He wondered if the scent really did linger about her, or it was just his imagination, stoked by dreams of passion and a lonely year of simmering desire? He feared that it was.
The house felt hollow just as it had that awful morning Clara died, and Cortijo grew wary. The door open and shut again, buffeted by the wind. His pistol lay within reach on the side table, and he rose, fully awake and ready for a fight.
From across the main room, he saw his wife and daughter standing out on the porch, their hair swirling. They were looking down at something. Between them and Cortijo, the front door swung freely, opening and closing with the wind. Otherwise, the house seemed in perfect order.
Slowly, gun at the ready, Cortijo crept forward until he could see as well.
His sheepdog Rosa lay in a pool of gore. Something had gutted the poor beast, leaving her intestines strewn all over the porch. The marks of teeth were on Rosa’s torn-open flesh. Flies buzzed around the grisly scene.
Whatever had done this to his dog must have been strong and vicious.
“Coyotes,” Cortijo said, trying to remain calm. “She must have fought off a whole pack.”
“Diablos,” Marta said.
Ana said nothing, only stared at the corpse.
“Take Ana back inside,” Cortijo said. “I’ll bury her.”
Marta nodded grimly and pulled their daughter away from the bloody mess on the porch. Cortijo wanted to draw her back, but she had to attend to Ana, who was staring blankly at the blood on her fingers. His wife whispered soothing words to the girl and led her inside.
With his family gone, Cortijo could finally let loose his anger with an angry curse: “madre dios.” Damn coyotes. He should spend the next week hunting and shooting every single coyote within fifty miles. And how had he not heard the dog fighting them off?
Then as he lifted the dog’s body he saw something that made him go cold. When he tilted Rosa’s head, Cortijo found a long ribbon of neatly parted flesh. No animal could have done that. Before whatever had made the other marks had gone to work, something—someone—had cut Rosa’s throat.
Then he found something that made his stomach churn with real fear: beneath Rosa’s corpse, partially stuck to the dog’s fur, was a symbol drawn in her blood: a five-pointed star.
The witch’s cave crashed back in on him—the stench, the smoky haze, and most of all, the pentagrams traced in congealing blood.
Who would have done this? He dismissed Parsons’ boys as suspects—their father John was practically a preacher himself, and they would hardly draw the mark of the devil. Norris couldn’t have done it—he was Cortijo’s best friend. Someone with a grudge? Angry natives?
He considered the worst possibility of all: that somehow, even though he had shot her three times, the witch was alive. That she’d followed him.
“No,” he murmured. This was a sick joke, meant to frighten him. Perhaps the Parsons boys had done it after all—he would have a talk with their father.
Cortijo smudged away the mark of the beast. Who knew what effect seeing it might have on Marta or especially Ana? Then, hands and arms already bloody, he carried the sticky corpse of poor Rosa into the yard and set to the task of burying her.
When he returned, Marta was on her hands and knees scrubbing the porch clean. Blood coated her fingers, knuckles, and knees—it soaked through her towel and filled the pail of water. Even the grimy bar of soap was streaked with blood. He wondered if he had obscured the mark enough, or whether she had seen it. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor?”
She looked up at Cortijo with angry eyes. Wordlessly, she went back to her work.
He looked at the house, where Ana had retreated. “Is she—?”
“Better?” Marta shook her head. “We’re not better. I think we never will be.”
Cortijo wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. He left his wife to her work.
That day was Sunday, so Cortijo drove Marta and Ana—along with the Norris family—into town for mass. The trek was ten miles by horse and wagon, but they’d never missed a Sunday since moving to Texas, and Cortijo would be damned if they started now. Not that he believed much in God, but the last year had more than convinced him of the Devil’s existence.
The Cortijo and Norris families sat across from the Parsons, their neighbors. No words passed between them, but Cortijo thought Mr. Parsons tried to hide a smug smile.
