by Betina Krahn
“What is this? A sketchbook? You are a mule now, and mules have no time for sketching.” He gave her a hateful look. “Consider this a much needed lesson in the natural order of things, puta.”
Before her aching eyes, he tossed the journal as far away as he could. Then he shoved her hard in the other direction, so that she stumbled and fell over her waiting pack.
The sympathy in Hedda’s eyes made it worse, somehow. She couldn’t help one last look back as they moved on. Her last link with Hart was gone. His painstaking botanical records and startlingly candid notes about his feelings for her had given her hope and served as a reminder of who she was and what she had accomplished.
And what had she accomplished in her life, besides survival? She had wanted independence and respect and someday acclaim. She had sworn to live her life outside of the limitations imposed on women and, for the most part, she had. But if she had died today—if Castille had pulled the trigger earlier—what would be the sum of her life?
There was a time when she had wanted to be a doctor like her father, to do good things for people…
For the rest of the day she trudged on and tried hard not to think at all.
“They were here last night,” Hart whispered, stooping to feel the faint warmth of the campfire’s ashes. Another part of his anxiety lifted with each small bit of evidence that they were getting closer to her
They had caught up with Itza this morning and he had led them to this place off the trail. Then as they paused to fill their canteens, Ruz came to get him to look at some tracks.
“Jaguar.” The guide pointed to a fresh set of prints in the dust around the border of the camp.
Weight descended on Hart’s chest as he and Ruz followed the tracks around the camp… imagining the cat watching the fire-lit people from the safety of the darkness… imagining that Cordelia had gone to sleep never guessing she was being watched… fearing that this particular cat might not know that she had a safe conduct pass from the Jaguar Spirit.
“Look. Here…” Ruz had picked up something he spotted in the grass near the tracks. It looked like a book.
He handed it to Hart, who felt his knees go weak as he recognized the sturdy leather binding and opened it to glimpse his own handwriting and sketches. He couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there—in the jungle, beside a jaguar’s tracks—but he was certain it had to do with Cordelia. There was a heaviness at the bottom of his chest as he tucked it into the back of his waist and picked up his gun.
He was going to find her, he told himself furiously, and make sure she was safe. Then he was going to strangle her for worrying him like this.
“Any word?” Hardacre Blackburn levered himself up halfway out of his chair as the pasty-faced hotel manager bustled into the parlor of his suite.
“Oh. Sorry, Mr. Blackburn.” The fellow was taken aback to realize that the old tycoon thought he was there on a very different sort of errand. “No telegrams, no mail from Mexico. But I really must speak to you. The other guests have begun to vacate the hotel, sir, and—”
“The damned army’s movin’ in,” Hardacre snapped. “Think I don’t know that? Damned noisiest bunch of yayhoos I ever heard. Can’t hardly get a decent night’s sleep in this place anymore.”
“There is a war on, Mr. Blackburn.” The hotel man wrung his hands.
“Well, they ain’t shootin’ at khaki in Tampa. When they do, I’ll move.”
“Really, sir. In times like these, sacrifices must be made. If you would only see fit to speak to the lieutenant in charge of billet—”
“I’m not movin’ ’til I hear from my granddaughter. She’ll be comin’ back to Tampa and I ain’t goin’ anywhere ’til I see her. So I got nothin’ to say to a wet-behind-the-ears lieu-tenant.”
“However, this ‘wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant’ has a few things to say to you,” came a clipped Back Bay Boston baritone from the door. When Hardacre looked up, a strapping, impeccably starched and pressed young man in army drab stood in the doorway with his thumbs tucked into an expensive belt. Without an invitation, he swaggered into the room and addressed its occupant.
“I’m Lieutenant Barton Montgomery, aide-de-camp to Major General William R. Shafter. The general requires the use of these rooms, Mr. Blackburn, and I’m here to see he gets it.” He looked down his nose at Hardacre, clearly taking in the soup stains on the old man’s smoking jacket and the frayed gout bandages on his foot. “I’m certain you would be more comfortable”—there was a suggestion of a curl to the young aristocrat’s nose—“somewhere else.”
