One particular vulture saw fit to peck out the eyeball of a dead trooper. It paused to glare at the officer, the eyeball dangling from its beak by a thread. Racked by revulsion, Filisola shot the bird dead. At the sound of the gunshot the rest flew off. Filisola looked up to see over twenty circling high overhead, biding their time.
“Bastards,” he growled under his breath.
Sergeant Amat came from the other direction. Halting, he covered his nose and mouth. “All the men are now accounted for, Captain.”
“Yes,” Filisola said sadly. He knew that his superior, Colonel Gonzales, would be furious with him. It wouldn’t surprise him if the colonel called a board of inquiry to determine if he had been negligent.
“Strange, is it not, sir?” the sergeant said.
“What is?” Filisola asked absently.
“Apaches usually don’t bother to take clothes. Why do you suppose they did this time?”
Only then did it occur to Filisola that a number of the bodies lacked shirts and pants. And some, he was puzzled to note, had been stripped of their boots.
A half-breed had once revealed to Filisola that Apaches had a deep dread of the dead. The half-breed had claimed that after a raid, Apaches went through a purification ceremony. Furthermore, Apaches were reputed to burn any article that touched a dead person in the belief that the article would bring nothing but bad medicine. Why then, the officer wondered, had this band made an exception to the general rule?
“Should we bury them?” Amat inquired.
“Need you ask?”
“No, sir.” Amat pivoted and issued commands. A burial detail was hastily formed and the men set to work digging.
Filisola moved to a small boulder and sat down. He had a decision to make. Should he continue on his patrol or report the clash to the colonel? With so few men he stood little chance of catching the band. He might as well go back, he reflected.
There was another factor Filisola had to consider. If the band responsible for the Hermosillo raids had been the same one that sprang the ambush, it was safe to assume they were heading in the same direction as the Gonzalez family, which put the family in great peril. It was his responsibility to warn them.
The officer decided to head back just as soon as the last corpse was laid to rest. He idly scanned the grisly unfortunates. Six of them were without shirts, five without pants, five without boots. His gaze roved and he spied a torn shirt across the road. That made the numbers even. Five complete uniforms had been taken.
“Why only five?” he mused aloud. Had there only been five Apaches? It had seemed as if there were many more.
Seconds later the sergeant hurried up. “Captain, five horses are still unaccounted for. They must have run off. Say the word, and I will take a private and go hunt for them.”
“Five horses?” Filisola said, troubled by the news although he could not say why. Apaches stole horses all the time. So what if they had stolen some now? But then he thought of the five uniforms.
“Yes,” Amat said. “What would you have us do?”
Instead of responding, Filisola rose and walked to the north. He was not much of a tracker but he tried to read the prints anyway. Between the boulders it was impossible. There were too many jumbled together. Past the boulders he came on a spot at the side of the road where he found moccasin prints, bare footprints, and boot tracks. It took him a minute to appreciate the significance. “Dear God,” Filisola said.
“Captain?” Amat said. “I do not understand? What is the matter?”
Filisola had to be sure. He ran a dozen yards farther. The tracks made by the five horses were easy to make out, all bearing to the northeast. The ravishing image of Maria Gonzalez filled his mind, and he shuddered as if cold. “Forget the graves. We must mount and ride.”
“But we owe it to those who were slain to give them a decent burial,” Amat objected.
“Our first duty is to the living, not the dead,” Captain Filisola said. “Now get the men on their horses, or you will be the one who will explain to our colonel why we did not arrive in time to save his brother from the Apaches.”
Sergeant Amat glanced at the ground, then at the winding road. The color drained from his face and he spun on a heel. Snarling orders, he had the men on their mounts in record time.
To Captain Vicente Filisola, it wasn’t fast enough.
Chapter Three
Adobe Wells had been aptly named. It was located on the road that led from Hermosillo to Janos. The village was a day-and-a-half ride from the border between the states of Sonora and Chihuahua. An old well was the chief attraction. Nearby were the ruins of an adobe house. Countless weary travelers had stopped there over the years. This night, it was the Gonzalez party.
