Dust Devil

by Bonds, Parris Afton

  "Damn you!” he growled.

  His fingers buried in her hair, pulled her back to him. And she was ready. No urging, no preliminaries were needed between them. It was as they had known it would be, as they had both dreamed over the long years. The vortex of their passion unleashed upon them like one thunderous, giant whirlwind.

  CHAPTER 38

  Lario lay at her side, propped up on one elbow. Almost absent- mindedly his hand caressed Rosemary’s pale silken flesh as he listened to the lilt of her still-Irish voice.

  "Sin-they?” she replied. She had not thought of Stephanie as Sin-they in such a long time. "Your daughter is much as you are. Stubborn. Headstrong. Willful. And loving and sensitive.”

  "And does she have her mother’s beauty?” His brown hand rested on the slight curvature of her stomach.

  She blushed with pleasure. So long since she had heard words of adoration. She could almost feel her life’s juices flowing, singing through her veins. Feeling young again when she was almost forty! Was it possible?

  "She has her own special beauty, Lario. ’Tis a kind of beauty that makes people want to look at her again. You would be really proud of her. She is very self-sufficient. As capable as any squaw.”

  In the mauve light of dawn that tinted the bedroom, she saw his smile and gloried in it. "There is a man who is in love with her. Cody Strahan. A good, strong-willed man much like yourself.” Her fingers crept up to touch his warm lips, and she felt the renewing of her desire for him. It would never be quenched. This passion, this love.

  Lario teased her fingertips with the tip of his tongue. "And does she love him, this Cody Strawhand?”

  She smiled at his interpretation of Cody’s surname. "She could . . . in time. Mayhaps she already does, just doesn’t know it yet. She has agreed to marry him.” She sighed. "But at the present she is blinded by infatuation for . . .” Her words trailed away. Time was too precious to waste on the tenuous moment.

  "Lario, take me with you. It’d work, I know it. We could go to Mexico. Live there.”

  He scowled. "And what kind of life would you have? What kind did you have when you lived with me? Hunger. Death. Filth. Always running.”

  Her fingers dug into his arm. "And what kind of life do you think I have here? ’Tis useless I am! A leaf that has withered and fallen by the wayside to dry up and blow away. At least with you I am alive! Lario, I followed you once — and you couldn’t turn me back. I shall do it this time if I have to!”

  He pulled her against him. "My grandfather’s sandpainting . . . it had once warned of you. You are my curse . . . and my next breath. It was only the thought of you — the hate and love for you — that kept me going. One black rage . . . the image you and Grant . . . I went for one of the guards with his pickax in my frenzy to be free, to make my way back to Grant and you.”

  "I’ll hide you here until tomorrow evening.” Excitement began to color her voice as she made the plans. A frown creased a line in her otherwise smooth complexion. Only the small, faint lines at the corners of her eyes betrayed any sign of aging; still she wished they were not there—that she could be for Lario as she had been at sixteen. "I wish I were —” she began.

  Sensing her thoughts, he smiled at her feminine vanity. "You were like one of our Kachina dolls — not completely made yet. You are fully whole now.”

  She smiled and rubbed her nose against the hollow of his neck. She could not get enough of him. She wanted him to make love to her again, but she recalled what it was that was worrying her. "Tomorrow Cody is supposed to return for Stephanie — even though Stephen has warned him he’ll have him killed first. I’m frightened for Stephanie and Cody, Lario. I don’t know what Stephen is planning, but he’s obsessed with the idea of his Anglo empire for Cambria, and I know he will not let Cody take Stephanie away.”

  "So I am to meet this man Cody who loves my daughter?”

  She looked at him with surprise.

  "Do you think I’d leave Sin-they to Rhodes’s control?” he asked. "We will wait. When Rhodes makes his move tomorrow, I will be ready.”

  * * * * *

  Consuela continued to peel the waxy red skins from the steamed chili peppers, pretending not to notice Stephanie’s nervousness.

  She had already drunk two glasses of water and was now pumping more water, splashing it over her face and neck. "It’s so damned hot!” she muttered. She patted her face dry and rebuttoned the top of her blouse. Her head canted as the Queen Cathedral clock in the parlor chimed the fourth hour of the afternoon. Cody would have been there by now, she was sure. Unless something happened.

