Once A Wolf (32 page)

Rowena tried to push herself to her feet, remembering too late that they remained tied at the

ankles. Kavanagh let her go. She lost her balance, caught at the branches of the pine, and fell

onto her rump. The shock was far less than that of Kavanagh's words.

"I will not listen to your lies," she whispered.

"You don't have any choice." He turned and spoke to Rialto's men in rapid Spanish. One of them

rose and vanished into the darkness. The others drew closer to the fire.

Kavanagh smiled with grim satisfaction. "The trovadores," he said, "still sing corridos—ballads—

about Tomás's mother, who tried to take revenge on her husband's killer when he came to

destroy everything she had. They sing about Tomás and how he won't stop fighting MacLean

until one of them is dead." He nodded toward the man returning to the fire with a guitar in his

hands. "Americo is Rialtos finest cantante. He's going to sing you a song of El Lobo and Cole

MacLean."

"I do not speak Spanish."

"I'll translate," he said. "And you will listen."

The man with the guitar, Americo, spoke a soft introduction. The men around him murmured

and nodded. He strummed the guitar and began to sing.

The Spanish words and melody seemed simple, just as such songs did when Tomás sang them.

But there was something different about this ballad, a sense of reality within the

entertainment.

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"In the land of Scotland," Kavanagh said, "one hundred years ago, they say, a great fight began

between the men of two families."

Kavanagh's voice changed, losing its harsh and brittle edge to become something almost

spellbinding, as if he were possessed by the soul of some ancient bard—or by Tomás himself. It

rang with truth. It compelled her to hear him as no use of force could have done.

And she wanted to know. She had to.

She listened.

"Don Fergus Randall came to New Mexico, here to find peace for himself and his kinfolk.

"He took as a bride the daughter of good family, and made his fortune on the land of Don

Arturo.

"It was named Los Valerosos for the courage of its people, a grant on the long Canadian River.

"Don Fergus found no peace on the rancho, for his old enemies had followed him from Texas.

"The MacLeans were proud and had many cattle, and most of all hatred for the Don and the

Randalls."

As Rowena followed the cadences of the song, Kavanagh continued to translate, telling how the

War came to New Mexico, pitting north against south; how the southern soldiers came to

Glorieta pass, where Don Fergus met his enemies and warned them away; how the MacLeans

refused to leave, and Fergus was forced to kill one MacLean in battle; and how the MacLeans

swore vengeance.

"When the war was ended, Don Fergus went to Mexico; There he was killed, they said by the

Apaches.

"But Cole and Frank MacLean had ambushed and killed him; in cowardice they killed him, to

leave his wife a widow.

"Many years passed, and she sent her son away, Young Don Tomás, to learn American ways in

the East.

"Then she found how her husband had died, and cried in great anger, "I will take revenge on

the killers of Don Fergus." "

So the feud continued. Dona Adelina, Tomás's mother, vowed revenge on her enemies, stealing

the MacLeans' cattle and horses. For many years the MacLeans couldn't catch her, until one day

they brought powerful allies to destroy all of Los Valerosos and drive off the people.

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"But Dona Adelina found the trail to follow them; they say she took the shape of a wolf to

follow their tracks.

"When she found the MacLeans, they had no pity on a woman; it is said that they killed her as

they killed her husband.

"Then Don Tomás returned, singing songs of his country; he knew nothing of all that had

happened.

"He was a man of joy and laughter, much loved, a gentle caballero who bore no man ill-will.

"All the women sighed for him, and he sang like an angel;

"But he came home, and everything he left was changed."

Tomás had found his ranch destroyed, the people scattered. He learned of his mother's death,

and in grief and rage vowed vengeance.

"After many months, he found Frank MacLean alone; they fought with great fury, each as

strong as the other.

"But El Lobo fought for justice, and so he was the stronger; he took his vengeance, in the name

of his mother and father."

Cole MacLean learned of his father's death and made Tomás an outlaw, ever hunting and

hunted, a hero of the people and scourge of the MacLeans.

"He knows he will die one day, but he is not afraid; let all who hear this ballad remember the

tale of El Lobo."

The guitar fell silent. The men were quiet for a few moments, and then they called out in

raucous appreciation. Rowena sat very still, eyes closed. Odd, how a few stanzas that didn't

even rhyme could be so moving. Perhaps it was the music that made it so.

She remembered what Tomás had said of his father, and how he'd met and married Adelina.

He'd even mentioned a feud—and she had changed the subject.

But this was a song, a fairy tale, a legend.

"The corrido leaves a few details out," Kavanagh said, the music gone from his voice. "Like how

the MacLeans came to Las Vegas nine years after Fergus's murder with a bunch of other big

Texas ranchers, to round up beeves rustled by the Comancheros and Indians and sold to the

poor farmers in the Territory."

"The… Comancheros?"

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"Indian traders. Some of them started buying cattle stolen by the Indians or rustling beeves

themselves. Didn't figure they owed loyalty to the big cattlemen who were taking over. Adelina

made them her allies when she went up against the MacLeans." He stared into the fire. "The

Texans said they just wanted their property back. But that was only an excuse for the

MacLeans. They wanted a legal way to wipe out Los Valerosos and everything Fergus Randall

left behind, including his wife and son and all the people who lived on their land and worked for

them.

"They got Adelina, but Tomás didn't return from the East until after they destroyed Los

Valerosos. He followed their trail, and found one of Frank MacLeans men with a wolf pelt on his

saddle. His mother's."

