Scorpion (16 page)

“You ought to try and keep your hat on, girl.” Zion grinned. “And that’s a saddle, not a rocking chair, you know.”

Isabella tried to scowl but couldn’t maintain the pretense and chuckled despite herself. A gust of wind lifted the girl’s flat-crowned hat and propelled it even farther away. Quintero’s daughter had to retrieve it on the run and then, facing northwest, eyed with some trepidation the line of thunderheads that darkened the horizon. Earlier in the morning the clouds had been but a thin smear of color above the crest of the cordillera. She glanced around at Zion, who was also watching the sky.

“Reckon we better head back to the hacienda and see if we can rustle up any more of Elena’s corn fritters and honey butter,” he said to the girl. Though half a mile down the valley, they still had plenty of time to get to shelter before the approaching storm could reach them.

“What about Josefina? And Señor Alacron?”

“There’s plenty of caves up in the hills. I reckon they can pick one and wait out the rain,” Zion replied as he led both horses over to Isabella. His nonchalant attitude had a calming effect on the girl. Standing alongside her mount, he caught the girl around the waist and lifted her into the saddle.

“Race you to the barn,” Isabella exclaimed, and then to ensure she had an adequate head start, snatched the segundo’s sombrero before he had time to react and sent it spinning over the chino grama grass. She jabbed her boot heels into her horse’s flanks; the animal broke from Zion’s grasp and dashed off across the trampled earth.

“Hey!” But he had to grin, and to himself added, “I reckon turnabout is fair play.” He trudged through a field of short-stemmed grass and clusters of pink and yellow wildflowers. Grasshoppers vaulted before him, startled into irregular flight as he approached. Reaching down, he gingerly pried his sombrero from the hungry clutches of a prickly pear cactus. Thankfully, the hat had landed upside down, else donning it would have been akin to fitting his head with a crown of thorns.

Zion picked out what barbs he could find and started back to the mean-tempered gray who balefully pawed the earth. The gelding sensed the approaching storm and was anxious to retrace its steps to the hacienda. Zion took up the reins and muttered for the gelding to be patient.

“Never met a horse yet that was so all-fired touchy about a little rain,” he complained. “There’s nothing to worry about, you ugly sack of bones.” Zion’s gaze drifted to the western horizon and the trail Josefina had taken, accompanied by a man with no past. As if trying to convince himself, he repeated, “Nothing at all.”

“We could kill them now. Right here,” said Angel Perez as he entered the clearing in the oak thicket overlooking Turtle Creek. The dry creekbed lay about fifty yards farther along the timbered trail.

“
EI Jefe
ordered us to report back to him. We are to tell him what the señora is up to. Nothing more,” said Mariano Rincón, a few paces ahead of his hotheaded companion. Ever the pragmatist, he saw no profit in taking unnecessary chances. Najera’s orders had been simple and to the point. How many men had the widow hired and what was she up to? Rincón had seen enough. He shot the gun-metal-gray sky a wary glance and then proceeded on to his ground-tethered horse.

“We could sneak up on them. That bastard Alacron wouldn’t know what was happening until it was too late.” Angel pulled a pepperbox pistol from his belt and checked the loads in each of the five barrels, but Rincón did not even waver from his course. The mestizo was set on leaving.

“Go on.” Angel halted in his tracks. “I am not afraid of a little rain or the widow and her hireling.” He and Rincón had followed the couple all morning without incident. Angel saw no reason why he should begin to worry all of a sudden. The señora and the vaquero were too busy with their map to notice they were being followed.

“
Imbecíl!
You are no Apache,” Rincón finally blurted out. “This vaquero called Alacron troubles me. I think he is a dangerous man. Try to ambush him and you will give yourself away. He will hear you and you will die.”

“You talk like a frightened old woman. Wait and see. I will bring General Najera his head. They will write songs about my bravery.”

Rincón shrugged in dismay. Arguing with a vain and vengeful youth like Perez was a waste of time. He was tired and hungry and was looking at a long ride back to Saltillo. “I am finished talking,” he said. The advice he offered was born of age and wisdom. If it fell on deaf ears, so be it. The mestizo waved farewell, caught up the reins of his gelding and vaulted into the saddle. By the time he had turned, Angel had already started back toward Turtle Creek.

