The Mission War

by Wesley Ellis

  “What do we care about a handful of dirty Indians?” Arturo asked.

  “You don’t know the Yaquis, do you?” The look in this one’s eyes indicated that he did know them. The man looked to be Indian himself, though what tribe Ki couldn’t have guessed.

  “The horses won’t last long without water,” Arturo said.

  “We’ll find water,” Mono growled. “Tinaja Caliente, eh, Halcón?”

  The Indian nodded. “There will be water at Tinaja Caliente.”

  The bandits fell silent. Ki watched them for a time longer and then again let his eyes lift to the distances. The desert seemed to go on forever. Now and then they passed red-tipped, thorny ocotillo waving in the light breeze; now and then a jack rabbit, set to running by the approaching horses, loped off across the flats. Otherwise, the world seemed dead and empty.

  Ki didn’t know this country well. He had never heard of Tinaja Caliente. Tinajas, he knew, were natural catch basins in stone where water from the infrequent rains was held. Caliente meant hot in Spanish. Was there anything that wouldn’t be hot in this country?

  They had begun to angle westward toward the chalky hills. These seemed to be the bandidos’ goal. Ki could only ride on with them, biding his time. Yet how long could he wait before he made some attempt at escape? Something had to happen—and soon. Someone had to make a mistake, offer Ki and Jessica a chance to get away. But nothing presented itself. The bandits were alert and watchful.

  They rode toward the hills that loomed ahead across the desert flats.

  By sundown they were all exhausted. The perspiration no longer stained Ki’s shirt, no longer dripped from his body. The devil wind whipped it away before it had barely formed. Ki’s body, deprived of water, seemed unable to muster the ability to replace it. The bay he rode walked with his head hanging. The bandits were in a foul mood.

  They found the mouth of a narrow, white canyon and started to climb. Ki’s horse balked and Carlos slashed it across the rump to keep it moving up the rocky slope.

  “Jesus Christ,” Arturo said, “I’m going to die.”

  “Shut up,” Mono snapped.

  “Soon you’ll be up to your eyes in water,” Diego Cardero said, “cool water.”

  “Christ,” was all Arturo could pant in response. The horses achieved a narrow bench and followed a second narrower trail to the crest of a low, barren ridge. The wind raced across the ridge, but instead of cooling them, it simply added to their torment.

  “Which way, Halcón?” Mono asked the Indian.

  “The gap, ahead,” the bandit answered. His throat was dry, his voice muffled. His finger pointed out a notch in the jagged white rocks that stood like ancient sentinels. “Just beyond the gap.”

  A horse slipped and nearly went to its knees. The ground was uneven and rock strewn. The sun was fading fast, painting the white mountains with subtle shades of purple and orange.

  They rode slowly through the gap. Ki’s horse lifted its ears suddenly and it blew through its nostrils. Another horse, Diego‘s, nickered wildly.

  “They smell it. They smell the water,” Halcón said.

  “I wish I could,” Carlos muttered.

  “I don’t want to smell it; I want to drink it, bathe in it, swim in it,” Arturo said. His spirits had risen again.

  They emerged from the gap into a narrow valley. There was no grass there at all, only bare white stone and thickets of nopal cactus. A single, long dead oak tree tilted out from its roots near the base of the white canyon walls, casting a crooked shadow.

  “Just ahead. Water,” Halcón said. Now Ki, too, could see it shining dully in the sunset light.

  Arturo’s horse broke into a run and he let it run. He laughed and waved his sombrero in the air. He reached the tinaja first and swung down before his horse had come to a full stop.

  They saw him against the sunset backdrop. He dived for the water. Then he recoiled, grabbed at his horse’s reins, and yanked it back. The horse reared up on its hind legs, shaking its head in angry frustration.

  “What is it?” Diego asked.

  Arturo just pointed.

  A corpse floated in the water. Or rather half a corpse. The body had been incredibly savaged, arms and torso flayed, the eyes put out. It might have once been a middle-aged Mexican; now it was a ghastly, rotting, faceless thing.

  “Hold those horses away, damn it,” Mono shouted. “The water’s been poisoned.”