The cool of the evening brought refreshing relief to Maria Gonzalez. She donned her silk wrap and went for a short stroll to stretch her legs. The pair of vigilant vaqueros her father had told to tag along stayed a discreet distance behind to afford her privacy.
Maria made a slow circuit of the ruins, often turning her face into the invigorating breeze. She would have given anything for a long soak in a tub or to have a servant fan her while she sipped a cold drink. It was unthinkable that such luxuries were to be denied her until she returned to the hacienda.
Maria toyed with the idea of having a vaquero fan her, but did not because she knew her father would not approve. She walked toward the well, pausing when the distant wail of a lonely coyote rent the tranquil desert. She felt sympathy for that coyote, which she imagined to be all alone in the middle of nowhere, just as she was. Then she heard another wail and another, and she knew the coyote was with others of its kind.
The thought reminded Maria of the handsome captain. How sad, she mused, that she was denied the pleasure of his company. His gracious manner had marked him as a true gentleman, just the sort of man whose company she preferred. She craved a few hours of witty talk and merry laughter almost as much as she did a bath.
There were footsteps behind her. Maria turned and inwardly steeled herself. The look on her mother’s face warned her that she was in trouble again. She put on a bold front, saying sweetly, “Have you come for a drink, mother?”
“I have come to talk, daughter,” Theresa Gonzalez said sternly. “Your father is very upset with you and wants me to set you straight.”
“What have I done this time?” Maria said, thinking that her father’s anger must have something to do with her complaints about the trip and the barbaric conditions she was forced to endure.
“I think you know. Your father says that you were brazenly flirting with that young officer this afternoon.”
“Nonsense. All I did was exchange pleasantries,” Maria said, genuinely surprised. “Where did father ever get such a crazy notion? How could I have flirted when I was seated in the carriage?”
“Do not play the offended innocent with me,” Theresa said. “I did my share of flirting before I wed your father. I know that all a woman has to do is bat her eyes a certain way and it is the same as exposing herself.”
“Mother!” Maria said, shocked as much by the admission as the crude comparison.
“Don’t look at me like that. Do you think I am a saint? All young women flaunt their charms. It is the bait with which we hook the fish of our dreams.” Despite herself, Maria broke into gay laughter. “Even so, I was being no more than polite to Captain Filisola. As a general rule I do not flirt with a man unless I have known him at least five minutes.”
Now it was the mother’s turn to laugh. “I was the same at your age.” She clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh, Maria, how I envy you. Savor this time. These years are some of the most wonderful you will ever know.”
“Married life will be wonderful too.”
“Oh, it will be, but in a different way. Once a woman takes a man into her life, everything changes. She has new responsibilities, new burdens. Nothing is ever the same again.”
That last comment was uttered almost wistfully, promp
ting Maria to ask, “Do you regret marrying father?”
“Certainly not. As men go, he is better than most. He doesn’t beat me or drink to excess. And he works hard, that man, so very hard. Sometimes I think his work will be the death of him. It is all I can do to get him to take time off once a year for this trip.”
Insight made Maria gasp. “So that is why you refuse to put a stop to these nightmare journeys?”
“Stop them? Child, I encourage them. As you will no doubt learn, men are stubborn creatures. Their pride makes them believe they are invincible. Your father knows he must take time off, but he never would if not for me.” Theresa gave a wise smile. “Women must always use their wiles when dealing with men. Managing a husband is a lot like managing an oversize ten year old.”
Maria politely placed a hand over her mouth to stifle an unladylike snort. It was rare that her mother talked so frankly with her, and she enjoyed it immensely. “Tell me more,” she said.
Theresa hooked her arm around her daughter’s and strolled back toward the fire. “Another time, perhaps. Supper is almost ready.”