The Parsons and Cortijos had been something like friends before Clara died a year ago. Mrs. Parsons had more “charitable” attitudes toward Mexicans and Negroes than her husband did, and she and Marta had visited together on occasion. Sometimes Mrs. Norris was even permitted to join them. It was, after all, the closest thing any of the women had to a social circle for hundreds of miles. And occasionally, Mrs. Parsons had brought along her strapping sons, Harold and Daniel, who about matched Clara in age. As kids, they’d played with Rosa in the yard for hours while the ladies drank iced tea and played cards.
All that had ended a year ago, when the witch swept through. The Cortijo’s house was cursed as far as Parsons saw it, and he forbade his wife to visit. And that had been that.
Cortijo couldn’t help wondering, though. Danny Parsons had always had an eye for Clara, Cortijo knew, and Norris told him that in the last year that interest seemed to have transferred to Ana. Not that Cortijo had anything to worry about—Old Man Parsons would never let his son near a Mexican girl, and Ana was just as catatonic around Danny as anyone. Still, Cortijo knew what it was like to be a boy with an itch—could frustration have driven Danny to ride out in the middle of the night and kill Rosa?
When mass was over and they’d spent an hour or two in fellowship afterward, Cortijo touched Marta’s wrist and nodded up at the noon sun. While there would be no heavy work today, maintaining a farm had plenty of daily tasks. “Let me say goodbye,” she said.
He went to look for Ana. She’d never been the center of attention, always lingering at the edge of a gathering while her older sister charmed everyone. Clara had taken after Marta—all charisma and radiant smiles—while Ana was more like Cortijo himself: quiet, retiring, and content to watch from a distance. Probably, she would be hiding in some out-of-the-way niche.
He found her behind the church, sitting beneath a plum tree with Danny Parsons. Cortijo wondered if Danny had got through to her somehow, but she seemed as blank as ever. She sat unmoving—not helpless or timid, but far away—while Danny filled her ear with whatever it is young men say to girls they like. He seemed to be trying to get her to speak.
As soon as he saw Cortijo, Danny’s eyes widened, he murmured an apology and hurried off. Cortijo almost stopped him—to ask if he’d had any luck—but Ana seized his attention. Seemingly oblivious, his daughter kept looking off at the horizon.
“¿Está bien?” he asked.
Ana turned to him, her eyes empty. Without a word, she stood up and shuffled after him.
Damn. A year had passed, but Ana hadn’t improved at all. She ate, drank, slept, and always did what she was told, but Marta said she hadn’t spoken a single word since Clara’s death. The witch had broken something inside her, and time had proved incapable of repairing it.
As they were making preparations to leave, Cortijo looked over at the Parsons wagon, and specifically at Danny Parsons, who was sneaking guilty glances over at them. Cortijo thought back to the previous night: whoever the killer had been, it had to be someone Rosa loved and trusted, and either of the Parsons boys qualified. Cortijo would have heard her barking up a storm if it had been a stranger.
“What’s the matter?” Norris asked.
Cortijo shook his head.
Late that night, Cortijo awoke to a sound he had never heard before, not in all his years on the trail: a horrible cacophony of shrieks, as though the earth itself was being tortured. Only on the bloody fields of Antietam had he heard anything that came close, when his captain’s horse was shot and no one could get to him to put the poor brute out of his misery.
His horses were screaming.
For a long, terrible moment, Cortijo didn’t know where he was. He lay alone in his bed, fully dressed. Had he not bothered to disrobe before he fell asleep, or had he got up sometime in the night? Marta was at the window, staring out at a conflagration that lit up her face.
“Fire,” she said, her voice hollow and far away.
Cortijo tore out of the farmhouse, the night air turning his sweat to ice. His throat went dry and when he swallowed, it burned all the way down. Thirty feet away, the stables had become a raging inferno, the horses trapped inside and burning. The reek of burning hair and flesh made his stomach twist into knots, and embers stung him like enraged bees. The smoke made his eyes water, and the shrieking made his ears ring.
“¡Madre de dios!” Cortijo cried.
