, my dear. The men and I have some business in town.”

“Y-you're going into San Juan?”

“That's right. You needn't wait up. Odds are we won't be back until some time tomorrow.”

Carly wet her lips. “You're wearing your gun. Are you expecting some kind of trouble?”

“As I said, it's nothing to worry about. Go back inside. It's time for us to leave.”

“But—”

“Do as I say, Caralee. I don't want to tell you again.”

Carly said nothing, just backed away into the shadows, then turned and walked off toward the house. Her uncle had barely spoken in the last two days. He was angry at her for accepting Ramon's gift of the mare. He'd demanded she return the horse to Las Almas, but Carly had staunchly refused.

Now she wished she had placated him somehow. Perhaps he would have told her his plans for tonight. Instead, she had only just chanced to see the men outside and now her heart pounded with fierce trepidation. She waited inside the house till the men rode out of sight, her legs feeling wobbly and her hands shaking with fear. There wasn't time to change her clothes. Instead, as soon as the riders dropped over the rise, she raced to the barn, opened the door to Sunflower's stall, and led the little mare outside.

In minutes, she had the horse saddled, bridled, and ready. Climbing up on the mounting block, she hoisted herself up into the sidesaddle, bunching her plum silk skirts around her, gathered up the reins, and set off into the darkness.

How in God's name had her uncle discovered the plan to free Pedro and the men? Or perhaps he didn't know for sure, just suspected they might make the attempt since the hanging was set for tomorrow.

She tossed that notion away. If that was the case, the men would have been watching the jail for the past two nights. They wouldn't have known for certain for which night the raid was set. But they did know, Carly was sure. Someone had told them.

Who could have known?

Who would have betrayed them?

Who—besides herself?

Carly's insides clenched so hard she swayed and nearly lost her seat atop the mare. God in heaven, Ramon would believe she was the one who had told them. He had told her his plans. He would believe she had told her uncle. Ramon would be killed and even as the shots slammed into his body, he would believe she had betrayed him again.

Dear God, she couldn't bear to think of it.

Carly kicked the mare into a gallop, her chest so tight she could barely drag in a breath. She had to catch up with the men, but she couldn't let them see her. She had to discover what her uncle intended and somehow warn Ramon.

The mare stumbled over a rock and nearly went down. Carly eased up on the reins, let the animal regain its feet, then rode on, her heartbeat more rapid with every passing mile. No moon shone, just a thin sliver of white and a faint silver trail to light the way. Dark swirling clouds rolled past, obscuring even that small source of comfort for long, ink-black minutes at a time.

She topped a ridge above the low, rolling, oak-covered hills and caught a glimpse of the men below. They were moving rapidly, covering much of the way at a gallop. She followed behind them, keeping up a steady pace yet always careful not to get too near.

As the night grew more chill, she untied the blanket she carried behind her saddle and drew it around her bare shoulders and the generous portion of her breasts the expensive silk gown exposed. Her stiffly starched muslin petticoats chafed against her legs and her whalebone corset pressed into the underside of her breasts. The pins in her hair came loose as the horse's hooves pounded against the earth, and her long, dark copper hair flew wildly around her shoulders. Still she rode on.

She was nearly exhausted by the time she reached the outskirts of San Juan Bautista, slowing the mare when the lights came into view and silently picking her way along the dry arroyo the men had ridden into ahead of her. She drew rein when she heard them speaking and realized they had all dismounted.

Tying the mare some distance away, she crept over the rocky surface of the old dry streambed, ignoring the jab of a sharp stone in her shoe, until she got close enough to see what they were doing. They were settling in, she saw, finding places to lie in wait where they wouldn't be discovered. Crouching behind downed trees, granite boulders, and out of sight around a bend in the arroyo, they prepared themselves to ambush Ramon and his men.

The trap was deadly. None of the men would escape.

A sharp stab of fear gouged through her as she made her way back to where her little mare waited.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

Ramon sat astride his big black stallion, Viento Prieto. Dark Wind had carried its master as if he were the wind in truth, moving like a zephyr through the night. Beside him, Ruiz Dominguez, Ignacio Juarez, and a dozen of his vaqueros, all that remained after the raid on Llano Mirada, surveyed the village of San Juan Bautista, nestled at the base of the foothills in the fertile valley below.

“Each of you remembers what he is to do?”

“
Si,
Don Ramon,” muttered the men. The tension among them was so palpable even the horses could sense it. They snorted and blew, their nostrils flaring, hooves shifting nervously, and there was a wildness in their eyes that matched that of the men.

“Ruiz and Ignacio will come into the jail with me,” Ramon reminded them. “Emilio and Esteban will guard the door, while the rest of you take up the positions you were assigned. You are ready?”

Another muttered agreement.

“Fan out and move in quietly. Do not spare your horses once the men are freed and we are ready to ride out of town.” Grim-faced they set off down the hill, each of them knowing the price they would pay if they failed. Their friends would hang. And they would all be dead.

As they had planned, they spread out and rode in, traveling quietly along the narrow lanes and alleys till they reached the sheriff's office across the street and down from the mission. Ramon's jaw tightened at the sight of the makeshift gallows in the square, its four swinging nooses a grisly reminder of what might await them. Moving with stealth, he eased closer to the stoutly constructed, thick-timbered jail with its two small windows, and nodded to one of his men, who took out the guard at the rear.

The butt of a pistol silenced a second guard, this one leaning against the building that housed the sheriff's office. The sign above the door fluttered briefly in the turbulence stirred up by the men below, and Ramon held his breath that the sound of squeaking hinges would not be noticed. The noise finally faded and no one inside appeared at the door. Another guard fell soundlessly as a big, beefy vaquero wrapped a thick forearm around the man's throat and squeezed off his air supply.

None of the men were killed. Ramon had warned them to use only as much force as necessary. The fury of their pursuit would be lessened, and murdering men in the name of justice seemed at odds with his beliefs.