Hardacre studied that splendid example of Back Bay Boston’s scion breeding program… rubbed his chin, thinking… then produced a rather satisfied smile.
“Tell ye what. You tell the gen’ral that if he plays his cards right, he just might be able to strike a deal with old Hardacre. I might be persuaded to let him have my rooms—if he’s willin’ to help me out with a little domestic problem I been havin’.”
Thirty-six
“I found them—the senoritas!” Itza came running back to the group that had stopped by a stream to have some food and rest. Hart was on his feet in an instant, tossing aside the coconut he’d been husking and wiping his machete on some nearby grass. They had been traveling fast, trying to make up the distance between themselves and Cordelia and Hedda. They ate while on the move and filled their canteens at every opportunity.
“Hedda? You found Hedda? She is all right?” The professor grabbed Itza. When the guide nodded and pointed, the professor rushed off in the direction Itza indicated.
“Valiente! Professor!” Hart yelled as softly as he could, running after him. “Hot-blooded Latins,” he muttered. “Professor!”
So much for the plan he had painstakingly outlined that morning, sneaking up on Castille’s group once they were located, surrounding them, and calling for them to lay down their weapons. Once the guns were down, Hart, Ruz, and the professor were supposed to show themselves and collect the guns. They could do this, Hart insisted, without anyone getting hurt.
Now the professor was charging through the forest like an enraged boar, and Castille would hear him coming a mile off and probably shoot him on sight.
“Castille!” The professor’s roar carried through the moist, oddly still forest. It was too late to turn back now. “Castille—where are you?”
Hart groaned, stopped short, and motioned to Itza and Ruz to spread out and conceal themselves as they crept up on the others. The brothers faded expertly into the brush, leaving not a trace of their presence.
Hart crept toward the sound of Valiente’s voice, straining for a glimpse of Cordelia through the undergrowth. He spotted the professor’s light-colored shirt and parted the vegetation enough to see Cordelia and Hedda. The relief that sluiced through him at the sight of her was quickly replaced by fury. Both women looked exhausted and bedraggled, bent under the weight of the packs on their backs. Shockingly, their hands were tied in front of them.
Hedda turned with a look of disbelief at the sound of Valiente’s voice. “Arturo?” She sank to her knees as he stepped onto the trail pointing his rifle at the column. With a choked cry, Cordelia sank to her knees beside Hedda, calling to her, unable to do much more than stroke her unresponsive face.
Yago and the three others recognized him and, sensing that his anger had little to do with them, one by one stepped out of his way.
“You!” Castille recovered enough to speak. “But you were—”
“Dead?” Valiente advanced, his face ruddy and eyes like burning coals. “Left to you, I would have been. It appears you didn’t look too hard for survivors. You were too busy looting the temple and kidnaping women.”
“Don’t be absurd, Valiente. We looked for you—you weren’t there,” Castille declared, glancing at the way his men watched between them. “We merely went on to explore the temple and locate the gold—which is just what you would have done if our situations had been reversed.”
“There you a
re wrong, Castille.” Valiente drew himself up straight, using his gun to motion Castille’s men to cross over to one side of the trail, leaving him a clear path to Hedda and Cordelia. “It was never my intent to plunder the jaguar’s treasury, only to discover the truth about the legend and explore the site. The treasure belongs to the people of Tierra Rica. It is they who were long ago charged with its care.” He paused near where Cordelia was trying to revive her aunt. At the sight of Hedda’s pale skin and bruised jaw, his fury exploded anew. “Only a coward raises his hand to a woman.”
“You stupid, idealistic—” Castille looked to the men clutching their gold-filled packs and fingering their guns. “Did you hear him? He wants to take away the gold you have worked so hard to get.” He looked at his trusted bodyguard, then back at the professor, his eyes darker and more fathomless than ever. “We can’t afford to have him running to the government. Shoot him!”