Norris was there, trying desperately to put it out with pail after pail of water his young sons cranked out for him at the pump. They were all crying as they worked. Mrs. Norris stood on their porch, wringing her hands and wailing. Ana sat by the window, ensconced in the rocker as she had that afternoon. She stared at the stable impassively.
Shaking, Cortijo strode back into the house, and came out with his rifle. He took aim at one of the thrashing horses inside and fired. The animal fell, its screaming at an end, but there were more. One by one, Cortijo put the horses out of their misery. He couldn’t get to the youngest—a yearling just born when he left, who was free to run panicked around the burning barn—and everyone within a mile or so had to listen to that one burn to death.
For what felt like forever, Cortijo slogged through dirt turned to mud and broke open his chapped fingers as he slung bucket after bucket onto the fire. It was all useless: the horses were dead, and they couldn’t stop the fire from burning the stable to the ground. He couldn’t stop, though, even if he knew he had no hope.
Dawn was breaking over the hills when the structure collapsed and the last flames died away. Cortijo dropped the bucket. His hands shook from exhaustion and fear.
Then he saw it: a design burned into ground around the stable. Before, the fire had seized all his attention, but he made out the symbol now: a five-pointed star, traced in a blackened furrow. Blood lined the star, though from where that much blood had come, he had no idea.
He heard the witch’s voice on the chill morning wind. “Jesús,” she whispered.
“Terrible thing,” said John Parsons. “Terrible.”
Cortijo nodded. His fire-red hands still felt greasy—he couldn’t get the stench out of his skin, even if he had bathed three times that day. He’d been too tired to do anything else.
The two of them stood beneath the old oak tree and looked at the smoldering ruin of the stable. Some of those horses had been in the family as long as Ana was alive—longer, even. Now they were all dead. Parsons and his two boys had come to the farm to inspect the wake of the fire, but Cortijo noticed they’d taken their time. And of course, he understood why—it wouldn’t do for Parsons to jump to the aid of a Mexican.
“Don’t mean to tell yer business,” Parsons said, in his country drawl. “But that slave—”
“Norris is not my slave,” Cortijo said. “And he didn’t do this.”
“So ye say. Don’t think we ain’t watching that filthy n—”
“Get off my land,” Cortijo said.
Parsons spat in the dust. “Suit yourself. But when he gets it in ‘is head to murder y’all in yer sleep and do ungodly things with yer pretty wife, well—”
Cortijo took a step toward him. “Now.”
That shut the man up. He and his horse-faced sons shuffled off, giving a polite tip of the hat to Marta and ignoring Norris and his wife. The boys looked at Ana a little harder than Cortijo liked, but now wasn’t the time to make a scene.
“Thanks,” Norris said. “You didn’t have to. Reckon I can handle myself.”
“I’d gladly take your friendship over a thousand of theirs,” Cortijo said. “Give me a man I can trust, and who cares about the color.”
Norris cleared his throat. “Shame about them horses. Any idea what happened?”
“No sé.” The rest of Norris family was all shut up in the house, but Cortijo could still hear weeping through the walls. “We’re keeping watch tonight. Alternating shifts. Right?”
Norris nodded. “I’ll take second shift, if it’s all right. I’m exhausted.”
“Bien.” Cortijo sighed. “See to yours.”
Norris nodded, and Cortijo watched him go, trying to ignore his doubts.
They had no explanation for the fire, or for the strange symbol burned into the dry grass. Tracks were useless: he found hoof prints all over, a woman’s footprints—probably Marta—and tracks from a pair of boots. Cortijo and Norris were the only two for miles with feet that big. But Norris was his best friend, and he’d spent all night putting the fire out.
But who else could it have been? Parsons or his boys? The man was a racist and a son-of-a-bitch, but also a coward, and Norris said he’d hardly bothered him the last year. Why now?
The witch. It had to be.
That night, in his dreams, the witch laughed at him as he chased her through darkened tunnel after tunnel, through bloodstained caves and past symbols of sizzling blood. Every time he had a clear shot, his hands shook too badly to fire, and he had to run on. When he finally caught her, she fell into his embrace.
