by Linda Ladd
"San Miguel. Javier made it our fortress, so we will remember our compadres who were murdered there by the Juaristas.”
Dismayed, Carlisle looked again at the scattering of small buildings behind the tall fortress-like walls of San Miguel—the place where Chase's men had committed the massacre. As they rode across the level plain toward the old mission, she visualized where Chase and Esteban would have set their tents during the siege. Suddenly, she could understand how San Miguel had withstood attack for so long. The back of the mission abutted a steep mountain, and the massive stone wall protected the front like a castle keep. Bodies had been hurled from that parapet every day, she recalled, horrified to think such a thing could have happened. High on the hill behind the church steeples, she could see the yawning opening of the silver mine's main shaft.
Carlisle tried to imagine what it had looked like four years ago when Chase and his men had camped in the valley and assaulted those forbidding walls. She cringed to think about how many people had died, on both sides. As they approached the great wooden gates, she was overcome by a powerful reluctance to enter the mission of San Miguel. When the gate swung inward and their horses made loud clopping sounds on the flagstones, she felt like a felon being led into a prison cell.
They stopped their horses in the plaza before the church, and Carlisle looked at the crumbling adobe houses lining both sides of the central square, where many of Javier's crude guerrilleros had gathered to greet them. The inhabitants of San Miguel spoke welcomingly to their compadres, but when they saw Carlisle, they grew silent. As they stared at her, dread touched her heart. She thought about the massacre that had taken place on the streets around her and remembered Esteban's pain, his description of blood running down the streets, of dismembered bodies. Somewhere in the quiet buildings around her, Conchita had been raped. She shuddered with horror, wanting to flee the evil place.
"How long must we stay here?" she asked as Javier lifted her from the saddle.
"Until we have crushed Benito Juarez and freed our amigos rotting in his prisons. And you will help us, Carlita." Carlisle pondered his cryptic statement as he draped an arm affectionately around her shoulders and led her inside the two-story adobe building built as an annex to the church, leaving Arantxa to follow behind them.
The place looked as if it had been a cloister for the priests at one time. Though very old, with patched plaster on the walls, the rooms had been made comfortable in anticipation of their arrival. Several Indian servants hovered around the arched hearth, where the spicy aromas of chilies and tomatoes emanated from the bubbling depths of a black iron pot. Carlisle looked around the big room, which had been freshly whitewashed. Exposed beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and a set of narrow wooden steps had been built
along the wall, with no banisters. As Javier led her to the stairs, Carlisle began to think his manner overly solicitous.
"You and Arantxa must share a room, Carlita, but you shall have a personal maid. Inez, there in the green skirt, will tend to your needs."
Carlisle glanced at the stocky Indian girl, who stared dispassionately back at her.
"You'll have everything you need here," Javier continued caressingly. "Anything that's within my power to give you."
"Gracias, Javier. All I want right now is a bath and some rest."
"Of course, querida, forgive me. I will have Inez bring you warm water. Do you wish something to eat?"
Carlisle shook her head, too fired to think about food. She preceded Javier up the steps, but before she followed him through one of the doors at the top of the stairs, she glanced at the room below, looking for Arantxa, who stood talking to the Indian women.
Inside the bedroom, Javier waited for her beside a white iron bed. A bright yellow-and-blue blanket woven in geometric Aztec designs lay across the footboard, and a carved wooden crucifix hung on the wall behind it. A glowing brazier warmed the room, and a low gold brocade divan was positioned before the single window, which had been left unshuttered. Through the narrow aperture Carlisle could see far out over the valley floor.
"Does your room please you, querida?" Javier asked softly, studying her reaction.
Somehow Carlisle sensed that he was thinking of embracing her, and she turned away, gazing out at the distant mountaintops.
"I really must rest, Javier, por favor."
"Sí. I will see you later, Carlita."
Once he had departed, Carlisle walked to the window and gazed out across the valley where the sunset was throwing golden arrows of light from behind the towering peaks that separated San Miguel from the Hacienda de los Toros. Again she longed to be with Chase. What was he doing? Did he miss her as much as she did him?
