by Jane Toombs
Esteban shrugged. "An Indian boy? I am sorry, I did not see him. I expect the other savages have taken him with them into the mountains."
"Why into the mountains? Their rancheria is here, only a mile or two away." She remembered hearing, as in a dream, the horses, the gunfire, the shouts.
"Indians must be punished when they steal," Esteban said. "As I told Capitan Quinn only a few days ago, they must be treated as you would treat a child. Do you know him, perhaps, this Capitan Quinn? He is an Americano."
"Quinn? Jordan Quinn? I've heard the name, but no, I don't know him."
Alitha frowned. "The shooting I heard was from the Indian village, wasn't it?
You raided the village. You must take me there, Don Esteban." Alitha stood up, steadying herself against the pine she'd been lying beneath. She found herself looking out over the ocean from a rise.
Don Esteban reached out a hand but drew it back before he touched her. "You are hurt," he said. "I will take you to mi casa. You are not fit to ride to the rancheria. I have told you that you will not find this boy there. The Indians stole horses from our rancho, we pursued and overtook them, there was a skirmish and the Indians fled into the hills. We were fortunate to recover some of our horses." He shrugged. "In California it happens time after time."
"If you won't take me to the rancheria, I'll find my own way." Alitha started to walk in the direction of the ocean, ignoring the aching throb in her head. She had reached the beach before she heard Esteban's horse behind her. Once he overtook her, he followed a few paces behind.
"I have heard stories of American women," he said, "without ever believing them. Now I find what I heard is true—that they are strong in the head."
"Headstrong is the word," Alitha muttered to herself as she trudged along the sand. She could think of a word to fit him, too--arrogant. She heard hoof beats and looked up to see another Spanish vaquero approaching.
"I capitulate," Esteban said. "Allow me to ride you to the rancheria, since you insist on going there."
"I'd rather walk."
"I will suffer great shame if I allow a senorita to walk while I ride. Please."
She stopped, and Esteban swung to the ground beside her. He put both hands on her waist to lift her to the saddle, then paused.
"Your eyes," he said. "I have never before seen eyes so blue. They are the color of the sea on a bright day in June."
She felt herself reddening as he lifted her into the saddle and mounted behind her.
The other horseman reined in and, after sweeping off his sombrero and bowing to Alitha, spoke in Spanish to Esteban. Esteban nodded, and they rode on.
"Don Manuel informs me we have regained five of our horses from the Indians," Esteban told her.
She said nothing, afraid to reveal her turmoil of feelings. Concerned about Chia, fearful as to what might have happened to him, she was at the same time acutely aware of Don Esteban riding behind her, of his arm holding her in place on the saddle so that she was pressed against his chest.
As they left the beach and rode along a trail into the hills, the smell of burning wood grew stronger and she saw smoke curling over the trees ahead of them. They splashed across the stream and entered the clearing.
Alitha gasped in horror. The domed lodges were gone, reduced to smoldering piles of charred rubble. A solitary spear was thrust into the ground beside a horse lying dead near the ashes of a campfire. Beyond the last of the burned lodges Alitha saw a naked brown body. Chia?
She slid from Esteban's horse and ran through the smoke and debris to kneel beside him. Not Chia, though she thought she recognized the dead man as the Indian who had given Chia water from his pouch. She couldn't be sure because there was a black-rimmed bloody hole where his right eye should have been.
Esteban dismounted and walked to stand next to her. Behind him, other vaqueros rode into the clearing, leading a group of riderless horses.
"You did this?" Alitha nodded at the dead Indians, then glanced around at what had been the Indian village.
"The Indians only respect men who aren't afraid to fight for what is theirs. When you've lived in California for a time, you'll understand.”
"I'll never understand. You say the Indians are children. Is this how you treat children, then? Do you kill them when they misbehave? You with your guns against Indians armed with spears—is that fighting? It's not, it's killing in cold blood. Are you proud of what you've done?"
"I warned you not to come here to the rancheria," Esteban said quietly. "You're a woman, Senorita Bradford. Warfare is not a concern of women."
