by Vella Munn
The woman drew her dirt-stained hand over her dry mouth. "I heard her cry out, heard him order her to be silent."
"You did not try to stop him?"
"How?" She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. "They have weapons while we..." Jaw sagging, she stared at the knife Black Wolf held. "What are you going to do?"
He didn't move.
"You cannot! They are too strong!" Looking startled, she clamped her hand over her mouth and spoke around her fingers. "You are not one of us, are you?"
He shook his head.
"I remember... my mother taught me how to weave baskets before I was brought here." She sighed. "I tried to teach my daughters the same skill, but there are not enough rushes or tule at the mission, and the padres force my girls to live in the monjerio and I seldom see them."
"The murdered woman whose name I must not say again made fine baskets," he told her. "She had just finished the one she planned to place her baby in."
The woman's features sagged. "Her child—"
"Died with her."
Hand still clamped over her mouth, the woman paced back and forth like an old horse looking for a way out of its corral. The three men who'd been working with her had stopped what they were doing and stared but made no move to join the conversation. All Black Wolf cared was that they didn't betray him.
"His belly is as big as that of a woman about to give birth. No female neophyte is safe around him." The woman stared at the ground. "He has little hair and shoulders so broad that maybe his mother was a mule."
"Where is he?"
"There." She pointed toward where the horses were kept. "I want you to take this knowledge with you. What he did to the woman, he has done the same to my eldest daughter."
"No." Despite his protest, Black Wolf wasn't surprised.
Her eyes filled and spilled over, but she didn't seem aware that she was crying. "At least he did not take a knife to my child, but she is defiled. Life here is so different," she whispered. "Not what I knew as a small child. My mother taught me how to make fine baskets, to gather berries and acorns, to roast bulbs. I... I tell my daughters not to fight the leatherjackets, so that they may live."
* * *
The smell of horse sweat and manure clogged Black Wolf's nostrils and the never-ending snorts, thuds, and chewing sounds made his ears ring, but he still had his eyes and he hadn't forgotten what the neophyte woman had said to him, her helpless anger.
The corral had been constructed out of tightly packed sticks held together with rope, but by moving like a wolf, staying in the shadows and peering through the slit like openings, he managed to catch glimpses of what was going on inside. It was possible that the murdering leatherjacket had left the area, but until Black Wolf knew that for certain, he would be patient.
If this had been his father's time, he would have gone to battle naked except for the knife lashed to his waist so his body wouldn't be encumbered, but if he did, he risked catching the attention of the padres or leatherjackets when he must take on the look of a neophyte.
A horse snorted and shied, drawing his attention to what had startled the animal. It didn't take long. A big-bellied man wearing a uniform unequal to the task of adequately covering him stood at the opposite side of the corral. He carried a slender whip in one hand; a coil of rope hung from the other. Slinking like a coyote after a rabbit, the leatherjacket attempted to separate the tallest horse from the others. Black Wolf could have told him that a handful of grain would bring the animal to him, but if the man wanted to exhaust himself this way, so be it.
A studied look in all directions convinced Black Wolf that no one was paying attention to what the man was doing. Filled with what was instinct for his spirit, he closed the distance between him and the rope-tied gate and let himself in, leaving the gate open so he would have a way of escaping. He glided rather than walked, presenting himself as being of no more importance than blades of glass. A couple of the horses glanced his way but found him unimportant, for which he thanked Wolf.
A growl began low in his throat, making him wonder if he'd ceased to be a man entirely and become a cougar. A cougar or a wolf, it didn't matter. What did was that he reach his prey.
The leatherjacket was losing patience, as witnessed by his set jaw and the hard way he gripped the whip. The pain giver twitched, lifted, was slowly lowered, and Black Wolf understood that no matter how much the man might hate this horse, he did not dare vent himself on it until he'd trapped it.
An almost painful spasm brought Black Wolf back to himself, and he realized he'd been clenching his teeth, but how could his reaction be any different? In his mind's eye, he went back to when this creature—he would not call him a man—had stalked Much Rain's wife, trapped her, violated her, stabbed her. Suddenly protecting the horse became as important as avenging her death.
Once again a growl waited on his lips, and he smiled. He knew how to hunt and kill. Before he'd accepted the leatherjackets as his enemy, he had hunted only to provide for his people, killed only because they needed to eat, but the knowledge was in him, and this time he would not end his journey by giving thanks to the souls of the creatures who had given up their lives so others might live because the leatherjacket had no soul.
Intent as he was on his goal, he still kept a part of himself separate from the act and thus knew when his world changed. Poised on the balls of his feet, he turned so he could see behind him. For the briefest of moments he thought Lucita had found him, but before he was forced to deal with that, the approaching woman's features came into focus.
The elderly neophyte nodded, once, her work-broken body suddenly younger, and she made a small gesture as if reaching for her eyes, then stopped. Black Wolf continued to look back at her, his message as silent as hers as he thanked her for telling him where to look. Then, light as a fawn, she was gone.
