by Connie Mason
“No, Paco, I’ve been taking a siesta. I awoke only moments ago when I felt the need to relieve myself. Pedro is probably still with the girl.”
Paco laughed nastily, making an obscene gesture with his hands. “Pedro always was greedy. I say it’s time he shared. If there is anything left to share, that is. Come, Carlos, perhaps we will be the first after Pedro to sample the blond puta. I am growing hard just thinking about climbing between those white thighs.”
“You go on,” Carl urged, stifling the pressure to kill the foul tongued bandito for his disaparaging remarks about Julie. “I’m much older than you, and not so hot blooded as I was in my youth.”
“All the more reason to get to the girl while she still is reasonably fresh. Even old men need a taste of woman’s flesh once in a while. To prove my good will you may go first,” offered Paco expansively.
There was nothing more Carl could do or say as Paco pulled the older man along with him toward Pedro’s cabin. Carl hoped he was a good enough actor to convince Paco when Pedro’s body was discovered.
As luck would have it, Carl’s ability to act was never put to the test. Just as they reached the cabin Pedro had taken Julie to, a man brust through the open doorway, shouting and gesturing wildly.
“Por Dios, he’s dead! Pedro is dead!”
“How can this be?” Paco asked, obviously stunned. “Who did it, Jose?”
“The girl!” accused Jose knowingly. “She is gone! Through some devious trick she managed to kill el jefe and escape. She is truly a bruja!”
“Bah!” jeered Paco derisively. “Impossible! Pedro would never allow himself to be bested by a mere woman. Come, let us look at the body. Perhaps we will find our answer.”
Carl could feel his composure slipping away as he accompanied the two men inside Pedro’s cabin. The odor of death was in the air and he paled visibly when he came face-to-face with his handiwork. Though Carl rode with Murieta, it was the first time he had actually killed a man. Cautiously he approached the stiffening body, pretending an outrage he did not feel.
What he saw caused beads of perspiration to break out on his forehead as panic seized him. Pedro lay face down on the dirty floor, his right hand stretched forward. At the tip of one finger, etched in dried blood, were the letters C-A-R-L-O-S. Pedro had lived long enough to take his revenge. He had named his killer.
“Perdicion!” exclaimed Paco, eyeing Carl malevolently. “Carlos! You killed Pedro and let the girl go! You gringo bastardo! Seize him!”
By that time the small room was crowded with men who had been alerted by Jose’s loud cries, and Carl found himself being seized and roughly manhandled by more hands than he could count. Carl quailed, his worst fears had been realized. Once again he had proved himself a failure.
“Why, gringo?” asked Paco once Carl was rendered immoble by his captors. “Did you want the woman so badly that you killed for her? Or did you seek only to aid one of your own kind? What did you do with her, gringo? Where is the girl?”
“Safe!” Carl choked out. “Where you’re not likely to find her!” No matter how badly Carl had failed his beloved daughter, nothing Paco and the others could do to him would force him to reveal Julie’s hiding place. Better she should die alone in a cave than be brutally and repeatedly raped to death. If only he could be certain Julie wouldn’t venture out of her concealment when he failed to return for her.
A vicious blow to his midsection brought Carl’s attention sharply back to his own desperate situation as the pain caused him to gag and retch violently.
“Talk, bastardo, or you’ll be sorry you were ever born,” Paco threatened ominously. “You have ridden with us often enough to know what a vengeful lot we are.” As if to accentuate his words, Paco’s massive fists beat a painful tattoo upon Carl’s unprotected face.
“Julie is my daughter,” gasped out the battered man, “but that’s all you’ll get from me.” His mouth was set in a slash of grim determination.
“Caramba!” cursed Paco, consumed with anger.
“Kill him, Paco,” Jose urged, his sentiments echoed by his compadres.
“Not before he talks,” Paco replied. “Take him outside. The rest of you, bury Pedro.” No one made a move to challenge Paco’s usurped authority in the absence of a leader as the bandits carried out his orders with alacrity.
