Apparently Hugo thought the same. “It is bandits, you fool!” he shouted. “Do not stop!”
By then two men were riding down the hill toward them, pistols pulled. A third galloped from the left side and rode up behind them. “Halt! Or we will kill all of you!” one of them shouted.
Will looked at Noel. Neither of them wore a gun, and they didn’t dare reach for the rifles that lay under the wagon seat, now that they were in the sights of the outlaws. The three men rode close, ordering everyone out of the wagon and carriage. Will and Noel climbed down, as did Hugo’s driver. The apparent leader of the bandits, a middle-aged Mexican, dismounted and yanked open the carriage door. “Out! Come out!” the Mexican shouted.
“You are lucky my pistols are packed in my luggage, or all three of you would be dead!” Hugo fumed, stepping out first. “Do you know who I am? You will all three hang for this! I will have you hunted down! How dare you ride onto Alcala land and—”
“Shut up,” the Mexican told him, placing a pistol under Hugo’s chin. “I do know who you are. I worked for you once, Don Bolivar, and you fired me for not properly polishing this grand carriage of yours.” Fiery anger glinted in the man’s dark eyes. “You had a guest with you, and you were trying to make an impression, just as you are always trying to do. Now it is I who order you!”
The man backed away as Santana and her tutor and personal maid exited the carriage. The other two outlaws dismounted. They appeared to be Americans, displaced miners, Will guessed, who had come out here and lost everything. Now they were reduced to robbery. They both sported several-days-old beards and wore floppy, soiled hats. Their shirts were sweat-stained, their trousers filthy. One of them ordered Will and Noel to walk to the back of the supply wagon, then followed them, his pistol ready, while the other American moved to stand closer to the Mexican.
Will and Noel did as they were told, while Hugo cursed and shouted that the outlaws were riding stolen Bolivar horses. Will noted that all three men were indeed riding beautiful steeds, the Mexican’s a white gelding, the other two golden Palominos. It mattered little to him that the horses were stolen. What was more important was that the men had dismounted, which would make them easier to tackle if the opportunity arose. He looked at Noel, and he could see by the man’s eyes that he was thinking the same thing.
“Si, Don Bolivar, these are very fine horses that we ride,” their leader was saying. “I have come back to help myself to one of your fine caballos, as have my friends here. And we will help ourselves to something else that is yours.” The Mexican turned to Santana, a wide grin on his face. He wore a large sombrero but was otherwise dressed plainly in shirt and pants, which were as soiled as the other two men’s. He wore gunbelts strapped criss-cross over his shoulders; the other men wore gunbelts on their hips. Will watched them all carefully, worried about Santana.
“Just do like we say and you won’t get hurt,” the man standing near him and Noel ordered quietly. “This ain’t your affair, so there’s no sense riskin’ your necks. This is between Juan and Hugo Bolivar.”
All of Will’s senses of protection came alert when the Mexican reached out and tore the veil from Santana’s face. She gasped, stepping back.
“Leave her alone!” Estella begged.
The Mexican backhanded the woman so quickly, no one saw it coming. Santana screamed when Estella spun sideways and fell against the carriage. Louisa started crying, turning to put her arms around Estella.
“What do you think you are doing!” Hugo shouted in rage.
The Mexican pressed the barrel end of his pistol against the man’s chest. “You do not even remember me, do you?” he asked, sneering. “You probably do not know the names of most of the people who work for you. You just order them about like slaves and think that they should feel lucky to work for the grand and glorious Hugo Bolivar!” He stepped back again. “I am Juan Fernandez, and three days ago I was visiting a man who works for Don Alcala. He told me that Senorita Lopez had gone to San Francisco with you and would be coming back today or tomorrow. I have been camped behind these hills, hiding from Alcala’s men…waiting.”
