Where was Smith?
A noise close to the wall had her scrambling away in a crawl. A large shape swooped on her; crazed, she fended it off with flailing arms.
“Catriona.” Damian snatched her to him, rendering her defense ineffectual. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
She hugged him, babbling, “I’m fine. Smith’s here.”
“Madre de Dios. Has Vietta still got the gun?”
“I don’t know. I ran in here. What have you found?”
“Not a way out.” He dragged her against the wall, back into the shadows. “There’s no way out.”
“Traps?” She stumbled on the rocky floor, slipped as her feet went out from under her. He grabbed at her; she put her hand down to catch herself. Her hand squished into a wet, mossy spot and slithered away; he seized her when she would have landed in an ungainly sprawl.
“Careful, it’s slick.” He stopped their forward rush and pressed her against the wall. “If you listen, you’ll hear water dripping. Stop here. Here, at least, I know the floor won’t collapse.”
“Smith?” she whispered.
“Where will we run?” he demanded.
She sagged against the rough rock. This was, indeed, a cave, and a very large one. A soft gray light smudged the outlines of the cavern and its contents. The walls around her curved off into the mountain; beyond that her perception faded. The ceiling, too, extended out of sight. The floor around her looked quite solid, almost flat, and in spots, faintly glistening. Listening intently, she could hear the drip of water and the rush of the wind through unseen vents, carrying the scent of pine.
“It’s dark,” she said.
“It’s the fog,” he answered. “If the sun were out, we could see. If the sun were out, they could see us.”
She strained her eyes upward. “This isn’t just a cave. It looks like a giant crack in the solid rock. I can’t see the ceiling, but I can see . . . it looks like . . .”
He stared up. “Yes. Beams.”
“Like someone built a kind of open support across the roof. Why would they do that?”
“To prevent a cave-in.”
“Oh.” Sitting down, she tucked her feet beneath her and rubbed her stinging palms. Grit packed beneath her fingernails, ground in her teeth and sifted from her hair. How she hated the feel of dry dust. It made her shudder, made her long for a bath. Made her realize how foolish she was to worry about cleanliness when death stalked her from all directions. “Everything looks fine. It seems so odd that this place would have such a reputation when—” there was something beside her, and she squinted as she turned her head “—this place would have such a reputation when we haven’t seen—” She made an ugly noise. A fellow treasure seeker sat beside her. He stared out of empty sockets, a pile of bones and clothing.
Damian knelt beside her and pulled her away with his hands on her shoulders. Her knees shook as she nestled into his chest. “How long do you suppose he’s been there?”
“There’s only bones and a few shreds of clothing left, so it’s been a very long time.” Stroking her back, he clasped her as close as he could. “I should have warned you, but . . . right now, it doesn’t seem important to me. I aged twenty years, wondering what was happening to you, trying to find a way out.”
She hugged him back, remnants of her panic lending strength to her grip. “Can’t we move to a different place?”
“We’re hard to see, and I figure that if this character has been in this spot for so long, we’ll be safe.” He amended it. “Or as safe as we can be.”
She curled closer to him, “Did you find any more clocks?”
“Oh, yes. The place is riddled with them, but in this light they’re hard to see. I found one almost too late.”
“Don Damian?” She ran her hands over him, looking for injuries.
“I’m fine. Only . . . it’s a long way down if you take a wrong step. There’s a pit over there. I can’t get over it or around it.” He nodded toward the other side of the cave. “There are some well-camouflaged holes in the floor. It makes me wonder about this whole place.”
“What do you suppose happened to them?” she asked, verbalizing the question that vibrated between them.
“Smith and Vietta? Maybe they killed each other.”
The silence grew too big, the corpse too present. She asked, “Did you find your treasure?”
“It’s not my treasure. And no, I didn’t find it.”
She looked at him. He was a blur seen from behind her tears. “I feel so helpless. There must be a sensible way out of this, but I just keep wondering if we’ll become just another part of this legend.”