  She whirled and stalked from the kitchen. She would have it out with Stephen and get it over with. She would force him to let her go away with Cody. But first she went to her room and took the Smith & Wesson .22 out of the tiny alligator leather holster that hung from one comer of her bureau mirror. She had had no need to use the little pistol once in all the trips she made to and from Philadelphia. But now . . . could she outbluff Stephen Rhodes, an incorrigible gambler himself?

  She paused at the open door to his office. His feet were propped on his massive desk as he read a yellowed copy of the Las Vegas Gazette. In his left hand he held the ubiquitous glass of brandy. He looked up at her. "Railroad stocks are up,” he said with a toast of his glass. "That might mean a trip for us all — maybe back to Wales to see where I came from.”

  As half drunk as he seemed to stay these days, there was still something powerfully menacing about his presence to her. She kept the hand that held the .22 behind her back, calmly saying, "I’m not going anywhere. Unless it’s with Cody.”

  Stephen laughed shortly. He set down his glass and with an equal calm folded his newspaper, laying it aside. "By this time,” he at last said, "Juan and some of the others have waylaid your fiancé outside of Las Vegas and are escorting him to the Texas border.”

  She smiled contemptuously. "You think he won’t be back?”

  Stephen chuckled. "Juan has instructions to nail Cody’s hands to his saddle. He’ll never use them again.”

  Stephanie gasped, and he went on. "I be thinking that Cody is smart enough to realize I mean what I say. And I hope you are.”

  She whipped the pistol from behind her. But her raging anger and horrific fear caused the shot to go wild. And then Stephen knocked the breath from her as he shoved her to the floor and wrestled the gun from her. He stood over her, his breath coming in deep gasps from the exertion. "You bloody fool! Even your mother has more intelligence than you. She has learned the futility of crossing my will. Why can’t you?”

  "I’ll never submit to you! And 1 won’t kill myself like Jamie did either!” She saw him wince, and she said, "I’ll fight you until you have to kill me yourself. But I’ll never give in!”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then must have thought better of it. His face looked old, tired, and she could not imagine what had made him seem so omnipotent only minutes before. She stood up, but as she turned to leave the room, he said, "Don’t be thinking about leaving. You won’t be getting past the Cambria boundaries.”

  She flung him a look of utter hatred before running up the flight of stairs to her mother’s room. "Mama?” she asked, knocking at the door. Imprisoned. It was unbelievable! She realized her hands were clenched into fists and made them relax. She raised her hand to knock again, and the knob turned, the door opened partially.

  "What is it, Stephanie?” her mother asked quietly.

  "Mama, I need to talk to you. You must help me get away. Stephen — ” She tried to fight the rising panic in her voice. "I think he’s had Cody killed!”

  A silence. "Wait for me below in the parlor. I’ll be only a moment.”

  "Mama, you don’t understand. Stephen’s insane!” She pushed past her mother. "He’s a mad—”

  A man, an Indian bare from the waist up, stood behind the door. Dungarees hung loosely at his lips. She opened her mouth to scream, and at once his hand was about her mouth. She kicke
d her legs and flailed her arms, but his free arm held her locked to him.

  "Stephanie! Stephanie!” her mother hissed. "Listen to me. Stop struggling. This man will help us. Lario is — our friend.”

  Stephanie went limp, and at Rosemary’s nod Lario released her. Pulling away, Stephanie twisted around so she could see the Indian’s face. Her face knitted as her eyes searched the stonelike countenance. The image of the man flashed before her in another scene . . . of her mother and him laughing, holding one another. And her squeezing between them, wanting to be a part of the love that bound the two. "I know you,” she said slowly. "You were with us . . . when we lived with the Indians.”

  The man looked to her mother. Tears shone in her eyes. At last he said, "You are my daughter. You are Sin-they.”

  Her pupils expanded, then narrowed to slits. "So it was you who made me a half-breed,” she whispered. "You’re the Indian.”

  “Half-breed — Indian. How many times I have heard the words, heard the contempt expressed with them.” He went to look out the window, and she saw the purple welts that corded his back. “What had made me ever think he would fit in your white man’s world?

