by Vella Munn
"Black Wolf?" a soft and familiar voice said. "Please, I know you are there."
Lucita belonged to another world, one he'd lost touch with in the past few minutes, and returning to it took every bit of concentration at his command.
She held her candle in front of her as she came closer. The glow wreathed her features in shadow and light, making him think of how the world looked when lightning spit forth from the sky.
"I heard that howl," she whispered. "Please, where are you?"
What would she think if he told her that much of the sound had come from his spirit? Wondering if she would call him a liar, he waited for her to draw closer. The first time they'd met, he'd forcefully silenced her, but he no longer feared she would reveal his presence. Perhaps that was all he knew about her.
Her flickering image took on substance, and at length the candlelight revealed him as well.
"I knew it," she said, her low voice emotionless. "Why are you here? The danger..."
"My people need the leatherjackets' weapons. We are unarmed."
"Unarmed!" She threw the word at him. "Do not tell me that! Don't ever try to tell me that."
"What I do should not matter to you," he said.
"It does, damn it! Don't you understand that!"
He'd never guessed she could be like this, hating him as completely as he hated Father Patricio. "Go back inside, Lucita," he told her. "Either that or call someone to kill me."
He heard her quick intake of breath and caught a glimpse of the rage in her eyes. "Don't speak to me of killing, Black Wolf," she said. "Not after what you did."
She took a long, heavy step toward him, then stopped, the arm holding the candle uplifted as if she wanted to strike him with it. "Where is your knife, Black Wolf?"
Instead of answering, he reached out and yanked the candle from her, then held it up so he could study her better. Instead of trying to defend herself, she let her arm drop to her side, and exhaustion etched her features.
"I took it out of him today." She spoke slowly, every word a drumbeat. "Reached into a man and pulled out the knife you'd placed there even though I knew it wouldn't make any difference."
"Why did you, then?"
She blinked several times and he guessed she hadn't expected the question. He didn't want to think about what she'd just said, didn't want to imagine her trying to stem the flow of blood he'd been responsible for.
"Because I couldn't stand to have that awful reminder of what you're capable of."
I am sorry. I did not want that for you.
"You were with him when he was buried," he said instead.
"How—you saw, didn't you? If... if you did, then you know my father and the others aren't here. That's why you are, isn't it? Because you know the mission is undefended."
"Where did they go?"
"I don't know. He confides in Father Patricio, not me."
"I do not believe you," Black Wolf said, although maybe he did.
"I don't care! Nothing matters to me right now, nothing!"
Her outburst propelled him into action. Without thinking, he dropped the candle and seized her, clamping his hand over her mouth. She felt so small and slight in his arms, in contrast to the beefy leatherjacket, and yet she'd had the strength and courage to try to save the man's life.
"I am sorry," he whispered into her ear.
When she didn't try to break free, he slowly, cautiously, released his hold enough that she could speak around his hand.
"Sorry?" she mouthed.
"You should not be part of what happened."
"What would you rather I did? Hide while he died in agony? Damn you, Black Wolf."
"What would you have me do?" , he threw back at her. "Let a death go unavenged?"
"Yes!"
Before he could silence her again, she shook her head and continued. "What death are you talking about? No, don't tell me. I can't take any more dying, Black Wolf. I may want you in hell, but I will not have a hand in that."
Was that what it was to be civilized? If so, then the padres were right to call him and his people savages, and yet he believed her to be a gentle woman.
"Black Wolf?"
The strength had seeped out of her voice, leaving her sounding like a small child, and yet his arms knew they were not holding a child.
"What?"
"That was you howling, wasn't it?"
She didn't want to know the truth behind the man's death, and he should not tell her, but there was lightning and thunder between them, and even if he knew how, he would not try to stop the storm that was playing itself out in words that maybe did not matter.
"I called, yes," he told her. "And I was answered."
He felt her muscles tense and allowed her the freedom to turn toward him. The candle had gone out when he'd dropped it, leaving them in darkness.
"I... I have prayed to God my entire life," she said. "When I was a child, I prayed my parents would love each other and that they would have other children and... When I went to work in an orphanage and fell in love with sick children and babies, I prayed for them."
"Did your God hear then?"