His palm, rough and scraped and dirty, cupped her cheek. “No. One way or the other, we’ll be the end of the legend.”
In the dimness of the cave, they stared at each other. It seemed to Katherine she could hear his thoughts, his feelings. It seemed they were communicating on a level above the ordinary. Her weariness, her fright dropped away. If they had this, how could anyone defeat them?
Far above them, outside in the open air, the cloud that surrounded the mountain whipped away like a tablecloth beneath the hand of a magician. Better than torches, better than candles, the sun beamed through the hidden crevices, filling the room with light. It bounced off the shiny wet spots, it created shadows.
“Your hair looks like gold,” Damian murmured.
Katherine didn’t answer, speechless from amazement. Her shaking hands pushed him around; she croaked, “Look. Don Damian, look.”
He followed her pointing finger and rose, transfixed. His hands hung open at his sides. His torn shirt showed his strong throat and the emotion he swallowed. He looked like a man seeing a vision of heaven.
A sunbeam shone directly on a pillar in the middle of the room, close against the pit. There on a shelf rested a cradle heaped with gold. Huge nuggets of gold and chased golden cups, holy vessels, sacred bowls.
The treasure of the padres.
The cold, hard stone floor made Katherine shift. Tugging at his pant leg like a child seeking attention, she questioned, “Don Damian?”
He never moved. The sun illuminated his face, lending him a perfection that awed her, then angered her. How dared he lust for that gold when so many men had died for it, so much evil had been done for it? How dared he ignore their peril when every move they made, every word they said, weighed in the balance of their survival?
As he gazed with rapture at the gold, she gazed with fury at him. An impulse grew in her, and grew and grew, until she couldn’t contain it any longer. Leaning close to his thigh, she bit into the muscle above his knee.
He whirled and leaped back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
With elaborate care, she checked her teeth. “Seeing if you loosened any.” He exuded menace as he stared down at her. She’d distracted him, yes, but at what price?
With elaborate calm, he ordered, “Don’t you ever do that again. Men have divorced their wives for less.”
“I think I don’t want a man whose interest in gold surpasses his interest in life itself.”
He glanced up at the treasure and it trapped his gaze, holding him for a long minute before he shouted towards the ceiling, “I’m not interested in the gold.”
Was he speaking to her? She wasn’t sure.
Thrusting his hands in his hair, he held his head as if it ached. “The gold is fascinating. It catches my eye, it holds my attention, but nothing fascinates me like you do.” He dropped his hands and stared at her. “Nothing’s going to separate us. Not the gold, not your stubborn pride.”
“Do I fascinate you?” Lacing her fingers, she wrapped them around her knee to still their nervous activity. “Or is it my legal training?”
“What?”
Katherine hurriedly asked, “Would you marry me if I weren’t an American and a lawyer?”
His exasperation found vent in a sigh. “What nonsense is this? Only yesterday, you were convinced I resisted marriage becau
se you were an American. Now you believe I married you because you are an American?”
Picking her words with care, she said, “It has been pointed out to me that you could reserve my legal expertise and my nationality against the day when the Americans take over.”
A tremendous crash from the wall turned their heads. A chunk of the rock that separated them from the outdoors collapsed into the hole. Dust and sunlight billowed in, and inside, everything quivered. Damian grabbed her, dragging her against the wall.
Before the dust had even settled, Vietta stepped through a vertical break, coughing and complaining. A hand containing a gun followed her, and Katherine recognized both the gun—it was Damian’s repeater—and the hand. It was Mr. Smith’s.
“No,” Katherine breathed. The near rape, put from her mind by other matters, had affected her more than she realized. Just the sight of the tall man shrugging his way through the wall brought a sick jolt to her system. The cave, previously so large, shrank around her. Stifled, she tried to disappear into the stone and she grasped Damian with all her fingers.
Beside her, he grunted as if he were in pain. “He won’t touch you.
