by Henke, Shirl
“Then you must remember that El Diablo had no scar,” Mercedes said desperately.
“I saw his face.” Margarita pointed to Nicholas again. “Him! Do you think the matter of one little white line”—she made a slashing motion with her finger across her left cheek—“is what I would remember when those devil's eyes were boring into me! You have not been raped. You could never understand.”
Mercedes felt her heart hammer, then her chest squeezed so tightly that she feared her heart would explode. She fought back the dizziness that surged over her as the judge dismissed Margarita Olividad. “Please, your honor, she all but admitted that she did not notice whether or not her attacker had that scar which Nicholas Fortune bears.”
“How is it, Doña Mercedes, that you came to know this man—Nicholas Fortune I believe you call him—if he is not your husband?” the presiding judge asked while his two companions looked at her with a mixture of pity and impatience.
“No, Mercedes. Don't—” A loud banging of the gavel silenced Nicholas’ outburst.
Her eyes pleaded for his understanding. A look of such intense love and pain filled them that he sat down, defeated, unable to stop her from doing what she felt she must do. And her disgrace would be in vain.
“Nicholas Fortune is his name,” she said, turning her gaze from her love and back to the judges. “He rode up to Gran Sangre last year, pretending to be Lucero Alvarado returned from the war. As Lucero's wife, I welcomed him, but I sensed that he was not the husband I had known so briefly four years earlier. As time passed, I became certain he was not Lucero.
“This man is kind where Lucero was cruel, educated and tolerant where Lucero was superstitious and provincial. Nicholas speaks fluent English and French, even German.
“My marriage was arranged by my guardian. I did not favor it, nor did my husband, who left me to ride away to war after abusing me for three horrible weeks.”
The presiding judge's eyebrows lifted, but it was the second one, the civilian, who asked pointedly, “If, as you say, your lawful husband left you four years ago, then whose child do you carry?” There was an avid glow in his heavy-lidded eyes as he waited for her to reply.
Mercedes raised her head proudly and faced him, one hand pressed protectively to the swell of her belly. “This is the child of Nicholas Fortune.”
An uproar began at this point, led by the priest who sputtered, aghast, “You say he is not your husband but your brother-in-law, yet you lay with him! Incest!”
The judge's gavel rapped ineffectually as all eyes in the courtroom turned to Mercedes, some righteously hostile like the priest's, some pitying, a few merely avidly titillated and curious. Nicholas looked at her, his jaw clenched tightly, feeling every word of condemnation directed at her as if it were a stab to his heart. She gazed back at him with tear-filled eyes, shaking her head to indicate it did not matter what they said.
“I will have order,” the judge barked. When he had finally restored silence, Mercedes continued in a strong, clear voice, “When Nicholas pretended to be my husband, I pretended right along with him that he was...for I wanted him to be, with all my heart.”
I love you. Nicholas silently mouthed the words in English. She blinked back tears and did the same.
“It is obvious that this woman would do anything to secure her husband's freedom, even perjure herself for him,” the civilian judge said to the presiding judge.
“We have heard enough testimony from eye witnesses to be certain he is El Diablo” the last judge added.
“No! You're making a terrible mistake. He is not El Diablo—he isn't even a supporter of the emperor,” Mercedes cried desperately. “Nicholas risked his life and nearly died working for President Juarez! He is one of you!”
Before Mercedes could protest further, Nicholas stood up, saying, “Please, my love.”
She looked over at him, her eyes wide and filled with pain and panic. He seemed so calm that she quieted at once, waiting to see what he would do.
Nicholas turned to the panel of judges and said with a patient smile, “You can see, your honors, that my wife loves me very much—and that she has a most fanciful imagination, although I confess that while I was fighting with the contre-guerrillas, I did learn a smattering of French and English, but I am who I am and she is my wife. And our child is quite legitimate, though the shame of being my heir may be more difficult to bear than bastardy.” He looked over at her then, willing her to acquiesce.