Carl knew he was a dead man; his only regret was that he was unable to return to Julie and lead her to safety. His own usefulness had ended long ago, and he did not mourn his own death. Already he was dazed and badly hurt. How much more could he take, he reflected absently, as he was dragged to an open area and staked spreadeagled to the ground. During the next hours Carl was to learn the full extent of his tenuous hold on life under more pain than he had ever known.
Paco and Jose took turns torturing Carl, using wicked looking black whips and sharp knives to torment his flesh. Many times (he lost count) he escaped into oblivion, only to be revived to begin anew the merciless torture of his lacerated body, until he wished fervently for death, begged for it.
And through it all came the cruel voice of Paco, demanding, “Where is the girl, gringo? The girl, tell us.”
“Bah, he won’t talk,” decided Jose, beginning to tire of the sport. “I haven’t had my supper yet and I’m tired. I say we leave him here all night. If he lives, we can take up where we left off mañana.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the ill assorted group of men, easily persuading Paco of the wisdom of Jose’s words. “You may be right, amigo,” he agreed, disgusted with Carl’s stubbornness. “Mañana.”
Immediately the men went off to cook their supper over the communal campfire where later they would gather to spin their yarns of dastardly deeds and villainous acts. For the moment, the man they knew as Carlos was all but forgotten.
Julie spent her first night in her secret cave sleeping little. The cold seemed to penetrate through her skin into her bones. Though her father had thought to provide food and water, no other comforts, such as blankets, could be found though she scrabbled around in the dark looking for something with which to cover herself. Ill clad in the tatters of her torn dress, it offered little protection against the dampness of the cave.
The next morning Julie awoke early, drank some water, ate a strip of jerky, and waited patiently for her father’s return. Never once did she consider the possibility that he would not return for her.
When the sun arose Carl Darcy was still alive, barely. Instinctively, Paco knew that it would do little good to torture the man further. He seemed beyond understanding or speech, more dead than alive. With a fatalistic shrug of his broad shoulders, Paco decided to lead the men out of the valley to search for the girl. After all, how far could one defenseless woman on foot go without food, water, or a horse? They would still have their sport, Paco vowed, once he and the men ran her down, unless she was already the victim of wild animals.
Within the hour, Murieta’s camp lay deserted in the sun dappled valley, except for one lone man staked out in the dirt awaiting an ignominous death. When a search of the immediate area failed to uncover a clue to their elusive prey, the banditos, led by Paco, rode out of their secluded hideaway to scour the surrounding Santa Lucia Mountains.
By mid-afternoon, Julie grew frantic with worry when her father failed to materalize. She knew Murieta’s men were searching for her because she heard them pass by her concealment many times, holding her breath lest they discover the opening to the cave. But at the moment it was her father’s safety that concerned her, not her own well being. In her mind’s eye she could now visualize all sorts of horrible things that could have happened to him.
Crouching close to the opening Julie heard nothing but the sounds of silence. It had been like that for over an hour. Not even an occasional shout from the camp below could be heard. Her imagination ran rampant. Have the men left the valley as her father predicted, she wondered? If so, why hadn’t he come for her? Was he injured? Or worse yet, dead.
Te
ntatively, Julie poked aside a small portion of the mesquite shielding her hiding place, remembering her father’s words of warning but unwilling to remain in a safe haven when he might need her. Acting on impulse, Julie began vigorously attacking the thick shrubs and brush holding her captive within the cave. Working from the inside was much more difficult than Julie would have imagined and within minutes her hands were raw and bleeding, her nails torn. But she would not give up. By the time she tumbled through the narrow opening she had painstakingly cleared for herself, every inch of visible skin was scratched and bruised by brambles and thorns.
Carelessly shrugging aside her minor injuries, Julie looked cautiously about to get her bearings. Once she satisfied herself that no one was about, she started downhill in the direction of Murieta’s camp. It didn’t take long for her to reach the edge of the forest where only yesterday she and her father had stopped to catch their breath. She stared intently at the group of innocuous looking huts resting against the side of the hill. Nothing stirred. Glancing toward the corral Julie noticed that nearly all the horses were gone, and she exulted. For the time being she was safe, she supposed, and was on the verge of leaving the protection of the trees when she recalled her father’s words cautioning her to beware of guards left behind to protect the camp when the others rode out. Was there another man besides her father down there now, she wondered cautiously? Suddenly the threat to herself mattered little. Nothing mattered but her father. What had happened to him to prevent his coming for her in the cave?