He pried her hands off his arm. Blood welled up from ten little crescents in his skin, and she felt an abstract sorrow for hurting him so. But she couldn’t think beyond her terror.
Like a wolf smelling fear, Smith saw her before he saw anything else. “Well, this ain’t such a bad cave. I can’t imagine what everyone’s been bellyaching for. It’s big and open. Don’t see no traps, and the decorations,” he insulted her with his gaze, “are right pleasant to the eye.”
“What good does it do you to leer at a woman?” Damian asked. “After the way I hit you?”
Smith answered too quickly. “Takes more than a little pain to stop me.”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Damian said.
“I would have done it if I’d been you. You go get me all unconscious and tied, and you could have shot me where I lay and nobody woulda cared, and you didn’t. Don’t understand that.”
Speaking in a mumble, Vietta accused, “He’s too soft.”
Katherine shuddered at the sheer ruthlessness. “Some people would characterize the inability to kill a man in cold blood as a strength.”
A new lisp characterized Vietta’s speech. “Look where it’s gotten us.”
Some of Vietta’s teeth were missing, Katherine realized, broken out, no doubt, by the same fist that had blackened her eyes and bruised her jaw. “Don Damian and I are in no worse condition. It’s you who hired Smith to work for you.” Katherine’s courage returned as she spoke. “It’s you who has brought this disaster on yourself, and you’ve managed to drag Don Damian and me down also. Don’t ask for my pity.”
“Saucy little thing, ain’t she, de la Sola?” Smith tucked one thumb into his belt and rocked on his heels. “No wonder you like her so much. But I did you a big favor. A big favor. She was expecting happily ever after and all that rot, and I told her the facts.”
Katherine cringed under his hearty manner.
“The facts?” Damian asked, cold, uninterested.
“Sure. I told her how you married her just to make sure you can keep ahold of your land when California becomes an American possession.”
“Shut up,” she said, wringing her fingers.
Without removing his attention from Smith, Damian took her hands and separated them. Holding them, one in each of his, he encouraged, “Go on.”
“Told her you’d get rid of her once she served her purpose.” He stabbed a finger towards Damian. “But you know, I was thinking. I bet this marriage of yours might not even be legal when the United States takes over. I bet you won’t even have to divorce her.”
Damian turned Katherine to face him, and she clenched her teeth together. “You believe every word this maggot says, and you won’t believe me?”
“Don Damian—”
“If I were going to bind myself in an unhappy marriage, my dear, I would do it for money. It’s the best cushion against the future, and I’ve had offers to do just that.”
He blazed with anger, and the previous emotion between them was nothing compared to his bitter disappointment in her. The words were inadequate, but she had to say them. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey!” Smith shouted. “Dam n it, bitch, get away.”
Katherine jumped, but it wasn’t her he spoke to. The treasure had shone too brightly for Vietta to ignore it, and she had edged closer and closer. Smith’s vendetta against Damian and Katherine interested her not at all. No one person interested Vietta like the cold metal that glinted above their heads. Now she climbed the pillar, finding the toeholds and finger grips that carried her to her goal. Not the threat of the pit beside her, not the danger of the heights, not the pain of her thigh, could dissuade her from her goal. Only a few more steps, only a few more. The sunlight glinted off Vietta’s black hair as she reached and strained, grasping the top of the ledge. She almost had it.
Smith lifted the revolver. “Get away from there.” Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he aimed.
Without a sound, Damian dove for him. The pistol went flying; Damian flew after it.
Smith shrieked, his attention still fixed on Vietta, and he grabbed her foot from below. “Get away from that. Don’t you touch it.” He jerked and she slipped, caught herself, dragged herself up. “Get away.”
She leaped up and seized the wooden container. Smith leaped after her. Hanging on both her legs, he shook her. Gold showered around them, littering the floor, then the whole box tipped and lurched. It fell with a smack that shook the floor. Gold nuggets, worked vessels, chunks of quartz scattered, skidding over the rocks.