Mercedes stood facing him, aching to walk the few steps that separated them and fling herself into his arms. But it was no use. All was lost. She knew it with dead certainty as she stared at him with jewel-bright, tear-filled eyes.
The presiding judge motioned for the soldiers who had escorted her into the courtroom to remove her. When the two deferential young men reached for her, Mercedes relented with a stifled sob, shaking off their hands and walking defiantly ahead of them to take her seat once more. She sat straight, refusing to let the stinging tears fall as the judge's booming voice filled the courtroom.
“Lucero Alvarado, you have three days to prepare yourself. At dawn on the fourth day, for the crimes to which you have confessed, you will die by firing squad.”
* * * *
Luce sat staring into the flames of the campfire, a dangerous practice he had spent the last four years avoiding. A man whose eyesight had been dimmed by the blaze could be especially vulnerable to a foe attacking out of the darkness. Yet so despondent was he that all he could see was the vision of The Fair Lady sailing out of Vera Cruz harbor.
He and his men had missed the ship by a scant hour. Just long enough for it to clear the breakwaters and head out to sea, bound for Havana, along with Leonardo Marquez and most of the Mexican treasury. So close. He had come so damned close, only to be double-crossed by the man who had been his mentor.
Nick would laugh at the irony of it, Luce thought bitterly. He had given away one fair lady and gone in pursuit of a far more fickle one, only to have it elude him after his wife also had abandoned him. In favor of his brother. A wise man, Nick, to put down roots, choose the winning side in the stupid little war. Of course, Nick would have been the first to warn him not to trust Marquez, but Luce's own arrogance had made him complacent. A fatal flaw in their profession.
Echoing his thoughts, Jorge asked, “What will we do now, Jefe? With Díaz's army in control of Mexico City we have no hope of raiding any of the rich men who stayed there during the upheavals.”
“I've been thinking about that. Once the Juaristas get their hands on Maximilian, it'll all be over. Then their armies will turn their attention to us.”
“We cannot split our group, nein,” Otto Schmidt said stiffly, eyeing Alvarado with his crafty pig eyes.
“No, I don't intend to break up this command,” Luce replied coldly. He had always disliked Schmidt, who had first served under Nick. O'Malley and most of the others who had been with his brother for very long had either been killed or gone their separate ways after Nick had ridden off to Gran Sangre. Of the originals, only Schmidt and Lanfranc were still with him and they were a mixed blessing at best.
“What do we do then, Jefe?” Jorge asked again, waiting rather like a large, slow-witted dog, hoping for a pat but expecting a cuff.
“We'll keep on the way we're headed, north, where we're not known. We can reach the American border if we have help. I hear there are some rich copper mines in New Mexico Territory...and my English is quite passable now,” he added, thinking of Nick. The help he had in mind waited at Gran Sangre.
The next day they rode to the outskirts of Durango. Luce had traded his black stallion for a far less distinctive but equally sturdy dun gelding. Still, unwilling to chance being recognized in a city which he had ravaged, he remained at a small cantina and dispatched Lanfranc and Jorge to the market to purchase supplies for the last long leg of the journey back to Sonora.
He spent the afternoon with the rest of his men sitting in the back of the run-down adobe bu
ilding, sipping from a grimy mug filled with warm pulque and watching a fat, sassy barmaid flirt with the rough vaqueros scattered around the place. Jorge entered the dimly lit cantina around dusk and made his way through the gathering crowd to where his compatriots sat.
“You look pleased as a man who just slipped turnera in his whore's drink,” Luce said, watching the peculiar gleam of excitement in Jorge's normally narrow dark eyes.
“You will not believe this, Jefe, what we have just learned in the city.” He waited as the barmaid swished over to the table and poured another round of foaming pulque for the hard-looking crew of strangers. “El Diablo dies tomorrow—before a Juarista firing squad. Poof!” He snapped his fingers. “Lucero Alvarado is no more a wanted man. He is a dead one.”
Several of the men hooted with laughter along with Jorge, but Luce remained thoughtful, his expression unreadable. Gradually the others sensed his pensive mood and quieted.
