Of course, if she was right that Don Esteban had twice tried to have Refugio killed, her stepfather's purpose in coming after them might be to finish the task. Perhaps he had lost faith in whoever he had entrusted with the job, or again, might only have lost contact. Regardless, would he really sacrifice his comfort and endanger his own life for the satisfaction of defeating an enemy? Was the hate that drove him that virulent?
The fact that he was back there behind them somewhere cast a dark dreariness over Pilar's spirits. She had begun to hope, and his presence was proof that it had been a useless exercise. It had seemed to her that the vast distances in leagues and time that separated them from Spain, when added to the scant numbers of people in this unending wilderness, must give the band and herself some kind of protection. It seemed possible that the Tejas country could become a sanctuary where they might all start anew. As the long days had fallen away behind her, she had put aside thoughts of riches and revenge and occupied her mind with dreams. They had not been grandiose or even particularly unusual, those dreams, but giving them up was painful.
The question of why Don Esteban was continuing to hound them remained with her, nagging at her mind. There had been little time to discuss it with the others, however, for they had been traveling at speed since the moment Refugio had broken the news to them. It was not just the pursuit by Don Esteban that gave impetus to their progress, but the intelligence that he was not alone. He had joined the Indian traders, those who had been recommended to them in Natchitoches. Since the traders were keeping to the El Camino Real rather than following the more usual northern trade routes, it seemed probable Don Esteban had enlisted these men in his cause. The traders, according to Refugio, numbered a half-dozen men, all well armed. The band would fight this force if it proved necessary, but they preferred to at least choose their own ground.
It was at a rest stop late in the afternoon that Pilar was finally able to ask some of the questions that troubled her. Vicente was wiping down his horse with a handful of dried grass when she came up behind him. She spoke quietly, without the preamble of polite chitchat.
“Tell me the truth, did you really leave the casket of gold behind at Don Esteban's house?”
Refugio's brother straightened from brushing his mount's withers. “I told you so, didn't I? Why would I lie?”
“Gain,” she said simply.
“I have no interest in such things.”
“Oh, please! Few are immune to the appeal of gold.”
“I know that, but still I did not take it.”
“Was there anyone else who could have?”
Uneasiness rippled over his features, which had so much the look of Refugio's, though without the chiseled firmness of maturity. “There might have been.”
“Enrique? Baltasar? Charro?”
“Any of them, I suppose.”
“Did you see anything that would make you think they did?”
He shook his head in slow consideration. “Nothing. But what makes you think it's just the gold the don's after? It might be me.”
She did not speak for a moment as she considered whether what she would say might be wounding. “Surely you were only a pawn?”
“Probably. Still, Don Esteban hates being tested at anything, hates it intensely. I wondered many times if he was sane.”
“Because of the branding?”
He touched the scar on his cheek as if soothing the memory of long-vanished pain. “Also because of the threats he used to make, to castrate me and send the — the results to Refugio; to sell me into North Africa, where I would be put to use in a harem serving peculiar tastes; to feed me a slow poison for the pleasure of watching my death.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. Her distress was not just for the nature of the threats, or even Vicente's endurance of the fear that must have accompanied them. It was also for the knowledge that Refugio, during the voyage on board the Celestina, must have guessed what Don Esteban was capable of doing, and had been forced to live with his dread until the moment he had found Vicente in New Orleans. It accounted for much.
Finally, she said, “To have injured you would have been to lessen your value as a hostage for Refugio's good behavior.”
“Yes, so long as he was capable of thinking that clearly.”
“You truly think he's mad, then?”
“I think it's possible that his reasons for following us, for doing anything, may not be rational.”
It was an explanation that removed a great many doubts. Pilar did not quite accept it, and yet there was in it a certain undeniable comfort.
The others had accepted the news of Don Esteban's pursuit according to their natures. Baltasar and Enrique swore, one with resignation, the other with disgust. Charro wanted to go back and set up an ambuscade along the trail to get rid of the threat for good, a plan Refugio refused as too risky. Isabel was inclined to cry, while Doña Luisa developed a hunted look and was the first upon her horse when the order was given to mount.
Weathered by sun and wind, callused in places that did not bear examination, they put the leagues behind them. They faced with stolid purpose the knowledge of the long way that still lay ahead. Whether by determination or sheer, dogged persistence, they kept ahead of Don Esteban's party. What that meant was difficult to say; even if they outdistanced him now, they must still confront him when they reached San Antonio de Bexar. At least the likelihood of being surprised somewhere on the spreading plains became more remote.
They were riding single file one morning along a narrow track through a dense, pale green ocean of rough shrubs Charro called mesquite. The Tejas-country native had gone on ahead to scout the way out of the thicket, and to make sure that there were no wandering herds of cattle ahead to dispute their passage along the trail. The drumming sound of hoofbeats, coming fast, was the signal for his return. When he came into view around the bend in the track, they saw that he had lost his hat, his face was red with exertion, and there were red trickles of blood on his hands and on one cheek. As he pulled up before them in a swirl of dust, the others drew up also, bracing themselves for more trouble.