“Hot damn!” Smith jumped down after it, salivating like a wolf chasing a tender child.
Vietta shrieked in fury, then in pain. She couldn’t keep a toehold with her damaged leg; Smith’s handling had rendered her helpless. Katherine ran toward her, but Vietta slipped, clutched, lost her grip and fell, tumbling to the middle of the cave. The floor broke beneath her. Gravel poured down into the abyss. She screamed, reaching out with flailing arms. She caught at the edge; Katherine caught at her. She pulled at Vietta, dragging her back up on the solid rock.
Vietta sputtered and groaned, resting on the ground.
Katherine stepped away. She leaned her hands against her knees, gasped, tried to pull in enough air.
“Katherine,” Vietta whispered, raising herself. “Katherine, thank you.” She smiled, showing newly broken teeth. “You fool.” She shoved at Katherine, and while Katherine was still off balance, tumbled her into the pit.
15 June, in the year of our Lord, 1777
Fray Lucio sits in the sun and shivers with the cold. He seeks to help by keeping a constant lookout, and I encourage him. Feeble though he is, he wishes to assist in any way possible. I suspect it is to hurry our work here so he can return to the mission and civilization, but I have learned to leave judgment to He who is the governor of all things.
The women work with a will, and I work at their sides, performing tasks I previously considered the province of animals and peasants. My body is strong and hearty. I can lift and carry heavy objects unfit for the weaker gender. Cutting logs, hewing stone, installing the snares to reform the greedy, I take pride in the toil and in my sagacity.
This work which I envisioned in the darkness of the night takes too many days. I fear the noise will bring our pursuers before we have finished. I begin to sense the need to hurry our labors. Every night I pray, every night I listen, and every day I wake with renewed urgency. My premonition of disaster is at odds with the assurance of my God that all will be well, but the Lord is silent on this point. No doubt my understanding of God’s plan is so infinitesimal that I am presumptious in seeking reassurance. Indeed the mystery of the ages has been the difference between God’s definition of grace and man’s.
Nevertheless, I hurry.
—from the diary of Fray Juan Esté
van de Bautista
Chapter 22
Katherine grabbed the jagged ledge as she went over. Her fingers burned as they slipped on the gravel, and her feet dangled in midair. The air that rushed up smelled like a grave. She jerked when the pistol discharged above her. “Please, God, not Don Damian,” she said, gritting her teeth, struggling to get her elbow up. She succeeded, only to have it shoved down again. Above her, Vietta peered down, smiling. Katherine’s strength gave way; she hung with her arms extended.
It was night below, but a diffused light around showed her a sheer drop of rock in front of her. She could reach it with her toe extended, but why? Desperately, she glanced around. A few feet away, carved into the rock, was another drawing, another smiling clock. Its hands pointed down. Cursing Tobias’s quixotic sense of humor, she realized she would have to move over and let go . . . and hope she landed on something without breaking her bones.
To advance, she would have to move hand over hand, and her mind refused to envision it. Yet she didn’t have time to debate with her fear. Impatient to finish, Vietta was staggering to her feet. With the sole of her shoe she ground Katherine’s fingers into the crumbling rock.
Katherine wanted to tell her how thin the shelf was, how only an idiot would stand there. But Katherine couldn’t free the words from her throat. She could only move her hand to the left when Vietta struck sharply with her heel. Emboldened, Katherine moved the other hand. The rock disintegrated beneath her fingers as she moved hand over hand. Vietta’s trampling feet followed with a vengeance.
Katherine wished Vietta’s destruction would come with the collapse of the floor beneath her feet, and at the same time prayed that it would not. Tumbling to her death with her enemy was death nevertheless.
The clock was right in front of her, pointing straight down. All she had to do was loosen her fingers . . . loosen her fingers. For some reason, it was important she prove her faith in Tobias by loosening her fingers before Vietta’s painful assault forced her to.
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