"Warfare? This is more like murder."
She saw Esteban's hands clench. He slapped his quirt against his breeches, started to reply, then turned from her without saying a word.
"You're a coward, Don Esteban Mendoza," she told him, her voice low and intense. "A coward!"
He spun around, gathered the front of her jacket in his hand and yanked her to him. Alitha gasped. She could feel his breath on her face, his body against hers.
"If you were a man and said that to me," he told her, "I'd kill you."
He shook her, making her head jerk back and forth. Suddenly he drew in his breath and thrust her from him, and she stumbled away. Her foot struck the dead Indian and she toppled over him to the ground. Esteban stared down at her for a moment, his brown eyes flashing, then turned on his heel and crossed the clearing to join the other men.
Near tears, Alitha pushed herself from the ground and brushed the dirt from her hide skirts. She walked after Esteban, conscious of the curious glances of the men. She grasped a rope on one of the riderless horses, a bay, and used it to help pull herself onto the horse's back. The vaquero who still held the end of the rope raised his eyebrows in surprise, then shrugged and tossed the rope to her.
She kicked her heels into the bay's flanks, and he plunged forward, almost throwing her to the ground. As she clung to his mane, the horse dashed across the clearing, leaped a ditch and thudded along the trail toward the beach.
She heard a horse behind her, the hoofbeats coming closer and closer. Holding tight to the bay's mane, afraid to raise her head, she felt someone grab the rope tied to the bridle. The bay tried to yank its head free, then slowed, finally stopping. Alitha looked up at the other rider, not surprised to find that it was Don Esteban.
"Where in the name of God are you going?" he demanded.
"To the mountains," she said without stopping to think. She glanced at the quirt in Esteban's hand, thinking that if she had a riding whip, she would lash out at him with it. "To find Chia," she added.
"You are a fool."
She lowered her head, biting her lips to keep from crying. She ached all over and she was so tired, so very tired. "I suppose you want the horse," she said, dimly aware that she hoped he would deny that was his reason for riding after her.
"No, senorita, the horse is yours. I came after you to ask for the return of my jacket. It was made for me by my sister, Margarita."
She pulled off the jacket, rolled it into a ball and threw it at him. "Take your damn jacket," she said.
Esteban caught the jacket deftly, shook out the wrinkles and put it on.
"Muchas gracias, senorita," he said. He gestured in the direction of the horsemen waiting in the clearing. "We return to the rancho at once. You are welcome to ride with us if that is your wish." He touched the brim of his hat, wheeled his horse and rode back along the trail.
Alitha sat glaring after him, sighed and then turned her horse to follow his. She really had no choice but to ride with him, she told herself. She hated him, wished the ground would quake and open up, as she had heard it often did in California, and swallow Don Esteban. But she had to follow him, she had nowhere else to go.
When she re-entered the clearing, a vaquero was riding from the woods with an Indian over his saddle.
"Chia!"
Alitha slid to the ground and ran to him. It was Chia. When she took his head in her hands, he opened his ey
es and said her name. She hugged him.
Esteban rode by, glanced at the Indian boy and gave an order to the vaquero.
"We will take the boy with us to the mission," he told Alitha, spurring his horse and riding off before she could answer. As she remounted the bay, a vaquero reined in beside her and handed her a brown serape, and she put it on.
Alitha rode in the middle of the column of horsemen just behind Chia, who, despite his broken leg, sat stolidly astride a horse. As they followed a rough trail winding among the low hills a short distance from the shore, she caught glimpses of Esteban riding far ahead. He was an excellent horseman, she admitted to herself, for whatever that was worth. And handsome, if you like dark Latin men. Beauty, she reminded herself, was only skin deep. Don Esteban was cruel, a boor and insincere—his flowery compliments meant nothing. Undoubtedly he repeated them to every woman he met. What had he called her? Beautiful, a delicate flower blooming in the California wilderness. How absurd!
