Midnight Fire

by Linda Ladd

  "Get up, Carly! Arriba, quick!"

  Carlisle sat up, wearing only his shirt. Her eyes widened with fear as a man's shout came from outside. It was too late to get to the horses, so Chase pulled her into the water. They waded quickly into a dark, deep passage where the tunnel wall turned back into the mountain.

  "Not a word, Carly, do you hear?" he whispered, very low, and she nodded, holding tightly to his arm as voices sounded at the mouth of the cavern. Chase flattened himself against the wall, gun barrel pointed up and resting against his shoulder.

  "El capitán was right. They have been here," a deep voice muttered in Spanish. "You, Pablo, go down and bring the others. We will search the cave for them."

  Chase waited tensely, cursing inwardly for letting himself be trapped inside the mine shaft. He listened as the two men searched through their supplies and then led the horses outside, the hoofs clomping hollowly on the dirt.

  In a minute the men returned, speaking softly to each other. Chase heard an ocote torch hiss and flare, then the sloshing of water as they waded into the spring. They were coming toward them, intending to search the shaft.

  Thrusting Carlisle behind him, Chase moved back as far as he could, but a few seconds later, a gleam of light appeared in the darkness and one of the men rounded the corner, his rifle pointed directly at them.

  Chase squeezed his trigger. The rebel looked faintly surprised as a bullet ripped through his chest. Then he reeled backward and fell in the water, extinguishing the torch in his hand. When the cave was plunged into blackness, Chase moved, wading out into the main pool, his heightened sense of hearing helping him locate the other man by the loud splashing he was making as he tried to escape. He fired his pistol twice, and a scream pierced the dark, followed by a commotion in the water and a gurgling sound.

  Chase stood still for a moment, every sense alert, praying the third man had not heard the gunfire. A frightened whimper spooked him, and he swung around, ready to shoot, then relaxed as he realized it was Carlisle.

  "Carly? We've got to get out of here before they bring the others!"

  Standing still, he heard her making her way through the water toward him, and he took her arm, his gaze fastened on the entrance. His vision was blurred again. "Can you see anybody outside?" he whispered.

  Carlisle shook her head. "No, but the horses are tied up just outside."

  "All right, vamos!"

  Squinting in the deepening dusk, he took the lead. Thankfully, he could see the horses. He lifted Carlisle into her saddle, then swung up onto his own mount, hoping Carlisle could handle a horse on the treacherous mountain trails.

  The guerrilleros would come up from the arroyo below, so he'd have to skirt the slope and climb to the higher ridges toward Saltillo.

  The track was narrow and more hazardous than the one below the cave, but he knew it well from past patrols during the siege of San Miguel. The guerrilleros would find it hard to discover their tracks in the rocks and loose gravel, especially at night. But they'd have to travel hard.

  For several hours, he guided them in a gradual ascent, always looking behind for lanterns or any sign of pursuit. By the time they reached the wide trail that followed the crest of the ridge, Carlisle slumped wearily in her saddle, shivering in her wet shirt. But he knew they couldn't stop, not until he had put more distance between them and their pursuers.

  The moon rose and painted the path with a faint silvery mist, making travel easier, and Chase pressed on hard, riding as fast as he safely could. Finally he guided his horse into a thicket of cedars where they couldn't be seen from the road.

  "What are we doing?" Carlisle asked as Chase, dismounted and untied the blanket from the saddle pack. He wrapped it around her shoulders.

  "We'll rest for a while and get an early start in the morning."

  She stood uncertainly in the darkness as he positioned himself against a tree trunk facing the road, his rifle across his knees. But when she sat down close against him, she was trembling with cold.

  "You'll warm up in a minute," he said.

  "My clothes are still wet," she answered weakly.

  Chase put his arm around her and pulled her close. "We can't risk a fire, but lean against me and it'll be warmer."

  She did so, and despite the mosquitoes and chilly night air, it wasn't long before she slept, her cheek against his chest.

