by Jane Toombs
The scent of horse and man and steer mingled. He scanned the silvered darkness with night-adapted eyes.
There, ahead and to the left. The man shouted, seeing the steer, then yanked the horse sharply about and rode in pursuit. The steer increased its pace and veered toward the stream.
The man had no right to prey marked by him! For him! Rage overcame caution and he sprang from the concealing shadows to intercept horse and rider. Before he reached them, a loud crack assaulted his ears, an offensive stink filled his nostrils and the steer stumbled, falling into the water of the stream.
He raced on. The horse shied from him, rearing, while the rider fought for control. He sprang, tumbling the man from the horse as it screamed and died, its neck broken.
With the first taste of blood, his world turned red. With the blood lust mastering him, he scarcely heard the second crack or felt the sting searing his temple....
Ulysses opened his eyes to the grayness of predawn, his head aching and the remnants of a nightmare clouding his mind. He immediately took alarm. Where in hell was he and why was he naked and shivering? He sprang to his feet and staggered with weakness as he warily scanned his surroundings. He stood on the bank of a creek with not a living soul in sight--but death lay upstream.
Cautiously, he made his way along the bank until he gazed with horror on what and who had died so bloodily.
A half-eaten steer lay in the water. Close beside the steer was a man's body so badly mangled Ulysses couldn't be sure whether or not it was the stocky man he'd seen the previous day. Farther from the stream, the torn remains of a horse mingled unpleasantly with riding gear and a rifle. A pistol lay between the man and the horse.
Ulysses couldn't bring himself to touch the gore- besmeared rifle but he reached for the pistol and, as he did, saw his hand was encrusted with dark blood. He recoiled, fragments of his nightmare flitting like bats across his appalled mind. He'd dreamed of death and killing, dreamed of running on all fours under the moon, dreamed of the taste of blood.
His head throbbed so painfully that, without thought, he raised his blood-stained hand to his temple. To his surprise, his fingers encountered a healing but still aching wound running across the side of his head. He closed his eyes in momentary thankfulness--that must be where the blood on his hand came from. His nightmare had been no more than a terrible dream, for all it had left him weak and shaken.
But he was no closer to understanding what he was doing here. What had brought him to this spot? What horror had happened here? Striding to the creek, he rinsed his hands in the cold water and splashed cold water over his face, shivering in the cool breeze.
Where in hell were his clothes?
Putting aside the problem of what had happened during the night, he backtracked to where he'd awakened and then walked farther downstream, searching for his clothes. When he finally found them twenty paces away from the bank, he was more confused than ever.
Dressing hastily, he went over what he remembered of the night before. He'd planned to camp in the little valley in case the Americanos returned, so he'd ridden from the hacienda on Palo. He vaguely recalled feeling sick and being thrown by the normally obedient bay. Tracks showed a horse had been near the clothes but had galloped back toward the corral. Obviously something had spooked Palo.
Possibly whatever had killed the two animals and the man. A grizzly? He'd never seen one but Juan had told him about the Californio bull and bear fights, a bull and a grizzly either chained together or put into a pit and aggravated until they turned on one another. He moved his shoulders uneasily. Why had he been spared? He touched the scab on his head. A wound from a grizzly's claws?
His troubled mind and aching head distracted him so that he almost missed the approach of two riders from the direction of the hacienda. He whirled to look, cursing himself because he hadn't picked up the pistol. Chances are the riders would be Juan and Don Rafael but even so he'd feel safer with a gun. He relaxed slightly when he saw one of the men had a riderless horse on lead. They must be from the hacienda, searching for him and bringing Palo.
As they neared he realized he was right about Juan but not the other--Don Alfonso himself accompanied the vaquero. If he had his choice, he preferred the don to Rafael. He walked to meet them.
When they came up to him, he took Palo's reins from Juan and swung into the saddle, saying, "I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Don Alfonso."
The don looked him over. "Knowing your way with horses, I was concerned when I discovered Palo had returned without you."
