The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  The attack at La Purisima that had led to her father being assigned there had taken no lives and hadn't been part of a massive attack. In fact, she'd caught a glimpse of the soldier who'd been wounded and overheard Cpl. Roberto Galvez arguing with her father that the viceroy had no right ordering him replaced since the savages around La Purisima were cowards.

  Not that her father had cared about Corporal Galvez's pride or would ever make the mistake of dismissing the enemy.

  Leaning forward, she fixed her gaze on her father's straight back. Every line in his body, even the way he rode his horse, spoke of a man who was a soldier at his core. He'd killed before; she had no doubt that he was capable of and willing to kill again.

  * * *

  The small of his back throbbed, but Cpl. Sebastian Rodriguez refused to acknowledge it, just as he ignored the sweat pouring down the sides of his head and the miserable excuses for soldiers who had been assigned to him.

  In more than twenty years spent in service to his country, he had never felt so ill-equipped for an assignment, and if he'd thought it would do any good, he would have sailed to Spain to present himself before the viceroy or even the king. Unfortunately, Corporal Rodriguez knew what the answer would be. The Spanish Crown had already spent a fortune setting up the California missions, and the military was hard-pressed to maintain the troops it now had, let alone commissioning additional men.

  It wasn't true; there were more soldiers than necessary whiling away their days at the presidios while he was expected to restore order at La Purisima all but single-handedly, and if he failed—

  His wife and daughter had been speaking to each other, but they'd now fallen silent. If he'd had any choice in the matter, the two would be in Mexico where they belonged, but that, like the number of men under his control and his being ordered here, was out of his hands. Margarita and Lucita might believe their entreaties had had an effect on him, but they were wrong. Instead, he and his family were pawns in the hands of powerful priests who believed it was time for the missions to become civilized. Men of God who'd never been out of their homeland and knew nothing about conditions here had decided that sending Spanish women to at least one of the missions was the way to accomplish that. He'd been sent to La Purisima not because of his military record but because he was married to a deeply religious woman, a woman who, the viceroy had ordered, would accompany him. The fact that Sebastian had a grown daughter only solidified the priests' argument.

  Teeth clenched, Sebastian rode out the waves of shame that overtook him whenever he thought about that. He was a soldier, a proven fighter! He'd led the men under him against untold enemies of the Crown. His record should speak for itself! He hadn't outlived his usefulness, lost his ability to plan and strategize, to fight, just because age had crept up on him!

  His jaw ached and he forced himself to release the tension there, but that did little to calm him. Instead he, once again, vowed to prove himself to his superiors. He would crush the so-called rebellion here, and when he was done he would demand the respect due him.

  Anything else was incomprehensible, and terrifying.

  * * *

  Black Wolf's legs easily kept pace with the slow-moving group, and although his side bothered him, he remained strong. If he hadn't had to concentrate on remaining hidden, he might have grown impatient waiting for them. As it was, he split his attention between the newcomers and the land that was as familiar as his son's features.

  In their foolishness, those who had built La Purisima had chosen a valley surrounded by low tree-covered hills. As a result, a Chumash could easily remain hidden while slipping close enough to see what was happening at the mission. He did that now.

  Summer had burned his world. Winter would lash at it, and those of the People who lived in the hills with him would be hardput to find enough game to fill their bellies, but from the beginning of time the Chumash had performed the ceremony honoring Kakunupmawa, the sun, and Kakunupmawa had once again grown in strength and warmth and spring had returned. It would happen again and again for all time as long as there were still Chumash not trapped within the mission.

  Grunting, Black Wolf wrapped his fingers around the charm stone he carried on a thong around his neck. Talks with Frogs had given it to him so he would be invisible to arrows and protected from illness. The shaman hadn't known whether the charm stone would keep him safe from Spanish swords and muskets, but it had never occurred to him not to accept the sacred talisman.

