After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  “He was a fat gringo—a rubio—like your mother.”

  Mateo kissed the back of her neck. Tía could no longer control her anguish, but the thought of causing Johnny’s death kept her from giving herself away.

  “He had a fat red face and white-gold hair. He was a colonel in the American army. We captured him and tried him for murder. I was his judge and jury. I sentenced him to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Do you know what that means, niña?”

  Grateful to have something else to think about, Tía shook her head.

  Remembering Rita and how she had reacted to this story made his words husky and caressing. “Hanged, drawn, and quartered,” he repeated. “Hanged by the neck, then disemboweled and quartered—cut into four pieces…”

  Tía gasped with revulsion and twisted around to face him, her features contorted with disgust.

  Mateo chuckled. In that, also, she was like her mother. Rita had been horrified when she’d read the story, printed on the tenth anniversary of the fat colonel’s death in an old newspaper that turned up in Tubac. He could still see the disgust and loathing on Rita’s pretty face when she’d confronted him with it. Unwilling to be intimidated for dispensing necessary justice, he had laughed at his wife’s squeamishness.

  “Relax, niña. That punishment is reserved for very special enemies. Your young man will die quickly, if you wish him to die.”

  “No. Please…”

  “You moved away.” He shrugged as if she had already willed Johnny’s death.

  Tía rushed to stand in front of him, pressing her body back against his. “I’m back, see?”

  His breath warmed her cheek and neck. “So you are.” His hands moved back to her shoulders. Possessively his fingers played with her trembling flesh.

  Every nerve in Tía’s body screamed, urged her to strike out at him, but Johnny’s life depended on her. She stilled the urge to explode in rage at Mama for getting her into this, for lying with Burkhart instead of Papa. But she did nothing. She had vowed she would let him set her on fire to save Johnny. And she would not go back on her word.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes! The rubio colonel. He could see the gallows at the end of the path. A grim reminder that when he reached them he would die a horrible death. The symbol of death is important, niña, and very demoralizing. That is the reason for placing Señor Brago’s horse in plain sight. The symbol of both freedom and death. Ahhh. Back to my story. The fat colonel could not walk. My men had to drive him there with clubs. The colonel was no man. He cried, he begged, he slobbered.” Mateo sighed. “Gringos do not die well. Thinking themselves worth immortality, they lack the necessary objectivity. They have no training for death. Just as they know nothing of honor or integrity.”

  Tía shuddered uncontrollably. Her senses reeled. A man she had loved and worshipped all her life was violating her body, talking to her as if she were someone else, and Johnny was about to die. If anyone at all fired a gun, they would shoot him down…

  Johnny reached the bottom of the long, steep stairs and paused, scanning the path he would walk. His horse waited a few hundred yards away. He couldn’t see the sun because of the steep canyon walls, but the western sky was aflame with sunset—a dozen shades of purple and gold.

  Closing his eyes, he dragged in a full breath. He must be crazy. Kissing Tía’s hand. Playing word games with her lover. Now, about to be executed, he was admiring a showy sunset sky.

  No wonder she had played so hard to get. It all made sense now. He smiled at the irony. He had said the same thing when she’d told him she was going to walk with Morgan Todd.

  Leaning against walls, smoking cigarettes and watching him with their smug eyes, Mexicans with rifles rested idly on the tops of buildings on either side of the narrow street. Except for them and the absence of normal activity, this could have been a street in Tombstone, flanked by pueblos instead of tents.

  One of the Mexicans coughed discreetly and raised his rifle to his shoulder. The others followed suit—three dozen men—ready and waiting.