An owl broke from the sanctuary of the trees and glided on ashen wings along the perimeter of pine, cedar, and oak until it had distanced itself from the intruders who had disturbed the bird’s tranquility. Squirrels chittered from the branches, as if scolding the humans for their effrontery. Jays added to the chorus, voicing their raucous warnings to the wildlife that continued to call the barren banks of Turtle Creek home. Josefina Quintero dismounted on the banks of the dry creekbed and walked out across the pebble-strewn remains of what had once been a pristine, spring-fed stream flowing out of the rocky battlements, about fifty yards directly ahead.

Ben led his own mount, a blaze-face gelding, along the perimeter of the dry watercourse. He picked his way among the boulders and the profusion of weeds and wildflowers that added color to the barren watercourse. He surmised that the water table had been severely disrupted or possibly rerouted underground by the spring quake. The changing earth had shrugged, and here in the cordillera the mountain had reacted by reclaiming its waters. Perhaps farther along the cliff or even on the opposite side of the ridge, a fresh seepage had begun to wear a path down the slope. Ben tilted his sombrero back on his forehead and studied the battlements. The limestone cliff was scarred with cracks and crevices. Along the crest of the ridge several oaks clung precariously close to a two hundred foot drop, while on the slope that skirted the battlements, the shattered remains of trees, like the bones of slaughtered buffalo driven over the cliff in days past, lay visible among the boulders.

Thunder rumbled, and Ben turned his attention to the sky. It was already past noon. If the storm came on through, he and the widow could still reach Ventana before nightfall. But they’d certainly need shelter. To the north, sheet lightning shimmered in the black iron bowels of an enormous thunderhead that continued to threaten the cordillera with the chance of a drenching downpour and the danger of flash floods.

“Alacron! I’ve found something!” Josefina excitedly called out. She was on her knees among the water-smoothed pebbles, and motioned for him to join her. By the time Ben reached the woman, she had climbed to her feet and was literally trembling. Ben dismounted and stood at her side. She opened her hand and revealed several pea-sized pebbles of gold. Ben slowly exhaled, his own pulse quickened at the sight of the ore. It was like being hit by lightning, a shock that commanded one’s attention and could prove lethal.

“Where does it come from?” Josefina asked, dropping the nuggets into a pouch dangling from her belt. She was dressed like a vaquero, in a flannel shirt, canvas pants, and a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. She wore her blond hair in a single braid down her back.

“Up yonder,” Ben said. “The spring could have washed it out from an underground chamber. But the map there has a cave circled.” He took care to study the hillside and the cliff, and noted a gash at the base of the ridge, which appeared to be the mouth of a cave. That had to be the cave indicated on Don Sebastien’s map. “Perhaps we better get under cover.” He took up the reins of both horses and led the animals up the slope toward the opening, which on closer examination appeared to have been created when the outer wall of a chamber had literally crumbled away. Don Sebastien’s cave offered the best available shelter. At least it was good enough for Josefina, who was more than anxious to avoid the oncoming storm. Ben quickened his pace up the incline as the first heavy droplets began to fall. Behind Ben, a pair of wild turkeys broke from the underbrush and darted across the streambed, only to vanish in the underbrush lining the opposite bank. Ben turned and drew his revolver. Josefina stopped in her tracks. “What?”

Ben held his finger to his lips and continued to watch their back trail. Minutes crawled past slower than any of the turtles that had once populated the creek. Ben watched the last of the turkeys disappear. Something or someone had startled the normally reclusive creatures. However, as neither man nor beast revealed themselves, Ben resumed his climb to the cave. Along the way the americano scanned the surrounding forest. He’d been too damn occupied with the woman and the map, and scolded himself for not being more vigilant, although there was probably nothing to worry about.

The wind picked up and thunder rumbled yet again and more droplets fell. Ben was the first to reach the cave, an opening about fifteen feet in height and nearly thirty feet across. The rocky ceiling overhead gradually angled down until a man would have to walk at a crouch to reach the back wall. The tremors had literally obliterated the outer wall of the cavern, allowing access to the front chamber all along its length. Ben tethered the horses in the front chamber and faced them toward the rear of the cave, then left to gather firewood, of which there was plenty among the rocks. The sky darkened until it seemed as if night itself was upon the land. As the heavy raindrops began to spatter against the stone, pockets of dust erupted on impact like miniature explosions. A few of the droplets stung Ben’s knuckles and convinced him he had enough firewood. He darted up the slope, entered the open-sided cavern, and deposited his load of wood. He noticed Josefina, still clutching her husband’s map, standing at the rear of the chamber and staring at a seam in the back wall of the cave.