He looked at Santana again, his gaze moving over her hungrily. She wore a beautiful sky-blue dress, fitted tightly at her tiny waist, its soft cotton material gathered about her breasts, the hooped skirt decorated with tiers of ruffles. She wore no hat, but just the veil, which had been held in place by combs at either side of her head. Now it was ripped away, and locks of her hair had sprung free with the combs. She glared defiantly at the Mexican, and Will thought how beautiful she was when she had that proud look on her face.
“Waiting for what?” Hugo demanded.
Juan smiled, then he reached out and stuck his hand into the bodice of Santana’s dress. He jerked hard, pulling her to him. Santana faced the man boldly, her chin held high, but Will could see how terrified she was. Louisa gasped and sobbed harder.
“Waiting for you to come by so that I could steal your woman!” Juan answered Hugo, keeping hold of Santana’s dress while he waved his pistol at him. “You are to marry this pretty senorita, no? She is the daughter of Don Dominic Alcala. She is worth mucho dinero to the great and wealthy Hugo, so she will come with us. And until you send men to Black Horse Hill…alone…with ten thousand American dollars, you will not see your lovely intended again. I will take her away, and she will be mine!” The man rubbed at Santana’s breasts with his hand, but his eyes were on Hugo. “And if you take too long, senor, then even if you pay to get her back, she will no longer be the fresh virgin you wish to have for a wife.”
Santana pushed at the man’s arm, forcing his hand away, and stepped back. “How dare you!” she exclaimed. “Surely you know the wealth and power of my father and of Hugo Bolivar! You will die for this!”
Juan laughed deep in his throat. “I do not think so. I think to get you back, they will both do exactly as they are told.”
“You are a fool!” Hugo said. “You will never get away with this. My men will hunt you down like the animals that you are!”
As Juan started shouting at Hugo, Will glanced down at a small hatchet stuck into a metal ring at the back of the wagon gate. He’d won plenty of hatchet-throwing contests back home, and he wondered if there was a chance…He glanced at Noel, then looked down at the hatchet again, trying to tell him he intended to use it if he could. The attention of the bandits was on Hugo and Santana and the argument taking place. Louisa and Estella were cringing in each other’s arms, and the carriage driver literally cowered behind the two women. One of the guards looked dead, and the other lay writhing and groaning on the ground, a bloody hole in his side.
Will slowly reached for the hatchet, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Managing to grasp it near the blade, he quietly slipped it from the ring. He held it against his right leg, out of sight of the American who was supposed to be watching him and Noel. The man stood to their left, but his eyes were on Santana, whose breasts were partially revealed from Juan yanking at the front of her dress. Will met Noel’s eyes, and Noel shifted closer.
“I’ll take the one on the left,” Will said softly. “Get ready.”
Hugo was screaming at Juan, cursing him in Spanish. Juan shouted back, using precious time to vent his anger at the man he apparently hated with great passion. Too soon, though, he ordered Santana onto his horse.
“I will not leave with you,” she spat at him. “I would rather die!”
Juan grabbed her throat and squeezed. Planting his pistol against her cheek, he jerked her by the neck to his horse. “You will do as I say, you arrogant bitch! Get on my horse, or I will kill these other two women and the driver, and those two Americans over there! Is that what you want?”
Santana glanced at Will, and his heart ached at the fear and desperation in her beautiful eyes. It was obvious she could barely breathe. She looked back at Juan. “Do not hurt anyone else,” she whispered, choking. “I will go with you.” She turned and mounted the horse.
“
Now!” Will told Noel.
Everything happened in a matter of seconds. Noel whirled and used his burly body like a battering ram, bending down and running at the gunman nearest him, putting his shoulder into the man’s midsection. The man grunted as he flew backward, his arms flying up and his gun sailing out of his hand. At the same time Will raised the hatchet and hurled it. It sang through the air, spinning head over handle, and landed with a thud in Juan’s right shoulder. He screamed in horror, his gun falling from his hand. The others just stared in shock. The third gunman whirled and shot at Will, then tried to mount his horse, but the animal reared and pranced sideways.