And instead of killing her, he kissed her.
The rooster woke him Monday, and he still felt beyond exhausted. After his shift at watch ended after midnight, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. Every one of his limbs ached, like he’d fought gray-coated Confederates all night, or else chased devils. Cortijo wrapped his arms around Marta, who murmured sleepily, and snoozed again.
When he awoke, his hands were stuck to Marta, and came free with a squelch. Confused, he looked at his hand in the early morning light and his breath caught. Gelatinous blood soaked his hands, filling his palms and slaking his fingers. Pulling away from Marta had broken open a cake of blood on his palm, and fresh blood oozed over his wrist.
Cortijo opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He climbed out of bed and fell, spattering blood over the floor. Both his hands were soaked in blood, and his mouth felt gummy. In the mirror, he saw that his face and mouth were ruined with blood, as though he’d eaten a fresh kill. His chest burned, and he tore open his shirt to reveal the remains of a familiar five-pointed star cut into his skin.
His hands shaking, he inspected the star-shaped wound. It was shallow and couldn’t possibly explain this much blood. Whose was it, then? Whose—?
“Marta,” he said. “Marta—”
His wife stirred. “¿Qué pasa?” she asked, sounding as exhausted as he felt.
Cortijo staggered, his legs refusing to obey, outside the house, where he vomited the contents of his stomach into the brush. He’d seen far worse things in the war, but this…
He saw again the bloody cave, choked on its fumes, and heard again the laughter of the witch. She called his name, voice raised in passion or worship, and he shivered.
Whose blood was this?
Marta rushed out of the house, her face angry. She saw the bloody mess and her expression turned cold. She stalked toward him and stood over him, her mouth opening to speak.
“Jesús! Jesús!” Norris ran up to them, his eyes wide. “I seen the sheriff coming this way! What’s—” His eyes widened when he saw the blood.
“Go,” Marta said. “Don’t you let him come near this house, long as you can.”
Norris nodded, terrified, and took off on foot up the road toward the river.
“Come,” Marta said. “We need to clean you.”
She led Cortijo behind the house toward the ruin of the stable, and set him down by the pump. Working quickly, she filled a blackened pail and used the water and a rag to clean him. As she did so, he saw that he had left a bloody handprint on her midsection, just below her stomach.
“You,” he sai
d. “We have to clean—”
“I have another dress,” she said. “You don’t have another face.”
He nodded wordlessly and let her scour his cheeks and neck.
They had just finished when the sheriff rode up in a cloud of dust. Cortijo thought he looked tired and worn out, but in a new shirt he could hide the mark of the beast left upon him. He stepped out on the porch to welcome Sheriff Walton, his posse, and an anxious Norris.
The sheriff was a good man—stern, understanding, decent—but just now he wore the expression of the hangman. “Señor Cortijo,” he said.
“Sheriff.”
Walton made no move to climb down from his horse, but leaned over to spit in the dust. “Well-ep, suppose you heard about John Parsons and his boys.”
The words made Cortijo’s neck itch and his stomach roil. “No,” he said in a whisper.
“Someone up and murdered ’em, just last night,” Walton said. “Torn to pieces, John and both his boys. Ain’t got a single shot off. Reckon it’s the worst thing I ever did see.”
Cortijo cleared his throat and spoke slowly. “Not coyotes? Or wolves? Some kind of animal?”
“Could be. Half starved and vicious enough to gut a man and let him bleed to death. Christ, there’s blood everywhere. Hard to tell what bodies were which.”
“There weren’t no survivors?” Norris asked. “All of ‘em?”
“Yep, all of ’em,” the sheriff said. “The boys got the worst of it, Danny in particular. Something went at him with real hate, I tell ya.”
Cortijo’s skin prickled all over as if thousands of tiny spiders were crawling over him. He looked back at Marta, who stood impassively by the door. She looked away.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Walton said. “Ain’t no proper words for a woman to hear.”
Marta shook her head, then went inside.
Use Enough Gun (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 3) Page 7
