“I’m gonna take a gander.”
“Sí.”
Cameron had walked down the grade about thirty feet when Jimmy Bronco’s voice came to him from down the slope. “Jack?”
The young man moved closer, and his hatted form took shape. He’d been bedding down the horses under some paloverde trees, where the galleta grass grew thick. “The horses are all set for the night.” Jimmy had been with Cameron for two years, since Cameron had rescued him from the roadhouse where his mother worked as a whore and given him a job wrangling on his ranch.
“Good man.”
“Jack, are we gonna have trouble tonight?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy. There’s a good chance. That was Gaston Bachelard back there. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard of him. If what they say is true, we’ll want to sleep light and take turns keeping watch. Why don’t you take the first watch, then wake me in a couple hours? I’m gonna bed down near the horses.”
“You got it, Jack. Don’t you worry none.” The kid patted his Colts and grinned.
Cameron said, “Jim, you see anything, you give a yell before you start shootin’—understand?”
“W-well, what if—”
“You hear me?”
The kid nodded sullenly.
Cameron started away, then turned back around. “You did good with the Indian today, Jimmy,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”
The lad didn’t say anything. He was staring into the cave. The fire reflected in his dreamy eyes. “She about the purtiest woman you ever seen?”
Cameron turned toward Marina, who was helping Hotchkiss tend to her husband. Cameron thought of young Ivy Kitchen. He didn’t like thinking of her because the image of her fair-faced, blue-eyed beauty was always followed by the image of her lying in the prickly pear by the root cellar, stripped naked by the savages, a wide knife gash across her neck.
“Pretty close, Jimmy,” Cameron said. He clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “I’m gonna take a walk around, then turn in. You stay away from the fire, now. Don’t ruin your night vision.”
Cameron walked down the slope, looking carefully around him. He sat on a rock for a half-hour, sweeping the dark canyon with his gaze, looking for any sign of movement, any shadow separating itself from the darkness. He listened, holding his breath for several seconds at a time, his senses open to the night but unable to think of anything but Marina.
She was a lovely woman, and he hadn’t had a woman in a couple of months, but Marina was another man’s wife and he had no business thinking of her the way he was—seeing in his mind’s eye her naked breasts, her slender, curving thigh between the slits in her wool skirt … her sad, smoky eyes and firm chin, wisps of hair sliding around her dust-lined cheeks.
The distant barks of coyotes brought Cameron back to the present and he was grateful. Thinking of Marina had made him think of Ivy lying dead in the desert, forever unavenged. It was best not to love anyone out here but a good horse. Horses came and went, but they didn’t take as much of you with them as people did.
Finally Cameron threw his bedroll under the paloverde tree, only twenty or so yards from where the horses absently nibbled grass and occasionally clipped a stone with a hoof.
He was sleeping lightly, his head on an upthrust root, when he heard boots grinding stones nearby. He flung the blanket away and drew his Colt as a female voice said, “Mr. Cameron?”
“Who is it?” His mind was sluggish from sleep, but his heart pounded wildly.
“It is Marina.”
Then she appeared out of the darkness, under the softly rustling leaves of the paloverde. She clutched a blanket around her shoulders. Her hair fell over it.
“I want to speak to you,” she said.
CHAPTER 6
CAMERON CRAWLED CLUMSILY to his feet and holstered his pistol. “What can I help you with?”
Marina moved forward, until she stood only a few feet away from him. The starlight shone in her large brown eyes. “Señor Clark—” She hesitated, as though finding the words strange on her tongue. “My husband and I do not understand why you will not accept our offer.”
Cameron felt like a chastised schoolboy. He smiled ironically. “‘Offer’?” he said. “More like a death sentence, wouldn’t you say? You grew up in that country. You must know how many Apaches still haunt that part of Sonora.”
“We will travel at night. The Apaches will not fight at night. Besides, the Indios are busy fighting with your government and mine. They will not bother with a small party such as ours.”