At dusk they made camp for the night beside a stream. Alitha was so exhausted that she hardly appreciated the luxury of a blanket. She slept soundly until daybreak, when they remounted to ride on toward Santa Barbara. It was mid-morning when she saw Don Esteban, astride his stallion, waiting beside the trail. When she rode by without acknowledging him, he spurred his horse forward and rode beside her.
"At the crest of the next hill," he said, "we shall be able to see the ocean and the Kerry Dancer at anchor. That is the ship of Capitan Quinn." Esteban spoke pleasantly, seeming to have decided to ignore their encounter of the day before.
Why should she be the churlish one, Alitha asked herself. Probably Esteban thought her ungrateful after he had, in his view, saved her life by rescuing her from the Indians.
"Why is this Captain Quinn here?" she asked.
"He intends to marry my sister, Margarita. They have been betrothed for almost two years."
"Ahhh." Alitha let her breath out in a sigh, feeling an unexpected disappointment. So Jordan Quinn was to marry soon. Why was she so surprised? He might have been already married for all she knew. And besides, she herself would marry soon.
"If the governor's objections can be overcome," Esteban said, describing the interrupted wedding ceremony.
She glanced at him, for his tone when he talked of the marriage had hinted at his disapproval. "They'll live here in California?" she asked.
"At first they will make their home in Monterey, but this Capitan Quinn is a restless man. I doubt if he will ever settle anywhere for long. My sister, on the other hand, desires a home with many children."
"You make them sound ill-matched."
"A man, when he marries, should choose someone of his own kind."
"Not necessarily," she said. "I believe that—”
"Come," he said, interrupting her, "follow me and you shall see his ship." She glared at him, but he had already turned away and left the trail. Fuming, she followed him, climbing to a rock shelf overlooking the harbor and the village of Santa Barbara. Alitha's annoyance slipped away as she gazed out at the beautiful blue expanse of ocean stretching away before them. There was no ship in sight.
Esteban slapped his quirt against his leg and swung his horse bout. "Come," he said over his shoulder to Alitha.
"What happened?" she asked. "Where's the Kerry Dancer and where's Captain Quinn?"
"A sudden storm might have forced them to put to sea, but there was no storm. I fear the worst. I fear he has defied the laws of God and man."
When they rejoined the vaqueros, Esteban left her to gallop ahead. Twenty minutes later, when Alitha and the other horsemen came down from the hills, she saw Esteban and another man riding toward them. "They have fled," he told her. "My overseer, Senor Huerta, informed me that this Quinn spirited Margarita away the same night the Indians raided our horses. God knows where he might have taken her."
"They've eloped," she said, smiling wistfully.
Esteban stared out over the empty sea. "If he brings her to harm," he said, "I will kill him."
Looking at his grim face and hearing the intensity in his voice, Alitha shivered. She would never want to be the enemy of this man, she thought.
As they left the hills to ride through green fields, she saw a two-story adobe ranch ahead of them. Dogs ran out to bark at the horse's hooves, women waved a greeting from a balcony and one of the vaqueros began to sing a spirited Spanish song. In a few minutes the others had joined in the chorus, and they entered the courtyard singing.
As they dismounted, a boy, shouting excitedly, ran up to Esteban. The men gathered around and, although Alitha couldn't make out the sense of what was being said, she heard the word oso repeated several times.
Esteban nodded and the boy ran from the courtyard. The men remounted their horses and followed him toward the rear of the buildings. Alitha, unnoticed, hurried after them on foot past a corral to the base of a rocky, wooded hill. When she caught up to the vaqueros, their horses were snorting and skittishly milling about near a brush-choked gully. Seeing Alitha, Esteban rode to her and dismounted.
"The bear we captured to fight the bull has escaped and taken refuge in the arroyo," he said. "He's dangerous. He was wounded by a shot from one of the stable boys. We must kill him.
She nodded and watched Esteban start up the gully toward the brush. When two vaqueros followed, he stopped them with a wave of his hand, said a few words to them, then walked on alone.