  Kakunupmawa had lost much of its energy and light by the time the newcomers finished the gentle drop into the rich, fertile valley his people called Algsacupi. The setting sun glinted off the buildings' tile roofs and seemed to penetrate the heavy adobe walls, but although the leatherjackets and women continued toward the church, he had no desire to risk venturing closer. Besides, he knew what the church's interior looked like, just as he knew about the cemetery with its too-many small crosses, the death-smelling infirmary, what it was like to live confined in the small, cramped dormitory.

  Amused, he watched the leatherjackets dismount and stagger about. The leader with the plumed helmet was the last to swing out of his saddle and seemed to be taking great pains not to reveal any discomfort. He stood beside his motionless horse for several minutes as if concerned about the animal's welfare, but Black Wolf guessed he didn't trust his legs to do more. Finally, however, he stepped toward the two waiting padres.

  At that, the hot, bitter taste of hatred coated Black Wolf's mouth and darkened his vision. Fists clenched, he remained crouched behind a boulder and studied the interaction among the men. The padres wore their usual flowing gray garments, but they had pushed back their head coverings, revealing their heads.

  He would have to be standing only a few feet away from tall, skinny Father Joseph to hear him because the man's wispy, childlike voice never carried. In truth, if it were only the two of them, he might have approached Father Joseph and asked whether his once broken knee still pained him, maybe even offered to help him back to his feet after praying on the hard adobe floor.

  Father Patricio was different.

  Sharp pain on his upper thigh distracted Black Wolf. Careful not to reveal himself, he slid off the boulder, only then slapping at the wasp that had stung him. Looking around, he saw that where the boulder met the ground was being used as a wasp nest, something he would have noticed if he hadn't been so intent on the scene below. After running his nail over his thigh to dislodge the stinger, he looked around for a safer vantage point. A fiery sensation remained, but he'd been stung before and knew the discomfort would soon subside. Besides, that pain was nothing compared to what he'd suffered at Father Patricio's hands.

  Black Wolf was surprised to see the leatherjacket leader lift his hands toward the black-clothed woman and help her to the ground and wondered if she was too frail to do such a simple task on her own. He had never seen a Spanish woman. Maybe they were all like newborn fawns.

  When the bareheaded woman with the great mass of midnight hair jumped lightly to the ground, he decided he'd been wrong. It still puzzled him that the other woman had required help, because she now dropped to her knees in front of the men of God and bowed so low to the ground that her head touched earth, but the ways of women weren't his concern. What mattered was whether his people were in danger from this new military presence, whether the new leatherjackets had come to exact their brand of punishment on him—if they ever caught him.

  The kneeling woman looked up at the other woman and then tugged on her skirt hem. After several seconds, the stander knelt, but instead of lowering her head, she looked up at first Father Patricio and then Father Joseph. By turn, the padres placed their hands on the women's heads, giving their blessing.

  It seemed to Black Wolf that Father Patricio remained with the bareheaded woman longer than with the other.

  The younger of the two was the first to regain her feet. Once she had, she put her hands on the other woman's shoulders. Then the younger woman slipped her fin
gers around the other's elbows and helped her stand.

  When the wind shifted, the stench of boiling fat assaulted Black Wolfs nostrils. Although he couldn't see the large, dark vats where fat from slaughtered cattle was boiled, he all too easily remembered standing for hours over the containers while endlessly stirring the slime that, when melted, was stored in large skin bags until needed to make the candles that lit the small, dark rooms.

  The slaves the padres called neophytes surrendered their youth and strength to tallow rendering. As long as the padres remained at La Purisima, as long as they were protected by armed leatherjackets, more and more Chumash children would be forced to fill their lungs with the wretched stench.

  A spasm snaking from palm to forearm served as notice that he'd gripped his spear too tightly. He should know how to keep his emotions under control: After all, denying what he felt had kept him alive during the years when the child now known as Black Wolf had been a prisoner here.

  But it was so hard.

