by Jane Toombs
Somehow he must learn to control his shifting. If such a thing was possible.
Nine months later, he hadn't found any way to avoid changing under the moon. Though he'd done well for himself with the horses, well enough to buy his first California land, he was still at the moon's mercy.
Living alone in the desert east of the village of Los Angeles kept him away from humans. His nearest neighbors, a small tribe of Havasupais, left him alone. After he learned enough of their language to talk to them, he'd arranged for
a man called Bony Tail to guard his horses for three days of every month--the three days of the full moon--while he disappeared into the hills.
Oso, the Indians called him. Bear. He wondered if they suspected what he was. If so, they didn't let on. Nor did they go out of their way to avoid him. They were good neighbors, neither friendly nor unfriendly. He didn't intend to make friends. Not with Bony Tail of the Havasupais nor any man, ever again.
He wasn't happy but he didn't expect happiness. When he had enough land, he meant to build a fortress in the wilderness and live out his days in isolation, protected from men. As they'd be protected from him.
Meanwhile, he was safe--or at least as safe as any oborot could be.
How long would his precarious safety last?
Chapter 7
"Harder," Tia Dolores urged. "Push harder, my child." Esperanza drew in a ragged breath and, tears streaming down her face, tried to obey. She'd never known such grinding pain--how could she push? Through blurred eyes, she stared in desperation at the familiar ceiling of her room. Her child fought against being born and she couldn't blame him.
Mother of God have mercy, she prayed silently.
The pain increased until she thought she'd faint. Instead, she found herself grunting, pushing, forcing the child from her body whether he wished it or not. Tia Dolores gave a cry of triumph, and suddenly Esperanza was free of the terrible pain.
But only briefly. Renewed pain gripped her. Though it wasn't as severe, Esperanza moaned. She'd hoped it was over. "A boy," Tia Dolores said.
Esperanza had known all along it would be a boy.
Despair wracked her. She was far too weak to protect her son now that he was no longer safe inside her.
"Let me see him." Her voice quivered with fatigue.
"He never took a breath," Tia Dolores said. "You must thank the Lord he did not."
Dead? Her son was dead? "I don't believe you!" Esperanza cried.
Tia Dolores handed her the blanket-wrapped baby. "Look for yourself."
Gazing at her beautiful little son, his skin already mottling with death, Esperanza scarcely noticed the renewed pain in her grief. Pobrecito, she thought, he resembles his father.
She eased the initialed tin cross his father had given her from under her pillow and laid it on his breast. "Go with God," she whispered.
Tia Dolores took him from her and laid the little body out of her sight. "All is not over," she warned. "There's the after-birth still to come. Drink this, it will ease the pain."
Esperanza choked down two swallows of a foul-tasting brew but the pain persisted, going on and on into eternity. When at last it eased, the exhausted Esperanza collapsed into a drugged sleep where she dreamed she heard a baby's cry.
She struggled to rouse, fearing Tia Dolores had lied to her. "He lives, I hear him," Esperanza gasped, too weak to raise her head.
"You saw his dead body for yourself."
"God will punish you for all eternity if you lie." Esperanza's voice was so faint the words were scarcely audible. "Harm my son and you risk your immortal soul."
"He is dead!" Tia Dolores insisted.
Unable to keep her eyes open, no matter how hard she tried, Esperanza slipped into darkness.
Without so much as glancing at her, Tia Dolores crossed herself, picked up two bundles and hurried from the room.
She left one in the store room off the kitchen. Hastily pulling a cloak over her shoulders, she eased from the house with the other and walked rapidly into the night.
Don Rafael was in the courtyard waiting for Tia Dolores when she returned to the casa. "Well," he asked impatiently when she opened the gate, "is it over?"
Tia Dolores glanced quickly at him, then away, focusing her gaze on his polished boots. "It is over and done with," she muttered. "The boy was cursed in the womb and could not live. You will dig his grave and I will bury him for it is not fit such as he should lie in hallowed ground. I've done what I can to prevent your next son from such contamination." He turned away without a word, but not before she'd seen his thin smile of satisfaction. He might be Esperanza's husband but he knew as well as she did the dead child was not his, but devil-spawn, conceived by another before he'd claimed his bride.