  “Yaquis?” Carlos asked.

  “Who else?”

  “But why?”

  “For the hell of it.” Mono lifted his eyes. “Where’s the other pond?”

  “Up here.” Halcón had clambered over the white boulders to a second elevation. He scrambled back now.

  “Well, what’s there?” Mono wanted to know.

  “The other half of him.” He tilted his head toward the body they’d already seen.

  “Madre de Dios,” Mono said, his voice quivering with rage. “Dying of thirst and those bastard Yaquis do this. If I ever find them, I’ll cut their throats, every one of them. I swear it.”

  “What do we do now?” Arturo asked.

  “Do? Go thirsty. Keep the horses at a distance. They’ll be hard to handle tonight.”

  Jessica Starbuck had been helped from her horse. Ki had been cut free of his saddle. Now they stood together as the little valley went dark.

  “Tonight, Ki,” Jessie said in a soft voice. She didn’t look at Ki but at the sunset.

  “It’s impossible, Jessie.”

  “We have to try, don’t we?”

  Ki looked at the scowling dark faces of the bandits. “Yes,” he decided, “we have to try.” Even if it meant losing their heads, perhaps joining the dead man in the tinaja.

  They were immediately separated. The bandits started a small fire. There was only tinned beef and beans again with the few swallows of water which remained in the bandits’ canteens to wash the food down. Jessie didn’t eat. Ki accepted only a tablespoon of water.

  The bandits continued to complain, to curse, and to drink—they were out of water, but the tequila still held out.

  “Don Alejandro will pay well for these two,” Arturo said truculently, “after this.”

  “He pays well,” Mono said.

  “How do we know? Maybe he takes our heads too, eh?”

  The bandit leader replied darkly, “No one takes the head of Mono. Don Alejandro will pay.”

  “If we get there.” This was Carlos. The crooked little man was growing more unhappy as things went along. His lips were still puffed, his ego still bruised.

  “We’ll get there. Shut up.”

  “The Yaquis—”

  “The Yaquis are long gone; if not, they wouldn’t have poisoned water they could use,” Halcón said logically.

  Carlos glowered at the Indian. He took another drink of tequila. No matter how much of that he drank, he was still thirsty and he knew that tomorrow his body would be crying for water.

  Carlos was unhappy. He had been unhappy most of his life—ever since his father had taken to beating him. His father beat him for killing a calf so that he could watch the blood flow, watch the wild eyes of the animal as it died. His father beat him for tearing the clothes off of young Alicia Gomez. Carlos had gotten even. He had beaten his father to death as the old man slept.

  He had wandered for a time and then joined Mono, seeking comradeship and perhaps approval, but none of these men were his friends. In fact—Carlos took another swallow of tequila—he didn’t like any of them, especially the Indian.

  He sat glaring at Halcón as the Indian talked to Mono. Mono listened to Halcón. You would think Halcón wasn’t a stinking, half-breed Apache.

  Diego Cardero was listening as well. He was perched on a low rock watching Mono and the Indian.

  “No place else?” Mono asked.

  The Indian shook his head. “No place near enough. Unless we want to go north again, try the well at Fuego. There’s no guarantee there’s water there,
though.”

  “That doesn’t leave us much choice,” Mono said. “All right. We’ll go to San Ignacio.”

  Diego’s eyes flickered. “I thought we weren’t going to stop at any pueblos on this trip.”

  “We have to have water,” Mono said impatiently. “San Ignacio has water. The mission well is deep. The old padres made sure of that.”

  “I don’t like riding into a town with prisoners,” Diego said.

  “The decision’s made. San Ignacio,” Mono said. He didn’t like having his decision questioned and he was tired. He was too big a man to sit comfortably in a saddle all day.

  “There’s always trouble,” Diego said.

  “Trouble! Fun, I call it,” Carlos said. No one so much as looked at him.

  “Yes, fun,” Halcón said almost under his breath. He spat on the ground.

  “What the hell do you know about it, you damned stinking Apache?” Carlos asked, lurching to his feet.

  “Nothing,” Halcón said quietly. His eyes were steady and expressionless.