“Don't tell me,” Enrique drawled, “that you met another bull, and this one makes the other look like an infant?”
“Not longhorns,” Charro gasped, dipping his chin as he tried to catch his breath. “Apache!”
Refugio, who had been bringing up the rear, trotted his horse forward. His voice incisive, he asked, “How many?”
“I'm not sure. All I saw was their sign. No prints of women and children. It's a war party. Twenty braves, maybe more.”
“You think they know we're behind them?” Baltasar asked, his large brow furrowed.
“Not behind them, but beside them. They're riding parallel to us. It's their way.”
There was silence, until Doña Luisa spoke in shrill disbelief. “You mean they are keeping up with us? Watching us?”
“Exactly.” Charro's blue eyes were shadowed and his voice grim.
“We'll all be killed!” the noblewoman cried.
Enrique placed his hand on her arms, which were clasped about his waist, as if to reassure her. Doña Luisa rested her forehead against his back a brief moment before straightening with a furtive look around her to see if anyone had noticed.
Pilar watched Refugio; they all did in one way or another. Don Esteban was behind them and an Apache war party was shadowing them. There were wild cattle to contend with and endless leagues of country where there would be no help forthcoming if anyone should fall ill or be injured. In the midst of these many dangers, someone must decide what they were going to do. That someone, they knew instinctively, was the bandit leader.
Refugio eased his position in his saddle, then squared his shoulders. Turning to Charro, he asked, “When are the Apaches likely to attack?”
“Could be any second. Or at dawn tomorrow. Or midday next week. Or even not at all. It depends on what the war chief decides, and if the warriors with him are inclined to follow his su
ggestions.”
“It's that arbitrary?”
“Leaders among the Apache, including war chiefs, rise to their places because of proven ability and sound judgment. If either of these things seem doubtful, no one follows. They are finished.”
The two men stared at each other for long moments. There was between them a subtle undercurrent, a suggestion of significance in the exchange of information that was not apparent on the surface. Charro seemed to have gained stature since entering his home territory, and with it an extra measure of assurance. It seemed that new confidence might incline him to challenge Refugio's leadership, though not, perhaps, at the present moment.
Refugio looked away from the others, his gaze unseeing as he surveyed the finely cut foliage of the mesquite surrounding them. At last he said, “I see no option except to ride on. The Apaches know this terrain better than we do. They outnumber us three to one, or more. If we mount an attack in this kind of country, they would most likely vanish into the scrub at the first sign the fight was going against them, then reappear when we least expect it. If we tarry too long, Don Esteban will be treading on our heels, and while the possibility of leading him into an Apache trap is enticing, I doubt he would take the bait.”
“You think he knows we are close ahead of him?” Doña Luisa asked.
Refugio gave her a brief glance. “We have been making little effort to cover our tracks, since there is only one route. It even seems possible the don is aware of the Apaches on our trail, since he is traveling with men familiar with the countryside and the Indians. It could be he's hoping the Apaches will finish us.”
Doña Luisa shuddered, falling silent.
“That leaves advancing then,” Charro said. “Do we simply wait for the Apaches to attack?”
“Unless you have an idea to suggest that's worth the hazard to eight lives, including three women.”
“But Refugio,” Isabel said urgently as she nudged her horse forward, “if you are allowing the women to keep you from acting, you know you must not.”
He turned his head to look at her, and there was a hint of softness in his gaze. “How can it be prevented?”
Isabel shook her head. “I don't know, unless you stop feeling and only think.”
“I'm tired of doing that. It may be I will leave it to Charro.” He turned to the other man. “Well?”
Charro hesitated no more than an instant, staring at Refugio with bafflement in his eyes. Then he said, “We ride.”
What followed over the next week was a marathon of stamina and wits and ragged, protesting nerves. The band slept little. A double watch was mounted on the horses; it was a favorite tactic of the Indians to leave their prey afoot and therefore easier to overcome. Every inch of their advance was carefully studied, as well as every foot of their back trail.
Perhaps because of their caution, the Apaches seemed aware of their knowledge of their presence. The Indian warriors began to show themselves for brief moments, flitting across the trail, ghosting through the outer darkness beyond the campfire at night, or else allowing themselves to be silhouetted against the skyline after the mesquite thicket was left behind them. The tactic was wearing, for every glimpse could as easily presage an attack as not.
Fear could only last so long, however, before the body rebelled and numbed that response. Exhaustion also did its work, so that after a while they all rode in stoic silence, watchful but once more enduring.
One of the hardest things was losing the illusion of freedom. There had been such pleasure in it, while it lasted, that its lack was painful. Pilar hated the sense of being hemmed in on both sides, of being contained and controlled and observed. Like Refugio, she often wondered in despair if she would ever be able to please herself, ever be able to come and go without trepidation, or build a life solely to suit herself.