“You do not like it—that Nick has been taken in your place?” Schmidt asked.
“I never did like Fortune,” Lanfranc said, lobbing a wad of tobacco in the general direction of a cuspidor. “He was a bastard to work for.”
Lucero looked at the oily little Frenchman as if he were examining one of the cockroaches that scuttled across the cantina floor. “He may be a bastard, but Nick is my brother,” Luce said in a soft, dangerous voice. “I can speak ill of him. You cannot.” He took a long, slow swallow of pulque as he reclined indolently, his chair tipped back against the rough adobe wall behind him. The jefe's eyes were slitted almost closed, but not a man around the table doubted that the criollo could draw his gun or knife and kill him before he could reach his own weapon. In sheer deadliness, Alvarado and Fortune were indeed brothers.
Slowly, a smile spread across his beautifully chiseled mouth. His front chair legs hit the hard-packed clay floor with a soft thump and he leaned forward. “I think El Diablo is going to stage a marvelous escape right under their stupid Juarista noses.”
Jorge blanched and Schmidt scowled and muttered an oath in German. Everyone else watched expectantly. The big moon-faced Sonoran dared to ask, “Jefe, why do you wish to rescue him? With the gringo dead we can ride to your hacienda and live like kings. No one will pursue us. El Diablo will be dead.”
Luce looked at Jorge with cynical amusement. “Live like kings?” he echoed with a laugh. “Do you honestly want to spend the rest of your life chasing down steers and wild horses? Sweating and breaking your back like a common vaquero? That is the life on Gran Sangre. Have you forgotten how boring it is in Sonora, my friend? The Yaqui River Valley is two days' ride from Hermosillo—even if we had silver enough to buy the pleasures of the city, which we would not. What my father did not already waste, the French and Juaristas appropriated.”
Strictly speaking, Luce knew that was not true. There was some sleek fat livestock they could sell for a modest profit, the herds Nick had reclaimed and built up. Mercedes still had some jewelry and there was a smattering of other valuables in the old hacienda, but none of it would last them long. Money aside, Luce had shaken the dust of Gran Sangre from his feet five years ago. He had been bored to death with life in the Sonoran backcountry then. His recent visit made it hold even less appeal for him now.
Of course there was Mercedes. He smiled wryly, realizing that she would cut his throat as he slept if he tried to reclaim the husbandly rights Nick had assumed in his place. But he did not want to reclaim his wife or his hacienda. The irony was in what he did want.
He wanted Nicholas Fortune to live. If ever in his desolate and violent life he had met anyone who understood him and gave a damn about him, and whom he gave a damn about, it was his brother. He had worshipped the ground on which old Anselmo walked, but he had always known the don cared more for aguardiente and cockfights than he had for his son. As to his mother and her priest...his expression hardened as thoughts of them flitted through his mind.
No, Nick was the only person alive he cared about, the only one who had ever really helped him, who had ever shown any genuine interest in him. He remembered the time Nick had saved him from the Juarista mob in Tampico. No, he could not let Nick die.
On a more cynical and pragmatic note, Luce admitted to himself that Nick had Juarista friends up north and other connections across the border. He rationalized that his brother would actually be a lot more useful alive than dead.
“Breaking Fortune out of that rock pile of a prison, bah! It would be easier to steal Saint Peter's keys and ride into heaven,” Schmidt said.
Luce grinned mirthlessly at the German. “I'll think of something after I do a little reconnaissance.” He snapped his fingers as he stood up, signaling Jorge to come with him.
In a few hours he had formed a plan that he shared with his men. “We move tonight. No one will expect a rescue attempt only hours before El Diablo goes to his death. Hell, they wouldn't expect anyone to give a damn about him. First, I'll get in position. Then Jorge will signal for the diversion.” Luce quickly outlined a variation on the method they had used successfully to pull off a series of robberies during the past year. That old familiar aphrodisiac of danger began to burn through his veins once more. Sweet Virgin, how he loved outwitting the buffoons who were in authority, no matter whose government they served.