Ulysses explained why he'd ridden off at night and the don nodded. "Apparently you met my daughter on your way. When we learned you were missing, she confessed that you scolded her for being outside the gates and she told me what you'd said to her about expecting Americanos to raid our cattle." His eyes narrowed. "What caused that gash on your head?"
"I'm not certain." Ulysses gestured upriver.
"Something killed one of our steers last night--also a man and a horse."
Don Alfonso's eyebrows rose. "Something?"
Ulysses prodded Palo into a walk. "I'll show you."
Juan turned away gray-faced after one look at flies buzzing over the carnage, glutting themselves, but the don dismounted and knelt to examine the steer at closer range. His horse stomped nervously.
"I thought maybe a grizzly mauled them," Ulysses offered as he slid off Palo, willing himself not to be sick. He noticed a condor circling above them, waiting to feed on the carrion.
"An animal of some sort, certainly," Don Alfonso agreed, turning away from the mauled steer. "A wild and vicious beast." He strode to the man's body, crouched to study it, then went on to the horse.
"Whatever it was prefers beef and horse meat to human," the don said as he returned to his horse, retrieving the pistol on the way. "It killed the man but didn't eat any part of him."
"I'm not positive, but he could be one of the Americanos I saw yesterday," Ulysses said, trying to ignore the uneasy roiling of his stomach.
The don turned the gun in his hand. "This is an Americano Colt revolving pistol." He glanced at the body and grimaced. "Much as I detest Americanos I'd wish such a death as this on no man. You were lucky to escape."
Juan, still mounted, his face averted, crossed himself furtively.
The don came up to Ulysses, who stood almost a head taller than he. "Bend down so I can look at that gash." Ulysses obeyed.
"You heal unusually fast but that looks to me like a bullet crease. What do you think, Juan?"
Juan glanced down at Ulysses. "I think as you do, Don Alfonso."
The don nodded. "In my opinion the man shot at you, Ulysses, and the bullet creased your head, stunning you.
Then the animal attacked, sparing you because you lay motionless on the ground. I've been told grizzlies often don't harm men who play dead."
"I agree that could be the way it happened," Ulysses said, "but I don't recall being shot at." It didn't explain why he'd been naked but he had no intention of mentioning he'd been without clothes when he woke.
Don Alfonso shrugged. "It's possible you might not remember."
Juan crossed himself again and muttered, "Diablo," catching the don's attention.
"Don't be a fool, Juan," he snapped. "No devil's involved. Clearly an animal did the killing. Look for yourself."
Juan swallowed. "I take your word, as always, Don Alfonso."
"Good. Then we won't need to waste time. I want you
to get the rifle that's lying on the ground near the horse and then we'll be on our way."
Ulysses, knowing the rifle was fouled with clotted blood and other death debris, saw the unhappy expression on Juan's face and decided he was better fit to retrieve the gun than the vaquero. But, before he could take a step toward the horse, the don touched his chest, holding him back. Then he understood Juan was being punished, perhaps for not dismounting earlier, and he was not to interfere.
Very reluctantly Juan did as he was ordered, being
noisily sick into the creek afterwards. Ulysses sympathized--he was queasy himself.
On the ride to the hacienda, Don Alfonso ordered Ulysses to rest for the remainder of the day. He didn't argue. Seldom had he felt so exhausted.
Once he pulled off his boots and flung himself onto
his cot, he fell asleep instantly. When he came alert, sensing someone had entered the vaquero quarters, he had no idea how much time had passed. He didn't move or open his eyes more than a slit. He knew the intruder wasn't Tia Dolores, the bruja, he'd recognize the crackle of her energy anywhere. The intruder showed no more than ordinary energy as he slowly advanced toward the cot.
Ulysses tensed, preparing to spring up and defend himself. But, before it came to that, the faint scent of violets came to him and he relaxed. The intruder wasn't a man.
She drifted to the side of his cot. A moment later he felt her soft palm on his forehead. Swiftly he reached, captured her hand with his, brought it to his lips and opened his eyes.