  By dawn, they were riding again, and Chase found the trail he'd been searching for, one which would give him a vantage point of the winding dirt paths on which Javier Perez and his men would have to follow them. There was no sign of riders, however, and he veered back down again through a forested trail where the soft groundcover of pine needles hid their tracks.

  Carlisle said nothing in the long hours they spent riding, and very little during the brief rest they had the next night. By the third day, she began to cough and shiver, and Chase realized she'd caught a chill. She hadn't complained, not one word, but her eyes were feverish, and when he took her on his horse with him, she lay listlessly against him, her skin hot, flushed, and dry to the touch. He pushed on harder, and late that night he finally reached the house of his old compadre, Gilberto Gomez.

  As he approached the long front veranda of the mountain hacienda, a dog began to bark. All the windows were dark, but as Chase slid off his horse, Carlisle cradled in his arms, Papa Gilberto appeared in the doorway with a lantern. When Carlisle moaned and writhed in her delirium, Chase quickened his step.

  "Chaso? Is that really you?" the old man exclaimed as Chase climbed the steps.

  "Sí, compadre, I have come to you for help. My amiga here is very ill."

  "Come quick, then, into my room. My niñas are all sleeping."

  Chase followed him, lowering Carlisle to the bed, and Papa Gilberto set the lantern on the table beside her. He bent over her, lifting her eyelids and feeling the pulse in her throat.

  "I think it might be malaria," Chase told him. "We've been on the run for several nights."

  "Sí." Papa Gilberto shook his gray head. "It looks like it. I must give her my remedio to help her rest better."

  The old man hurried out of the room, and Chase sat down on the edge of the bed. He touched Carlisle's face and found it burning hot. She tossed her head from side to side, and Chase rose and looked around until he found a pitcher, bowl, and stack of clean towels on a bureau across the room. Frowning, he poured water and soaked one of the cloths, then wiped the sweat from Carlisle's brow. He wished Papa Gilberto would return. She was very sick.

  "Here, support her back and we will see if we can get some of this down her," Papa Gilberto said, coming up behind him.

  Chase obeyed, watching his friend give her the medicine a drop at a time. Afterward, he lowered her to the bed again and bathed her face.

  "She will sleep more peacefully now," Papa Gilberto told him, but his eyes searched Chase's face.

  "What has happened to you, amigo? Your eyes, they are very bad and filled with blood. And your hands, how did you injure them?"

  "There's been an uprising in the mountains north of here. At San Miguel."

  Papa Gilberto crossed himself. "The place of evil? Come," he said, picking up the light again. "She will be all right. Let me look at your eyes and hands."

  Chase followed him out onto the porch and sat down on the steps while Papa Gilberto retrieved his medicines. The old man had been the healer of the area for many years. Most

  of the people relied on him for any illness or injury they might suffer. He had fought with Chase and Esteban during the war. At the thought of Esteban, Chase felt sorrow rise in his heart. He tried to block the memory out. He didn't want to think about Esteban's death now.

  Papa Gilberto shuffled out of the house again and held the lantern up while he examined Chase's eyes.

  "Dios, mi hijo, surely you cannot see so good?"

  "Sí, now I can, but not at first. I looked into a dynamite blast."

  "Caramba, the rebels are that strong?"

&nb
sp; "Sí. I have to get to Saltillo as soon as possible. I sent word to Benito to send troops there. We need to get back to San Miguel before the guerrilleros decide to abandon it and find another place to hide."

  "Lean your head back, Chaso," Papa Gilberto ordered.

  Chase obliged, and the clear drops his friend applied to his tired, strained eyes felt cool and soothing.

  "There is little else I can do for your eyes. But take these drops with you. Use them often, and I think it will help clear them."

  "Gracias," Chase said as his friend began unwrapping the filthy bandages around his hands.

  "Por Dios," Papa Gilberto muttered when the puncture wounds was revealed. "What devil did this to you?"

  "Javier Perez, damn his soul to hell."

  "I will have to sew up your palm, amigo, and the other hand, too. Then they will heal." The old man carefully laid Chase's hand down. "I will get you pulque to drink, first. It will lessen the pain."

