A Westward Love

by V. J. Banis

  “Hello.” It was Don Hernando’s voice calling from outside. Summers halted abruptly, a pained expression appearing briefly on his face. A moment later Don Hernando came in, stopping short when he saw the other man.

  “Forgive me, if I’m intruding,” Don Hernando said.

  “I was just going,” Summers said. He turned away from her, glancing back at the door to say, “Take care of yourself,” and with that he was gone.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve come at a bad moment,” Don Hernando said.

  Claire shook her head. “Like he said, he was just going anyway.”

  * * * * * * *

  Don Hernando had brought a horse for her, and for her things, a carreta driven by one of the Indians who worked at odd jobs around the town.

  Claire finished packing and the Indian carried the trunk out to the carreta. With Don Hernando at her side, Claire went through the house. It was the closest she had come to a home of her own since leaving London. Since her father’s death, in fact. In London she’d been a glorified house guest. The house she had shared with Peter in Virginia counted for very little in her memories.

  They came out the front door, to find the carreta loaded, the oxen munching disinterestedly at the grass, and the Indian nowhere in sight.

  “The scoundrel,” Don Hernando fumed, peering up and down the street. “I’ve never known him to run out on a job like this. He’s always been one of the more dependable ones.”

  “They’ve their own reasons for fearing the missions,” she said. “Maybe he just didn’t want to go there.”

  “I’ll drive you myself,” Don Hernando said, but she put a restraining hand on his arm.

  “That won’t be necessary, I can manage,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t be driving around the countryside by yourself,” Don Hernando said.

  She smiled. “I’ve traveled through far worse,” she reminded him. “I really think I prefer to be alone. Anyway, I’ll probably find the Indian along the trail. He might just have gotten impatient and started out.”

  Don Hernando looked as though he would like to argue, but she climbed into the driver’s seat and it seemed the argument was already settled.

  “Take this, at least,” he said, handing her one of his revolvers. She put it on the seat beside her.

  “I’ll come to see you tomorrow,” he said.

  “It will be like a reunion, won’t it? We met in a mission, if you remember.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” he said.

  She pretended not to see the moisture threatening to spill from his eyes and gave the oxen a flick of the whip that started them slowly forward. When they had gone a few feet, the carreta creaking and clanking over the rutted surface of the street, she glanced back to wave to Don Hernando. Then she fixed her gaze forward toward the nearby hills, beyond which lay the mission.

  Don Hernando watched until she was all but out of sight. Finally, moving like a man stooped with exhaustion, he started back toward his own house.

  He had almost reached there before he became aware of a crowd of people gathered around the front of the house. Some of those in the group spotted him, and one of the men ran out to meet him.

  “Don Hernando!” he cried while still at a distance, “your wife!”

  “Doña María? What’s happened to her?” Don Hernando demanded.

  The man started to answer, then shook his head, pointing toward the waiting throng.

  Don Hernando began to run. The crowd, seeing him approach, parted to make way for him. He dashed into the house, following the line of people along the corridor to his wife’s room at the rear, the room from which she had so rarely emerged. Her little maid stood weeping in the doorway.

  Don Hernando pushed the maid aside and went in. This room too was crowded with people. He had a glimpse of a rope hanging from one of the ceiling beams and an overturned chair on the floor beneath it.

  The doctor was kneeling by Doña María’s bed. At the sound of Don Hernando’s entrance he rose, turning to face the Don with a sorrowful shake of his head.

  “Dead,” was all he said.

  * * * * * * *

  Claire was almost to the gates of the mission before she noticed the unusual quiet. The fields, normally manned by an army of Indians, were virtually empty. Within the mission walls too she found things unusually still, with only a few Indians to be seen.

  She asked to speak to the padre. She had met him from time to time in Monterey and had found him kindly and pleasant company. Today, however, he seemed preoccupied.

  “What can I do for you, my child?” he asked when she had been shown into his office.

  “I wish to be permitted to stay here for a time,” Claire said.

  “Yes, Friar Hidalgo asked us some days ago to prepare a room for you,” the Father said. “Will you be with us long?”

  The knowledge that Peter had made arrangements for her arrival before she had even reached a decision to come here annoyed her.

  “Only for a few days,” she replied, adding, “Just until a ship comes in.”

  He nodded his approval and seemed to dismiss both the matter and her. She saw that he was nervous, and on an impulse asked, “Father, is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?”

  “Here, I mean. You seem disturbed. And I noticed that the Indians seemed to have vanished.”

  He gave her a quick, reassuring smile. “They are the children of the light,” he said, coming to take her arm and escort her to the door. “Try though we might to elevate them, they still sometimes revert to their pagan ways. A great many of them have disappeared for the moment. Perhaps some festival in the hills, some pagan ceremony. They will be back, rest assured. We are their fathers. We have brought them the truth.”

  Claire, who knew firsthand the truths taught the Indians by the missions, made no reply to this. A friar was summoned to show her to the tiny room that had been made ready for her.

  She was no sooner alone than there was an imperious knock at the door and, without waiting for permission, Peter opened it and came in.