"Oh!" Esperanza's cheeks burned crimson as she stared down at him. "You slept so long I came to see if you were feverish."
He sat up, her hand still firmly clasped in his. Muted light slanted in through the open door. "One touch of your hand would cure any illness," he told her.
Belatedly she tugged at her hand and he reluctantly let her go. "I can't stay," she said breathlessly. "Paquita asks if you wish food."
He was far from hungry--at the moment he didn't feel like he ever wanted to eat again. "Thanks, no." He took a deep breath and added, "What I do wish is that we could meet again sometime--alone."
Her eyes widened and he thought she meant to refuse indignantly. Instead a faint smile curved her mouth. "Perhaps I wish it, too," she said softly, then turned and walked quickly from the room.
He rose and crossed to stand in the doorway, watching bemused until she disappeared from view. If he'd ever made love to a woman in the past, he couldn't remember but if he had, he was sure he hadn't wanted that woman half as much as he wanted Esperanza.
Staring into the gray light, wondering how soon she'd be able to arrange their meeting and how long he could bear to wait, he realized fog had rolled in from the ocean to hide the sun. To hide tonight's moon.
It was then he recalled the warning from his hidden past that had come to him as he rode out last night.
A full moon brings death.
A premonition? He grimaced. A bloody accurate one.
He eased through the door and stretched to loosen stiff muscles. What other unpleasant secrets were concealed behind his curtain of forgetfulness?
Unease crawled along his spine and he whirled. The bruja was near, he could almost see the blue sparks of her energy. Uneasy as she made him, he refused to retreat, he'd face her.
The gate opened and her black-garbed figure slipped through. Tia Dolores stopped, one hand on the gate and looked at him. "I've known from the first, you spawn of the devil." Her words dripped with venom. "The rest are blind but soon enough all will see that you wear the mark of the beast."
Chapter 3
"Here comes the beggar again," Juan muttered as they finished supper. "The only thanks you get for feeding that damn parrot is to have him shit on you."
Ulysses paid no attention to Juan's grumbling, holding out his arm to offer Esperanza's parrot, Gayo, a perch as it flew through the open window. Gayo landed, sidled up his arm to his shoulder and rubbed his head against Ulysses' cheek. Ulysses offered the brightly colored bird the rest of his tortilla. Holding it in one claw, Gayo crunched the crisp corn pancake in his curved beak.
Juan pushed away from the pine table and eased himself flat on his bunk, hands behind his head, staring morosely at the ceiling. "When I close my eyes," he said, "even yet I can see him."
Ulysses knew he didn't mean the parrot but the bloody remains of the dead man he'd found by the stream two weeks before.
"It takes away a man's appetite," Juan complained. Ulysses only half-heard him for, as he caressed the parrot, he discovered a tiny tube of paper tied with thread to one of Gayo's tailfeathers. Heart pounding in expectation, he turned his back to Juan, removed the paper and unrolled it.
One word was written inside--Encina.
Live oak. Ulysses knew Esperanza must mean the huge, ancient tree growing in the courtyard of the casa near the outer wall. He rolled the paper into a tube again and slipped it into his pocket. Tonight, when he met her there, he'd pass the paper back to her to use the next time.
He smiled at his assumption that she'd want to meet him more than once. But he had tonight to look forward to and he could at least hope for more.
"With your narrow escape from el diablo," Juan said,
"I can't think how you sleep at night."
Juan had said much the same to him every evening since that bloody night. Ulysses repeated his same answer. "I can't remember what happened."
"Who has to remember? Seeing what he left behind is enough. No animal kills like that--it was a devil-beast." Ulysses much preferred anticipating what might lie ahead with Esperanza to Juan's devil-beasts. Though he'd accepted the don's explanation for the now completely healed wound on his head--a bullet crease--he couldn't imagine any reason why he'd been naked when he came to his senses. Unless he'd meant to bathe in the stream. If he had planned to, he didn't remember and he didn't think he'd have tried anything so foolish on a moonlit night when he expected to encounter armed trespassers.