The order hung on the air for a moment. Before Yago could react, one of the three men who had just been threatened with losing their hard-won prize raised a gun to do what had made the big Spaniard hesitate. The man slammed his rifle stock to his shoulder and sighted, even as Hart did the same. The two bullets fired almost simultaneously. One went astray; the other found its target. Castille’s man was jolted back with a look of surprise that he would carry with him into the next world.
Gunfire broke out as the professor dropped to the ground, and Yago and the others realized the professor wasn’t alone and began to shoot wildly into the forest. Hart took aim a second time and a third, counting every bullet and praying in his heart that Cordelia would keep her head down and not try anything foolish. The professor managed to shoulder his gun and fired, hitting another of Castille’s men. Then Ruz and Itza started yelling and rose up, and, without quite willing it, Hart also sprang up and charged the group, shouting and firing repeatedly.
But he had to hit the ground when bullets whined past his head, and he had the instinct to dive behind a hummock of grass and old scrub growth. From there he was able to reload and get off two more shots. There was suddenly only one shooter left—Yago. The big man had emptied his gun and as he crawled to relieve one of the dead men of theirs, Hart shoved to his feet and squeezed off a shot that hit just as Yago reached for the rifle.
Suddenly the gunfire was over and the air was heavy with the acrid smell of burned powder. Hart straightened slowly in the haze, staring at the four bodies sprawled and contracted in varying poses of surprise. Staggering, he wheeled to go to Cordelia and found her on her feet… with a hand twisted in her hair and a pistol pointed at her head.
“Drop the gun or I’ll shoot her,” Castille demanded. He had seen the turn of the gun battle and, instead of joining it, had looked for some insurance that he would be able to escape afterward. He had made his way to Cordelia, hauled her to her feet, and pulled her in front of him.
“You’ll never make it out of here. You don’t even know which way the village is,” Hart said, holding onto his gun, using it to point in one direction and his hand to indicate another. But his focus was on Cordelia’s huge, dark-centered eyes. There in a glance, he saw her longing, her pleasure at seeing him whole and well, and her anguish at the prospect of losing him yet again.
“Shoot him,” she said, her voice small but firm. “Just shoot him—don’t worry about me.”
“Shut up, puta!” Castille shoved the gun barrel into her cheek and began backing up, pulling her with him. His cruel grip on her hair tightened.
“You won’t get away wi–i—” Castille yanked her head back so that her words were choked off for a moment. The next ones came out hoarse and desperate: “Shoot him!”
Suddenly the professor was on his feet beside Hart, with his gun pointed at Castille. Behind them Ruz and Itza stood with a third gun.
She looked straight into Hart’s eyes and he braced, knowing something bad was about to—
“Pretend he has striped tail feathers,” she croaked. “Shoo—”
She dropped at that moment, trusting gravity to help her clear Hart’s line of shot to Castille. But the Spaniard must have sensed what she intended and reacted, firing as she went down. In the split-second of horror that froze everyone else in place, two more shots were fired, both striking Castille in the arm and spinning him around.
Clasping his wounds, the Spaniard began to run and before they could follow him, he disappeared into the trees.
Hart was at Cordelia’s side before another heartbeat went by, calling her name, untying her hands, and gently lifting the monstrous pack from her. She was bleeding and he clamped his hand over her shoulder calling for help, for Yazkuz, for a bandana to press against the wound.
She looked up at him through a cotton fog and smiled as she glimpsed a swath of red around his throat.
“You’re wearing one,” she said with a hint of surprise before her senses went black.
When Yazkuz arrived seconds later, she knelt by Cordelia and nudged Hart’s hand aside to inspect the wound. Muttering fiercely, she set about wiping the blood and checking the extent of the damage.
“Shoulder.” She looked at Hart. “She live.”
He made to pick her up, but the old woman shook her head. “No move.”
“The bastard. I’ll kill him for this.” Hart started to rise, but Yazkuz grabbed his arm in a fierce grip and shook her head.