One of the vaqueros had made the meal—a tangy rabbit stew flavored by the roots of a plant the vaquero had picked along the route.
Maria ate hers slowly, glad the vaquero was along so she did not have to soil her hands cooking. It had never failed to amaze her how self-sufficient the vaqueros were. They prepared their own food when they were away from the ranch, mended their own clothes when necessary, and took care of their own horses. All the little things that servants did for her, they did themselves. Secretly, she pitied them and frequently gave thanks that she had not been born poor.
Suddenly a burly vaquero with a jagged scar on his right cheek hastened out of the darkness to her father’s side. “Pardon, sir. Riders come.”
Martin Gonzalez rose, his brow furrowed. “Who could it be at this hour, Pedro? Fellow travelers perhaps?”
“Maybe,” Pedro said. He had worked for the Gonzalez family for over twenty years and was as loyal to the brand as any Texas cowpuncher would have been. “But to be safe, perhaps you should take the señora and the señorita and go in among the ruins.”
“You would have us hide, Pedro?” Martin responded. “What would my men think of me if they saw me act like a coward?”
“They know that you have your family to think of,” Pedro said, refusing to be cowed. All that mattered to him was the safety of those he worked for.
The other vaqueros had gathered around, some with rifles, others with their hands resting on their pistols. All of them heard the beat of hooves, the creak of leather, and the clank of gear, such as a cavalry patrol might make.
“It must be the officer we met today,” Martin Gonzalez said and glanced sharply at his daughter. “I wonder what prompted him to turn back to Janos.”
“Don’t look at me,” Maria said, a trifle indignant. “All I did was pass the time of the day with the man.”
Many of the vaqueros had started to relax. A few had turned to go about their business.
Martin cupped his hands to his mouth. “Is that you, Captain Filisola?” he called.
“Yes,” came the muted reply.
“There. You see?” Martin said to Pedro. “As I thought, we have nothing to worry about. Put on another pot of coffee for our guests. They have been on the trail all day and will be grateful for our hospitality.”
Maria set down her bowl and stood. She needed several minutes to freshen herself so she would look her best for the dashing captain. Without saying a word to her parents, she slipped off toward the ruins, grinning at the thought of the pleasant interlude she was about to have.
But she was wrong.
The White Apache rode in front of the other members of the band, a soldier’s cap pulled low over his brow. It had been his idea to don the uniforms of slain troopers. He counted on the ruse fooling the Mexicans long enough to get in close to their camp, and in this he was proven right.
Clay answered the hail, his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice. He saw vaqueros clustered near the fire. There were also two women present, not one. Slowing so that Delgadito and Cuchillo Negro could draw even with him, he said softly in their tongue, “I will take the smaller woman. Which one of you wants the other one?”
“Not me,” Cuchillo Negro said. “Look at her. She has many winters behind her, and old Nakai-yes make poor wives. They do not hold up well.”
“We should just take the young one,” Delgadito advised. “Later we can find more like her.”
“Very well,” Clay said, pulling ahead. “At my signal.” His Winchester was balanced across his thighs. He gripped it and slowly pulled back the hammer so the click would not be loud.
The younger woman had risen and was moving toward the ruins. A bearded man was giving directions to a swarthy vaquero.
Martin Gonzalez saw several silhouettes materialize in the gloom. The foremost rider wore a trooper’s cap, he could tell. Martin took a step to greet the newcomers when it occurred to him that the hat was the kind worn by privates, not the shorter version worn by officers. It was strange, he thought, that a private would be out in front of the patrol. By tradition, officers usually assumed the lead.
Clay noticed the bearded man staring hard at him. He suspected the man was suspicious, and not wanting to lose the element of surprise, he let out with a bloodcurdling screech at the same instant he opened fire, levering off four shots so swiftly that two vaqueros were down and another wounded before the remainder awakened to their peril.
Delgadito and the rest took that action as their cue to cut loose, fanning out as they did. Their fierce war whoops were like the yipping of a frenzied pack of wolves.
