by Jane Toombs
The don kept his gaze on Ulysses for long moments. Ulysses stared back, doing his best to ignore the pistol that rested atop a blue-tiled rustic table, within easy reach of the Spaniard. He had time to wonder why Don Alfonso would need a pistol so close to hand in the safety of his own casa, before the don finally spoke.
"I will listen to your story."
"Your man accosted me on the beach. No doubt on your property, although I did not realize I was trespassing. He was mounted and armed. I was afoot, naked, I had no weapon. He drew his pistol and, believing he meant to shoot me, I threw a stone that hit his head. I am not a violent man nor a thief. I chose not to remain naked while I returned the man and his horse to where they belonged, so I borrowed his clothes. The horse guided me here."
"Don Rafael is not my hired man," the don said. "He is a neighbor who kindly helps me with the cattle. You have made a life-long enemy."
"He set himself to be my enemy before he knew me. I was dangerous to no one, naked and unarmed. Don Rafael's possible vengeance is not my concern. I have revenge of my own to tend to, vengeance against those aboard ship who conspired to rob me of all I possessed, who tried to kill me and then dropped me overboard to drown. God's favor alone brought me to shore."
Ulysses watched Don Alfonso carefully as he told the tale he'd concocted. Had the Spaniard relaxed ever so slightly?
"I must throw myself on your mercy," he continued. "I have been left with nothing."
Don Alfonso's lips twitched slightly, as though he might be repressing a smile. "You have Don Rafael's horse and his clothes," he pointed out. "Also, I suspect, his pistol." "Borrowed only," Ulysses said.
The don nodded once, then again, as though he'd made up his mind. "If you rode El Duro and lived to tell of it, you are good with horses."
"I am." Although his mind released no memories of horsemanship, deep within himself Ulysses felt he spoke the truth.
"You are not a Spaniard, though you speak the language well. I can tell you're not one of those bastard Americanos, either. Your name is Greek?"
"I am not Americano," Ulysses agreed. "My name is Greek."
Again the don's lips twitched. "You are a man of few words, Senor Koshko, but I don't hold that against you. I happen to need vaqueros . In this way I can offer you assistance."
Ulysses took a deep breath, unsure of how he'd convinced the don to help him, but relieved that he had. He bowed. "I'd be honored to work for you."
"I will see to clothes for you. You may return Rafael's."
"Gracias." Ulysses eyed the don. "I doubt he'll be happy to have me working here."
"That is as certain as sunrise tomorrow. But Don Rafael is my friend and he knows how it is with me. While you ride as my vaquero he will keep his peace. I expect the same from you."
"You have my word I have no quarrel with anyone except the men aboard the ship."
Don Alfonso held out his right hand. Ulysses, starting to reach his to meet it, suddenly held, staring in startled disbelief at the Spaniard's palm. A reddish glow discolored the skin as a five-pointed symbol enclosed in a circle formed. Even as he gaped, the star faded and was gone. Ulysses swallowed, forcing himself to grip the don's hand and shake it while ice formed along his spine.
Danger!
What from, he didn't know. But he knew he'd seen the star within a circle before. To his kind, the symbol meant death. Shaken to the depths of his being, he did his best to show nothing of what he felt.
Death stalked him here, too, it seemed. Desperately,
he struggled to unblock his mind but grayness covered everything except the few shards he'd already grasped.
What was his kind? Had he walked into a trap that even now clamped iron jaws about him?
Yet where else could he go?
Chapter 2
"They don't know what to make of me, Palo," Ulysses told his bay stallion as they rode out alone on the last day of February. "Who can blame them? I'm a mystery even to myself. Would you believe I don't know how old I am? I told the don eighteen because that number occurred to me. But am I? I'm never sure what I'll have to lie about next."
Palo flicked his ears and continued his steady lope toward the twenty or more long-horned steers grazing in one of the small valleys north of the Alvarado hacienda.
It was a fine, clear day, the only clouds high and wispy. Tonight, Ulysses thought, would be clear as well, unless the fog rolled in from the ocean as it sometimes did. He relished the mild and pleasant climate of these shores he'd been cast upon. All in all, he'd been fortunate where he'd washed ashore.