Cameron sighed and retook his seat beneath the paloverde. He brought his knees up and set his wrists on them, studying her. He’d been right. She did have spunk. She was also a fool. “Why don’t you two go alone, then? You know the country. One more man isn’t going to make much of a difference if the Apaches come callin’.”
“I have never been to that part of Mejico. Neither of us has. And in the unlikely event the Apaches do come calling,” she said cooly, “we will need men who know how to fight them. I have never fought them. Neither has Señor … my husband.”
Cameron tipped his head and studied her wryly. “How long you been married, anyway—you and Señor Clark?” he added with a touch of irony.
She lowered her gaze. “One month.” Cameron could have guessed as much. Was that why they did not look like a couple, or was there another reason they seemed such a mismatched pair?
“Newlyweds, eh?”
She looked at him, frowning, not understanding the phrase or the irony with which it had been expressed.
“Never mind,” Cameron said with a flick of his wrist. “How did you two meet?”
“Why do you want to know?” Marina asked guardedly.
Cameron shrugged. “Just curious.”
She studied him for a moment, then got up and moved several feet away from him sitting on a rock. She put her feet together and brought her knees up, smoothing her skirt over them. “We did not … meet in the traditional way,” she said, not looking at him. In the shadows the starlight traced the straight, aristocratic line of her jaw and nose, and Cameron could see her at one of those come-one, come-all Mexican fandangos—the belle of the ball, a whole passel of brightly dressed vaqueros lined up awaiting their turn to lead her onto the patio.
“He won me in a poker game.”
Cameron could have been knocked over with a feather, but his face remained inert.
Marina added, gazing directly into his eyes, “From my uncle.”
Finally, Cameron took a sharp intake of air and let it out with a low whistle. “How in the hell … ?” He let his voice trail off.
She continued, staring at her feet. “My father’s rancho was attacked by Apaches.” A shadow passed over her face, the muscles in her cheeks and neck tightening. “Papa and Mama—my brother Ubre—all were killed. All the vaqueros and their families. I alone survived. Papa had taught me what to do if an attack came. There was a fast horse always saddled for me if I would need to escape. I took the plat, and I rode out through the smoke and galloped through the hills to the pueblo. Men were sent out to the hacienda … but it was too late.” Her voice caught, but no tears came to her eyes.
Cameron let some time pass. Then he asked, “What about your uncle?”
“He was my father’s only brother, a half-brother, and they were never close. My uncle Romero had ridden with desperadoes when he was young, and lost an arm in a duel. He opened a cantina in the pueblo and took me in, and I worked for him serving customers.”
Her voice hardened with anger. “He bragged about the favor he was doing me, taking in his homeless niece, but he let his customers treat me like a whore. The people in the pueblo allowed it because they were jealous of my father’s money even though he had provided for all of them.”
She paused.
“The customers weren’t the only ones. My uncle … I was my uncle’s whore.”
Cameron glanced at her sharply, but she kept her eyes on the ground. “Then Señor Clark came to
the cantina with three other men. They were purchasing mining claims, I think. They gambled with my uncle for two days and a night.”
“And you fell into the pot?” Cameron said, his voice circumspect.
Marina nodded and looked at him, absently smoothing the skirt over her knees. This was hard on her, Cameron could tell, and his own discomfort at hearing such a confession made him want her to stop. But she seemed to need to tell it. “My uncle’s wife wanted him to get rid of me. She found out he was visiting my room … on nights when he wasn’t too drunk to climb the stairs.”
“And Clark won.”
“Sí.”
“And you gave him the plat?”
Her gaze found his again, fastening on him. It was no longer an unpleasant sensation. “He is not a bad man, Señor Cameron. He is a much better man than my uncle. All he wants is to buy a ranch out West in your country and start over.”
“And what do you want?”
She did not say anything. She looked away, staring into the darkness. Cameron could not see her face, but he knew its expression was troubled.