To say the vaqueros were taken unawares would be an understatement. Pedro was the first of the stunned group to overcome the daze that gripped him. Frantically, he clawed at his pistol. Others did likewise, but Taggart and the Apaches ducked low and weaved, proving difficult targets to hit.
Theresa Gonzalez screamed, a hand to her throat. She was too terrified by the sight of one of the riders bearing down on her to move.
Vaguely she realized her husband had sprung to her aid and felt his arm encircle her waist. As she fell to the ground, she twisted and saw the Indian veer aside.
Maria Gonzalez was terrified. Her feet were rooted to the ground. A thick cloud of choking gunsmoke clogged the air, and bullets whizzed by her to the left and right. As a rider bore down on her, she glimpsed his raven shock of black hair and felt raw fear knife through her insides. It galvanized her into racing for the ruins.
All of her life Maria had heard stories about Apaches—awful tales of the atrocities they committed, of the many women and children who had been abducted. Her own cousin, a sweet girl of sixteen, had been taken several years ago. Eventually the girl’s father had been able to bargain for her release. The whole family had turned out to welcome her and been shocked beyond measure when it became apparent the girl’s mind was gone.
The mere thought of suffering the same horrid fate was enough to make Maria dizzy with fear. She gritted her teeth and willed her legs to pump. Directly ahead appeared a low adobe wall. She was confident she would be safe once she hid behind it.
The drum of hooves grew louder and louder, becoming thunder in her ears. Maria was almost to the ruins when she glanced over her left shoulder and saw the rider right behind her. “No!” she cried, darting to the left to escape.
The White Apache anticipated such a move. He leaned far out, his left arm held low, and caught the fleeing female about her slim waist.
Pulling upward with all his might, he swung her up in front of him. She seemed to weigh next to nothing.
“No!” Maria wailed. “Father! Mother! Help me!” She kicked and tried to hit her captor, but it was as if she struck solid rock.
Over by the fire, Martin and Theresa Gonzalez heard the terrified shriek of their offspring. Both forgot their own safety and rushed to her rescue, Martin with a pistol in ea
ch hand. They spotted a horse bearing two figures and knew it had to be an Apache making off into the night with their pride and joy.
“Save our child!” Theresa screamed.
Martin tried. He aimed carefully, but had to hold his fire when the mount swerved just as he was about to squeeze the trigger. In the dark he couldn’t be sure if he would hit the warrior or Maria.
“Shoot! Shoot!” Theresa said.
Again Martin took aim, but by this time the figures were shrouded by the night. “I can’t!” he replied. “I might kill her by accident!”
Racked by despair, the desperate parents watched the Apache vanish into the desert. Martin whirled. Of the seventeen men he had brought along, eight were down. “Anyone who can, follow me!” he roared. “Those bastards have stolen my daughter!”
Martin sprinted toward the horse string, only to discover the horses were gone. Drawing up short, he glared at the empty space where the animals had been. “This can’t be!” he raged.
From out of murk rushed Pedro, blood trickling from a cleft cheek, where he had been nicked by a slug. “Two of those devils drove the horses off! Do not worry, sir. We will find them and save Maria.”
Martin could only nod dumbly as several vaqueros dashed into the darkness to retrieve the animals. He knew how fast Apaches could travel. By the time the horses were rounded up, the band would be many miles away. The odds of rescuing Maria were slender, at best.
Clenching his fists in impotent fury, Martin threw back his head to rail at the wind, then changed his mind. He must be strong, if only for his wife’s sake. Theresa was a kind, sensitive soul and the very best of wives, but she did not handle a crisis well. He recalled how once, when a relative of theirs had been kidnapped by Apaches, she had stayed in their room for days, weeping constantly. If she believed Maria was lost to them forever, there was no telling what she might do.
Martin Gonzalez turned to go comfort his wife. He wished that he’d had the good sense to ask that young captain to accompany them to the fort. His brother would have understood.
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