Careless of her own safety, Julie boldly entered the open meadow to traverse the last one-hundred yards into the heart of the camp. An ominous silence greeted her ears as she rounded the cabin where she had been held captive the day before. She breathed a ragged sigh of relief. “So far, so good,” she muttered beneath her breath. But sadly, her optimism was short lived.
Not twenty-feet in front of her a corpse lay stretched out on the ground, his sun blackened face swollen grotesquely and his slight body cruelly torn and lacerated. The screaming seemed to go on forever and Julie wished it would stop, until she realized the inhuman sounds were coming from her own mouth.
“Papa!” she cried, rushing to her father’s side. “Oh, Papa, what have they done to you?” Sobbing hysterically, Julie knelt down and laid her head on the still chest. Astonishment crossed her sad features when she realized a faint thread of life still clung to the inert body. Even to Julie’s untrained ear the shallow breathing could be detected, and then she noted the erratic rise and fall of his chest.
“You’re alive!” she screeched joyfully. “Oh Papa, Papa, don’t die! Don’t leave me!”
Julie’s brain bolted when she realized that the bandits were gone, leaving her father to die in a horrible manner. Bolstered by the thought that at least he was still alive and she was here to help him, Julie drew his knife from his waistband and slit his bonds. Then she went in search of water. Without too much difficulty she located a lazy stream meandering along the perimeter of the camp, filled a bucket she found nearby, and hurried back to her father’s side. She spent the next half-hour cleaning his face and numerous wounds as best she could with a torn-off piece of her chemise. Only then did she kneel to pray, harder than she ever prayed in her life.
The next problem Julie faced was obtaining shelter. She could not leave her father outside to the mercy of wild animals or the elements. But neither was she strong enough to carry him inside one of the cabins. She could drag him but was afraid of aggravating any one of his grievous injuries. She sat down to ponder her dilemma when Carl roused himself enough to ask for water. Julie hastened to help him drink and though his glazed eyes were focused on her, he seemed not to know her. That fact nearly defeated her.
In the end, Julie was forced to do nothing more than sit beside her father all day and all night, making him as comfortable as possible. It was obvious she could not move him until he recovered somewhat and was able to help her. She dared not dwell on the consequences should the banditos reappear before she was able to get her father to safety.
Though Julie’s firm resolve to remain awake all night in order to protect her father was made in earnest, her stamina gave out long before midnight and she fell soundly asleep curled up into a tight ball beside Carl’s limp form. At least she had the foresight to scrounge around in the cabins for blankets so they would not suffer from cold.
The first pale flashes of dawn found Julie still asleep, her exhausted face streaked with tears. Beside her, Carl remained unconscious. The lone rider that entered the secluded valley did not at first notice anything amiss. He had expected to find his men gone, no doubt off on a raid led by Pedro, his lieutenant.
Deep lines of fatigue etched the rider’s handsome features for it had been a long tiring journey from San Francisco where he had learned that there was a large price on his head and the entire army was scouring the hills and Santa Lucia Mountains for him and his fellow banditos.
Jacquin was so immersed in his own morose thoughts that he nearly tripped over the two sleeping forms sprawled on the ground. Reining in sharply, he was stunned when he recognized Carl despite his badly bruised face all he could see of the second shrouded form was a blond head poking through the top of the blanket.
Just then Julie blinked awake, perhaps aware that she was not alone. Two eyes, blue as cornflowers, peered up at the astounded Murieta. “Por Dios!” Murieta exclaimed, his dark eyes nearly popping from his skull. “Dona Julie! What are you doing here!”
Wide awake now, Julie jerked upright, revealing a large expanse of badly scratched flesh beneath her tattered bodice. Joaquin’s eyes narrowed, puzzled and alarmed by Julie’s deplorable condition.
