“Find out what you can, Changa,” said Rachel after a glance at Lupe who nodded. “I’ll send some of the silver in case you can buy cloth or salt.”
He was back in six days, gaunt and exhausted. The fort, still deserted by the Confederates, had become a shelter for deserters, outlaws and pariah Indians, who’d plundered everything usable. Changa had spoken with Rico, the Tres Coronas vaquero who wanted to work for Matt and had since left Mexico. Rico had taken up quarters in the commander’s house and seemed to lead a gang of bandits who would surely have killed Changa had they guessed he carried silver. Changa pretended to be looking for work and let Rico think the Meadow had been deserted. Rico knew nothing of the war or of Matthew, only that Apaches were marauding throughout the area, and Comanches and Kiowa, undeterred by any soldiers, were raiding the frontier at will.
A quick look around had shown Changa no cloth or salt was to be had, and he’d left the ruined fort straightaway, considering it safer to sleep on the way home. “Next time I’ll go to Ojinaga,” he said. “I might learn something there.”
Leonito was almost full-grown now, over six feet long, weighing more than Changa. He didn’t molest the cattle, even at calving time, but the prey he brought was larger now, often part of an antelope or deer, and he stayed out for several days at a time. His moods were shorter with Juanito. He never bit or scratched, but sometimes, at the end of his patience with being mauled by the boy, he sent him sprawling with a cuff of sheathed paw.
The lion was not the only male whose nature was changing. Changa was nervous around the women, and as summer passed and autumn came he usually went hunting even on the worst days, with the lion padding beside him.
“Why don’t you sing for us anymore?” Lupe asked one night as they sat by the fire, which hissed and sparked as it touched off resin. The women were sewing skins into garments which they all wore most of the time in cool weather, hoarding their cloth for summer.
“Yes,” put in Rachel. “Give us a song, monkey!”
He stared at them a moment, then let long dark lashes fringe his closed eyes as he hummed and at last began a lilting, lonely song.
So you no longer can doubt of my love,
Take this knife, open my heart …
Ay! But be careful. Don’t hurt yourself, sweet!
You are inside …
His voice throbbed, raw, young, aching. Lupe listened, eyes bright, and it came strongly, rebukingly to Rachel that the Mexican woman had never been wooed, never heard words of love. Unless Quil—And he was gone, too, with no word. Why did men always go, leaving their women? When Changa stopped singing, Lupe touched his hand.
“Sing more, little brother! You have a delightful voice.”
“Delightful!” Changa sprang to his feet. He sounded as if he were strangling. “I’m not your little brother!” Snatching up his coat, he ran outside, followed by the lion, though it was snowing and wind battered the walls.
Lupe stared in shock at Rachel. “He—he snaps like a wolf! I’m almost afraid of him. I wish Don Mateo would come home! And Quil!”
“It’s late,” said Rachel, banking the fire and putting out the spluttering fat-burning lamp. “We’d better go to sleep.”
Something in her echoed the raw sex hunger of the young man but not so much that she would plunge out into the blast and storm. Matt—Matt! When are you coming home?
Though Changa was often short with the women, he stayed Juanito’s idol. The sturdy black-haired youngster tagged after him everywhere. Changa made a small rawhide rope and taught Juanito to lasso everything in sight.
He only snared Leonito once. The cat snarled, chewed through the rope, and stayed away for a week so that a chastened Juanito added the lion to his mother and Rachel, who must not be captured, either, though when in a good mood Changa didn’t mind.
As spring of ’64 came on, the cows rubbed off their winter coats against trees and rocks, bulls challenged each other, new calves dropped, and the yearlings sometimes kept with their mothers’ herds and sometimes ranged off with other youngsters. There had been a drought and not so many calves were born, but the need to thin the herd was getting critical.
“I should go to Tres Coronas,” Changa said one morning after he’d stayed out most of the night. “Perhaps the Don will buy some cattle. At the very least I might get a friend or two to help us watch the herds that must graze outside the valley.”
