Paxton Pride (63 page)

“
Señor? Señora?
” The taunting call repeated, echoing throughout the chambered cavern.

Karen broke from her trance and fled back to the' main chamber … to Vance … down the corridor. Stalactites, stalagmites, earlier beautiful, intriguing luminescent shapes, became cruel, rending fangs in the mouth of a monstrous beast. “Vance …? Ouch!”

Vance yanked her back against the wall, covered her mouth with his hand. Karen pressed close against him, seeking the security of his nearness. He released his hold and bent to grasp a jutting cone of stone. Bracing his back against the wall, he pushed out until, with a loud snap, the stalagmite broke off near the base, leaving him with a club of stone over two feet in length.

“Ahhh,
Señor
. You have chosen not too wisely. Long and well do I know the
Caverna de los Bandidos
, and when I come upon your tracks, I know the horses will bring you here.”

The voice came from every direction and none, surrounded them with echoes. Karen wildly scanned the chamber, searching for the dreaded figure of the bandit. “Where is he?” she whispered. Vance put his finger to his lips and shook his head indicating he didn't know. Five openings led to the interior and Jaco could have been in any one of them, for who knew what other entrances in the surrounding hills led to the pool?

“I applaud your ingenuity. You destroyed my revolution, my beautiful cannon, my handsome uniforms. My men no longer follow me. Once more, Jaco rides alone.” He chuckled drily. “Perhaps I should thank you. I am not so sure I wanted the tiresome job of
el general
. All those women and children … the responsibility …
verdad?
Ah, but no matter …”

Karen stiffened. “He can't see us,” Vance whispered, pulling her further back in the deep shadows. “Don't make a sound.”

“I study your camp and know
mi hermano
is wounded. The
señora
is much woman to bring you across the emptiness. I think I keep her after all. You will be happy to know this, eh,
hermano?
Your
querida
will not be alone after you are gone.” The voice paused for empty seconds during which Karen and Vance looked around as best they could, still seeing nothing. Was he changing position? The voice boomed, closer. “No one answers when Jaco speaks. You would insult me, no? Or perhaps the
Señor
is dead. Could that be,
querida?
You are hungry, frightened … is this so,
Señora?
I have food. Throw away the
pistola
you have from Manuel. When I hear it splash in the water, then I will bring you food.”

Vance whispered instructions to Karen, then shakily made his way from handhold to handhold along the slick cavern wall. Karen hurriedly arranged the blankets in a bundle around their guttering campfire, fashioning the fabric to the bulky shape of a human. “My husband died,” she called out, the fear in her voice only lending veracity to the words. “But I have the gun. You have food, but I have the water. Tell me,
Señor
Zopilote, I would imagine this is the only water for miles. Are you not thirsty? Did not the sun scorch your flesh? Does your throat not cry out for relief? Water? Cool, refreshing water is my offer to you, murderer of your mother. Keep your food. I shall be eating soon enough.” She forced herself to laugh and then tossed a handful of stone fragments into the pool. The inviting plunk plunk plunk was rewarded with a hoarse, angrily mumbled oath, and then silence.

The waiting. In brooding stillness, the repetitive dripping from the stalactites became a pandemonium, a manic chorus like the ticking of a thousand clocks, punctuating the passing seconds as the tension mounted.

What was that? A pebble dislodged, tumbled as Vance shifted position behind a column of limestone. As well situated as possible, he leaned against the pillar and relaxed, rested until the moment came when he would have to summon the depleted reserves of his strength. His right leg was stiff. His arm felt better. Perhaps, he hoped, the bone was only bruised after all. The whole escapade was poor timing, he thought ruefully. Yet a man could not choose the time nor the place. A man lived, and when trouble came he met it head on. If only Karen wasn't there, placed in jeopardy by his actions, because he'd left her that night … that damned cursed night of grief. If only … but what had True or Elizabeth ever said about looking back, wishing troubles would go away. Not a word. The way they lived spoke with eloquence enough. They neither were, nor had ever been, “if only” people. He settled himself, knowing the only “if” was in the future, and then dependent on what skills he could command, what abilities he could bring into play. Below him, out of sight on the other side of the chamber, he could hear Karen breathing, the sibilant whispers filling the cave.