  * * *

  The all too quickly approaching night made Lucita think of a storm-tossed wind. She'd been so young when her mother took her to the ocean so they could watch her father leave for the first of what became an endless parade of leave-takings. She couldn't remember where the viceroy had sent him that time or how long he'd been gone or whether her mother had shown any emotion at either his leaving or his return, but she would never forget the feel of the wind as it slapped her cheeks and tangled her hair. She knew why she was being reminded of that now; except for these few buildings and wooden corrals, there was nothing but wilderness.

  "We are delighted to have you here," Father Joseph said, his soft voice only partly separating her from her memories and reactions. "For years I prayed the Lord would see fit to send women to help spread his word in ways that are beyond the ability of men. And now, finally, my prayer is answered. Surely the Lord's ways are both mysterious and wonderful."

  "God is all-wise, all-knowing," her mother said. "It is not for us to question his timing."

  "No, Senora Margarita, it is not. I trust he looked over you during your journey."

  As her mother told Father Joseph about the small, cramped packer ship they'd spent seemingly endless days and nights on while traveling up from Compostela to San Diego, Lucita tried to concentrate, but her mother, like the others, had become disembodied voices. Lucita was grateful for the opportunity to stand, and yet the long hours on horseback had been wearing and she looked forward to sleeping. Sleeping? It seemed unlikely that she could quiet the whirlwind of impressions that filled her mind enough for that to happen.

  If only they'd reached the mission earlier in the day. As it was, she would probably have to wait until after evening prayers and supper to gather any impression of her new home. She was aware of several long whitish buildings, the church with its companario and three bells, a fountain and overflowing rock-lined pond, a number of trees of various types, and beyond them some nearly hidden smaller buildings. She'd expected fortification such as adobe walls enclosing the mission, but there was nothing in the way of protection.

  Something smelled horrible, the stench familiar and yet stronger than anything she'd ever encountered. The sounds of cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, and other animals pulled her attention toward the wooden pens. She'd spotted a water-filled ditch on the way in and wondered where it led to and whether it watered the large garden. Most of all, she wanted to see where the Indians lived and if they looked like the wild one she'd seen earlier.

  "Daughter, did you not hear the father?" Margarita asked sharply. "Honestly, it is so hard to get one's children to pay their elders proper respect."

  "Your daughter is not a child," Father Patricio said. He'd tilted his head to one side and was smiling faintly. "She is a woman."

  "A woman who should be married," her father insisted.

  "Sebastian." Her mother's voice, as usual, was carefully balanced between peacekeeping and pacifying. "The padres are not concerned with what goes on within our household."

  Father Joseph shifted his weight, winced, and cupped his hand over his right knee. "Indeed the Church acknowledges that some matters are the responsibility of parents. However, that responsibility is easily accepted and dealt with if the Church's teachings are faithfully followed."

  Her stomach knotted, but Lucita refused to let her reaction show. She and her father had never been close, never reached out or shared. Things had got worse since she'd threatened to run away if she was forced to marry the man her father had chosen for her. There were times when she believed it would be easier if she simply acquiesced, but if she did, she would spend her life with a stern-faced man determined to carve out a hacienda in the Texas territory. More than that, she'd seen Ermano De Leon ride a horse to death, seen the emaciated condition of his cattle.

  "I am most interested in learning how you have been able to bring the Church into this wild land," she said, deliberately turning the subject in another direction.

  "I am glad you are, my child," Father Patricio said. The potbellied man with oversize hands smiled at her again, showing crooked teeth, one of them black. "However, that can wait until you have eaten and rested. We have instructed the cooks to prepare a meal worthy of our new commander and his family. The neophytes will tend to your horses. There is no reason for us to stand out here, no reason at all."

  Lucita's mother cleared her throat. "Is it dangerous? I am sorry. I do not mean to sound ungrateful or to take our thoughts from the task of doing the Lord's work, but it has been on my mind so much. Do we have anything to fear from the wild Indians?"