  When Papa Gilberto returned with the jug of agave wine, Chase drank deeply, the crude liquor burning down his throat into his empty stomach. He swallowed more, watching Papa Gilberto thread the needle, then set his teeth and looked away as the old man inserted it into the open wound and began to sew.

  The process took a long time, and Chase groaned with relief as Papa Gilberto finally splashed the pulque onto his palms.

  "Who is the gringa?" Papa Gilberto asked him as he applied clean bandages.

  "A friend," Chase answered. "I have to get to Saltillo to meet the Nacionales, and I can't wait for her to get better."

  "Sí, she is much too sick to travel. My niñas are good nurses. They will take care of her. But you must rest for the night. Saltillo is a long ride. Tomorrow Juana will fix you food and drink to take with you."

  "Gracias, my friend. I owe you a great debt."

  "You owe me nothing, Chaso."

  Chase nodded gratefully, then went back into the room where Carlisle lay, spread a blanket out on the floor beside the bed, and was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

  When Carlisle awoke, she saw the face of a pretty, little raven-haired girl. She felt sore all over, and when she tried to sit up, the girl became excited and ran from the room. Frowning, Carlisle looked around. She lay on a catre padded with soft blankets and pillows. The room was composed of whitewashed adobe walls with one square window, built high up near the thatched roof. The plain wooden shutters were open, and a large horsefly flew in, its buzzing loud and angry.

  Too weak to support herself any longer, Carlisle lay back just as half a dozen young girls descended on her bedside from the next room, all chattering at once and leaning over to look at her. She stared up at them, wondering where she was. And where was Chase? She asked the girls about him in Spanish, appalled at her own gruff, gravelly voice.

  "Don Chaso has gone to Saltillo. He left you here with us. We're to take care of you for him," one said, and the others tittered their agreement. They quieted as a wizened little man entered the room, and opened a path to the bed for him, as if he were royalty.

  Carlisle began to feel dizzy and was racked by a fit of coughing. The man sat down beside her. His gnarled hands felt cool on her burning forehead.

  "Cómo estás, niña?" he asked her.

  "I'm very weak," she answered, still so disoriented she had trouble concentrating. "Is Chase all right?"

  "Sí. He has gone for help. I am Senor Gomez, but everyone calls me Papa Gilberto, and you are safe here in my casa. You have been very sick with the fever."

  "When will Chase come back for me?" Carlisle croaked out, afraid he'd never return and she'd be left to die among strangers. She began to weep tiredly. Her tears brought concerned cries from her flock of young nurses.

  "Don Chaso will come for you, you must not worry," one of the older ones reassured her. "He was very afraid for you when he brought you here! He was very tired and his eyes and hands were so bad that Papa had to treat them with his healing salve."

  "Silencio, Adela!" the old man barked sternly.

  "You must not worry, senorita. We will take care of you." He supported Carlisle's back and held a cup to her lips.

  The water was cool and tasted wonderful to her sore throat, but caused her great pain when she tried to swallow. Very thirsty, she drank again anyway.

  "How long have I been here?" she asked when the old man lowered her back against the bed.

  "Nearly four days and nights now," he answered, smiling as two of his daughters immediately set about fluffing and rearranging Carlisle's pillows. "You must be patient with mis hijas," he told Carlisle with an indulgent smile. "They do not see many travelers here so high in the sierra. They think you are muy bonita, and they think of Don Chaso as their favorite uncle."

  Six dark heads nodded agreement, causing many different braids to shake and wave, but Carlisle found herself unable to think coherently any longer. She closed her eyes and fell into troubled dreams, in which Chase hung against the wall, sharp spikes protruding from his palms, and Esteban stood poised with a flaming stick of dynamite in his hand, where Chase looked at her from blood-red, blind eyes, until she cried out, moaning and calling his name in despair, over and over.

  13

  Tomas Ricardo Jimenez y Morelos pushed his brocaded black sombrero off his head, letting it hang by its strap against his back. The slight breeze dried the sweat on his forehead and ruffled through his dark brown hair. Scowling darkly, he sat upon his bay mare and peered up the trail ahead, which wound its way through pine trees in a long, gradual ascent. He was furious with Chaso for burdening him with this difficult climb. And for what? To fetch some invalid muchacha Chaso had left with Papa Gilberto.