She hadn't lied to him. A child had died and they'd bury him. The one she hadn't mentioned wouldn't survive either. Esperanza's unexpected curse had prevented her from smothering him as she'd first intended but abandoning him in the hills meant just as sure a death from animals or exposure--without endangering her soul and inviting the wrath of God. She'd rid them of every last remnant of the devil- beast by placing the tin cross in his son's blanket.
She'd done her part. One child dead at birth, the
other as good as dead. It was up to Don Rafael to hunt down their father and rid the world of such a devil, once and for all.
Liwanu, the elder of the two Miwok men searching for a stray steer, heard the whimpering first and froze, holding up his hand for silence. Toloisi held, both men listening carefully. Their eyes met. Unshed tears shone in Toloisi's. Liwanu sighed. Grief choked his son. One sun earlier, Toloisi's wife had birthed a babe before it was strong enough to live. If not for that, Liwanu would have gestured for them both to return the way they'd come. They were uncomfortably close to white men here so it was no Miwok child they heard. Who knew what peril the crying baby might bring upon them?
Peril or not, the sight of his son's tears drove him to investigate.
When the men trotted back along their own trail, Toloisi hugged a blanket-wrapped baby to his chest.
As blue shadows lengthened over the rocky slopes of the desert, Sherman shifted his shoulders uneasily and Rawhide's ears flicked as though sensing his master's tension. For the best part of an hour Sherman had known a rider trailed him. Though he'd given no indication he realized he was being followed, he'd made certain to stay far enough ahead to be out of rifle range.
Since there was little cover in the desert, he'd ridden on until dusk cloaked his movements. Unless one of the Havasupais stalked him--and why should that be?--in darkness he had the advantage. Of all the men he'd met in California, only the Indians were as capable as he at night. They had the advantage of long practice in their home territory but he had better night vision as well as his extra ability to sense humans from a distance, making him their equal.
He didn't believe his pursuer was a Havasupai. Though he and the men of the tribe weren't friends they appreciated one another's abilities. They knew his habits so they had no reason to track him.
Women, of whatever race, he avoided altogether. In any case, no woman would be following him.
The rider was a man. Who? And why?
He rarely ventured into Los Angeles except to sell a horse or to return one he'd been hired to break and train.
As far as he knew he'd made no enemies in the hamlet. He doubted a bandit would bother with a horse trainer and trader--they looked for better pickings. Besides, bandits rode in packs and usually attacked from ambush.
A Californio from the north? Sherman drew in his breath. Would they search for him this far south? He'd changed his name and lived far from any town--they'd have trouble locating him if they did come looking.
The blue of evening shaded into night's darkness.
He knew it was the dark of the moon, there'd be only starshine to guide him. Swerving Rawhide abruptly to the left, he began a wide circle toward his back trail. The Havasupais weren't the only desert dwelle
rs who knew the country for Sherman had memorized, for miles around, every hill and the location of each large desert plant, those strange spiked growths.
The rider stopped, apparently uncertain. Until nightfall, tracking had been easy because Sherman had deliberately stayed on the trail. Now, either the pursuer mistrusted the darkness or him. Or both. Sherman's lips drew back over his teeth. The man had cause for fear. Sherman continued his circle until he reached his goal, a large spreading agave next to the trail and behind the man who followed him. He reined in Rawhide and laid his hand on the dun's neck. Swaybacked or not, Rawhide was his favorite mount--the horse had an unusual ability to sense what his rider wished. In this case, to keep quiet.
He waited. At the moment he was just behind his pursuer. If the man rode on, he'd follow. If the man turned back, he'd be ready.
At last the tracker wheeled his horse. Sherman urged Rawhide to the side of the agave farthest from the rider, eased his feet from the stirrups and climbed onto the saddle, where he crouched. Rawhide remained rock still.