  Chapter 3

  The newcomer, obviously an Indian, wore nothing beyond a diaper-like garment that looked in danger of sliding off his hips.

  Although she wanted to hear the answer to her mother's question about their safety, Lucita couldn't take her eyes or thoughts off the man who'd just approached them. He stood a respectful distance away, strangely long arms hanging at his sides, his head bowed. She wanted to believe they had nothing to fear from him, but she'd never seen someone so uncivilized-looking.

  His black, tangled hair fell to the top of his prominent shoulder blades. He was some five or six inches taller than she was, not particularly well muscled, his deep and beautiful eyes set a little too close together. Abroad and flared nose dominated his features, and she gained no impression of his mouth beyond the fact that she could see his tongue.

  "Come here," Father Patricio ordered. "No, no. Do not do that!" Springing forward, he struck the Indian on his cheek. "Have you no modesty?"

  The man had slid a hand inside his dirty garment and had been scratching himself there. As the blow rocked him, he winced and shuffled backward, then stared fixedly at the ground.

  "I apologize, dear ladies," Father Patricio said, flashing what made Lucita think of a dog's teeth, sharp and cruel. "We try so hard to civilize these creatures, but I doubt our work will ever be done, especially with the adults."

  "But to hit them—"

  "Lucita! Silence," her father warned. "The padre does as he must. The enemy understands violence; it's what keeps them in line."

  "Unfortunately, you are right," Father Patricio muttered, but something in his eyes made her believe he didn't regret what he'd done. "They persist in going about like animals, and I fear their acceptance of the Lord will never be complete."

  "Surely not, Father," Margarita gasped. "Without God, their souls will spend eternity in hell. They must understand that; they must!"

  Father Patricio sighed. "We try, my dear lady. But as you can see, it is not an easy task." He glared at the Indian. "You cannot fathom the joy we felt when we received word they you were coming. To have a true servant of the Lord working with us..."

  Overcome by what Lucita assumed to be joy, the surprisingly fit-looking (in spite of his rounded stomach) padre folded his hands under his chin and gazed skyward. Although she felt pressure to express herself in the same way, Lucita couldn't take her gaze off the India
n with the reddening handprint on his cheek. A young man, his flesh seemed too large for his body. His ribs and shoulder blades stood out, and his belly, or what should have been one, had sunk deep between the sheltering bones.

  The greatest lesson, she now realized, was in his eyes, which spoke of uncounted emotions felt but unsaid. They seemed on fire, confused, afraid, and angry all at the same time, the look a frightening twin of what she'd seen in the eyes of babies with no mother's breast to suckle.

  "My mother asked if we had anything to fear from the savages. Do we?" she asked although her father undoubtedly wanted her to remain silent.

  "Not most of them." Father Patricio waved a dismissive hand at the Indian, then said something she only half-understood because although most of his words were Spanish, a few were foreign to her. "They are gentle, if dull-witted, children," he said when he was done. "I will not try to tell you different. However, fortunately, the neophytes are deer, not bears."

  "Not all of them," Father Joseph said. "What do you mean?" she asked although an Indian had wounded a soldier, an act that had set in motion the reasons for her father having been sent here.

  "What he means"—Father Patricio spoke without looking at his companion—"is that there are a few beyond saving. The devil's children. They—"

  "Father Patricio, I must protest!" Father Joseph interrupted. "They are lost. Not—"

  Father Patricio held up the hand that had so recently been used to punish. "You are too kind to them when they do not deserve such words. Perhaps our guests are not interested—"

  "I am," her father interrupted. "Unfortunately, my predecessor was of no mind to discuss conditions here which I mean to rectify as quickly as possible."

  "Of course, of course." Father Patricio nodded repeatedly. "I, we will be happy to answer any and all questions. For now... the lost ones, as Father Joseph so charitably calls them, are not under our care. Either they still live like animals in the mountains, or they have run away. Those who run..." His eyes closed and he seemed lost within himself. "They are the worst."