"I... maybe. Sometimes." She breathed low and quick, like someone out of breath who does not want others to know. "What happened out here a few minutes ago... I don't want to admit what I heard. If I could make myself believe only one throat made those sounds, I would, but..."
So this was why she hadn't tried to run away. "You heard my spirit, Lucita."
In response, she shook her head, the motion quick and violent, but she didn't call him a liar and he wondered if her belief might one day become as deep as his.
"Will you try to stop me tonight?" he asked.
"From what?"
He indicated the leatherjackets' quarters. "My people's weapons are as nothing. If we are to remain free, we must have strength."
A shudder ran the length of her, and for reasons he didn't dare face he longed to wrap his body around hers and make her safe, but even if she allowed him to, that was impossible.
"I hate this," she said fiercely. "Watching my father and the other soldiers ride out talking of revenge, all I could think about was that they must be looking for women and children, your son. You. No." The word came out as part of a deep sigh. "I won't stop you. Oh, God, what am I saying?"
She sagged against him, and without weighing the wisdom of his action, he breathed in her scent. For a time that wasn't nearly long enough, the heat of their separate bodies became one and he thought of nothing else, knew nothing else, but the sharing didn't last long enough because she pushed away, and he let her go.
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Kill someone else?"
"If I must."
"No. No. No." The word became a chant. "Why did you do it? What did he do to you?"
"To me, nothing."
"Then why—"
"He destroyed a Chumash woman, Lucita. Forced himself on her, tore into her and beat her. You think me a savage because I stabbed him, but he did the same to my friend's wife."
"Oh, God!"
Anger flowed into him from a place he couldn't fathom, and he didn't try to hold back what else needed to be said. "She was with child. His knife destroyed two lives and left her husband wishing for his own death."
"No."
"She died as I watched, Lucita. Just as her killer died as you watched."
At that she sagged, making him wonder if she was going to lose consciousness, but although it seemed to take all her strength to remain on her feet, he sensed her battle and knew she was going to win. She said nothing, but then there was nothing left to say.
When she pulled free, he thought she might run away. In truth, he wanted her gone, because as long as they stood like this he couldn't think. Instead, she took his hand and rotated it until his palm faced down. Her fingertips were like butterfly wings as she explored the back of his forearm.
"Before he died, Mundo said that the Indian who stabbed him had the outline of a w
olf's head here."
"And that was when you knew it was me?"
"Maybe... maybe I did before that."
"And still you came to me tonight?"
"Yes." Releasing him, she drew in a breath. "I... we both experienced death today. Each of us did what little we could to make someone's dying easier."
"Yes."
She took a small step, and he knew she was getting ready to leave. The sense of both freedom and loss pummeled him, caused his own retreat. Neither of them had spoken of what tomorrow might bring; neither had asked whether they might see each other again.
And yet, somehow, he knew they were not finished.
* * *
He had just slipped out of the window after an unsuccessful search for weapons—two rusted swords were all he'd found—when the door to where the padres lived opened. Letting night envelop him, he studied the approaching figure until he was convinced it was Father Patricio. The padre had removed his head covering, and his hands hung at his sides, drawing Black Wolf's attention to their large size. The priest's steps were slow and shuffling, making Black Wolf wonder why the man hadn't brought a candle with him. True, the moon was out, but with the leatherjackets gone, wouldn't the padre want to know all he could about his surroundings... unless he didn't want anyone to see him?
Father Patricio was heading toward the monjerio, his walk purposeful and firm as if he could hardly wait to reach where the unmarried girls spent the night. Clamping his reaction into submission, Black Wolf pulled in his surroundings and assured himself that only he and the padre shared this place; then, although there was a great deal to risk, he stepped forward.
"Has your God given you eyes that see in the dark, Padre?" he asked.
"Wha—who?" Father Patricio's head jerked up and he lifted his hands as if to protect himself.
"It is me." He spoke firmly, confidently, not caring how much hatred rode with the words. "Black Wolf."
The padre's feet seemed to be dancing without his being aware of their movement. When he abruptly lifted his cape over his head, Black Wolf wondered if the man really thought doing that would protect him.
"I have not come to kill you, Padre," he said. "You have nothing to fear from me, tonight."
"Heathen!"