  “So,” he said, his eyes gleaming triumphantly, “you have come.”

  “I’m afraid for the moment I have no other alternative,” she said. “But I mean to stay only until I can catch a ship to the east.”

  He came closer. “You will never leave here,” he said. “I will be your conscience.”

  “I have one already.”

  “Tainted. Corrupted.”

  “Tainted and corrupted perhaps, but my own, and no concern of yours,” she replied evenly.

  He seized her wrist in a sudden and fierce grasp. “I have wed us to the Church,” he said, leaning his face close to hers. “Just as surely as you and I were wed in the past. You will be mine forever, mine and the Lord’s.”

  For the first time it occurred to her that Peter might be more than just a religious fanatic, that he might be truly mad.

  “Let me be,” she said, jerking her hand away from his. “I came here because I had no place else to go, because I was afraid to stay on where I was, but I owe you nothing.”

  “Do you think to divorce me?” he asked.

  “It was you who divorced me. You said yourself you all but forgot I existed. You even have a different name from the man I married. For all intents and purposes my husband is dead.”

  He seemed to weigh this possibility. She expected an argument, but instead he turned to go. “I will be back later,” he said.

  “I’ll be busy later.”

  “I’ll wait,” he told her, going out with a final, chilling smile.

  * * * * * * *

  Despite the knowledge that Peter would be close at hand, she had expected the mission to provide a haven of rest and peace of mind. This day, however, there was something in the air, a tension that few wanted to acknowledge but that seemed to permeate everything regardless.

  A few of the Indians continued at their jobs. During the afternoon a few more drifted back from wherever they had been
, but most of the mission’s slave population remained absent. Nor would those who were on hand offer any explanation, steadfastly insisting on their ignorance.

  Despite his promise, Peter did not return to her room that day. Claire went to bed soon after dusk, only to be awakened sometime later by the gentle shake of a hand. She sat up, angrily thinking that it was Peter after all, come to molest her. Instead she saw that her visitor was an Indian woman.

  “You must wake up, señora,” the Indian said, shaking her shoulder.

  “What is it? Who are you?” Claire demanded, peering through the darkness at the face near her own, a familiar face, but one she couldn’t identify at the moment.

  “I am Redwing’s widow.”

  Claire remembered then. She had helped the woman bury her husband only a few nights before. She shook her head sleepily, trying to make some sense out of what was happening.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You must flee here now,” the Indian said. “You must run into the hills and hide until the soldiers come.”

  “The soldiers...? But it’s the middle of the night, why on earth....”

  “Blood will be shed tonight,” the Indian said. “White man’s blood.”

  Comprehension dawned with a stab of fear. “Indian uprising?” she asked.

  “Go now, at once.”

  Claire scrambled out of the bed, fumbling on the bedside table for matches. She had been assured in Virginia that Indian uprisings were a thing of the past in the United States, but here in California the situation was far more primitive. Though these Indians were generally docile, she had heard tales of an earlier uprising in which settlers and military alike had been slaughtered. It was the unspoken fear of all the Californios, for all their arrogance in dealing with the Indians.

  “I’ll only take a moment to dress,” she said, striking a match to the candle. A gust of air all but extinguished the flame, and she turned to find the door standing open, the Indian gone.

  “Wait!” she cried, running to the open door. She had just reached it when the night air was rent by a shriek of agony, followed by another, and yet another. Shots rang out, at first in an almost orderly succession, and then a deafening volley, punctuated by more and more cries and screams. Someone was swearing in Spanish, and she heard the unearthly war whoops of the Indians. Shadowy figures dashed to and fro across the darkened grounds.

  She could see that she would never be able to cross the grounds and escape the mission without being spied. Better, she thought, her heart pounding, to put out the light and hide where she was.

  She closed the door of her room and started back to the candle, but before she could reach it to extinguish it, the door was flung open with a crash.

  With a muffled cry she whirled about, to find herself facing two Indian braves. Their faces were vaguely familiar and she supposed she must have seen them working around the mission or the town, but the night had transformed them. They were naked, having shed both their servants’ garments and their docile manner. One carried a knife and the other a gun, and as she stared wide eyed at them, their eyes raked over her body hungrily, reminding her that she wore nothing but the flimsiest of nightdresses.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, assuming an air of bravado she was far from feeling. “Get out.”

  For an answer they advanced a few steps into the room. It was not necessary to read their eyes to see what they were thinking. Their sweat-glistening bodies gave evidence of their reaction to her own near nudity.

  She remembered her reticule, pushed carelessly under her bed. In it was the revolver Don Hernando had given her earlier in the day. If she could only reach that.

  “I’m going to see the padre,” she said, starting toward the bed.

  For a moment she thought her bluff might work, for the Indians let her almost reach the bed. Then suddenly the heat within them exploded in a flurry of motion. As if on cue they rushed at her, seizing her as easily as if she had been a rag doll and threw her across the bed, knocking the air out of her. Stunned, she tried feebly to slap their hands away, but a brutal blow from one of them all but knocked her unconscious. In a daze she felt her flimsy garments being torn from her until she lay naked and helpless beneath them.