Marina said something at last, but in a voice too soft for Cameron to hear.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
She cleared her throat. “I want to get my daughter back.”
Cameron chewed his lip, silent. That was enough—he didn’t want to hear any more. But he knew he was going to.
“It was my uncle …” Her voice trailed off.
It took Cameron a moment to understand. Then he gave a ragged sigh.
“My aunt took my baby … my daughter … to the sisters in the convent in Piro Alta.”
“How long ago?”
“Two years. I had her for three months before”—her voice faltered almost imperceptibly—“before she was taken away.”
“Did your aunt know … ?”
“That my uncle was the father?” Marina finished for him, regaining her composure. “No. She would have killed Marlena if she had. I suppose she knows now, but the sisters have her.”
Her voice became firm and strong, but pleading. “I want the money to get her back. The old crones in the convent are not above taking bribes; they’ve even hid desperadoes for money. If I pay them, they will give Marlena back to me. And I want the money to give her a good life … the kind of life I had before the Apaches took it away.”
A nightbird cooed and Marina gave a start, turning her head sharply. At length, she turned to Cameron. “Will they come? Those men from the stage?”
“I don’t know,” Cameron said. “My guess is they won’t try anything at night. They’ll probably wait until we’re back on the trail tomorrow, maybe crossing the San Pedro. That’s what I’d do … but then, I’m not Gaston Bachelard. We have to be prepared for anything.”
Cameron heard a rustle of cloth and saw Marina stand and move toward him, her feet coming down softly in the pebbles and grass. She knelt only a foot away from him. Cameron was puzzled. She rested a hand on his arm and put her face close to his. He could smell her, feel her warmth, and he was ashamed at the stirring she caused in his loins.
“Please,” she said stiffly, as one does who is unused to begging, “help me find the gold … so I can get my daughter back from the nuns.”
As her fingers dug into his forearm, Cameron felt his resolve weaken slightly. But he’d ridden the Mexican trail enough times to know there was little or no chance of finding the treasure—if there even was a treasure—and getting out alive. As far as getting Marina’s daughter back, well if there was no gold …
Besides, Cameron had to get back to his ranch and get ready for the autumn gather. He couldn’t go traipsing off to Mexico with some well-heeled Southern gentleman and his Mexican wife—no matter how beautiful the wife may be. When he was younger he would have gone after the woman as well as the gold. But Cameron was no kid anymore, and his wanderlust had gone the way of Ivy Kitchen, whose death had taken the heart out of him. No longer was any woman worth a wild-goose chase into Mexico.
He wagged his head and turned away. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be rich,” she urged.
“Nine out of ten treasure trails lead to nothing. Take it from an expert.” They both sat there, saying nothing, for several minutes.
“I understand, Mr. Cameron,” Marina finally said, releasing his arm. “I am grateful for the help you have given us. We were wrong to ask for anything more. I hope you can forgive us.”
She stood.
Cameron sighed. “No … I’m sorry …”
“Sorry?” she said with a laugh. “You saved our lives!” She turned and started away. “Good night.”
When she’d gone, Cameron sat there, hands entwined, feeling like a lout.
Then he heard her scream.
CHAPTER 7
THE SCREAM HAD come from about halfway between the cave and Cameron’s camping spot. It had rended the night like a hot knife through lard, lashing back and forth between the peaks before it died, seemingly bringing the whole night alive with its terror.
Cameron froze for only a moment. Then he was on his feet, grabbing his revolver off his hip and running up the trail, bounding over the dark shapes of shrubs hunkering low to the ground, paying little heed to the cholla and prickly pear, the thorns of which penetrated his boots and jeans.
Cameron stopped about where he thought the scream had originated and looked around, swinging his revolver in a hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. Faintly he heard someone running toward him and saw two figures taking shape in the dark—Hotchkiss and Jimmy Bronco. Starlight reflected off their rifles.