He swung back around, isolated the leatherjacket from the four-legged creatures, started toward him again. Black Wolf's body felt so hot that he wondered if he might burst into flames—not that it mattered, because he had come here to do one thing and would not stop until—
The horse to his left reached out a white muzzle and sniffed deeply, then snorted. The sound was still echoing when Black Wolf slipped around the horse and put it between him and his prey. Although he hadn't touched the horse, they stood so close that he could feel its energy build and knew it might shy away at any instant. The animal snorted again and took a hesitant step backward.
Out of the corner of his eye Black Wolf saw the leatherjacket pause in his relentless pursuit of the other horse and begin to turn. The distance between them was too great; Black Wolf couldn't overpower him in time to prevent an outcry. But maybe, maybe—Howling like a wolf, his Wolf, he rammed his shoulder against the white-muzzled horse. The instant he did, the animal squealed and plunged ahead. He heard a human bellow, but the sharpest tones died under thudding hooves. Strength flowed into him as he gathered himself and sprang.
Lashing pain cut through him, but he didn't waste time by trying to make sense of it. The leatherjacket had squared around to face him, the whip-holding hand uplifted. He'd dropped his rope and was fumbling for whatever weapon he carried at his waist.
"No!" Black Wolf bellowed. Propelled by his words, he slammed into the leatherjacket, the effort throwing the man backward and onto the ground.
A cloud of dust half-blinded Black Wolf, but he didn't need to see. Once again pain bit into him, along the side of his neck this time, and he knew the whip had found him. Acting on instinct, he reached for the man's wrist, but the massive belly was in the way.
A howl, or maybe a growl, burst from Black Wolf. At the same time, he felt two beefy arms lock around his head. Desperate for freedom, he tried to throw himself to one side, but the enemy had shifted his attack so that he now held Black Wolf's hair with one hand while the other—
A jarring, numbing sensation rocketed through Black Wolf. For an instant he thought his head had been ripped from his neck, bu
t that couldn't be it because he was still alive. Once more something slammed into him, and despite the haze threatening to encompass him, he realized the leatherjacket had slammed his fist into his jaw.
A Chumash did not fight this way. A Chumash—
He barely felt the third blow, but it must have been a powerful one, because his limbs now seemed to be those of a newborn infant and he couldn't tell whether he still gripped his knife.
A newborn, a baby at its mother's breast.
Willow. Dead.
Her baby murdered without having ever felt its mother's arms.
Rage became a storm inside him. His muscles still wouldn't answer his call, belonged to no one.
And yet—
Black Wolf felt his fingers tighten and something dig into his palm and knew he hadn't dropped his knife after all; if nothing else, the powerful need to survive remained with him. The leatherjacket called out for help, and although the horses made a great deal of noise, Black Wolf had no doubt that the man's companions would hear.
He was Black Wolf, protected and guided by Wolf. He had survived imprisonment, become free, become a Chumash, and now—
"No!" Energized by the sound of his voice and something hot and powerful, he threw himself backward with such force that he broke free. His scalp felt as if it had been torn from his skull, and tears he had no control over completed the job the dust had begun.
Run!
But he couldn't. Not until—
His growl became a howl, long and deep and primitive. It was still echoing when he lifted his knife over his enemy's thrashing body and drove it home.
Chapter 13
"Lucita! I need you, now!"
Heart pounding, Lucita scrambled to her feet and cast about trying to get her bearings. She knew she was in the chapel but had been either so lost in pleas for peace and understanding or so overwhelmed by what had happened over the last few days that she'd lost her hold on reality. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask her father how he'd known she was here, but she didn't. Careful to remain a safe distance from him, she tried to assess his mood.
"It has happened again! Damnation! And this time—didn't you hear me, girl? I need you."
"What happened again?" she asked, stalling.
"One of my men has been attacked."
Suddenly cold, she took an involuntary step, then stopped because her father barred her way. As she feared, he used that opportunity to grab her. Fortunately, his grip on her upper arm wasn't tight enough that her circulation was cut off, and she half-believed he didn't have punishment in mind.
Although she was capable of moving on her own, he hauled her outside and pulled her toward the soldiers' quarters, giving her scant opportunity to take in her surroundings. Because the padres insisted on keeping the door to their private chapel closed at all times—to prevent the neophytes from taking anything, they said—she had no idea what had been going on outside.
"In here." After yanking open the door leading to the soldiers' quarters, Sebastian shoved her inside.
Someone was groaning, the sound sharp and wild and loud enough that it was almost a scream. Although she'd never been inside this building, it held no interest for her as she hurried to the small cot holding a large man. The soldier had been at the mission when she and her family arrived, and her father hadn't bothered to introduce her to him—not that his name mattered right now.
"Stabbed him," her father boomed. "The godless devil left his knife in him."
Thinking the injured man must have got into a fight with another soldier, she knelt beside him and leaned close. Despite the blood, the quavering cries, and the way the heavy body jerked about as if trying to destroy the cot, she now knew her first conclusion had been wrong. The knife hilt barely visible within the rolls of belly fat had been made of bone, not metal.
Looking around, she noted that two other soldiers were in the room, leaning against a wall instead of near their companion. Her father might have ordered her here, but she would never ask for his assistance.