He was one of the three vaqueros working what remained of the Don's cattle but he always rode alone. Don Rafael spoke to him only if absolutely necessary and Juan took his cues from Don Rafael. As long as Don Alfonso remained cordial, Ulysses could shrug off the unfriendliness of the others--but it rankled.
Horses took to him, so did the cows, the rancho dogs and other livestock--even Esperanza's pet parrot. The only animal that mistrusted him was Tia Dolores's cat.
To hell with the cat and its glowering mistress, he'd much rather think of pretty Esperanza. At least the don's daughter smiled at him when they met. Not that they met often enough to suit him. He'd like to get better acquainted with her but the old witch was always hovering about, a malevolent and formidable chaperone.
A formidable enemy, for that matter. The bruja had already tried to have him killed once. At the moment she was the dangerous one, not Don Rafael. In the three weeks he'd been working here he'd learned enough about Spanish--or Californio--pride and honor to understand that the don had been right when he insisted Don Rafael would never exact revenge for his humiliation as long as Don Alfonso stood behind Ulysses.
If only he could remember some small part of his past, enough to furnish a clue to who he was, what he was. All he could be certain of was that he wasn't of Spanish descent, nor Americano, because neither of those languages was the one he used when he thought or spoke to himself.
He trusted the don and, because the Spaniard hated and mistrusted the Americanos, Ulysses was inclined to view them suspiciously even though he'd discovered that he knew a fair amount of their language--how or why, he had no idea.
Perhaps he really had been a sailor on a ship with men from many lands. That was the story he'd given the don yesterday after he'd translated for the Spaniard when an Americano visitor arrived unannounced.
The stranger, Henry Penfield, blustering and red-faced, had offered to buy the rancho. "Tell the don he might as well sell to me," Penfield had said, "because I'll get the land one way or the other anyway. California's a territory of the United States now and soon she'll be a state. When that happens you Mexicans'll might as well skedaddle back to your own country."
There'd been no tactful way to translate Penfield's words.
"Vamos!" Don Alfonso had shouted. "Get out and never set foot on my land again."
After Penfield left and the don calmed down a bit, Ulysses cautiously asked a question. "What did he mean by Mexicans, sir? I thought you were Spanish."
The don stared at him for a long moment. "Surely you've heard that twenty-eight years ago Mexico fought for and won the right to be free of the Spanish yoke."
Ulysses covered as best he could. "I am not of these shores, sir, and it appears my education has been sadly remiss."
"I'm not certain what shores you are from."
Determined to keep his faulty memory hidden, Ulysses said, "I would gladly tell you if I was at liberty to do so." Giving him a stern, not altogether satisfied look, the don finally nodded. "I'll let it pass for the moment. If you weren't aware of Mexico's freedom from Spain, then you undoubtedly know nothing of what's happened to us Californios since the bedamned Americanos defeated our great General Santa Anna.
"California was a part of Mexico until exactly one year ago this month. As a result of losing the war with the United States, Alta California was ceded to them, leaving us Californios abandoned by our own country. If th
at wasn't misfortune enough, some fool had to stumble on gold nuggets." The don had slammed his fist on the table. "Gold! This cursed California gold lures more of those damned Americanos here every month. This is my land and I will kill any man who tries to take it from me."
Ulysses believed him. He also had an uneasy premonition it might come to that. He'd noticed how arrogantly the Americanos behaved, as though they had a divine right to California land, no matter who it belonged to. And he'd heard talk of a hacienda south of the Alvarado rancho that had been sacked and burned, supposedly by bandits. The family--two sons, a mother and father--had been murdered. Since he was neither Spanish, Mexican nor Americano, California wasn't his country but if fighting began, Ulysses knew he was squarely on the don's side.
"What and where is my country?" he asked Palo. "What is this tongue I speak to myself and to you?"
Palo raised his head, his ears pricked forward and Ulysses came alert, his right hand reaching for the stock of the rifle in his saddle scabbard, his gaze searching for approaching riders. Because he had no past, all men were strangers and all strangers were potential enemies.