  This was real. El Gato Negro would pick the moment, these men would take careful aim and squeeze very gently, and a dozen bullets would rip into him…

  His knees were suddenly weak, his hands cold and clammy with sweat. Remembering the advice his friend Billy Breakenridge had given him that day in Galeyville before his first gunfight, Johnny took a few deep breaths, let them out slowly, and felt some of the tension leave him. First thing you gotta do is admit you’re scared. Only a fool ain’t scared to die. So think about being scared and why you’re scared. Then think about your cold hands, your sick belly, and your knockin’ knees. Think about it and accept it, ’cause once you accept it, you can control it. Now dry your hands, brace your knees, and lean over and lift your ribs off your belly. That’ll get rid of the need to puke. Now take a few deep breaths and mouth a silent yell. That’ll get the old juices flowing. Hell, that’s why them damned ’paches always yell when they’re getting ready to attack. That yellin’ is for them; gets the old blood moving—theirs and yours.

  Billy had been right: only a fool wouldn’t admit he didn’t want to die. Breathing hard, Johnny steeled himself to accept his death. Startled by the request, his mind recoiled with resentment and veered away from the idea. There was no time. He didn’t know if he accepted death or not, but he went on to step two. No choice. These bandidos weren’t going to wait all evening. He put his hands in his pockets and tensed his legs.

  To Patchy, chewing on his cigar, the gringo looked cocky and insolent. He motioned for Johnny to get moving.

  Johnny glared at Patchy and mouthed a silent yell.

  Startled, disbelieving, Patchy glanced from Johnny to his man leaning against the next apartment. Had he imagined that? Surely the gringo hadn’t…Uneasily, Patchy glanced back at the gringo prisoner.

  Feeling foolish, Johnny shrugged and twisted his mouth into a lopsided grimace. The dolorous Mexican glanced sideways again. Confused, he took a nervous drag on his cigar, then gestured with the rifle barrel for Johnny to walk.

  “What’s your rush?” Johnny muttered to himself. “I’m damned sure not going anywhere you don’t want me to go.”

  Quirking his eyebrows in what he hoped was a devil-may-care look, Johnny hitched up his pants and slowly started to walk. Too bad Judy couldn’t see him now, he thought. She had accused him of being a killer, one of the dread gunfighters who terrorized scattered western towns. In his entire life he had engaged in two gunfights. The first time he had stopped a man from tormenting a mere boy, trying to goad the unfortunate youngster into drawing on him so he could kill the kid and add one more notch to his gun butt. Some men did that—went from town to town, looking for victims. Billy the Deuce had been one of those until Johnny had killed him and picked up an instant, full-blown reputation. It hadn’t mattered that he’d been scared half out of his pants. His arm and his eye had worked—Billy had died before he hit the dusty main street of Galeyville. One bullet through the middle of his chest. The talk in the town had been admiring—about how cool and controlled Johnny Brago had been. No one knew he had gotten sick afterward.

  The second time had been in Yuma. Three drunken cowhands had started shooting at him. He hadn’t aimed to kill them that time, only to stop them. Unfortunately, once started they didn’t stop until they were dead. He’d found out the next day they were three of the meanest, most cold-blooded killers in the territory. They had looked so ordinary. Who would have guessed that beneath each man’s unspectacular facade lay an urge to kill strangers—men they hadn’t known an hour or a day before?

  So his skill with a gun had been a gift. Too bad it wouldn’t help him now. He cursed himself for letting them get the drop on him.

  Purposefully concentrating on his breathing, ignoring the men who watched him over rifle barrels, Johnny sauntered across the quad and stepped into the street. Tía and her lover watched to see if he would break under the pressure of the bastard’s sadistic little gauntlet. He had been a fool
to pursue a female who obviously had no interest in him.

  He took no satisfaction in remembering how the color had drained out of her soft, downy cheeks when he’d kissed her hand, no pleasure at all in the answering pang her look had caused in him. It didn’t matter what she had done or planned to do, he saw her pain and would have done anything to take it away. Just proved he didn’t have good sense.

  Now she would watch him die…unless they had already moved to the bed. Johnny had the overwhelming impulse to look up at their window, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  Death wasn’t so bad—not this way. When El Gato Negro gave the signal, there would be only one split second of warning, and then—nothing. He could imagine the leap of fear that would send his heart pounding, but with any luck at all, he wouldn’t feel the bullets.