  Escorting his half brother's women around was not the reason Tomas had made the arduous trek to Saltillo with Capitán Luiz and his Nacionales. He'd come there to fight the guerrilleros, though his madre had thought his only intention was to find Chaso and persuade him to come home to Mexico City.

  His mother, Dona Maria, worried too much about her older son, whom she'd borne to the norteamericano named Lancaster. She considered Chaso to be wild and unpredictable, with too much of his gambler father in him. But in Tomas's eyes, Chaso was muy macho, the kind of man Tomas wanted to be.

  Not only had Chaso been hailed as a great hero when the Juaristas had driven out the French, but now he was an important government official, as well. And the most sophisticated and beautiful senoritas in the capital vied with one another for his attentions.

  Sí. Tomas wanted to be just like Chaso. After all, Tomas was no longer a boy—he was sixteen, nearly a man now. The time had come to put away his schoolbooks and leave the universidad. He wanted to fight in the bullring and against the enemies of his president, Benito Juarez. He was tired of the way his madre coddled and protected him.

  At times, even Chaso forgot Tomas had become a man. He was deeply piqued that Chaso had sent him with the squad of soldiers to fetch the gringa, instead of letting him ride with Chaso to San Miguel to crush Javier Perez and the guerrilleros.

  Glancing back at the eight men riding behind him in their sweat-soaked tan uniforms and white sombreros, he wished he sported the proud insignia of a Nacional so he could avenge his own father's death at the siege of Querétaro. But again his mother had intervened to thwart his wishes, and Chaso had concurred with his mother's desire for Tomas to become a licenciado, as Tomas's father had been. But Tomas was not interested in studying the law! Why couldn't she understand that he was bored to tears by the heavy statute books filled with small print and endless legal terms?

  Tomas jammed his hat back on his head, then leaned forward and urged his horse up a steep rise in the trail He'd become an expert horseman while living at the Hacienda de los Toros. He'd loved his life at Chaso's rancho, where there were no books or profesores to endure. After he delivered Chaso's woman to his mother in Mexico City, perhaps he'd go there again.

  The journey to Mexico City with the gringa promised to be long and difficult, especially
since she was ill. Chaso had procured a traveling coach in Saltillo in which she was to ride to the capital, but the narrow trails where Tomas now guided his horse wouldn't support a mule cart, much less a coach. As it was, if she couldn't ride, they'd have to carry her down the mountain on a stretcher. Chaso had said the gringa would be very weak.

  More upsetting to Tomas, Chaso himself had not looked so good. In fact, Tomas had been shocked the first time he'd seen his half brother. Chaso had ridden up to their camp on the outskirts of Saltillo, his eyes so bloodshot they looked entirely red. But, thank God, he was no longer blind.

  A surge of pure rage shot through Tomas when he thought of Chaso being nailed to the wall like some animal hide. Damn the rebel swine! More than anything, he wanted to help Chaso avenge himself on Perez!

  Frowning, Tomas prodded his mare onward. Up ahead, he recognized the point where the trail leveled off and led through shady trees to Papa Gilberto's hacienda. The ride had been long and hot, and he was ready to rest on the hammocks strung from the porch rafters and look out over the cool, pine-forested hills. And he was eager to see all of Papa Gilberto's niñas. He'd always gotten along well with them. Of course, they were mere children, the oldest barely twelve, but their father had taught them to ride and rope as well as any vaquero. The Gomez family never missed the branding fiesta that Chaso hosted annually at the Hacienda de los Toros. The celebration was known far and wide in the state of Nuevo León and was looked forward to by many hacendados in northern Mexico.

  As he led the small column of riders out of the broiling sun and into a deep river of shade, the white adobe house came into sight. His thoughts returned to the gringa. Chaso had said little about her, had almost been evasive. He'd only told Tomas to take her to Mexico City, then arrange passage to New Orleans as soon as she was able to withstand an ocean voyage.