When the rider started past the agave, Sherman leaped, knocking the man from the saddle onto the ground and landing on top of him. Before the man regained his breath, Sherman disarmed him and yanked him to his feet, his arm crooked about the man's neck from behind. By then he didn't have to ask his name.
"Don Rafael," Sherman said flatly. "We meet again." "Lobombre!" Don Rafael gasped, choking as he fought to breathe with Sherman's hold cutting off his wind.
Lobombre. Man-wolf. Whatever he was, Sherman thought, it wasn't a wolf. Easing his grip slightly, he asked, "What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Well you know, devil-beast," Don Rafael sputtered. "You're a lobombre, a man who turns into a wolf when the moon is full. God has cursed you for your sins; you are forever damned, you will burn in hell for all eternity."
"Since I'm already damned, it makes little difference if I kill you, no es verdad?"
"Kill me, then! Another will come in my place. Kill him and another will come and then another. We have vowed to rid the world of such as you. You cannot be permitted to live, to go on killing. Already Don Alfonso lies in his grave, his throat torn out."
Sherman was appalled. "No! Not by me!"
"By the wolf you became--what's the difference? You murdered him when you escaped from the pit. As you would have killed Esperanza one day if Tia Dolores hadn't drugged you."
"Never," Sherman protested. "I would never have harmed her."
"Esperanza is my wife, not yours and she will bear my sons, not your devil spawn. Yours was a monster, it died at birth, too malformed to live, an abomination to God and to man. As its father is."
Don Rafael raved on but, in his shock, Sherman hardly heard him. Esperanza had borne a son? His son? Just as well the child died rather than growing up to become what he was. Lobombre. Oborot. Shapeshifter.
Grief twisted in his chest for the bride he'd lost and the son he'd never see. And for Don Alfonso as well.
Without willing it, his arm tightened around Don Rafael's neck.
Don Rafael gagged and choked, struggling. Before he went limp, Sherman realized what he was doing and loosened his grip. God help him, he didn't want to kill another man. "How did you find me?" he demanded.
It took Don Rafael several moments to gather enough breath to gasp the answer. "Asked all Californios to watch for you. Heard from Los Angeles about a dark-haired man who charmed horses. Traced you here. Follow you wherever you go. If not me, another."
What was he to do with Don Rafael? Sherman asked himself. Even if he brought himself to kill him, another Californio would ride to hunt him. Must he kill them all to save his own life?
"Oso," a voice said from the darkness. "I am here." Sherman started. In his agitation, he hadn't sensed the Havasupai's approach. He knew it was Bony Tail, the man who watched his horse herd three days a month.
"I saw the man follow you. I followed him," Bony Tail added.
"I need help," Sherman told him. "This man wishes to kill me. I don't wish to kill him."
"You want me to kill him for you." It wasn't a question.
"No. I wouldn't ask that of you. Or of anyone. What I ask is that you keep him your prisoner until I've travelled five suns from this place. Take him then to the trail north and let him go. See that he doesn't try to follow my trail." "You leave forever." Again, it wasn't a question. Sherman felt his heart constrict at the realization he couldn't return. He'd come to think of California as his home. Unlike Cump, he'd grown to love this land.
"Forever," he agreed, sadness tinging the word.
"I will do as you ask," Bony Tail said.
"Choose what horses you like from my herd for your village," Sherman told him. "I will bring the rest with me." Switching from Havasupai to Spanish, he spoke to Don Rafael. "I won't kill you. Neither will the Indians.
Once I'm gone from here they'll turn you loose. Don't try to follow me. If you do, Bony Tail will kill you."
Quickly binding Don Rafael's hands, he shoved him toward the Havasupai. "I will leave tonight," he told Bony Tail. "My heart is heavy for you, man of darkness," the Indian said, "for you bear a great burden. May the Great Spirit light your pathway."
With the remnants of his horse herd, Sherman made camp in the desert a few hours before dawn. Before he'd left, Bony Tail had drawn a map in the dirt showing water holes as far into the desert as the tribe had ever ventured. There weren't many.