Cameron called Marina’s name but his voice was swallowed by the night, and the only response was from Hotchkiss.
“What the hell happened!” he exclaimed through a grating whisper as he and Jimmy approached.
“I don’t know.” Cameron kept his voice calm. His heart was pounding and he gasped for breath. “Let’s separate and look around. Jimmy, you stay here and keep your eyes and ears open.”
Hotchkiss went west and Cameron, east. He walked slowly, methodically searching left and right, gazing up and down the grade, stepping over cactus and low-growing shrubs, trying to make as little noise as possible. If someone had grabbed Marina, they could be hunkered down behind a bush or a rock, waiting to pink him as he wandered by.
He stopped and shouted, “Marina, can you hear me?”
He didn’t have to yell very loud; his voice carried well in this chasm between rock-walled peaks. He thought he could practically hear the cactus wrens breathing in their hollowed-out hovels in the saguaros.
He heard someone running clumsily down the grade toward him, plowing through shrubs and stumbling over rocks. Cameron could hear the raspy breathing, the harsh, intermittent coughs of Adrian Clark.
The man stopped about thirty feet away. “What happened?” Clark yelled, his voice sounding fragile and small in the big, malevolent night. He coughed a phlegmy cough that made Cameron’s chest ache.
“They’ve got your wife,” Cameron said.
Clark coughed again, took in a grating breath. “Where are you?”
“About thirty feet down the grade from you.”
Another cough. “What happened?” he repeated. He seemed amazingly restrained for a man who’d just lost his wife.
“I don’t know.”
Clark coughed twice more, then moved closer, stopping about six feet away. He bent over at the waist, trying to draw air into his lungs. His breath sounded like that of some dying animal.
“Jesus Christ,” Cameron said. “You’re sick.”
“What the hell happened?”
Cameron listened to the quiet night punctuated by Clark’s labored breathing. He ran the back of the hand clutching his revolver against his chin, trying to think rationally. “They must have grabbed her on her way back to the cave.”
Clark called her name. He was about to call her again when Cameron grabbed his arm. “It’s no use,” he said. “They have her, a
nd we can’t track them in the dark.”
Clark looked at him. “Bachelard?”
“Who else?”
“Shit!” Clark exclaimed, slamming his hand in his fist. “She’s mine, goddamn it!”
Cameron watched him. Clark was riled now, more angry than worried. He was like a gambler who’d discovered a long night’s worth of winnings stolen from his billfold. Cameron wanted to cuff his injured head. Instead, he took him by the arm. “Come on, let’s get back to the cave,” he said. “That bandage is like a target out here.”
Clark was angry. “What about my … What about Marina?”
Cameron looked at the Missourian again, the night concealing the disdain in his eyes. “They haven’t gone far.”
“Why?”
“Because they haven’t got what they’re looking for.”
Cameron turned and started up the grade toward the cave. He figured it was about a hundred yards away. The fire was hidden by shrubs and boulders.
Behind Cameron, Clark ground his teeth. “Why … Why?”
“Simple,” Cameron said. “They’ll trade her for the plat.”
“They won’t kill her?”
“They wouldn’t have anything to trade if they killed her.”
“Oh … Christ,” Clark said weakly. “But they’ll rape her, I’ll bet. Goddamn savages.”
When they neared the fire, Cameron stopped cold in his tracks. Someone stood facing him. It was Pas. He stood with slumped shoulders and bowed head, his knees bent slightly, as though about to buckle. Something was wrong, but Cameron could not tell what it was.
“Jack,” Pas said. His voice was a harsh whisper.
“What is it?”
“I’m a dead man.”
Cameron walked toward him, then stopped in horror. He could smell the blood and the man’s insides before he saw them, spilling out around the small dark hands that tried to hold them in.
“¡Ai, caramba! They’ve killed me.” Pas’s knees buckled. Cameron eased him to the ground. Pas reclined on his side, keeping his right hand on his middle. His hands were black with blood and viscera.
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