  There was an instinctive shrinking within, as if to ward off the bullets that would slam into his body. Willing his taut muscles to relax, Johnny concentrated on trying to stop the thoughts that didn’t make a damned bit of sense anyway.

  It’ll soon be over. He walked slowly, his eyes narrowed at the irony of the thought he used to comfort himself. He’d only known he was going to die for a couple of minutes, and already he couldn’t wait to get it over with. He could either live or die, but he could not live waiting to die. Better to get it over with.

  Halfway there. What were these bastards waiting for? Probably enjoying themselves, if they were anything like their leader. Or maybe waiting for that cold-eyed bastard upstairs to give the signal. El Gato would probably drag it out till the last possible second.

  Well, two could play that game. A few hundred feet from his horse, Johnny stopped and rolled a cigarette. Sweat rolled down his temples and into his eyes. With his sleeve, he wiped his forehead. He lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and then, unable to stop himself, searched out the window to El Gato Negro’s lair.

  Beside the bold, dark shape of her lover, Tía’s face was a tiny, gold-framed oval. She was too far away to make out her expression, but his mind imagined, her face twisted with grief. Unbidden, the urge to comfort her overwhelmed him.

  Disgusted with himself, Johnny spat into the dust. He was almost five hundred yards from Tía now. How could he think he saw any expression at all on her face? Cursing himself for a fool, he dropped the cigarette and ground it under the toe of his boot.

  Mateo Lorca chuckled softly. “He has sand, your lover. See how he waits, like a cougar, caged now, perhaps, but never a harmless pet. He is a good hombre—a little too cocky, but I would not fault him for that. He would make a good husband for you.”

  Tía closed her eyes. Johnny hated her now. He would always hate her—even the memory of her. Whenever Judy mentioned her name, his eyes would darken with pure hatred.

  Abruptly, as if he had sensed her turmoil and was impatient with it, Johnny dropped his cigarette, turned his back on her, and started to walk again—that same relaxed, loose-limbed amble she had watched so many times before.

  Johnny stopped walking ten feet from his horse and turned, scowling at the men he had walked past, staring at them with hostile, challenging eyes. He dared first one and then another, but no signal shot rang out to break the strange stillness. They looked back at him impassively, nonchalantly. Furious, he faced that window again, but nothing.

  He had the urge to yell curses at the bastard. He had walked El Gato Negro’s damned gauntlet. He should not be toyed with like a mouse.

  At last he strode toward his horse and mounted. He presented his chest to the riflemen, waited a few seconds, and then nudged Matador forward. Still nothing.

  The dusty, cobbled road curved. Once he’d ridden around that bend, El Gato Negro would not be able to see him. And he would not be able to see Tía. And Tía would not be able to see when they shot him. Perhaps this was El Gato Negro’s way of sparing his woman.

  Johnny should be grateful, but he wasn’t. Childishly he wanted her to see him die, to think that he had died cursing her. Even if he couldn’t. Especially because he couldn’t. Slowly, reluctantly, he rode around the bend in the cobbled path.

  More than a score of men were stationed on the sides of the canyon, their heads cocked to one side as they squinted over shiny barrels.

  Then he knew. The game they were playing with him was only just beginning…

  Chapter Forty-Four

  When Steve woke up, he was lashed to a makeshift stretcher, bumping along behind a horse. A canvas shield blocked the sun. Hot. The pain in his head was bad—very bad—as if he had sheets of tin in there, being whipped about by powerful blasts of air from a furnace. Even with his eyes closed he saw the blinding flashes of light and heard them: black and rumbling and painful. Overheated under the blazing sun, his mouth was swollen with thirst. Painfully he swallowed and opened his eyes.

  “He’s awake! Stop! Please!” The voice sounded like Andrea’s, but where had she come from?

  The rough, plowing motion stopped, and Steve was grateful. Cool hands rested on his face. Andrea?

  “Steve?”

  “How did you get here?” he asked around his thick, swollen tongue.