As Noel landed hard fists into the face of the man he had tackled, Hugo finally moved, grabbing the gunman who was having trouble mounting his horse. Juan lay writhing on the ground, holding on to his right arm, which was nearly severed. Will ran to help Hugo, who was smaller than the American he tangled with. With his powerful arms, Will pulled the American off Hugo, who in turn grabbed the horse to calm it while Will wrestled the gunman to the ground. He heard a gunshot, heard Santana scream, yet he felt nothing at first. He rolled the gunman onto his back, keeping a knee in his gut while he slammed the man’s gun hand against the gravely earth, over and over, until the man let go of his pistol. The next thing he knew Hugo held the pistol to the man’s head and fired.
“That will teach the bastard to steal horses from Hugo Bolivar!” he growled.
Will heard two more gunshots, and Juan’s screams suddenly stopped. He heard the other American begging for his life, another gunshot. He witnessed none of the assassinations. He only knew vaguely, somewhere in a swiftly fading consciousness, what must be happening. Pain began to burn at his left side, and he saw the ground coming up to meet him.
“He’s been shot!” Santana screamed. “Help him, Hugo! We must get him to my father’s house!” Those were the last words Will remembered.
Six
Will awoke to the sound of birds singing. For a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven, for the bed in which he lay was wonderfully soft, and the room around him was lovely, with paintings of landscapes and a bullfighter on the stucco walls, the furnishings all in rich, dark mahogany. The window was made of stained glass, set in an iron frame. It was open, and a gentle breeze ruffled the leaves of a plant nearby. The wonderful smell of roses was carried on the breeze, and the birds’ singing was soothing to the soul.
He lay still, gathering his thoughts. He remembered Santana screaming, “He’s been shot!” Had she been talking about him? He didn’t remember being shot, but when he tried to sit up to think more clearly, pain tore through his left side. He groaned and lay back down, realizing it was true, and wondered if he was dying. It all came back to him, the attempted abduction of Santana Lopez, his throwing the hatchet. Was Noel all right? The man had a wife and children. He would feel guilty and responsible if something had happened to Noel. And what of Santana? Had she been hurt in all the scuffling? Whose house was this? Hugo’s? Santana’s?
Will put a hand to his side, feeling bandages. He finally remembered an awful agony, someone working over him, pouring whiskey into him, a pain in his side as though someone were gouging mercilessly at him with a knife. Had someone removed a bullet? Did whoever it was know what the hell he was doing?
Will closed his eyes, thinking what a strange beginning his new life in California had been. There had been a run-in with pirates on the ocean voyage, but Captain Eastman had ended that with a cannon shot that had landed smack into the main mast of the pirate ship, sending the mast crashing down and leaving the pirates unable to raise their sails. Then had come the dangerous trip around the Horn…lives saved, a life lost. The San Francisco harbor was a place he would not soon forget—the wild melee of activity, the lawless wharves at night; the fight in the saloon, where he could have been killed; the Spanish woman with no name, with whom he had slept at Rosy’s place.
Several times already his life had been at risk coming here, and now this, a gunshot wound from bandits who’d tried to abduct an innocent girl for money. This land was indeed a far cry from the settled civilization of Maine, the busy but calm docks of Portland. San Francisco didn’t even have an organized law-enforcement agency, merely a group of citizens who’d banded together and called themselves vigilantes. Apparently it was even worse in the country, where there was no law but that of the landholder.
He remembered now…Gunshots after he’d disarmed the outlaw he had tackled. Hugo had said something about teaching them not to steal horses from him. Had he killed those men point-blank? Was that how things were done out here? No trial? No mercy? Someone stole from a man, so he was shot. It began to sink in what Noel and Derek had both tried to tell him about the power of a man like Hugo Bolivar. If Will did take more interest in Santana Lopez and something came of it, would Hugo consider that stealing too? Could he shoot him for it?