  Mono seemed to enjoy this. “Tell him about it, Carlos,” the bandit leader urged. “Tell him about Sonoita.”

  Carlos staggered forward a little, bottle still in hand. “Sonoita—neither of you two was there—we tore that town apart with our bare hands. We took what we wanted. Women, money, liquor. Three days we had the town.” Carlos held up three witnessing fingers. “Maybe we do the same to San Ignacio, eh, Mono? What do you think of that, Diego Cardero?”

  “I think it’s foolishness. We’ve got prisoners to deliver. Let’s get the gold for them and then do whatever we want.”

  “I think maybe you are the foolish one, Diego.” Carlos returned to the fallen log where he had been seated. He waved a hand. “You and this cabrón, Halcón—”

  The knife sang across the space between the Indian and Carlos. It stuck in the log between Carlos’ spread legs, an inch from his groin, and quivered briefly. Carlos hadn’t even seen where the knife came from, hadn’t seen Halcón throw it. He looked at the knife and the bravery leaked out of him. Mono laughed out loud.

  The Indian walked across the clearing and recovered his knife, showing the cutting edge to Carlos. “Men do not speak to me like that, Carlos,” Halcón said.

  “All right.” Carlos swallowed hard. “I meant nothing. I apologize.”

  The Indian stood over him for a minute longer and then nodded, deliberately turning his back on Carlos to walk away. Jessica Starbuck was watching Carlos, and for a minute she thought Carlos was going to draw his revolver and shoot the Mexican in the back. But Carlos didn’t have the nerve to try it.

  Mono, too, had been watching the interplay with casual interest. He had been enjoying it greatly. It took little to amuse Mono. And once they reached the town of San Ignacio what other kinds of amusement would the bandit leader indulge in?

  The bandit called Delgado, silent, toothy, and armed with no less than three pistols, came to where Jessie slept, tossed a blanket on her, and walked away again. The others were turning in as the fire burned low and then was extinguished by Halcón. He might have been convinced that there were no Yaquis around, but he was apparently taking no chances.

  The night went dark and still and Jessica Starbuck began to work at the ties on her wrists. As time went by, the bandits were getting sloppier at tying her. The last time she had tensed her wrists and held her hands a bare fraction of an inch apart as she was bound. Now she could feel a little slack, very little, but enough to give her some hope.

  With the exception of Carlos, who had been sent grumbling to stand an unhappy watch, everyone seemed to be asleep by the time the silver moon rose and Jessica Starbuck had eased her cramped hands from their rawhide ties.

  They seemed to be asleep, but Ki could not have been. He was facing her, sleeping on his side fifty feet away. He didn’t twitch or open an eye as Jessie made her second escape attempt, moving slowly into the shadows, working her way toward the horses. If they could take the entire string of horses and move silently down the canyon ... Then what? Head toward the river and water? They would have to take their chances with the Yaquis.

  She found the horses and another bit of good luck. Someone, too lazy to unsaddle, had left his horse standing unhappily in the darkness. By the moonlight Jessie saw that a Winchester repeater had been left in the saddle scabbard.

  She moved to the horse, looking right and left. She slipped the rifle free and turned at the sound of a soft footstep.

  “Ki?”

  “No,” Diego Cardero answered, “not Ki. I don’t think he will be coming now.”

  “Damn you!” Jessie hissed. She tried to bring the rifle around, but Diego had the barrel in his hands already. He twisted and yanked it up, and the weapon was torn free of her hands.

  “Dear one,” the man said, leaning toward her, “we have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Am I supposed to laugh?”

  “No, you are supposed to quit trying to escape.” Diego’s hand reached out and Jessie tried to draw away, but her back met the horse’s shoulder. Diego’s hand touched her hair, smoothed it back, and Jessica, despite herself, felt a stirring in her abdomen, a tingling begin in her breasts.

  “What are you, a devil?” she whispered.

  “Perhaps.” He was smiling now. Taking her arm, he leaned forward and kissed her, and there was nothing Jessie could do to stop her body from responding, her mouth from returning the kiss with parted lips, her body from meeting his and feeling his solid thighs, hard mus cled chest, his growing male need.