  Grinning crazily, the bigger of the two threw himself upon her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Her knees were forced apart. Pinned helplessly beneath him, Claire closed her eyes, praying for unconsciousness.

  Suddenly there was a commotion from the door and Claire opened her eyes again, looking past the Indian’s shoulders to see Peter and one of the younger friars burst into the room.

  Her first thought was that they had entered a deathtrap, for both the Indians were armed, while Peter carried nothing but a rawhide whip.

  To her surprise, though, the sight of Peter brandishing the whip as if he were the avenging angel quite unnerved the Indians, so ferocious a moment before. Abandoning their own weapons, they retreated in terror from the whip’s lash. They circled the tiny room, cringing as the rawhide strands cracked about them. Finally, seeing their opportunity, the two braves shoved past the younger friar and ran into the night.

  “Stop them,” Claire gasped. “They may hurt someone.”

  “The soldiers will capture them,” Peter said, not even deigning to glance in the direction of the door. “The uprising’s over already. We were expecting something of this sort.”

  She realized then that the sounds from without had changed. There were fewer gunshots, and the cries and screams were in the Indians’ tongue.

  “Thank Heaven,” she gasped, rubbing the bruise left where the Indian had struck her. “Peter, please, I...my clothes....”

  She tried to sit up, but to her surprise Peter leaned over the bed, seizing her shoulders so that she could not rise. His eyes, no less feverish than the Indians’ had been a moment or two before, moved slowly up and down the length of her body, lingering like a malevolent caress at her thighs and her breasts.

  “You,” he said, his words emerging slowly and with great effort. “You—just as—I dreamed of—you—all these nights, night after night....”

  “Peter, please,” she said, struggling against him, “I must cover myself....”

  “No!” He shoved her backward upon the bed. “I’ll have you,” he said, his breath rasping hoarsely. “I’ll have you as I’ve had you in my dreams, those cursed dreams.”

  “Peter, in the name of God....”

  He tore at the skirt of his robe and she had a glimpse of his member, swollen and red with lust. The young friar stared in horror. He was one of those who had revered Friar Hidalgo since he had emerged from the wilderness, looking upon him as a modern-day prophet.

  “Friar Hidalgo!” he cried, running forward. “You’re beside yourself. It’s the excitement....”

  “Get away!” Peter shouted, cursing and striking out at the young man.

  The young friar struck at Peter’s shoulders with his fists. With a snarl of rage Peter shoved him away. “Leave us alone,” he ordered. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Please,” Claire sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks, “help me.”

  The young man came at them again. The Indian’s gun had fallen to the floor by the bed and with an oath Peter snatched it up and in one swift movement aimed and fired. The young friar’s face seemed to explode, and he fell across the foot of the bed, landing across Claire’s bare feet. She felt the gush of warm blood and screamed in horror.

  Peter slapped her. Then he was upon her again, forcing her knees apart as the Indian had done, and she felt the tearing pain as he entered her brutally.

  She turned her head and found herself looking at the bloody face of the dead friar. She began to sob and retch all at the same time, while Peter’s body pummeled hers mercilessly.

  It might have lasted minutes or hours, she couldn’t say. At long last she felt the stiffening of his body, followed by the wet warmth within he
r. He sank heavily down.

  For several long minutes they lay motionless. Finally he rose, slipping from within her. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of looking at him.

  “You witch,” he said, flinging the words as violently as he had wielded the whip earlier. “You demon. You’ve broken my vows.”

  “Your vows were a mockery,” she said, opening her eyes after all.

  “I ought to kill you,” he said, snatching up the gun again.

  “No, you ought to fall on your knees and beg forgiveness. Not mine, but your Maker’s,” she replied.

  He lifted the gun, placing the barrel against her temple. She felt the kiss of the cold steel and knew that in a second or two more his trembling finger might squeeze the trigger and all would be ended.

  “Go ahead,” she said, not taking her eyes from his. “Kill me. It will not erase your shame. Nothing will ever undo what you have done.”

  “Whore.”

  To her own surprise and his as well, she suddenly smiled. “Far worse than that, Peter, you are a fool. I traveled across an ocean as your bride. I crossed a continent at the constant peril of my life, trying to find you, not because I loved you, but out of guilt, because I thought I’d driven you to your death, and out of a sense of duty, because I felt that I owed you something. Owed you? For using and abusing me, for taking me at your will, and often even more cruelly than tonight. And still I came, and would have been your wife again, if you had wanted me. And there you were the fool, Peter, because you did, and you tried to pretend otherwise. I was a fool too, because I must have known, and I too tried not to see. I forgot, we both forgot, that beneath that holy robe there is still a man, still the same man who was willing to kill his brother for the sake of a woman. And now, for the same reason, you’ve killed any remaining vestige of affection or respect I might have felt for you. Kill me if you wish. I shall join my husband. My husband, who died somewhere in the great western wilderness.”

  She waited, expecting at any moment the explosion, wondering if there would be pain, or if it would be too swift for feeling.