Alvarado was so excited that he failed to see the silent exchange between Lanfranc and Schmidt.
* * * *
Mercedes bribed the guard again to gain entry to the prison that night. Nicholas hoped that she would come, even though a part of him wanted her safely away from this sinkhole of death and desperation. But the moment she walked through the cell door, his heart leaped with the bittersweet joy of holding her in his arms one last time.
She had vowed not to cry. But it was impossible once she saw him, standing so straight and tall, her splendid love, penned in this squalid little cell until they would take him out of it one final time to slaughter him for crimes he did not commit.
“Nicholas, oh, Nicholas.” She set down the basket she was carrying and threw herself into his arms, holding on with all of her strength as he crooned soft love words in English and Spanish. Finally, getting her emotions under control, she raised her eyes to his beloved face, letting her fingertips trace across the fine white line of the scar on his cheek.
“I knew it would do no good to tell the truth, querida” he said in English. Somehow speaking his native language with her his last night on earth seemed fitting. He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers softly.
“I had to try. I'd sell Gran Sangre or deed it over to the commandant if he would let you go...but he refused,” she said in misery.
Nicholas chuckled softly. “There is a limit even to Commandant Morales' venality. You may bribe him to gain entry to the prison, but not to let me escape.”
“How can you joke at a time like this?”
He sighed, then asked tenderly, “What else is there to do?”
“I would do anything to save you, give anything.”
“Querida, Gran Sangre is our child's birthright. We've worked so hard this past year to secure it. Always remember that.”
“I shall try,” she said raggedly, seeing the years without him stretch endlessly ahead of her. “For tonight, I brought us dinner. The food in this place must be ghastly.”
“I've had better, but I'm used to as bad.” His appetite was not all that great but rather than disappoint her, he would share this last bit of time they had together. There was one request he had to make of her with which she must comply.
Mercedes knelt beside the crude pallet, ignoring the stale smell of it as she spread a clean blanket over it, then opened the hamper to reveal a bottle of wine, a loaf of crusty bread, assorted fruits, a wedge of sharp yellow cheese, even a whole roasted chicken. “It's simple fare, but fresh and good. I spent the afternoon at the market in the square.”
She did not tell him that was where she wandered about aimlessly in despair after her attempts to bribe Comm
andant Morales proved futile.
Nicholas sat down beside her and began to pour the wine into clay mugs as she set out the food on plates. “We'll have to break the chicken apart with our hands. The guard wouldn't let me bring in a carving knife.”
“Imagine that,” he said owlishly.
In spite of herself, she laughed softly at the comment, watching as his long strong fingers quickly ripped the plump golden fowl into various parts. They ate slowly, savoring each moment. Their last time together was far more precious than any food. She described all that had occurred since he rode off to join Juarez—Doña Sofia's death, how Angelina and Baltazar and the other people on Gran Sangre fared, and particularly she told him anecdotes about Rosario and how well she was doing in her schoolwork.
“She knew that Lucero wasn't her ‘real papa’ immediately,” she said, explaining the child's intuition. “You are truly her father in every way that matters.”
As her eyes filled with tears, Nicholas raised his mug for a toast. “To Rosario, and to my wife in every way that matters, as well.”
With trembling hands she raised her cup to his and they both swallowed the bittersweet taste of tears. After she finished drinking, Mercedes put her mug down, saying, “I need a cloth. My fingers are all greasy from the chicken.”
He reached for one small hand and raised it to his mouth. “I'll wash them,” he said in a husky voice.
She felt a small shiver of pleasure when the heat of his breath caressed her hand, followed by the soft velvety rasping of his tongue and lips as he licked the stickiness from her palm, then took each finger and sucked on it.
Mercedes closed her eyes, storing up the memory to last her a lifetime. When he took her other hand to lave it tenderly, she reached for his, reciprocating. His large dark hand was rough against her mouth, yet it was always so gentle whenever he touched her. She kissed his callused palm and thought of all the hours he had spent working stock, letting the rough leather reata pull through his hands.