Ben stacked the wood and started a campfire. Flames quickly devoured the dry timber. Soon a circle of light illuminated the chamber, leaping flames casting gyrating shadows on the walls, whorled pillars and jagged stalactites taking on the semblance of motion. The effect was disconcerting for it seemed as if they had made camp in the jaws of some monstrous beast. Ben didn’t need to ask about the seam, he had seen the map. It had not been on a whim that Don Sebastien had sketched in the creekbed and the cave. He had drawn a circle around the crudely penciled representation to indicate its importance. From what Ben could tell, Señora Quintero was a very rich widow.

The rain began to fall in earnest now, great slanting sheets of gray water that masked the chamber from the rest of the ravine. Josefina approached the fire and knelt in the circle of warmth on the blankets Ben had spread. She watched in silence as he spooned coffee into a tin pot, added water from his canteen, and placed the pot in the coals on the periphery of the fire.

“These hills used to belong to my sister-in-law, Theresa Quintero. For more than a month my husband had been trying to acquire it from her. I could not understand why he was so desperate to buy her out of the estate. Now I know.” Josefina sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “Poor Sebastien. He must have been horrified at the very notion that Theresa would have wound up with a gold mine.” Josefina brushed the dust from her trouser legs and sat back on her heels. “Sebastien loved his sister despite the fact she caused him a great deal of pain. One scandal after another … We all were relieved when she moved to Linares. When news reached us she had died of pneumonia, he was saddened, and yet I wonder if he felt some secret, guilty joy. After all, Ventana was completely his.” The widow leaned into Ben and added, “And it didn’t even cost him a single centavo.”

The woman’s gaze grew distant. She had been alone for so long. Even before her husband’s accident, he had been dead below the belt. Accident? Perhaps Zion was right. “Poor Sebastien … he probably thought his discovery was a blessing. But it was a curse.” She lowered her head and cupped her face in her hands. Her shoulders bowed forward, and in that moment Ben was moved to pity. He eased up alongside her and, kneeling on the blankets at her side, put his arm around the woman to comfort her. She turned and pressed against him and gradually the tears subsided. He found himself staring into the fathomless pools of her eyes. Josefina reached up, placed a hand on the back of his neck and drew him to her. Her mouth covered his in a feverish kiss. Now her arms were around him, her weight against his chest causing him to lose his balance. Ben’s shoulder struck the blanket and he pulled her atop him. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. When his chest was bare, she rose up and pulled off her own blouse.

Ben was speechless. A gentleman ought to stop this before things got out of hand. However, even if he had been able to think of the words, he wouldn’t have said them. The taste of her, the animal heat radiating from her, aroused his own primal instincts. Her passion had ignited his. Right or wrong had nothing to do with what happened next. Josefina and Ben were drawn together out of loneliness. There was no turning back. Storm-tossed on a sea of sorrow, they clung to one another. Clothes were hurriedly cast aside, and in the union, quickly consummated, they found not love, but healing.

Lulled by the rain, the two drifted into sleep, a man without a memory, a woman who remembered too much.

Angel Perez brushed against a cedar branch and showered himself with cold droplets of rain. A droning downpour continued to fall in rippling silvery sheets from the brooding sky. The slim, dark-haired gunman had waited long enough. He’d lost track of time, but he figured at least an hour or so had passed since the storm began. Turtle Creek was flowing with runoff as he crossed the once dry bed and started up the slick slope toward the cave. The odor of wood smoke permeated the air. That suited him fine. If the widow and the vaquero had pitched camp, they wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Angel grinned and pulled the pistol from his belt. It had served him well.

At first Angel had considered waiting, concealed among the trees, and with his rifle, bringing down the one who called himself Alacron. But the gunman wanted the hireling to see his killer’s face and to know that, although Angel Perez might have been driven off from the rancho, he had returned to exact a price.