They had stopped one evening in a small grove of scrub oaks, the only protection on what had once more become open plains with a hauntingly familiar look of Spain. The shade was welcome, for it had grown hot and dry as spring advanced into early summer. Flies droned around them with a heavy, indolent sound. The leaves overhead whispered in the constant breeze. The grove had long been a favorite stopping place, for the charred remains of old campfires were scattered here and there, and they found a rusted breastplate half buried in the sandy earth.
Pilar and Isabel sat somewhat apart from the others, sharing a seat on a tree trunk felled by some long-past storm while they ate their late meal of beans and bacon. After a time Isabel sent Pilar a glance from under her near colorless lashes.
“Forgive me if I pry into what doesn't concern me,” the girl said, her voice soft, “but is there something wrong between you and Refugio?”
“Wrong? What do you mean?” Pilar put a piece of biscuit into her mouth and chewed it slowly.
“You hardly ever speak to each other, almost never touch. You sleep beside him every night and he covers you with his blanket, but if he does more, no one can tell.”
Pilar gave the other girl a long look as she swallowed. Her voice cool, she said, “Should anyone be able to tell?”
“You are angry because you think I'm prying. I swear it's only that I'm concerned, as a friend.” Isabel tossed what was left of her biscuit away in the direction of a hovering bird before she went on. “I thought you cared for him; it seemed so on the ship.”
“A great deal has changed since then.”
“Has it? How?” Isabel persisted.
“How can you ask? With the fire, the voyage upriver, Don Esteban, and then the Apaches, there has been neither time nor strength for indulging in . . . lovemaking.”
“But would you, if there had not been all these things?”
“What do you care?” Pilar asked in hard tones. “You are only concerned about Refugio. Do you think I should serve him in bed simply because I am with him?”
“It isn't bed I was thinking of,” Isabel said in soft reproof. “He needs someone. He needs you.”
“I haven't seen he needs anyone, least of all me.”
“You are mistaken. You saved his life on the ship. He willed himself to live because of you.”
“Don't be ridiculous. All I did was force him to abandon his pose of illness.”
“You think so? There was more to it than that, much more. I don't know what you did, but you changed him. He isn't the same, not at all. I told you once that he is a man more sensitive than most, though he has learned to control it for his own protection. Because of you, he is living much closer to the edge than ever before, and the reason is because he is permitting himself to feel more than since his father and his sister died. You can't desert him now.”
“He has you to be his champion. Why would he need anyone else?”
“I . . . don't know the answer to that. I used to think he feared that his love would bring me harm because I might be used as a hostage to entrap him. Or else that he was holding himself aloof because he had nothing to offer except a name that had been dishonored. Sometimes I even told myself that he thought I was not strong enough to bear the great power of the love he had locked inside him. It was all foolishness. The truth, as I have seen since you came, was that he could not feel for me what I felt for him.”
There was such pain in the other girl's face that compassion rose inside Pilar. With it was an answering pain. “It may be,” she said, “that he feels nothing for me, either. Have you considered that?”
Isabel shook her head. “You have hurt each other, I know. There are things that he has had to do that are hard to understand, much less forgive. He makes a sacrifice of himself so easily that it sometimes seems he doesn't care. That isn't true. You must be careful not to hurt him anymore.”
Isabel spoke so logically that it was difficult to remember that she sometimes told artistic lies, that she lived in a world of her own fantasies. Isabel saw things not as they were, but as she wanted them to be. To believe what such a person said would be stupid. Yet for a brief instant Pilar wanted desper
ately to believe her.
Out of the irritation caused by her own weakness, she said, “What of Baltasar? You are hurting him, too, with this infatuation for Refugio.”
“I know, but I can't help it. I didn't ask him to love me. I don't know why he does.”
“You could help by not talking about Refugio as if he was your savior.”
“But he was!” Isabel cried.
“Was he really, or is that just a story you made up? And even if he did save you in some way, must you talk about it in front of Baltasar? Can't you think of his feelings, even if you can't return them?”
Tears rose, glistening in Isabel's eyes. “I don't hurt him on purpose, it just happens.”
“That doesn't make it easier for him to bear.”
“I know, I know. But sometimes I have to talk about what Refugio did just to make him notice me for a small moment. Refugio dislikes it as much as Baltasar, I can tell, but I can't help it.”
Maybe Isabel couldn't help it, Pilar thought, just as the girl couldn't seem to stop weaving her tales of being swept away from an existence of misery and humiliation by Refugio. People did strange things to soothe the hurting they felt inside, no matter what the cause of it might be.
It was a quiet night. No coyotes howled. The wind whispered in the leaves of the scrub oaks. The piece of a moon sailing overhead was pale and kept its face turned away. Pilar lay wakeful for a long time, though she slept finally with her cheek pillowed on Refugio's arm.
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