"White men follow a trail along what they call the Gila River," Bony Tail had said. "From there you will find much dry country until the river they call the Rio Grande. There is talk of a river as wide as a sea beyond the Rio Grande. I do not know the truth."
As he settled into his blanket beside Rawhide, Sherman wondered if he'd ever reach this river as wide as a sea.
Much as he regretted leaving California, curiosity about the rest of the United States eased his sadness. Perhaps one day he might even see Cump's Ohio, wherever that might be. If he lived long enough.
Bony Tail had warned him of hostile Indians along the Gila and the Rio Grande. "Apache. Comanche. Hide from them or you'll die."
If he was successful in avoiding the hostiles, he had fourteen days to reach a place where he could safely corral his horses and then stay apart from them for the three days of the full moon. Otherwise what horses the beast didn't kill would scatter and be lost.
He'd discovered while living at the hacienda that he needed less sleep than Juan and the others--another difference between him and men who didn't shift shape under the moon. He planned to get by with as little sleep as possible while crossing what Bony Tail called the "no-good- to-live country." He didn't mind the barrenness of the desert but he needed to find more hospitable land for himself and his horses.
Though he fought against reliving his meeting with
Don Rafael, what the Californio had told him darkened his mind before sleep claimed him. Don Alfonso dead. Killed by the beast. By him. Sherman clenched his fists against the pain in his heart. If the bruja hadn't drugged him he would have left of his own volition and the don would still be alive.
He hated Don Rafael for his part in the drugging but he couldn't blame the Californio for hunting him down.
Don Alfonso had been a friend, a benefactor--he'd have given anything not to be responsible for the old man's death. It cut him to the heart to think of poor Esperanza, left alone to bear his child--a baby so malformed and monstrous it hadn't lived.
I'll never father another child, he vowed. Never.
How cruel to bring a child into such an existence as his. Who was his own father? What was his father? He might never learn but he wouldn't be satisfied unless he knew.
Even if it meant spending the rest of his live trying to find the answers.
With St. Vrain beside him, Sherman stood at the rail of the sidewheeler that had brought him from Galveston in the state of Texas and was now approaching the dock in New Orleans, in the state of Louisiana. He'd gotten over his amaze
ment at the broad waters of the Mississippi as they traveled upstream from the Gulf of Mexico but the gracious plantation houses with their vast acreages on the river banks still bemused him.
"There she is, my beautiful city," St. Vrain said as
the steamboat rounded a curve and buildings and church spires came into view. "La belle New Orleans."
Sherman felt a fleeting recognition as he stared at the spires, rounded rather than steeply pointed like those in Galveston. They were almost like the domes of the churches in.... The thought cut off before completion and no amount of effort brought it back. Frustrated, he turned away from the city to look at St. Vrain.
Sherman admired anew the elaborately flowered brocaded vest the gambler wore. Otherwise St. Vrain dressed entirely in black except for a ruffled white shirt.
"She's all yours," St. Vrain continued, stroking his dark mustache. "All the temptations and the pleasures, all the pitfalls and perils. I'd wish I were your age again if I could be sure of remembering what I've learned in the twenty years since I was nineteen."
Sherman glanced once again at St. Vrain's city. He saw at once it was larger than Galveston. The church with three rounded towers was flanked by two impressive buildings of at least three stories.
"Where you see the cannon, that's the Place d'Armes," St. Vrain said, "with St. Louis Cathedral behind the parade ground, the Cabildo to the left and the Presbytere to the right. Remarkable, n'est ce pas? Unfortunately, farther to the right, along the docks, runs a street I urge you to keep away from, especially at night--Gallatin. In the day few are about on Gallatin Street but at night the vampires appear to prey on the fools who venture into that pit of hell."
One word had startled Sherman. "Vampires?"
St. Vrain waved a hand. "So to speak--whores and thieves and murderers. No more than you do I believe that dead men rise at night to suck the blood of the living but those who ply their trade on Gallatin Street are far worse than any tall tale of vampires. Stay away."