“
Señora?
”

“Oh!” Her heart felt about to burst from her breast. How had she not seen or heard him? Jaco stepped from the passageway into the flickering twilight of the torches. His face showed the effect of pursuit. Haggard eyes looked greedily at the water. The fold of his
serape
was brushed back over his right shoulder, freeing the gun closed firmly in his fist. His eyes probed the recesses of the chamber and finally swung back to her, then down to the blanketed form nearby, returning to her and her empty hands.

“I did not think to wait,
querida
. You will forgive me, but I have come far. I am very, very thirsty and have no water for many hours.” He shook his head sadly. “It was cruel of you to wish to keep me from water. But the sight of you—and the water—eases my anguish. Do not move,
querida
, please …” Eyes swiveling back and forth between Karen and the water, he sidled to his right, closer and closer to relief, finally kneeling quickly by the pool and thrusting his gun in his belt. His right hand plunged into the water, cupped the precious fluid and carried it to his mouth. He sipped greedily and rolled the water around before allowing the first drops to trickle down his throat. “
Me hermano se mùrió
. How sad. When did he die?” There was no answer. “But no matter. The first drops taste so good.… The body asks for more, but we must drink slowly, eh,
querida?
” He stopped, his eyes locked on hers in a burning gaze, piercing the secretive veil of her covert thoughts. Quickly, they shifted to the blankets, then back to her. With a cry of rage he rose to his feet, swept the gun from his belt and spun around.

Vance leaped from his perch, his right leg giving way when he landed. Off balance, he fell into Jaco's arms, knocking the gun aside and smashing his makeshift club down on the weaponless arm. Jaco's cry of rage turned into a howl of pain. The gun skittered across the rock floor and the grappling combatants pitched headlong into the shallow pool. “Run!” Vance shouted, then was lost to the struggle.

“Damn
gringo.…!
” Jaco lunged upward, his left fist backhanding Vance, who twisted away as his wounded leg buckled again and he went over backward. The bandit pressed the advantage, heaving out of the water and hurling himself on top of Vance, forcing his head under water. “Lying, damn
gringo …
”

In his weakened state, Vance was no match for the outlaw. Powerful fingers dug into his throat, a weight straddled his chest and forced him to expel the precious air left in his lungs. His right arm was pinned beneath Jaco's leg, his wounded left feebly clawing in a pitiful attempt to dislodge his attacker. He was dying and he knew it, saw the graves of his mother, sister and brothers, felt the wind against his face and smelled the sweet cedars, their gnarled limbs twisting in a timeless, frozen dance.
At least Karen's safe … at least she's safe …

“Run!” The word reverberated off ribbed columns, the spiny ceiling and pockmarked, mossy floor. “Run!” echoing over and over in the mind of the cowering young woman. “Run!” as the man she loved was forced over and back and down beneath the shattered mirror-like surface of the underground pool. “Run!” The word was fuel to her panic. “Run!” and Jaco's roar of triumph filled the interstices of the echo. The gun … the gun there before her. But images of bloodless faces, faces of the dead …“Run!” came the word, resounding again, ever and ever again …“Run!”

“No!!”

The gun fired by accident as her hand clutched the grip, boomed with a deafening roar within the hollow underground cathedral. The bullet ricocheted into the dark, whining angrily and seeking a target. Jaco rolled aside, crawled to his feet, glancing first at the passageway, expecting the worst. No one was there and he turned toward Karen, saw the smoking revolver held in both her hands. She stared in fearful surprise at the gun, then boldly raised it as Jaco took a step toward her. “No,” she ordered. “Go. Leave us.”

Jaco grinned, hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. Behind him, Vance, coughing and gasping for air, hauled himself clear of the water. “
Gringa.
” Jaco began, stepping closer as Karen backed away. “We have done this before. Do you not remember our dance of death in the magnificent
hacienda?
”

“Keep away from me.”