  “With Johnny. You were ambushed by bandits,” she said, grateful that he was at least conscious. “They took Teresa…and your silver…”

  “Teresa?”

  “Tía.” Andrea reached for the canteen and wet his lips with the water.

  Steve closed his eyes. Andrea had said something important. He tried to concentrate in spite of the pain.

  “The other men…how are they?”

  “Six of them died. Three are injured besides you.”

  Steve closed his eyes. He had been a fool to expose his men to these dangers.

  “Here, take another sip. We must get moving.”

  Sitting their horses in silence, men crowded around him. Steve sipped the water and then looked from face to face, noting who was there and who was missing.

  “Where’s Johnny?” he asked, dreading the answer. Of all the men, Johnny was the one he would most hate to lose.

  “He went after Tía.”

  “How many men did he take with him?”

  “None. He wanted to go alone. There were fifty bandits. He said one man would be more effective.”

  “Which way did the bandits go?”

  “South, then east.” Andrea realized she’d made another slip, but it didn’t matter. Soon Steve would either be strong enough to hear everything, or he’d be dead. She watched to see if he had caught the significance, but he didn’t show any signs of wondering how she knew that later they’d gone east.

  Andrea had been to her papa’s hideout three times over the years. She wouldn’t know how to get there alone, but she remembered they always traveled in an eastward direction from Tubac. They were far south of Rancho la Reina now; it figured they had to go east from where they had been.

  Steve considered the information and decided to trust Johnny’s judgment. If any one man could bring Tía back alive, Johnny was the man. A good tracker and a deadly shot, he wouldn’t give up until he’d rescued Tía or knew she was dead.

  That thought jarred Steve. He had liked Tía…Teresa. She was earnest and charming in a quiet, steady way he appreciated. He and Johnny didn’t talk much about women, but he had suspected Johnny was sweet on the slim blonde. Johnny would save her.

  They made better time now. By nightfall they were halfway home. One of the canyons surprised them with a small stream. They camped beside it and filled their stomachs with water and the last of the supplies purchased in Fort Bowie.

  Steve had suffered from the long ride. He lay in his blankets, too exhausted to move but in too much pain to sleep. Because he had refused food, Andrea made broth with a piece of beef jerky and brought it to him.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, waving the broth away.

  “This isn’t food. You need liquids, and this will warm you.”

  “I ran my stepmother off when I was seventeen,” he said meaningfully.<
br />
  “I’m not applying for that position.”

  Steve sipped some of the broth and then slept. He woke later to find Andrea kneeling beside him. The moon was directly overhead. A coyote pup howled, a leaner sound than that made by a full-grown coyote.

  “What position are you applying for?” he asked as if they had only talked seconds ago.

  Surprised to find him awake, lucid, and asking questions about something they had talked about hours before, Andrea reached for the water. “Drink this.”

  He looked at her intently, and she could sense a struggle going on inside him. As if trying to wipe away pain and confusion, he rubbed his hand across his forehead.

  “Was Morgan Todd killed, too?”

  “Morgan Todd has the constitution of a Texas longhorn. But he wasn’t with you. Don’t you remember?”

  “He was going to meet us.”

  “He came back to the ranch, fought with Judy, and beat her unconscious. Someone shot him. He’s…in pretty bad shape. They arrested Johnny for it, but we broke him out of jail.”

  “Have I been gone that long? How’s Judy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Overwhelmed by these complications, Steve lay so strangely lifeless that Andrea’s heart lurched with fear. Could he survive two bullet wounds and a long ride back to the ranch?

  “Come here,” he whispered.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  “Lie down beside me. I want to feel you next to me.”

  Andrea moved to comply. All day she had ridden in a daze. Now, his tenderness threatened to release a torrent of tears. At times like this she was sure she would be better off if she could cry like other women. She had never been able to cry.

  “Please, don’t be nice to me,” she sighed.

  “Because you’re so terrible?”

  She nodded, chin quivering.

  “You’re wrong. Judy and I get the credit for that.”