“No.” She sought his gaze. “Jaguar hunts.” After a moment she eased her hold on him. “Make fire. Stay here.”
Hart did as he was asked and made a fire on the trail beside Cordelia. When Hedda recovered enough, she helped him and Yazkuz care for Cordelia. Ruz and Itza gathered a selection of fruit and they opened the packs to find several golden cups, which they used to drink water from a nearby spring.
As the light failed, a hush fell over the forest. Even the frogs and crickets had gone silent. Sound carried a long way under such circumstances. They heard growls in the distance and strained to hear more.
Alejandro Castille, aristocrat, banker, financial councilor to cardinals and kings, ran for his life through the darkening forest.
Earlier, he had been puzzled that they didn’t try to follow him. He expected that shooting the woman might distract them long enough for him to get away, but he hadn’t expected it to work so brilliantly. He wondered for a moment if he had killed her, but decided that wasn’t likely. If she were already dead, the tall Brit would probably be beating every bush in Mexico to find him. No, she probably hadn’t died—they were busy taking care of her.
That was when he’d heard it. The thing in the weeds and brush—moving—its course oddly parallel to his own. The light was never bright under the thick forest canopy, but at dusk the shadows lengthened and everything seemed unfamiliar and filled with menace. He told himself he was imagining things and concentrated on how he would retrieve his horses when he reached the village. But it was there again. The rustling. The panting. An animal. Eerily close. Always moving with him.
He considered dropping the heavy pack, abandoning it to just get the hell out of this damnable jungle. But he had come too far and worked too hard to just walk away. Two of the half dozen or so artifacts in his bag would fetch him a fortune. And the others—they were for his private collection.
But he didn’t find the village and he was wearing down under the extra sixty pounds on his back. And he was running out of light. That was when he first spotted it, in the shadows, watching him. Something with shining golden eyes. He knew what it was. And he began to run.
Now his heart was pounding frantically, his lungs were on fire, and his legs felt weighted with fatigue. Sweat poured down his face and his blood ran down his arm inside his sleeve. He’d stopped earlier to tie a handkerchief around it, but his arm just wouldn’t quit bleeding.
Winded and growing steadily more terrified, he began to call to it.
“I have a gun. I’ll shoot you before you can lay a claw on me!”
Twice he stumbled to a halt and fired into
the bushes moving around him. But starting to run again was pure torture and he knew if he stopped again, it would be for good.
“You know who I am?” he panted out. “Don Alejandro Castille of Madrid. Your ancestors… served my family… for centuries. Your head brought us riches …and influence… these things… this gold…it belongs to me… just like you belong to me… to my family… you are my family.”
Then fatigue and weakness and dehydration and blood loss all came crashing down and he stumbled to a halt against a tree and clung to it to keep from falling. The urge to free himself of the dead weight on his back was suddenly overpowering. He ripped his arms from the pack and let it fall. Lightened, he turned to run but found the way blocked.
On the narrow animal trail, in a patch of moonlight, stood the jaguar, muscles taut, tail twitching, golden eyes luminous and hungry for justice.
Terror seized Castille’s throat. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. He remembered the gun in his hand and raised it. But his hand, still curled as if it held a gun, was empty. He didn’t remember dropping it. And he looked up in the moonlight as the great cat gathered itself and let out a growl that was half battle cry, half declaration of victory. Just before it leaped and tore into his throat, he saw the look in its eye and plainly heard its thoughts.
“Predator to predator. You understand how it is.”
Thirty-seven
They tended the fire through the night. No one was tempted to sleep, not after what they’d heard an hour after sundown: shots fired in the distance, the growls and the battle cry of a big cat. Imbedded in that last burst of sound, they thought they heard a human scream. A profound silence followed.
“Done.” Yazkuz nodded and took a deep breath.
It took a while for the normal night noise to return to the forest. Hedda sat encompassed in the professor’s arms, Itza and Ruz poked anxiously at the crackling fire, and Yazkuz alternately chanted and busied herself with finding moss and other items Hart requested for cleaning and packing Cordelia’s wound.