He sensed them before they crested the rise--two men, neither with dangerous energy levels. He reined in Palo, resting the rifle across his thighs. As he waited for the two riders to appear, he tried to understand how he sensed the men before he could see or hear them. He'd learned in the last three weeks that no one else at the Alvarado rancho had his ability. Except for the bruja. And that scared the hell out of him.
As soon as he saw the men, he knew by their clothes they were Americanos. He didn't quite aim the rifle at them but he made sure they knew he was armed. They halted just over the crest, some sixty paces away. One was stocky, running to fat, the other black-bearded, lean and rangy. Both wore holstered pistols.
"Hola!" Blackbeard called in Spanish.
"You're on Alvarado land," Ulysses called in return, speaking their Americano tongue. "What's your business here?"
"We've come to buy beef."
Aware Don Alfonso would starve before selling anything to an Americano, Ulysses replied, "We have none to spare." Blackbeard gestured toward the steers below. "I see twenty head right there."
Ulysses repeated, "We have none to spare. And you're trespassing." He shifted the rifle.
Stocky's hand went to the butt of his pistol and Ulysses raised the rifle. Blackbeard spoke to his companion, his voice too low for Ulysses to hear, and Stocky took his hand away.
The two men wheeled their horses. At the crest of the hill, Stocky turned. "We'll be back, you Mexican bastard," he shouted.
And I'll be waiting for you, Ulysses told them silently, his lips drawing back over his teeth.
When Don Alfonso first gave him the rifle the gun felt familiar in his hands, though he couldn't be sure what kind of a shot he was until he fired a few for practice. The first two were way off target, the third close and the fourth smashed the empty bottle he'd balanced on a rock. Either he was a quick study or he'd fired a rifle many times before. Stocky didn't know how close he'd come to death.
When he was sure the men were gone, Ulysses shoved the rifle back into the scabbard. He urged Palo toward the cattle, intending to move them to a different location in case Shorty and Blackbeard came back that night. He wasn't certain they were after the steers but it was best to take no chances. If the fog held off, the full moon would--
A shudder ran through him as something devil-dark slithered from behind the gray curtain shrouding his past. For a moment he shook like a alder leaf in an autumn gale and then the sinister half-recollection faded and was gone before he could grasp its import.
A warning sprang into his mind.
The full moon brings death.
Unnerved, Ulysses rounded up the cattle. By the time he'd driven them from the little valley to new grazing closer to the hacienda, he'd recovered his equilibrium. He was damned if he'd let a full moon--or anything else--stop him. When he rode in that evening, he reported the trespass to Don Alfonso but didn't mention his own plans for the night.
As usual, he ate with Juan in the vaquero quarters outside the fenced courtyard--the food brought to them by Paquita, the old cook. Ulysses was glad that Don Rafael never waited to eat, returning to his own casa when the day's work was finished. He suspected, though, if Don Rafael did stay, he'd eat inside with Don Alfonso and Esperanza since he was not a hired worker but a neighbor.
Ulysses had pried from a reluctant Juan that Don Rafael had no cattle of his own, they'd either all been sold or run off by Americanos. Nor did Don Rafael have relatives in his casa.
"Like me, like Don Alfonso, Don Rafael has cousins in Mexico," Juan had said, "but no one here."
As they sat eating their puchero, a spicy stew, and tortillas, Ulysses made his plans. Not wishing to reveal his intentions to anyone, he'd wait until the other man slept before saddling Palo and riding.
It lacked an hour of midnight before Ulysses was finally ready to leave. The moon had risen just after sunset but patchy clouds had alternately hidden and revealed it. At the moment the moon was cloud-covered. Feeling strangely restless, he swung into the saddle and rode from the corral, only to rein in abruptly when a figure in white crossed his path.
"Esperanza!" he exclaimed, dismounting.
She drifted toward him, stopping only a few feet away. "Senor Koshka," she said softly.