“Why not wait a few months?” Lupe urged. “Surely Don Mateo will be back soon—”
“Have you thought that he might not be back at all?” demanded Changa savagely. “It’s been almost two years! If he died, who’d bring us the message, even if they could find this place? Thieves haven’t found it, or Indians, so it is, without dispute, hard to locate!”
“You’re wicked to have such a thought!” Lupe breathed, eyes blazing. In spite of the hard life, she was more beautiful than ever, fully ripened, her hair glossy, skin glowing a rich copper.
“That’s right!” snapped Changa, knotting his hands as if he could scarcely keep them off her. “I’m wicked! Yet I stayed with you while the brave men went away!”
“Changa,” calmed Rachel. “Go to Tres Coronas. Your mother will be glad to see you, and perhaps you can sell some of our herd to the Don. Get salt, too, if he has it, and any cloth he’ll trade.”
Surely some pretty girl there would ease his torment, take his mind off what he mustn’t have for all their sakes. He was a boy. Lupe needed a man.
And so do I, thought Rachel, tautening her thighs to ease a sudden pulsing. So do I. Matt, where are you? Will you never come?
Changa was back two weeks later with salt, cotton and a gift of chocolate from Don Celestino. “He sends his regards,” said Changa importantly, in good humor after his trip. “In midsummer, a dozen men will drive all the cattle we want to sell to Tres Coronas. He suggests you take payment in sheep, but he’ll gladly pay silver.”
Rachel smiled. “You’ve done well, Monkey! Matt may be home by then, but if he’s not I think we’ll try raising sheep! They need less land than cattle and would be easier for us to manage.”
That night Leonito dragged a heavy kill to the door. A deer? Rachel looked down, choking, first at a slaughtered, calf, then into the lion’s fearless golden eyes, the face as familiar and loved as a pet’s.
“Changa!” she called. “Changa!”
He came, saw, sucked in his breath. Without a word, he went for his carbine, sent a bullet crashing into the beautiful head, the wild brain tamed just enough to bring destruction on itself.
Shutting the door, pale around the lips, Changa said to Juanito, who came running up, “It was a wild lion. Don’t go out there.”
Changa dragged the lion away that night. Perhaps Juanito believed him, but he never asked where Leonito had gone.
After killing Leonito, Changa grew moodier than ever and went several times to Ojinaga, miles up the river on the Mexican side, to return days after stinking of tequila.
“You’re worse than a javelina!” Lupe scolded one day when he came in unshaven, reeking of sweat and drink.
“But you need your wild pig!” Changa rejoined.
“This isn’t a good life for you,” Rachel told him sadly as she brought him a cup of dandelion root coffee. “You need a change, Monkey. When Don Celestino sends for the cattle, you’d better help drive them back and stay at Tres Coronas, at least for a while.”
“You can’t send me away!” He threw back his head and looked like Juanito on the rare occasions when Lupe punished him. “I must stay and help you!”
“Not if you’re so restless you spend half your time carousing in Ojinaga,” Rachel said. “We can manage. You mustn’t throw yourself away as you are doing.”
“There are many thieves around Ojinaga,” Lupe added. “If you go often enough, some of them are bound to follow you one day. That would be a poor way to protect us.” She ruffled his hair. “Get a wife, Monkey. Then come back to us.”
He looke
d at them sullenly, ate in silence, and took Juanito off to gather wild fruits. He returned in a better humor. Rachel suspected he was trying to prove he could live equably in their proximity. For several days he was nearly his old self.
Late one afternoon he ran into the house where the women were getting supper. “Take Juanito and hide in the cliffs!” he cried. “Men are riding up the valley—and I fear they will not be good ones! That Rico was in Ojinaga the last time I went. He got me drunk. I may have said anything!”
“But—”
“Hide!” he commanded, hustling them toward the door. “Whatever happens, stay hidden till they’re gone or I call you out!”
Lupe snatched up a knife. She and Rachel ran out the back entrance, keeping rocks and brush between them and the valley, hauling a protesting Juanito between them. Getting behind a tumble of fallen rock, they gazed in fascinated horror at the dozen horsemen who were galloping now, shouting as they swept past the house and toward the herds.