10
A thick stand of pine trees rose on a ridge at the north side of the San Miguel valley. Chase edged his horse carefully off the trail and through the low-hanging fragrant branches, his destination the overgrown trail which led down the steep barranca. He had been afraid he might have forgotten the way, but he hadn't. Everything looked as it had four years ago when he and Esteban had searched the mountainside for a back entrance into San Miguel. As far as he knew, no one besides the two of them had any idea the abandoned mine shaft still existed.
When his horse reached the trail, its hoofs crunched and slid on the loose gravel of the incline, and Chase reined up. A moment later, Esteban appeared, leading a pack horse with ammunition and supplies, in case they were forced to hide out for a long period of time.
Urging his horse down the steep slope, Chase felt anxiety begin to eat at his heart. It had taken Esteban and him nearly two weeks to ride to San Miguel and scout out this overgrown path. They had been lucky to avoid the rebel patrols, but the guerrilleros had had Carlisle all that time. God, what if they'd hurt her? The thought made his stomach cramp. During the war, he'd seen other young girls who'd been the victims of lustful, cruel men. Raped, defiled, and beaten, taken on as soldaderas against their will, like Conchita. She'd been broken and spiritless when Esteban had met her, and it had taken many months and great kindness and sensitivity to bring her back to life.
He couldn't bear to think of Carlisle, helpless against some stinking animal. She was innocent, a virgin, for God's sake. And she belonged to him. His heart had felt cold and dead ever since he'd found her gone. Gray had put her in Chase's care and trusted him to protect her. How could he ever explain to Gray how such a kidnapping had been allowed to happen? That's why he hadn't contacted her brother yet; he'd wait until he had her back.
He was going to marry her. He'd already made up his mind. He wanted her, and she wanted him, whether she knew it yet or not. Gray would agree, especially when he found out all the strife between Carlisle and Chase had been Chase's fault. He'd played with Carlisle's emotions from the beginning, and he couldn't even say why. But he meant to make it up to her, when and if he got her out of San Miguel. The rescue would not be easy. As meticulously as he and Esteban had made their plans, a million things could go wrong.
For the next half hour, Chase concentrated on getting down the treacherous barranca to the entrance of the shaft, often having to lean far back in the saddle as his horse tried to negotiate the crumbling shale and near vertical drop.
Behind him, Esteban cursed in Spanish and gripped his saddle horn when his mount stumbled. Both men sighed in relief when they reached the place where the mountain leveled off and formed a narrow ridge. The mine entrance was not far now, and Chase rode along the edge of the cliff, glancing down at the swift-flowing stream at the bottom of the barranca.
The opening to the shaft was barely discernible against the dark, barren mountainside. The wood supports were nearly hidden by encroaching vines, and the ground was choked with thick weeds. But that was good. If a rebel patrol rode by, they weren't likely to spot the shaft.
Pulling up, Chase dismounted and flipped his reins over a branch. Not waiting for Esteban, he walked to the entrance and held back the hanging foliage. Inside, the cavern stretched out like a dark, bot
tomless mouth. He lit a match and ducked below the sagging timber supports. Hundreds of years ago, Spanish soldiers had whipped the backs of Indian slaves to cut the shaft through rock in quest of silver. But the mine had yielded up all its glittering wealth long ago.
"Any sign anyone's been here?"
Esteban spoke from behind him. Chase took the kerosene lamp he held and lit the wick. The antechamber was actually a natural cave with a man-made shaft leading up through the mountain toward the main mine. The ceiling was high enough for Chase to stand up easily, despite his height, and he walked toward the dark pool near which a hot spring bubbled. He knelt and tasted the water.
"It's still drinkable," he told Esteban.
"Bueno, amigo. I'll bring the horses."
Chase held the lamp out over the pool. The spring had flooded the shaft since the war, but the water didn't appear deep. They could wade it, or swim, if they had to. He looked around, noting that several catres, the wooden framed beds used by the campesinos, were still there, from when the cave had been used as a wartime hideout.