In her filmy white robe, she was a fairy-tale creature, a beautiful and desirable princess. He stared at her hungrily, wishing he had the right to claim her for his own. "How your eyes gleam," she whispered, shivering, yet making no effort to flee from him.
"You shouldn't be outside the gate so late at night and alone," he warned.
"I feel restless tonight."
"The courtyard is safer."
"Would I have met you inside the gates?"
His heart pounded at the implication. Did she have any idea how he'd dreamed of finding her alone? Unable to help himself, he held out his arms to her. She hesitated, then reached to him until he clasped her hands. But when he tried to draw her close, she resisted. He forced himself to stop, fighting his arousal.
"Why are you riding Palo so late?" she asked.
Unsettled by her sweet and provocative woman's scent and the feel of her soft hands in his, he told her the truth. "But you may be hurt," she protested.
"Not me." Aware he wouldn't be able to control himself much longer, he released her hands, strode to the gate and opened it. "I mean to see you safely inside before I leave." By the time the gate had closed behind her and he was back in the saddle, the clouds had dissipated and the moon rode the sky, pale and luminous. Ulysses' insides churned. He dug his heels in, urging the bay into a lope, heedless of the perils of night riding. The quicker he left and the farther away he got from Esperanza, the better.
He was halfway to the valley when his inner churning turned to wrenching pain. Palo whinnied shrilly and reared. Ulysses, taken by surprise, lost his seat and sprawled onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, half-stunned, listening to the frightened horse pounding back toward the hacienda.
What in hell had spooked Palo?
As he dragged himself upright to look around, something twisted hard inside his gut. Free! a voice inside his head demanded. Free! He found himself yanking off his boots, then tearing at his clothes in a wild desire to have nothing between him and the moon, full and bright above him.
Its silver rays bathed him, seeping inside to quicken his blood. To change him.
"No!" he shouted, terrified. "No!"
In vain. He had no more control over what was happening to him than he had over the moon. As he felt himself wrenching out of shape, exhilaration eroded his panic and sang through him.
Free! The night was his, the moon was his. He'd been set free to run.
His senses were overwhelmed by a multitude of odors and sounds--a rabbit, frozen with fright, crouched nearby to his left, a hunting owl, almost overhead, veered suddenly to avoid flying
over him, and, some yards to his right, an alarmed steer caught his scent.
A craving gripped him, a need to hunt, to kill, to feast on his prey. The owl was beyond his reach, the rabbit beneath his notice. The steer, then. As he dropped to all fours, another smell drifted to him on the night wind, the intriguing and dangerous scent of man. He lifted his muzzle to better ascertain the direction.
The man rode a horse, the two of them upwind from him. The horse would scent him before the man saw him but not until they rode closer. Still, he dare not take a chance on giving way to the blood lust because then he'd be oblivious to all else. He fought his ever-increasing desire to run down the steer--now fleeing toward the man. Men could never be trusted. Men tracked his kind, tracked to kill.
Yet he'd marked the steer as his prey and refused to give it up. Once the steer no longer scented him, it would slow and stop somewhere beyond the man and horse. Stealth, not speed, would allow him to circle and remain safely upwind of his prey without being sighted by the man.
The bright moonlight made concealment difficult so he detoured to take advantage of the shadows under a string of sycamores bordering a nearby stream. As he trotted swiftly along the bank of the stream, the damp smell of leaf mold mingled with odor-traces of birds and mice and, once, the fear-rank scent of fox. The animals feared him, one and all. Men did, too, but men were craftier than any other animal. Except him--unless he was consumed by blood lust and lost all sense of his surroundings.
Far away a wolf sang to the moon, his cries thinner and higher than remembered wolf songs from long ago. Soon a dozen or more joined the first. Their name flashed into his mind. Coyotes. Brother to the wolf.
Their cries thrilled through him. How glorious to be free, to feel the brush of the wind through his fur and to test each scent the wind carried. The moon, climbing the sky, filled him with its silver radiance. The moon was his, he belonged to the moon.
Soon the prey would be his as well, its hot blood salt- sweet on his tongue. Nothing else could satisfy the craving within him, a craving growing stronger and wilder with every passing moment.