“Señor Murieta!” Julie breathed gratefully. “Thank God you are here.” Then, much to Murieta’s consternation, she began sobbing, at last succumbing to the hysteria that had been bubbling beneath the surface ever since she discovered her father’s battered body the day before.
Instantly Murieta was at her side, sheltering her quaking body in his strong arms. She felt so good, so right in his embrace, he thought idly as he soothed her trembling with soft Spanish words. Not since his Rosita had he felt so protective toward a woman.
“Help my father, Señor,” Julie begged desperately. “Please don’t let him die!”
“Your padre!” Murieta was stunned. “Carlos is your padre?” Julie nodded, too consumed with emotion to speak. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning, chica,” he invited gently. “But first let me carry your father inside one of the cabins and make him comfortable.”
Much later, with her father resting comfortably in bed, Julie sat with Murieta eating the hastily prepared breakfast he had thrown together. In a low voice she told the bandit the sad tale of her betrayal by Elena, and her horrendous experience at the hands of Pedro, and her rescue by Carlos who turned out to be her long lost father.
“Pedro deserves to die for his vile treatment of you,” Murieta said bitterly. “This would never have happened had I been here. I would not have been so easily gulled by Elena. What is truly puzzling is Don Rodrigo’s part in all this. I find it difficult to believe he had anything to do with your abduction. It isn’t like him to act in such an underhanded manner.”
“I didn’t want to believe it myself, but Elena—”
“Ha, that one!” snorted Joaquin derisively.
“She … she became Rod’s mistress after her marriage to Don Diego.”
“What part did that old goat play in all this? It sounds more like his handiwork than Rodrigo’s.”
“None. Don Diego shot himself when he learned that Elena and Rod became lovers.”
“I can’t say I regret his death,” Murieta said. “I am only sorry he failed to reveal all he knew about Maria before he died. I’m certain he knew more than he was telling.”
Julie was quiet a long time, thinking about the tragedy of the old man’s death. Suddenly Murieta asked, “When did the men ride out of camp, chica?”
“Yesterday morning,” replied Julie. “They searched for me a long time before they left.”
“They are fools,” spat Murieta contemptuously. “Paco probably led them. He always did envision himself as leader. But do not fear. I will not allow them to harm you.” Somehow Julie believed him.
Julie’s father began to heal, albeit slowly. With Murieta’s help, she lavished tender care on the gravely injured man. His knife wounds were the most serious with several of them festering despite the care he received. At one point he became delirious, speaking of Julie’s mother and their early life together in New York above his little tobacco shop. During the course of his rantings, Julie became privy to the great love that existed between her parents and despaired of ever being loved in the same manner.
Murieta was intensely aware of the condition of Julie’s tattered clothing which proved a continual embarrassment to her, especially when she caught him time and again gazing at her raptly, his desire barely concealed. She was not yet prepared to deal with another man’s lust.
But surprisingly, Murieta was a perfect gentleman as he humbly offered Julie a pair of baggy white calzonazos and an equally baggy shirt. Both shapeless garments delighted her immensely and she was more than happy to discard her dirty torn dress, and with it her memories associated with the garment.
As the days passed, both Julie and Murieta were aware that Julie’s time in camp was growing short. Soon the men would return and it would be too dangerous for her to remain for very long, even under Murieta’s protection. The banditos were a dangerous lot, unpredictable and blood thirsty. And though Murieta had no difficulty controlling the dull witted cut-throats, a woman in the camp presented too much of a temptation for the men who were often deprived of sex for long periods of time.
One thing Murieta hadn’t counted on was the deep feelings he harbored for Julie. Seeing her each day, not being able to touch her or make love to her, was tearing him apart. He wanted her as he never wanted another woman, including his own Rosita. But Murieta was a gentleman and he had come to care for Julie. Women came easily to him. Of course, since he had taken to a life of crime, the good ones, women like Julie, were no longer possible. He usually made do with putas or young widows in need of money in exchange for affection. Until now his needs had been satisfactorily met.