Impatient, he yelled for Esteban to hurry. The longer the guerrilleros had Carlisle, the more she'd suffer. The bastards wouldn't kill her as long as she was useful to them. But after two weeks with such beasts, she might wish she were dead.
Chase's jaw clenched hard, and he forcibly relaxed his muscles, helping Esteban unsaddle their horses and picket them in the corner of the cave where they could reach the water.
Once their supplies were hidden and the entrance camouflaged with branches, he unbuckled his holsters and draped his gun belt over his shoulder. He waded into the warm water, holding his rifle and the lantern up before him. The water was waist-deep in the main cavern, but when they entered the shaft, Chase had to bend over slightly as the tunnel descended and the water level rose to his chest. Esteban, being of shorter stature, waded nearly neck-deep.
They proceeded in silence for what seemed an eternity, the only sounds the sloshing of water or the occasional rustle of a bat rousted from its hanging repose. In time, however, the shaft began a gradual ascent, and the warm water receded to their waists, then to their knees. Once he attained dry footing again, Chase stopped and waited for Esteban to reach him.
"If I remember correctly," he said softly, "the shaft turns off to the right and eventually meets the main tunnel. After that, we might run into someone, if they're using the mine." He rebuckled his gun belt and tied down both holsters. "With any luck, they'll be down on the plaza, and that'll mean we can get in and out without a lot of trouble. We need to find out where the guards are and where they're holding Carlisle."
Esteban nodded, and Chase crept forward cautiously, his rifle in readiness. When the passageway forked, Chase paused to extinguish the lantern. He set it aside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the pitch blackness. In minutes he could make out a small square of light far ahead. There was no one in sight, and they crawled along until they came to a stack of wooden crates just inside the opening that led out to San Miguel.
"Dynamite and rifles. French-made, the bastards," Chase muttered harshly.
"Caramba, there's enough here to supply a small army," Esteban answered softly. "With this much arms and ammunition, they can launch attacks all over the north."
Keeping low, Chase skirted the boxes until he could see the tiled roof of the church. The mission was laid out in a U-shape, with the open part of the U forming a plaza. Armed men sauntered around the well or stood in groups under thatched pavilions. Most of the rebels were dressed in the white cotton tunic and loose pants of the campesinos, but all were armed and most had bandoleras slung across their chests. Chase scanned the front wall where two guards walked back and forth, watching the valley road for intruders.
The old mission church was decrepit, the adobe walls crumbling in patches on the bell towers on either side of the arched front door. Chase looked away from the church, forcing down memories he didn't want to think about. Most of the atrocities had been committed inside the walls, on hallowed ground.
Across the courtyard, a group of camp followers squatted around cooking fires, and he looked in vain for a glint of coppery hair. His gaze moved to a long, low structure which he assumed housed the soldiers. Ten or twelve men sat on the covered porch, gambling and drinking. Everyone seemed completely at ease, unprepared for attack or siege. And why shouldn't they feel secure? The French butchers had held San Miguel for weeks before Chase's men could break through the gates. The mutilations flashed across his mind, and just as quickly, he banished them.
"She's probably in the casa by the church," he whispered, focusing his spyglass on the front porch. "I can see guards there—one by the steps and another under the tree."
Chase surveyed the house for a while, wishing he could see Carlisle. He felt so damn helpless, knowing she was somewhere close by, possibly being brutalized. But there was nothing he could do until the sun went down.
"We had better separate and search for her," he said, very low. "It'll be safer that way, and quicker. It'll be dark soon. We'll move then."
They settled across from each other where they could see anyone who might approach. Chase glanced at his friend, glad Esteban was there with him. They had been through many battles and skirmishes when they'd ridden together during the war, but never before had they been so outnumbered as they were at the moment. He knew, and he knew Esteban knew, their chances of getting in and out of San Miguel undetected were next to nil.
"It's going to be dangerous this time, Esteban. We'll need the luck of the saints to get Carly out."