“No no no,
Señora
. I have come too far. With you, perhaps, I could forget all the rest. The Paxtons, their ranch, Rio Lobos …”

“Please,” Karen pleaded, remembering all too well the storm, the life of the stirring child soon to be torn from her womb, the fear; the sound and smell of gunpowder, Maruja dying, the still, lifeless visages piling one on another …
But always death
… And always, somewhere, Jaco. “Please?” She took another step back.

“Our dance,
querida
, when first I came to kill you. But no. I see you frightened, proud and beautiful with hair like the sun rising over the desert. I dream of you. A woman to make a man forget. You will be my woman.
My
woman,
querida
. The dance brings us together again, this time forever.”

Jaco, his hands stretched before him, palms up. Jaco, his voice soothing, his face arrogant, saturnine, handsome, cruel …

“Do you remember when I kiss you? Do you forget so soon the taste, the hunger born in you? Yes, I could tell. A man knows these things,
querida
…”

Jaco, the draping wing-like folds of his
serape
slapping wet against his legs … swaying with each step. Jaco … proud, violent, his reaching hands closing over hers … his form and features like Vance's.… No. More … more like … like a looming, haughty … bird … of … PREY!

The gun exploded and flame jetted from the barrel, singeing the front of his shirt and sending a crimson tongue arcing from his back as the bullet carried his life from him and fled away into the miniature cathedral of limestone and water-smoothed quartz. Jaco staggered back from the impact, a look of utter disbelief crossing his face as his legs buckled and he dropped to his knees. He groaned, doubled over for a moment, then with terrible effort straightened halfway to look once again at the smoking pistol and the woman whose cheeks were streaked with silent, cascading tears.

“
Mi querida
…” His eyes glazed and as quickly cleared. “
Mi querida
… did I not say … if you were my woman … I would ride after you myself … even … if … to my … to … my …” He slumped forward and onto his side, his eyes staring lifelessly into the stygian void.

“… death, whispered Karen.

CHAPTER VII

The climb to the top was easy. A little over a thousand feet in the air and she could see over the jumbled beginnings of the foothills down to the empty desert they had crossed. Somewhere to the south, at, the edge of the world, the burning white sky melded with earth in a dim, dancing line arcing from left to right and back again. The afternoon heat was infernal, burning into her with ferocious intent until sweat rolled down her face, trickled down her back and chest and sides, soaked into her shirt and rapidly evaporated. She welcomed such heat for its searing purity: with her own hand she had killed a man. No matter what Jaco had been, he was now dead; whatever else Jaco had done, he had died at her hands. The memory of his confident laugh leaped to mind. The last laugh. The last after all.
You were right, Señor Zopilote. Our last dance has brought us together forever … in death
. She sat and stared and stared into the distance, trying to equate her life with his death with Vance's life with anything with nothing. There were no suitable equations. Only the facts: life, the continuation; death, the termination.

She did not remember Vance taking the gun from her hands, nor stumbling up the incline nor finding the boulder on which she sat. She did not remember—she had paid no attention—Vance stopping her at the mouth of the cave, holding her by the shoulders and staring into her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“We'll stay here the night and leave at first light.”

“Yes.”

Four hours later, the afternoon sun lay across the land, separating light and dark into lines, humps and patches. Shadows yawned openly, shaping and reshaping the roughly-hewn vista moment by moment, moulding the uncompromising panorama sprawled before her. In the foreground, two dirty white lumpy shapes swam in and out of focus. Her hands. Hands with which she had …“Everything changes.” Who had told her that? “Look twice.” The same person. Vance? Yes. Vance.
My hands have changed
. She looked closely. No blood there to wash off. Only the smell of gunpowder.
What? Will these hands ne'er be clean?

The sun dipped lower, touched a cloud and spilled orange light across the land. The very air suffused with the brilliant color until she felt she was breathing orange, bathed in orange. The cloud was large enough to cover the sun and little more, and from all sides became surrounded with a brilliant orange halo which caught at Karen's spirit, sent it spinning high into the air. As if atop an upflung height, she looked down on herself, small on the boulder, tiny on the hill, smaller yet against the foothills, an infinitesimal speck on the face of the earth itself. Look as hard as she could, she could see no guilt spread about the girl on the rock.