Then some cattle began to run, broke into a stampede. Changa spurred beside them, driving them forward. He was making a desperate attempt to panic the cattle into trampling down the raiders.
It almost worked. Three horsemen went down, screaming, under the rush of hoofs, but the others managed to veer to the sides and skirt the horned avalanche.
Changa aimed his carbine. Another rider tumbled. But there were other shots. Changa fell, dragged by the stirrup before his horse ran free, joining the pellmell.
There was nothing the women could do except keep a tight grip on Juanito, who twisted and wriggled, trying to run to his fallen friend. Several of the men hung back to look inside the house, poke into the lean-to. Rachel thought she recognized Rico’s red-blond hair and panther way of moving. He rode up to Changa’s twisted body, swung down and hauled the limp thin figure up, giving it a shake. Changa’s head lolled. He must have looked as dead close up as he did from the rocks, for Rico swore in disgust, let the vaquero slide to the ground, and began to kick him.
“Stop it!” Juanito shrilled, scrambling loose. Evading the frantic women, he ran out of the rocks toward Changa. “Don’t hurt Changa, you maldito!”
Rico stared, then roared with laughter. As Juanito panted up, the renegade caught him, held him off the ground, gave the writhing, battling child a hard cuff on the head.
“Who’ll ransom this little demon?” Rico called. “I give you one minute before I slit his throat!”
Rachel gasped as a knife blade glinted, but Lupe was already climbing out of the rocks, shoving her knife to Rachel. “Keep this!” she ordered. “And stay here! They may be content with me.”
“Here comes the mamacita,” approved Rico to the eight ruffians gathering around him. “But there is the woman of Don Mateo. Doña Rachel. Come out, madama, or I skin the child.”
Rachel’s knees shook. She felt rigid with terror. But she hid the knife under her skirts and started forward.
Changa. Crumpled and bleeding, dead as Leonito, wasted in the pride of his youth. Little monkey brother. No more hissing like a snake, sighing after women.
Two men had seized Lupe, but they somehow didn’t reach for Rachel as she walked straight up to Rico and took Juanito from him.
“Take the cattle and go,” she told the man who watched her with widening yellow eyes and a grin that exposed strong white teeth. In his way, he was handsome, and he knew it. He wore black, and his vest and hat were trimmed with silver conchos. “Don Celestino is coming soon. If you don’t go at once he will make you very sorry.”
Rico’s grin broadened. “How will he know whom to look for unless we leave wagging tongues? I’ve dreamed of you a long time, Doña Rachel. If you please me half as well as you have in my sleep, I may keep you a long time.”
Rachel held Juanito close. “If—if I go with you, will you leave the boy and his mother in peace?”
“No. My men need entertainment and I’ve no wish, yet, to share you.”
There was the knife. But the eight lounging raiders would overpower her if she tried to use it now. Offer the silver? They would take it and do what they planned anyway. The knife was a last chance, a thing to use when with one man or for killing oneself. But she preferred to kill Rico.
He barked an order to his men. Five of them, grumbling a bit, mounted and rode after the cattle, began rounding up the scattered herd. Rico took Juanito from Rachel, tossed him to a black-bearded, red-faced man who wore an old army uniform.
“Now, Doña Rachel!” Rico took her arm as gallantly as if proposing some courtly delight. “We shall go to your house. I’m eager to learn if reality exceeds my dream.” His hot eyes raked over her. He let his hard muscular hand slide down her throat.
This can’t be happening, Rachel thought. It can’t be.
But Rico was leading her into the house, starting toward the open door through which he could see her bed.
“Hold onto the cub,” he told the uniformed man. “You can have your turn when Chuey’s finished.”
Lupe whirled suddenly, buried her teeth in her captor’s wrist. He yelled and hit her so hard she slumped to the floor. While Juanito screamed, Chuey dragged Lupe into her room.
“Keep the brat still,” Rico snapped. “I want a free mind to enjoy this woman!”
The black-bearded thief simply put his big hands around Juanito’s throat and strangled him into silence.