"I need water," she told the soldiers. "As hot as you can make it."
"You are going to scald him?" the shorter of the two asked.
She shook her head but didn't bother explaining that she couldn't decide how or if to remove the knife until she could see the area better,—an impossible task until some of the blood had been washed away. After a momentary argument, the shorter soldier hurried off, soon followed by his companion. Her father yelled at the second man to return, but he either didn't hear or pretended not to.
The wounded man still thrashed back and forth, but in the few minutes she'd been here his movements had slackened, making her wonder if he'd come to the end of his strength. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, not surprised to find it both cold and sweat-soaked.
"How long ago was he hurt?" she asked.
"I don't know," her father said. "Not long. The horses—the noise they were making made us wonder if a wild animal had gotten in with them. It took us a while to calm them. That's when we found Mundo."
"Mundo," she whispered as her patient ceased to be a soldier and became someone with a deeper, more intimate identity. "Mundo, can you hear me?"
The man's eyes, which had been darting around the room like those of a captive bird seeking freedom, settled on her. Despite everything she needed to do, she took a moment to grip his hand and thought of how much healing she'd been able to accomplish simply by rocking a feverish child. Mundo gripped back with so much strength that she was afraid he'd break her fingers. In contrast, his legs now spasmed ineffectively, and by the sudden stench she knew he'd lost control of his bodily functions.
"Don't talk," she told him, although she wasn't sure he was capable of speech. The doctors who visited the orphanage had explained that a body's natural response to grave injury was to go into shock and that shock could kill.
It necessitated digging into him with the nails of her free hand, but finally she forced him to release her, then rubbed his flesh where she'd left her mark. He continued to stare at her, but the bright gleam she'd seen there a few minutes ago was being replaced by a telling dullness.
He still wore his uniform, but someone had ripped the fabric away from the wound. Gently she ran her hands over the exposed injury. She wished she had no idea how deep the blade had buried itself in him, but she'd seen a Chumash knife; the length was enough to penetrate his gut even with the layers of fat.
What was it the nuns had told her—that God worked through their fingers and if a patient's belief was strong enough, fingers alone could perform a miracle? But she didn't have a nun's faith. Still, she would do everything she could.
"Get it out of him!" her father ordered. He'd no sooner spoken when the injured man screeched, then fell silent.
She wanted nothing more than to obey her father's command. The instrument of injury and possibly death was an obscenity, but pulling it out—even if she could get a decent grip on it—might injure him further. That was what she told her father.
"He cannot live with it in him," Sebastian countered. "Either you do it or I will."
Yes, he would, his actions perhaps no different from when he'd lashed that neophyte to death. "I never said I wouldn't, but I must examine him first," she said. "And I can't do that until I have the means to clean him."
"Ha! Those worthless beasts won't return until they've gotten themselves drunk. I called for you because you have skills in such things and the padres—don't try to tell me you don't have the stomach for this."
He'd probably summoned her instead of Father Joseph as punishment for her earlier actions. "You want it out now?"
"Of course. That knife is an abomination. Damnation, Lucita—"
"Father, I can't perform a miracle. His chances..." Unwilling to say more in Mundo's presence, she simply looked at her father.
He met her somber gaze with one of his own. "I've seen all manner of wounds," he said in a low tone. "I know what we are facing."
&nb
sp; A few days ago her father had said that if she'd been a boy they would have had a great deal in common, and at this moment, maybe for the first time in her life, they were thinking the same thoughts.
"He's going to fight me," she whispered. "I need you to hold him."
For a moment she thought she saw hesitation in her father's features, but the look was gone so quickly she couldn't be sure. When Sebastian positioned himself on the opposite side of the cot and leaned over the man, pinning his arms to his side, she found herself on the verge of tears; there wasn't time to ask if it was possible for her and her father to work together.
When she touched the torn flesh, the seemingly unconscious soldier tried to buck away from her. A weaker man couldn't have held him in place, but her father stayed with Mundo, cursing, ordering, occasionally seeming to bellow with him.
The knife had gone straight in and wasn't close to the heart, but she had no way of knowing how many organs had been penetrated—certainly the muscles controlling his bowels, muscles he could not live without. The man was dying; maybe the only thing she could do for him was free him from what was causing his death. Steeling herself for what she must do, she nevertheless was vaguely aware that someone else had entered the room but didn't look up.
"What are you doing?" Margarita demanded. "Lucita! How can you touch—he is bleeding, unclean!"
"He's hurt."
"Sebastian! I will not have my daughter—"
"Silence! This man needs her skills."
No amount of skill would save this life, and she arid her father knew that. Taking advantage of her patient's momentary interest in the argument, Lucita quickly wrapped the hem of her blouse around her fingers and gripped what of the knife was exposed. Something inside her screamed, demanded that she leave, insisted that this scene, this dying, be carried out without her. Instead, eyes shut and teeth clenched, she pulled.
The howling scream silenced her parents and put her father to work trying to control the now wildly thrashing Mundo. Not allowing herself to think beyond the moment, she cast aside the knife and leaned forward, stopping the flood of blood with the heel of her hand.