Will tried again to sit up, but groaned at the pain in his side. His head began to ache too. This was a beautiful land, but so foreign that he suddenly missed home very much. He missed Gerald and his mother, the cool weather, the hardwood forests. Mostly he missed life being civilized and orderly. In Maine a man knew where he stood, what was right and wrong, what the laws were. Here it was apparently every man for himself, survival of the fittest. A man had to watch his back every minute, like at the docks, where thieves were ready to pounce and knife a man for whatever money he might be carrying, or perhaps just for a ring or a watch.
Will’s thoughts were interrupted when the thick wooden door to his room opened a little and someone peeked inside. With great pleasure he saw that it was Santana. The moment she stepped inside, he forgot all the bad things that had happened on his journey to this lawless place. He forgot about pirates and storms, thieves and prostitutes. He forgot about bandits and vigilantes, and about the fact that he missed home. She walked closer, and he saw in her eyes all that was beautiful about California.
She was dressed plainly, wearing a soft yellow dress, no jewelry, no extra color on her lips or eyes. Her hair was brushed out long and loose, pulled up by combs at the sides. Some of it draped down her arm, and he saw it fell nearly to her wrist. Her complexion was flawless, a soft brown with a satin sheen. He realized that except for that morning in San Francisco, when she accidentally ran into him, this was the first time he had seen her unveiled since leaving San Francisco; and the first time he had ever been alone with her. Her beautiful dark eyes were studying him curiously, and she halted at the foot of his bed when she realized he was awake and watching her.
“Senor Lassater, you have finally awakened,” she said softly, as though afraid someone might hear her and find her there. “How do you feel?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. I…tried to sit up, but…there was too much pain. Can I have some water?”
“Si, I will get you some.” She came closer, lifting a pitcher that sat on a stand near the bed and pouring some water into a porcelain cup.
Will thought how beautiful she was even when she was completely natural, no fancy hairdo, no elegant dress, no powder or color on her face. She did look even younger than he knew she was, though, and he felt guilty for having thoughts about her that a man should hold only for a mature woman. She came to him and offered the cup of water, putting a hand under his head and helping him raise up enough to drink. She held the cup to his lips, and he thought how wonderful she smelled, but couldn’t quite place the fragrance. He noticed the smoothness of her hand as he drank the water.
“I should not be in here alone with you,” she told him. “My father would think it improper, as would Hugo, but I was so worried.” She set the cup aside and pulled a wooden chair up beside the bed. Will noticed she sat very straight and prim in the chair. “Father and Hugo are out choosing some Palomino mares that Father wishes to mate with a stallion Hugo owns. My father raises some of the finest Palominos in the world.” She smiled. “My brother helps him. He is also gone today, out rounding up some cattle. T
he only other people in the house are the servants, and they do not know I came in here.”
She glanced down, then looked at him again. “I wanted to thank you, Senor Lassater, for what you did. You and your friend risked your lives to save me from something worse than death. My father is also very grateful. I told him everything that happened.”
Will looked her over once more. “You’re all right, then?”
“Si, I am fine. But I was so afraid for you. One of Father’s men, an American named Marcus Enders, he took the bullet from your side. He used to be a doctor in the East, then came here to look for gold.” She giggled and covered her mouth. “Father says Senor Enders could not keep his job as a doctor in the East because he likes whiskey too much and was often too full of it to operate on people.” Her eyes widened in apology. “Oh, but do not worry! He was not full of whiskey when he took the bullet from you. Actually, I feel sorry for him. His wife died back East, and he took it very hard. He blamed himself for not being able to save her. That is when he started drinking, Father says. He is actually a fine doctor, when he is sober. Father says he did a good job and that you should recover.
“I went to the chapel and prayed for you. We have our own chapel here on La Estancia de Alcala, even our own priest. Because we are so far from a city, we keep supplies here for all the help. It is almost like our own little town. Our priest, Father Miguel Fernandez Lorenzo, lives here so that we and the many men and their families who work for my father can keep up with mass and confession.” She leaned closer. “Are you Catholic, Senor Lassater?”
The Forever Tree Page 7