While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Lorenzo was looking at Beth, lust flaming in his eyes. She was beautiful, he thought as he viewed the white, slender body through the veil of silvery hair. The pink-tipped breasts jutted through the half-concealing hair, and nothing hid the slender waist or the beauty of the slim legs.

  Lorenzo's were not the only eyes that held lust, and with a feeling that she was suffocating Beth saw that same look reflected in all the faces that stared down at her. But she was spared the final humiliation; it was imperative they put a great distance between themselves and this latest scene of depredations.

  Now Beth suffered the true fate of a Comanche captive—no horse, no clothes, no shoes, only a rope around her neck that tightened painfully if she stumbled or slackened the punishing pace the Comanches set. All day in the hot, blistering sun she ran, her breath coming in painful, gasping breaths, the sun burning the delicate skin, the rocky, rough ground tearing the soft soles of her feet—but she ran, and ran... and ran.

  Perspiration poured from her and her body ached and screamed with silent pain as the sun rose higher and higher and then at last began slowly to descend. Once during the afternoon Lorenzo, fearful possibly that she might die before he took his revenge and pleasure, stopped his horse and offered his hand, intending to take her up in front of him for a while. The violet eyes glittering with hatred and contempt, with what little strength she had, Beth flung his hand away and spat on the ground near his horse. Her actions brought a murmur of approval from the warriors; they admired courage. Lorenzo was enraged and, his face twisting into a snarl, he lashed out with his booted foot, catching Beth fully on the chest, knocking the breath out of her and causing her to fall heavily to the ground. For a long, agonizing time Beth lay there, almost ready to give in to defeat and simply lie down and die under the hot sun on the wide expanse of prairie. But painfully, slowly, agonizingly, she staggered to her feet, the will to live stronger than the desire for relief from the pains that were tearing through her battered, bruised body.

  When the Comanches stopped to water their horses, Don Felipe lay down next to Beth and through swollen lips he muttered, "That was foolish, senora, brave but foolish. If you wish to live, next time take his hand."

  Not looking at him, she asked savagely, "Would you?"

  Dying and knowing it, Don Felipe shook his head. "No."

  When they finished watering their horses and the terrible journey was to begin anew, there was no movement from Don Felipe's ruined body, and Beth could find it in her heart to feel compassion for him. One of the Comanches viewed him for a moment and then indifferently stuck a lance through him before turning his horse aside.

  Rafael found his grandfather's body an hour later. Like the stalking spirit the Comanches had named him, he followed the trail, the expression in the gray eyes frightening.

  The previous evening, when dusk had barely begun to fall, Rafael, impatient to see Beth and hardly able to contain himself until it would be time to steal away with his bride, had ridden out of San Antonio toward his grandfather's house. He intended to wait in the nearby hills until it was time to breach the walls of the house. But he hadn't ridden more than a mile when he was met by a grim-faced Sebastian. The instant he recognized Sebastian and saw the look on his face, Rafael's body went rigid with a queer premonition. His body braced, his voice rough with emotion, he demanded, "What is it? Is Beth safe?"

  Sebastian had thought himself a brave man, but when he stared into Rafael's dark face and knew what he must tell him, he almost balked. Rafael, demons already flying in his brain, reached out with the speed of a striking snake and grasped Sebastian's wrist in a viselike hold and snarled, "Tell me, damn you! Tell me!"

  Sebastian did. As briefly and unemotionally as he could, he told how it came about that Don Felipe and Beth were the only ones except for the guards to continue on the ride, how as the hour had grown late they had grown concerned, how Don Miguel had gone out with a search party and what they found. Sebastian's voice had broken at the end and the fear and impotent fury that raged in his veins were evident. "The Comanches have her, Rafael! My God, what are we to do?"

  The green eyes fastened beseechingly on Rafael's face and then slid away, unable to bear the naked pain that the hard features revealed. Rafael's face was a terrible thing to see, the look of stark anguish at frightening variance with the fierce, lethal glitter in the gray eyes. For one long, tortuous moment there was silence as Rafael stared off at the hills where Beth had disappeared. Then with something like the scream of a wounded animal, his spurs dug into Diablo's side and like a madman he rode toward the Santana house, Sebastian hard on his heels.