“Don’t!” Rachel cried. “Don’t kill him!”
“Put a hand over his mouth if he squeaks,” said Rico. “The women will serve us better if he lives.”
Rico swept Rachel into the bedroom, closing the heavy door. He stood there in silence, eyes glowing.
“Now, Doña Rachel! How will you have me? Like a lover or a looter?”
“Would there be a difference?”
“For us both, madama.” He laughed softly. “For me, both styles have charm. You, I think, would prefer the gentler way.” His tone coarsened. “Con prisa! Decide!”
The knife. But she must save it till he would die without alerting the guard.
“Be my lover, Rico.” The words stuck in her throat. She hoped that sounded passionate. “I’ve been long without a man.”
“Yes, so that young fool Changa said. Undress for me, madama. But first pull off my boots.”
Sheer unquestioning male vanity. It might save her yet. As he lounged back on the bed, she pulled off his boots with their cruel silver-rowelled spurs, then began to unbutton her dress, pulled it off her shoulders and braced her legs to hold it till she released the petticoat swathing the knife. Mustn’t let it clank against anything. As she stepped clear of her skirts, she turned the folds hiding the knife close to the top of the heap.
The chemise followed. Rico murmured at the sight of her breasts, leaned out to fondle them as if to assure himself they were real. Rachel smiled though her lips were stiff, tried to moye languorously as she slipped off her drawers.
“Valgamé Dios!” he breathed. “You’re more than my dreams. Stand there a moment. No, don’t cover yourself! Let me look.”
She closed her eyes to endure his appraisal, feeling already soiled, violated. When he brought her down beside him, caressing her greedily, hurting her breast, kneading her flanks, the old terror that had followed the rape by Tom threatened to overwhelm her, and when Rico’s burning mouth closed over hers, it would have been a relief to grasp the knife and make her effort then.
But there was Juanito. And Lupe. Lupe, whom all the men would use. And then what? The bandits might keep them as slaves for a while, but their lives would hang on caprice, a cup too much of tequila, a freakish temper.
No. When Rachel reached for the knife it must be at Rico’s most defenseless moment, when he lay exhausted. So she made herself hold him, writhe as if transported, receive his thrusting, and all the time work toward the side of the bed nearest the blade.
He cried out, gripped her buttocks as he exploded within her. For the first time she thought of impregnation, dizzied with horror at the
thought, and with great effort got control of herself. He lay face down, his arm flung carelessly across her.
Now.
Stretching luxuriantly, she made a sound of sexual content, dropped her arm to the heap of garments. She found the blade, the handle, under the cloth. Slowly, having to do it by touch, she worked her fingers inside the petticoat, closed them around the handle.
He opened his eves as she drove the knife into the side of his muscular neck, yanked it down and sideways with all her strength, slicing his startled cry into a thick gurgling, half-beheading him.
His hands, so strong moments before, fell laxly from her. He convulsed, arched, went limp. She could hear the drip of blood on the floor, soaked through the shuck mattress.
Vileness filled her mouth, but she swallowed it back, steeled herself. If she hurried she might save Lupe from that second man. Wiping the blade on Rico’s cast-off shirt, she dressed hurriedly, hid the knife behind her, and opened the door.
Good. The deserter sat impatiently on the bench. He had gagged Juanito with an apron and held him between clamped knees.
Male vanity. Would it work again? Giving the surprised guard what she hoped was a seductive smile, Rachel spoke softly. “That Rico! Just like a firecracker, loud but over in a second! Sound asleep, too. From, your looks, you were an officer. You must know how to treat a lady.”
“Ma’am—” The uniformed man’s eyes bulged. He licked his lips.
“Keep still, Juanito!” Rachel told the boy. “Stay right there! I must—talk with this gentleman.”
Hand on the door, she smiled invitingly. The guard stumbled to his feet and with his hairy face she thought he resembled a shambling bear on its hind legs.
“We can be quiet,” she assured him and undid the buttons to expose herself. The man gasped and hurried through the door. Rachel struck, again in the throat, again severing the jugular.
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