Was it something from his past that had made him strip off his clothes in the moonlight? An involuntary shudder ran through him before he could thrust the thought away.
"A cat walked over your grave, no?" Juan observed. Realizing Juan had seen him shiver, Ulysses forced a smile. "Maybe. Cats don't take to me. At least Sombrita doesn't."
Juan scowled. "Everyone knows black cats, they are bad luck. But Tia Dolores--" He paused and crossed himself. "She does what she will," he finished.
Juan suspected she was a bruja, just as he did.
To hell with this talk of witches and devil-beasts and bad luck. Tonight he'd be with pretty Esperanza, whose very name meant hope. Would she let him kiss her?
He was still wondering hours later when he scaled the wall and climbed into the branches of the giant oak. It crossed his mind that Don Alfonso wouldn't take kindly to this secret rendezvous but he flicked the worry aside. Imagining how she'd feel in his arms was preferable to imagining what her father might do if he discovered them together.
The night was clear, the moon, less than a waning quarter, was just rising. The darkness was perfumed by the heavy, sweet scent of tiny white star-shaped flowers blooming among the glossy green leaves of the vines climbing the adobe wall. He must remember to ask Esperanza what they were called. Since he had no past, like a curious child, he was obsessed by a need to know the name of everything.
He glanced up through the oak leaves at the sky, brilliant with stars and suddenly a memory drifted within reach, a remembrance of a time he'd watched the night skies with another, the two of them learning the constellations as though for a tutor, the two of them laughing together, close, sharing.
Grief overwhelmed him, burdening his heart, cutting
off the memory. Gone, the other was gone. Forever....
A rustle of clothing warned Ulysses someone approached and he came alert, the sadness wafting away like alder down blown by the wind. A vision in white drifted toward the oak and he slid downward until he perched on the lowest branch. Why could he recall tales of beautiful princesses when he couldn't remember his own name? Esperanza, though her hair was dark instead of golden, reminded him of those fairy tales. Perhaps she was Nastas'ya--but, no, though a princess, Nastas'ya was a warrior maiden while Esperanza was a soft and gentle girl.
When she stepped under the branches of the oak, he whispered her name. "Esperanza."
She glanced about her. "Where are you?"
He broke off a twig and let it fall onto the filmy scarf covering her hair.
"Oh!" Startled, she looked up and saw him.
Ulysses straddled the thick branch and reached down
for her. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hands in his. He gripped her wrists and lifted her up and onto the thick branch where he sat, easing her down next to him.
"I've never been in a tree," she said breathlessly.
"Tia Dolores taught me girls don't climb trees."
"Ah, but you didn't climb one."
"I won't fall, will I?"
He put his arm around her waist. "Not with me here to hold you."
She leaned against him, soft and warm and smelling of violets. "I can't stay long," she whispered. "I shouldn't be with you at all."
"I won't harm you." It was the truth. He'd never do anything she didn't want him to.
"I don't believe what Tia Dolores says about you."
He didn't want to hear what that was. "Is she really your aunt?"
"Papa says she's a distant cousin who came to be with my mother before I was born. She stayed on when my mother died. Tia Dolores has been very good to me." She pulled away to look at him. "But she's wrong about you."
He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "When I came to myself on the beach and saw you bending over me, I thought at first you were Princess Nausicaa rescuing me, poor castaway that I was."
Her lips were temptingly close. "And now?"
"I still believe you're a princess." No longer wondering what might happen between them, no longer thinking at all, he bent his head and touched her lips with his. Though obviously inexperienced, she responded eagerly to his kiss, her arms going around his neck to hold him to her.
His hands followed the curves of her body, finding that tonight she wore no corset, only a thin nightgown and nightrobe, both with ribbons in the front that tempted him to untie them. When her gown fell open revealingly, how could he be expected not to touch her round white breasts?
Her sighs at his caresses excited him as much as the feel of her softness under his fingers. He struggled to keep his head. A tree branch, no matter how solid and wide, was a precarious place for lovemaking.