  An air of tragedy hung over the house, but Rafael jerking the snorting, blowing Diablo to a rearing halt just inside the gates was oblivious to it. The blanket-draped bodies of the six men killed in the attack lay just inside the walls, and the faint sounds of a woman wailing could be heard from one of the small houses within the compound. The gray eyes impassive, he looked in Don Miguel's direction, the pain and anguish that Sebastian had glimpsed for those few fleeting seconds now a thing of the past, hidden deeply within him where no one could see it.

  His face was cold and hard, emotionless, and if Sebastian hadn't seen with his own eyes the grief in the other's face, he would have thought him indifferent and unmoved by what had happened. Inside, Rafael was a mass of ripped and bleeding pain, his heart feeling as if wolves and vultures fed on it even as it beat within his breast, but outwardly there was only an icy violence, a savage implacability that caused more than one Mexican who saw him that night to nervously make the sign of the cross to protect themselves from the force of the fierce desire for vengeance that radiated from him.

  Don Miguel stepped up next to the restless stallion and laid a comforting hand on the lean fingers that clenched the reins. "My son," he began gently, but Rafael's voice cut him off.

  Harshly, flatly he demanded, "I want four horses and a pack mule. I'll need blankets, food, and soft cloths for binding wounds—as well as clothing."

  Don Miguel risked a glance at the rigidly controlled features and gave the order. "How many men do you wish to accompany you?"

  It was then that Rafael looked directly at him, the gray eyes blazing with fury. Savagely he rapped out, "Do you know what they'll do to her if they're attacked? She'll be shot so full of arrows her corpse couldn't be loaded onto a horse for return for decent burial!" Realizing his father had meant well, Rafael said in a more normal tone, "I go alone, and when I find them I enter camp as a Comanche." He gave an ugly shout of laughter. "For once I am grateful for my dual heritage! A Comanche is always a Comanche to them, and they will accept me as such. When it is made clear that she is my woman, if she's still alive, I should be able to get her without much argument. It may cost me a horse or two, but they'll give her up."

  In a low voice Don Miguel ventured, "My father?"

  Rafael sent him a long, thoughtful look. His tones clipped, he said, "They will have no use for an old man."

  Within minutes Rafael, after a short, harsh argument with Sebastian, rode out into the encroaching darkness alone, the string of horses and the mule behind him. Sebastian stared after him until he could see no more, and with Rafael's words ringing in his ears he wondered bleakly if he had seen his cousin for the last time. "I'll either bring her back alive or I won't return—for me there will be no life without her. So rest assured, amigo, that I will do everything within my power to find her... dead or alive!" Rafael vowed.

  Even by the light of the rising moon the trail wasn't difficult to follow, for Rafael was an expert tracker, taught by the Comanches themselves. He had the advantage of knowing their ways, knowing they would ride without stopping until they felt safe from pursuers. He also knew in which direction they would go; the tracks and signs of twenty-four horses weren't easy to hide, nor were the Comanches making any attempt to conceal their trail—they never did, confident no one would follow them far into the Comancheria.

  By his calculations the
y weren't more than three hours ahead of him, and with a disregard for life and limb he pushed himself and the horses remorselessly through the night. By daylight he was sickly aware that he had gained no more than an hour on them.

  The smoking ruins of the ranch gave him renewed hope. They had lost time with that detour, and the fifty or so horses and mules stolen from the ranch made it easier to follow the trail. For the first time since Sebastian had given him the news he felt a flicker of hope. The fact that he hadn't come across the body of either Beth or his grandfather fed his growing optimism that he might, by the grace of whatever gods blessed him, be successful.

  Finding Beth's and Don Miguel's ripped and bloodied clothing had been a terrible, terrifying moment, and Rafael was visibly shaken when he left that spot. Deliberately he kept his mind blank of what Beth was going through, deliberately wiping his mind clear of what he knew Comanches did to captive women. All that mattered was that he find her... alive!