  She saw the anger that boiled in this man, her father — and the deep sadness. And she felt instant self disgust.

  “Lario,” her mother said, “I know you be thinking about leaving! She crossed to face Lario, grabbing his arm. "I won’t let you! I haven’t waited for nothing. If it’s fighting and getting yourself killed you be wanting — well, that’s all right. But I’m still going with you!”

  "My, my,” Stephen mocked from the doorway. "So the whore follows the cur like a bitch in heat.”

  All three whirled to look at Stephen. Tiny hairs at the nape of Stephanie’s neck prickled in frightened anticipation. Stephen’s voice, like his face, was calm. But the demented rage was nevertheless there to see. It glittered in the eyes. It exploded in his lungs, causing his chest to rise and fall. Behind him stood Ignacio and Julio, eager as two dogs on the scent of a wounded buck.

  Lario swung around, meaning to escape through the second-story window, but her mother unwittingly had blocked his path.

  "Get him!” Stephen ordered.

  Her mother was herself knocked to the floor as the two men dove for Lario. He kicked one off, catching him on the jaw. Half-in, half-out of the window, Lario struggled with Ignacio. Rosemary came to her feet, pulling at the man’s head. Her fingernails clawed his fat cheeks, but still he held on — until Stephen crashed the oil lamp over Lario’s head. Lario slumped over and fell in a heap at Rosemary’s feet.

  "String the thief up!” Stephen commanded. "He tried to steal my wife’s jewelry.”

  "No!” Stephanie shouted. "That’s a lie!”

  “You can’t kill him!” Rosemary cried, trying to hold tightly to Lario’s hips as Ignacio and Julio grabbed at his inert body, forcing her to let go..

  Blue veins stood out at Stephen’s temples. "Oh, I don’t plan to kill him. Just make certain he doesn’t spread any more of his bastards about.” His spiteful, consuming gaze encompassed the two women. "I shall be dealing with you later.” He closed the door, locking them in.

  Her mother threw herself against the door. Her fists pounded on the heavy wood. "Dear God, help me! Don’t let Stephen do this!”

  Stephanie walked slowly over to the bed like an old woman and stretched out, one arm thrown across her forehead. "It’s useless, mama. You have brought us to this.”

  But her mother did not hear her. She ran to the window and shoved up the window. The bedroom door swung open. Stephanie swung up in the bed, and her mother whirled from the window. Stephen stood there. Fury contorted his face so that he looked like an ogre out of some ghoulish fairy tale for children. "No, don’t turn away,” he said. "I want you to watch. You, too, Sin-they — Isn’t that what the red man called you?”

  He jerked her up and shoved her toward the window. "Watch!” He grabbed her m others jaw and yanked her head about so that she was forced to stare at the man below.

  A crowd of men and some of the wives and children had gathered at the corral reserved for branding. Someone shouted something, and the children scurried away and the women, hiding their faces in their rebozos, quickly followed their children.

  Then Stephanie saw what the men had clustered to watch. Lario, her father, lay spread-eagled in the corral’s center. His bronzed body, so beautifully made, was naked, glistening pink with the dying sun’s last rays. Or was it blood?

  "Watch, whore!” Stephen ordered again. "It’s remembering I want you to be every waking moment of your life!”

  Ignacio stepped out of the surrounding group of men. The knife blade gleamed. The guillotine must have looked just so to the aristocrats trussed in the carts like swine bound for the butcher, Stephanie thought. It was a butchering knife. One from the kitchen. She saw the perspiration glistening over Lario’s muscles. Saw them strain at Ignacio’s approach, saw the mouth stretch taut and tight. Always the brave warrior. No sound would come from his lips, no screaming, no begging.

  Slowly, obviously taking great delight in his performance, Ignacio began to saw away at the exposed genitals, hacking when the sinewy skin and tendons did not give.

  A scream. Stephanie screamed and screamed. Surprisingly it was her mother who slapped her into silence. "Do not embarrass your father, Sin-they!” she hissed. "Give him at least this dignity.”

  The bound man twitched in spite of his enormous self-control. Blood poured between the rigid thighs and oozed into the dirt. Then the body went limp.