  “Devil,” she said again. “Ki ...”

  “Simply tied more securely. How does he slip his hands from those ties? Those I did myself; I know they were good knots.”

  “I must ...”

  Whatever Jessie felt she must do, Diego’s kiss smothered it. When he finally pulled away, she was breathless, her pulse racing. Who was this man? She could feel no evil about him, nothing savage or angry.

  “Let’s talk,” Diego said.

  “Where?” She didn’t even argue with this tall, handsome enigma.

  “The upper tinaja.”

  “That corpse up there—”

  “I had it removed. He was buried. Rather a cairn was built. There’s no chance of digging in this ground. Come, come with me, Jessica Starbuck.”

  And he took her hand and she went meekly as if there were no choice. The moon cast long shadows before them and bathed the white rocks with quicksilver. They climbed to the upper tinaja and there it was still, beautiful. The pond gleamed with silver light.

  “Sit down,” Diego said and Jessica obeyed as if she had been mesmerized. Diego sat beside her, and for a time they just watched the silver hills, the distant moonlit desert flats.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I want you,” he said, and he kissed her again, his hand pressing against her spine, running down to her beltline, drawing her nearer. Jessie turned her head away.

  “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “As little as possible,” Diego said. His left hand was on Jessie’s thigh now, bringing an incredible warmth.

  “Who are you?” she asked again in wonder, her eyes searching his face, his black, laughing eyes. “You’re not some sort of lawman, a government agent?”

  Cardero laughed. “Diego Cardero! No, nothing like that. I am a wanted man, Jessica, an outlaw.”

  “Then—”

  “Then we need discuss it no more.” He gently laid her back and she stared up at him as he leaned near and kissed her throat, her parted lips. His hands cupped her breasts firmly; his eyes shone with desire.

  “Jessica, nothing will happen to you, to you or Ki. I promise you that.”

  “How can you?”

  “Believe me. I mean it.”

  Before she could ask another question, he had pressed himself against her. Slowly he opened the buttons of her white silk blouse, his lips following his fingers down, kissing the soft smoothness of her breasts,
which now bobbed free, moonlit and perfect. Cardero made a small sound of pleasure and kissed each pink, taut nipple once.

  Then, without another word, he rose and took off his shirt, kicked off his boots, and discarded his trousers. He stood over Jessica Starbuck, naked and lean, his manhood evident, strong and ready.

  She gave up trying to understand this man, to solve the puzzle of his character. She sat up and wrapped her arms around his thighs, drawing him to her, feeling his hands go to her shoulders.

  Her own body was pulsing, growing damp, preparing itself. Her lips brushed Diego’s inner thighs, her hands clenched his hard buttocks, and she lay back, her honey-blond hair tangled, veiling her face but not her smile.

  Jessica kicked off her own boots, tugged her jeans down, and lay watching, just watching.

  Cardero’s eyes slowly swept over her, devouring every inch of smooth white flesh, of long, sleek thighs, of round, firm breasts, and of blond soft nest of hair.

  Then he went down to her and his lips continued the examination, tasting her ears, her throat, breasts, and belly.

  “Here,” Jessie said, and she rolled slightly. An impatient hand reached, searching for and finding Cardero’s long, solid shaft. She touched the head of it to her inner softness and sighed. She positioned him as she lay and rose to meet his entry. Her eyes were moonlit, her lips parted, slack, as Cardero inched ahead and slid into her moist depths.

  She felt him tense, felt his hands. And she reached again, cupping his sack, holding him deep within her, keeping him motionless until she could stand it no longer, and she began to sway slowly against him, to work her body in small, demanding circles against him, feeling his movement deep inside where her own body, adjusting, wanting, had become utterly responsive.

  She was wet with need and overcome by a sudden urge to slam herself against him, to twist and writhe and devour him. A small cry emerged from her throat and Cardero, stimulated by the sound, by the rush from Jessie’s body, began to drive against her.

  His hands were on her buttocks, his back was arched, his teeth set, as he throbbed within her, burying himself to the hilt, feeling the answering movements of her body, the hard, needful pitch and roll and thrust of her, hearing a second, joyous cry escape her lips.