Across from him, Esteban smiled and rested his rifle across his bent knees. "Ah, but we have looked death in the face before, no? It will be the same this time." He chuckled. "Anyway, you have to get me out alive. Conchita will kill you if you don't."
Chase's smile was grim. "Sí. And you should be home in bed with her now, instead of here."
"I wish I was. But still, you are my brother, compadre, and Carlita's your woman. Would you not help me rescue my Conchita from these stinking men? I do not forget that you faced the bull for me. That jagged scar on your thigh, it gave me my life."
Chase grinned. "Oh, hell, Esteban, you've already made that up to me a dozen times. After this, we'll call it even. Then I won't have to hear all this undying gratitude you're always spouting."
Esteban laughed softly, but Chase checked his revolvers, then turned his attention back on the square below. Despite their jokes, the next few hours would be wrought with danger. It would be a miracle if something didn't go wrong.
When the sun finally dropped below the mountains, darkness descended quickly. Chase was encouraged to see a bonfire being lit in the middle of the square. Guitar music filtered up to them, and Chase's hopes leapt. A fiesta would mean drinking and carousing, and two extra bandits mingling in the crowd might go unnoticed. He forced himself to wait a while longer, giving the pulque and aguardiente time to flow. Then he crouched low. "I guess this is it," he murmured to Esteban, suddenly feeling quite calm.
Esteban made the sign of the cross on his chest, then clasped Chase's hand. "Vaya con Dios, my brother."
"You, too," Chase whispered. Then they struck out in opposite directions, Chase's destination the casa by the gate, Esteban's the soldiers' barracks.
Alone, Chase pulled his sombrero's brim low and drew his pistol. He draped his serape over his shoulders to hide his guns, then kept to the shadows, hunched over to disguise his unusual height.
By the time he reached the waist-high stone wall that encircled the plaza, the dancing had begun with a great deal of handclapping and shouting. Chase squatted in a shadowy spot beneath a tree, remembering how jealous he'd been when Carlisle had danced with Emilio.
Scanning the crowd for her again, he tensed every muscle in his body when he saw Carlisle come out on the porch. A man was pulling her by the arm, and she was resisting. Rage roared alive, hot, lethal, and his finger tightened on the trigger of his revolver. He couldn't see them well no
w; they'd passed behind a group of men. Chase inched down the wall in their direction, wanting to kill the bastard who was forcing Carlisle to go with him.
Realizing that he'd have to move out into the open if he was to keep them in sight, he did so, keeping his head down and his hat low. The man still held Carlisle's arm, and Chase's face took on harder lines as she jerked free and started to turn away, as if she meant to run. Chase stood up, ready to follow her, but as the fire fit Carlisle's face, he froze.
She was laughing. Carlisle wasn't struggling to free herself, to run away. She was getting ready to dance. Disbelief hit him like a fist as she raised her arms over her head and began to sway as she had with Emilio, the fire turning her hair into a golden-red blaze. Rage came swiftly, pure and deadly, as Javier Perez stepped up to dance with her.
Damn her to hell! Chase thought, blind anger overtaking him. She was with Perez! She was one of them! She had been from the beginning!
God, he'd come here for her. Thrown all caution to the wind, risking his life and Esteban's for the goddamn bitch.
Overcome by fury and the shock of her betrayal, he backed into the shadows again, damning her viciously as he turned, ready to find Esteban and get the hell out of there.
All he saw was the gun butt swinging toward his face. Then there was a sickening thud, a white flash of agony, and he was swallowed up in a gaping black pit.
Carlisle was glad when one of Javier's lieutenants ran up and whispered some urgent message. She hadn't wanted to join the fandango in the first place, and wouldn't have if Javier hadn't dragged her out into the plaza. She'd finally laughed and agreed to join the dancing, but her heart wasn't in it. Her heart wasn't in anything, anymore.
Whatever Manuel's problem was, Javier must have deemed it important, because his expression had grown serious, and he'd quickly excused himself and hurried away. She wondered what was so pressing, but she didn't care much. She was bored, bored with all the strangers around her, bored with their beliefs, which were not her own.