  Stephen looked at the two women. His jaws were clenched with still unfulfilled fury. A muscle throbbed in his cheek. Her mother faced him. Daring him. Hoping? Stephanie wondered.

  Stephen whirled from them and stalked from the room.

  “If I had my pistol,” she gritted.

  Her mother said in a voice that had the dull edge of a blade in its tone, “No. Vengeance belongs to me.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The Springfield rested in its usual place in the gun cabinet. In the house’s darkness it was barely visible, only the blue-black gleam of the long barrel. Nevertheless, Rosemary had no trouble in locating and removing it from its place. The smooth stock felt cool against her hands, the parquet floor cold beneath her bare feet.

  The heavy front door gave way with a squeak that made her breath catch. She waited. No one stirred in the sleeping house. Outside in the brisk air of the late autumn night only the dust squeezing between her toes was warm. She moved quietly toward the center of the branding corral. Lario was still there, staked out for the morrow’s buzzards, but only for torture. She knew Stephen had no intention of letting Lario die.

  Lario’s pallor shone in the cloud-streaked night. Yet his senses were alert as ever. He had known she was there, his eyes watching her as she knelt over his prone figure. "Lario,” she whispered. Her voice coughed out in a croak. Her hand smoothed back the damp hair from his forehead, and she felt the tears at his temples.

  His tears were for her, she knew. But she would not let herself cry. Not then.

  "You know what I want, Turquoise Woman?” he whispered thickly between swollen lips.

  She nodded.

  "Then do it quickly.”

  She bent and kissed the feverish lips. And she was crying anyway. "Good-bye, my beloved.”

  Swiftly, before she lost her courage, she moved off to stand in the shadow of the nearest shed, a tack house. The rifle barrel came up. Its sight fixed on the dark form on the ground. The trigger pulled back smoothly. An ear-shattering blast. The recoil of the rifle. Once more, another shot that caused the body to jerk with the impact.

  Rosemary quickly crossed to the house, fading into the shadows of the hollyhock that laced one wall. She waited, hidden, for what seemed like eternal seconds. Already, men, shrugging into their pants, came running from the bunk-houses.

  And at last Stephen stumbled out the front door. His long-johns gleamed starkly white against the night
’s darkness. Rosemary put the rifle to her cheek and fired at his back. He was lifted up, as if caught in the whirl of a dust devil, spun, and dropped at the bottom of the veranda steps.

  Calmly she moved out of entwining shrubbery, walked past his twitching body into the house, and replaced the rifle. She heard Consuela collide with one of the house servants in the hall, a muttered oath in Spanish, her daughter at the top of the stairs calling, "Mama?”

  "I’m here, Stephanie. What happened? I heard a gunshot.” They surged past her now out onto the veranda. Stephanie came to her side, and they followed the others.

  "Dios mio!” Consuela backed away and saw Rosemary at the door. "Por favor, Senora, no mira!” She took her patrona’s arm gently. "Go back inside. El Patron — he has been shot.”

  "Then I need to be with him,” Rosemary said and shrugged off Consuela’s restraining arm. "Send Ignacio for a doctor at once.”

  She followed two cowhands as they lifted the sagging body and brought it inside. "This way,” she said, leading them toward Stephen’s room.

  She stood on one side of the bed as they laid Stephen down. His eyes were open. They moved toward her. And she saw the incredible amount of agony — and hate — imprisoned behind them. But the coarse features never changed.

  "I fear he is paralitico—paralyzed, Senora,” Consuela said.

  Rosemary’s gaze flickered over to meet the cook’s rheumy eyes. She knows. And she says nothing. She knelt at the side of her husband. Her hand took his limp one. "I will wait . . . and pray . . . until a doctor can be brought.”

  The men turned to go, shuffling out in single file past Stephanie who watched apathetically from the doorway. One turned back, Pedro. "Patrona, the Navajo outside — ” He faltered with pained embarrassment. "He has been shot, also. Esta muerto.”

  "Bury him,” she said curtly. "Beneath the cottonwood.”

  Next to Jamie and the stillborn infant. Her chin dropped to her chest, her lids shut tightly. The graves of the people she had loved were fast accumulating.