  He came upon Don Felipe's naked body unexpectedly, and for one horrifying moment he had thought it was Beth, until his sanity reasserted itself and he realized it was his grandfather who lay there in the dust. He dismounted and approached the body. With an odd gentleness he turned over the slim, battered body and was amazed when one of Don Felipe's eyelids flickered. The black eyes were suddenly staring into his, and Don Felipe's lips twisted into a travesty of a smile. "I knew you would come," he croaked. "Not for me, but for the woman. She is alive and brave. Very brave and as yet unharmed."

  Rafael went limp with the rush of relief that surged through his body. He started to lay the old man down and go for his water bag, but Don Felipe, guessing his intentions, shook his head feebly. "It won't help me," he said. "I knew I was dying, and so I refused to move this last time, hoping they would think I was already dead." The words came slowly, painfully, but Don Felipe was determined to say them. "I wanted to stay alive, alive long enough to see you and tell you." He coughed and there was blood at the corner of his mouth. The words came even more painfully and he gasped, "It was Lorenzo. Lorenzo did this." A clawlike hand gripping Rafael's arm, Don Felipe rasped, "Kill him, Rafael, kill him!"

  It was the last thing Don Felipe said, and it was completely within his grandfather's character. The old devil had willed himself to stay alive, not for rescue, not even to help Beth, but to make certain that his killer suffered for what he had done.

  Emotionlessly Rafael viewed his grandfather's body. He dared not take the time to bury him, nor could he ride into the Comanche encampment with the dead man strapped onto the back of a spare horse.

  The vast prairie stretched before him. Beth was somewhere out there, and she was alive—Don Felipe was dead. His mind made up, he spared one minute longer to lay the body under the concealing, sparse shade of a mesquite bush, disturbing a rattlesnake in the process.

  Galloping away, Rafael decided grimly that perhaps it was fitting that his grandfather lay at rest with a viper for companionship. He could feel regret for the manner of his grandfather's death, but nothing changed in his heart.

  The Comanches made camp just as dusk was falling. They chose a spot near a wide, clear stream that would provide water for the many horses they now had. Beth fell in an exhausted, painful heap near a spiky group of chaparral, knowing that the tearing cramps in her stomach were not going to go away and that she was losing her baby. For the first time, tears slid down her sun-ravaged cheeks and, unnoticed as the Comanches set up camp, she wept bitter, gulping tears. Not for herself, not for Don Felipe, but for the tiny life that would grow no more within her. Even as she lay there she felt the first warm trickle of blood seep down her thigh and her anguish was unbearable.

  The Comanches were in a jovial mood. Their raid had been immensely successful and they were far away from any pursuit. And of course, there was the woman.

  Lost in her own misery, Beth hadn't noticed the falling darkness or, that having eaten and seen to their horses, the Comanches were beginning to cast eyes in her direction. Lorenzo, sitting near the fire, saw the glances sent her way and, smiling with anticipation, his manhood ripe and hard within his calzoneras, he made a crude jest that caused the Comanches to laugh loudly.

  Through her bitter sorrow, Beth heard the laughter and she suddenly became aware that she was the object of every eye in the camp. Her tears dried and wildly she looked for escape. Staggering to her feet, she started to run, but Lorenzo moved swiftly and caught her, dragging her twisting, struggling naked body up to his.

  It was then that Rafael rode slowly out of the darkness into the light of the campfire, the gray stallion Diablo looking ghostly in the firelight, Rafael's black form like a specter of death. There was a hushed superstitious silence, and then as one or two of the warriors recognized him, the whispered name "Stalking Spirit" was passed from mouth to mouth.

  Lorenzo froze, and Beth closed her eyes in silent, weeping thankfulness. Leisurely Rafael dismounted. With gentle menace he said, "Release her, Lorenzo." Turning to the Comanches, he greeted them in their tongue and told them with great eloquence of his pain and despair at the discovery of his woman's abduction, of his journey to find her, and of the personal vendetta between him and Lorenzo Mendoza.

  Rafael chose his words with care, knowing that not only did he have to convince the Comanches that Beth belonged to him, but that Lorenzo was a wife-stealer and that there was a long-standing feud between them, a feud that could only be ended by the death of one of them. The Indians listened. Stalking Spirit, for all his living and dealings with the whites, had been one of them, while Lorenzo...