As he reached the brush, Esteban pulled a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. Alitha drew in her breath, realizing that, except for the knife, he was unarmed. Was he mad? Pushing the branches aside, he advanced cautiously into the undergrowth, the brush closing behind him so that all she could see was an occasional flash of silver when the sunlight struck an ornament on his jacket.
She heard a low growl followed by a sudden thrashing in the brush, as though the bear was plunging down the hill at Esteban. The horses around her reared, the vaqueros fighting to control them. The branches swayed and she heard an animal-like cry of pain. A few minutes later Esteban emerged from the gully, backing away, his left sleeve torn and long, bloody slashes on his arm. In his right hand he still held the knife.
The bear crashed out of the brush toward him, loping on all fours, a brown bear larger than Alitha had imagined any bear could be. Was this a California grizzly? She looked quickly at the two men with muskets. Both were holding their weapons at their sides. Why didn't they fire? Could Esteban have told them not to shoot the bear, to leave the killing to him? But why?
Esteban stopped and the bear lunged at him. Alitha cried out as Esteban darted to one side, thrusting his knife into the bear and pulling it out again. With a roar of pain the animal clawed at him, one paw striking his shoulder and sending him sprawling to the ground. The bear rose on his hind legs above Esteban.
"Shoot him, shoot him," Alitha cried. "He'll kill Esteban if you don't." The vaqueros raised their muskets to their shoulders but held their fire.
The bear hurled himself down at Esteban, but the don rolled away. The bear's claws snagged his boot and held it pinned to the ground as Esteban struggled to free himself. Yanking his boot away, Esteban closed on the bear, plunging his knife into the animal's side, darting away, returning to plunge the knife in again.
The bear, roaring with pain, struck out blindly. Esteban retreated and the bear lumbered after him, his blood darkening the ground. All at once the bear stopped and lurched to one side, looking around him as though puzzled. Slowly the bear turned and shambled up the hill toward the shelter of the rocks.
Esteban motioned with his hand and the two guns cracked simultaneously. The bear slumped to the ground and lay still.
Esteban walked down the slope, his shirt dark from sweat and blood, his face smeared with dirt, his clothing torn. Alitha saw bloody claw marks on his arm and shoulder. He embraced the two men who had shot the bear, then walked on toward her. When he was a few feet away, he hurled his knife to the ground, where the blade embedded itsel
f between her feet. She stared down at the blood-smeared knife, her breath coming quickly, feeling the wild beating of her heart.
Esteban spoke so only she could hear. "Do you still believe me to be a coward?" he
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alitha awoke in a dark, curtained room. She sat up and saw she was wearing a thin white nightgown. Whose? Her head whirled but she rose to her feet and made her way to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out at trees shrouded in a swirling white mist. Still lightheaded, she returned to the bed, where she lay on top of the coverlet, intending to rest for a few minutes, but she quickly fell into a fevered sleep.
She lay ill for a week, a time of strange dreams she couldn't remember in her infrequent moments of wakefulness. She was dimly aware of the comings and goings of Indian servants, of opening her fever-lidded eyes to see a heavyset middle-aged woman bending over her bed, of calling out for her father.
Esteban brought her a single red rose. She held it in both hands, smelling the heady fragrance as she looked from the flower to the don. Did she dream he knelt at her bedside, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips as he kissed her fingers? Did she dream that before he left he leaned over and tenderly kissed her forehead?
When she awoke, clear-headed at last, she saw the plump woman reading in a chair near the window. The curtains had been looped back, but she could see only a gauzy mist outside. When Alitha lifted her head, the woman by the window closed her book and came to stand beside her.
"I am Maria Mendoza," she said in precise English. "The widow of the brother of Don Esteban."
Alitha looked at the black silk dress, its style ten years out of date, and realized that Maria Mendoza was still in mourning. She smiled at the woman.
"I'm sorry to be so much trouble," Alitha said. "Imposing on you, then getting sick."
"De nada, it is nothing—our house is your house. What can one expect but illness after having to live among savages?"