Rowena shook her head in disbelief.

"That was when Tomás went after Frank MacLean. Cole and his men found Tomás badly

wounded from the fight. They tortured him and left him for dead."

The horrible events played out in Rowena's imagination. She'd seen, in England, what such

hostilities could do. Two families on opposite sides of a divisive, brutal war. One grudge building

upon another, each new death demanding recompense. A father and brother, half-mad with

grief, pursuing Fergus Randall. Tomás seeking his revenge in turn…

And Cole, respected and eminently civilized, hunting Tomás down and torturing him to the very

edge of death.

She rejected the vision. Cole was not perfect, but he could not have committed such atrocities.

He was no Stefan Boroskov, depraved and perverted by his tainted werewolf power.

And if the song were true, Tomás, too, had killed.

You knew he was a killer. Weylin said so. Tomás did not deny it…

But the song gave him a reason for his terrible act, some purpose other than mere bloodlust

and greed. "He was a man of joy and laughter, much loved, a gentle caballero who bore no man

ill-will." She had seen that man in Tomás.

When was vengeance justified? If Tomás's father had killed Cole's brother in the War, could

there be any right in murdering a soldier after the war had ended? Was Tomás evil in seeking

revenge on his father's killers? Must the pattern continue until every last Randall and MacLean

was gone?

No. She turned her back on the fire and bent her head to her knees. The song took Tomás's side

without apology, and cast the MacLeans as the villains. She would not make a similar judgment.

Some great misunderstanding lay at the heart of this feud, twisted and romanticized by the

overactive imaginations of the local balladeers.

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Why don't you take the part of your own fiancé? an inner voice chided. Shouldn't it be obvious

where the truth lies?

I will make no judgments! she answered. With a twinge of startlement she realized that she'd

spent nearly all her life making such judgments, never questioning her right to do so. She found

herself, at last, in a situation where any choice she made must lead to pain.

Yes, pain… even at the likely prospect that Cole was innocent and Tomás the villain. Wasn't that

the assumption she'd made at the beginning and carried with her ever since?

When had she begun to change her mind?

It didn't matter. In a few days she'd be with Cole again. She would simply ask him for the truth.

He might wish to shield her from the unpleasant aspects of his family's past, but he would not

lie. Then she would know both sides of the story. Then she could decide…

"You still don't believe, do you?" Kavanagh said close to her ear.

She didn't give him the satisfaction of drawing away. "I believe there has been a great tragedy,"

she said, "and much suffering—"

"Caused by your high-and-mighty MacLeans," he said. "It wasn't only Tomás's family they

destroyed. From the time they came to New Mexico, they used their power to trample anyone

weaker than they were. Frank MacLean was a big man in Texas since the Mexican War, but that

wasn't enough. He wanted an empire. He started by driving his cattle north through New

Mexico on the Goodnight-Loving trail when almost no one else had the sand. The Indians left

him alone. Even men like Hittson and Chisum backed down when he came around.

"He wasn't human, and he didn't see humans as threats. He could make them do whatever he

wanted—just like Cole does now. He used people and threw them away when he was finished.

If someone had land he wanted, he got rid of them one way or another—poor squatters, small

farmers, people just trying to survive. Wasn't just land, but anything he could take. He was a

thief who got the law and the politicians on his side. Pretty soon he had one of the biggest

spreads in the Territory, not counting his land in Texas." Kavanagh's face was rigid as a skull.

"Only the Randalls had the power to stand up to him, because they were hombres-lobo. He had

to get rid of them. The feud and the War gave him a reason."

Never had she heard Sim Kavanagh speak with such passion. This had gone beyond loyalty to a

friend. It was as if… yes, as if he himself had suffered some personal injury at the hands of the

MacLeans.

"I never met Cole's father," she said. "Cole respected him greatly, and so did many men of

influence and integrity—"

"Because they were scared of him. The same way they're scared of Cole." He smiled. "You're

afraid of him yourself."

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"I most certainly am not." She shivered. "Even if Frank MacLean did some of the things you

claim, Cole… Cole was not the head of the family. He has been in New York since sixty-six."

"He helped kill Fergus before then. He came back to try to kill Tomás. He took over all the

family's business when Frank MacLean died. You think because he lives in the East he doesn't

control everything that happens here? He's carried on his daddy's fine tradition of stealing and

killing."

"All you've given me is hearsay and the opinion of a wanted criminal."

He rocked back on his heels. "I reckoned you'd approve of the way the MacLeans do business.

Must be the same with your kind in England."

She bit back a swift denial. It was because of their innate abilities that werewolves naturally

rose to positions of wealth and authority wherever they lived. Kavanagh implied that the

MacLeans practiced loup-garou influence on humans; hadn't Braden done the same thing in

England, to safeguard the Forster secrets? But her brother had never manipulated humans for

his own profit, nor employed them to steal and kill.

How she hated owing anything to her savage heritage.

"At the moment I see little to choose between you, Tomás, and Cole," she said.

Kavanagh laughed. He kept laughing even as he tossed a dirty blanket over her shoulders and

lay down a few feet away, watching, always watching with those merciless eyes.

Rowena spent the next sleepless hours trying to chase the Ballad of El Lobo from her mind.

Weylin woke from a profound sleep, his first memory that of pain.

He still wore his wolf's body. As he lay under the low boughs of a sheltering piñon, he struggled