  The Comanches might conspire with Lorenzo when convenient, but they had little respect for him. He had arranged many a profitable raid for this bunch, but he did not display himself well in battle; his cowardice had not gone unnoticed or unremarked. They needed no one to tell them which settlers to attack or which wagons to raid, but it had been agreeable to have this Spaniard give them information, and the careless partnership had worked very well. But if the warriors had to take sides between Stalking Spirit and Lorenzo... Even now, in the camps of the Comanches some of the elders still talked of the exploits of the young warrior Stalking Spirit, of his daring and his bravery in battle.

  The shift in mood was imperceptible, but Lorenzo felt it and, his face twisted with rage and hatred, he flung Beth from him. The black eyes squinting with fury, he shrieked, "You'll die this night, Santana, and then I'll take your woman on your warm corpse before I slit her throat!"

  "Will you?" Rafael asked with a deadly calm, the gray eyes having sought Beth's crumpled form and having noted with a cold, dangerous wrath the scrapes, the bruises, and the signs of her exhausted state. Tonight she was to have been his bride, and except for this creature before him, she would have been; and Don Felipe, for all his arrogant, cold-blooded ways, would still have been alive.

  Slowly, his movements supple and unhurried, Rafael undid the wide leather belt at his waist and tossed it with the Colt revolver aside. The sombrero followed, then his chaqueta and shirt, and last his boots. Standing in the firelight, the Comanches forming an impassive audience, Rafael brought forth his wide-bladed bowie knife, the firelight glinting on the steel edge.

  Lorenzo, too, began to strip down to his calzoneras, but his were the jerky, frantic movements of a man torn by fury and fear. He had no knife, and reluctantly one of the warriors tossed him a long Spanish dagger.

  Warily the two men circled each other around the campfire, Lorenzo not eager to come in contact with the bowie knife. Rafael was smiling, a cool, mocking smile that did nothing for Lorenzo's confidence.

  For Rafael time had rolled back and he was again a Comanche—the smells were the same—the sagebrush fire, the horses, even the smell of victory was there, and the woman waited for him just out of the light of the fire. The knife felt good in his hand, the coolness of the prairie night was a balm on his bare chest, and the ground was hard and packed beneath his feet. Even the bloodlust was there—he wanted to kill Lorenzo,
yearned to kill him—and he longed to plunge the knife into his enemy and to feel the warm blood of the dying man against his skin.

  Rafael held the bowie knife lightly, expertly in his right hand, and with his left he motioned Lorenzo closer. "Come nearer, amigo. We cannot settle this if you are content merely to dance around the fire. Come closer."

  Enraged, Lorenzo leaped for him, but like a cat Rafael spun away, his knife slashing a long, bloody gash in Lorenzo's arm as the other man came past him. Like a maddened, half-crazed animal, Lorenzo turned and lunged wildly again and again in Rafael's direction, but Rafael, his smile taking on a deadly curve, was always just out of reach, yet each time he managed to inflict another nick, another slash, another wound on his enemy.

  There was a murmur of enjoyment from the watching Indians, and as Comanches like to gamble, wagers were made as to the eventual winner. Few were willing to take Lorenzo.

  Knowing he was losing blood and frightened for the first time, Lorenzo changed his tactics and caught Rafael off guard. He lunged for Rafael but then feinted and treacherously stuck his foot between Rafael's legs, tripping him.

  Feeling himself fall, Rafael reacted with the agility of a wild animal, twisting his body around so that he landed on his back on the dirt and was ready for Lorenzo's attack. Lorenzo leaped onto Rafael's chest, his dagger held low, stabbing toward Rafael's stomach. Rafael warded him off, receiving only a thin red scratch across his lean lower torso.

  With horror, from her place of concealment in the shadows, Beth watched the two men, her heart in her mouth when she saw Rafael fall to the ground. Unable to help herself, she inched closer to the fight wanting to see, yet terrified of what she might see.

  Lorenzo straddled Rafael's body, his knee holding down the knife arm as he brought up the dagger to strike at Rafael's throat, but Rafael countered by smashing his left fist into Lorenzo's face. As Lorenzo jerked back from the force of the blow, Rafael flung him from his body and leaped after him.