"Yes," he said, his voice full of pride. "In your eyes, I am that. Padre, those who guard you are not here tonight. Are you such a fool that you did not think of that before exposing yourself?"
"You know why they are gone. After what you did—"
"What I did. Or perhaps you do not care that the leatherjacket murdered one of my people."
Retreating a few feet, Father Patricio looked around him, his head bobbing like a branch caught in the river. Black Wolf wanted him to try to either run or call out for help because then, like his namesake, he could attack, but he had made the padre a promise that he would be safe tonight. More than that, if he turned from his word, Lucita would know.
"I do not lie. It is not the way of a Chumash warrior. And I have no secrets. Tell me, what takes you to the monjerio on a dangerous night?"
"Get out of here! You have no right—"
"It is you who has no right!"
"Damnable heathen!"
Gathering his muscles, Black Wolf launched himself at the padre and clamped his hands around the man's throat. Father Patricio's strangled scream put him in mind of a buzzard driven from feeding; it would bring others to see what was wrong, but he only needed a few seconds.
"Leave them alone!" His teeth were clenched as he spoke. "You call yourself a man of God, but it is a lie. I hate you for what you do. And a Chumash who hates lives with the need for revenge." He increased his hold. "I have a question and you will tell me the truth."
A gurgling served as the padre's response.
"Where has the corporal gone?"
Chapter 15
It was nearly dawn by the time Sebastian and his men met up with the soldiers he'd sent ahead to find the merchant. After introductions were completed, Sebastian explained that he had immediate need for his men to quell a potential Indian uprising, but instead of taking off, he accepted Senor Portola's offer of a simple meal. In truth, Sebastian was all too happy to oblige since he didn't know when he might have another opportunity to take his measure of the man.
"So it's true, is it?" Pablo said as he cut a slab of black bread for Sebastian. "There have been problems at La Purisima."
More than the rumormongers have yet gotten hold of. "Some, but not for much longer."
"You have a plan to end it?"
"Indeed." As he'd expected, Pablo was well armed and accompanied by a couple of men who were responsible for the half-dozen pack mules. Beyond that, the merchant's musket and sword were of the finest quality, his clothing expensive, his personal horse a powerful-looking creature. Pablo himself was a handsome man with an alert bearing.
"Do you mind telling me what you intend to do?" Senor Portola asked. "I promise I won't tell the savages."
Sebastian made a show of laughing at the joke. "I'm certain you won't, since that would hardly be to your advantage. There wouldn't be a problem if they hadn't been allowed to carry out their miserable lives unchallenged. They have grown bold; one of their warriors has become a killer."
"No!"
"I am afraid so," he said and described the latest assault, dividing blame between Mundo for shirking his duties and Black Wolf for his savagery.
"What an appalling incident. What are—"
Not giving the merchant time to finish his sentence, Sebastian launched into an explanation of his commitment to finding where the wild Indians lived and then attacking their village. If it took wiping out the entire population, so be it, but he would prefer to return to the mission with a large number of new neophytes in tow. He said nothing about the hard reality that nothing about his present post had gone the way he'd anticipated, about his growing anger and the sleepless nights.
"I'm certain the padres will be delighted," Pablo said, his expression grave. "A mission can always use more hands to do the work."
"True—not that that is my primary concern."
"No, I daresay yours is of a military nature."
"That and safeguarding my family."
"Your family?"
Smiling to himself at how easily he'd worked the conversation around, Sebastian explained that he'd brought his wife and young unmarried daughter here as a courtesy to the Church. He briefly described his wife's religious duties, then began talking about Lucita.
As he went on about her healing skills, her quick intellect, and the fact that she'd recently broken off a financially advantageous engagement, he was certain Pablo's interest was growing.
"What can I say?" He trusted his sigh would be taken as that of an indulgent father. "Lucita can have her pick of men, so if she insists one suitor doesn't live up to her expectations I can hardly argue that she'll never have another opportunity. It isn't as if I'm in a position of needing to improve my financial standing."
"Hm. It seems strange, then, that she wants to isolate herself here."
"It does, doesn't it. However, she wanted to experience at least a little of the world before settling down. All I want is her happiness." The last stuck in his craw, and he hoped Pablo wouldn't press him further. If only he could make sure Lucita knew what was expected of her when Pablo arrived and that the merchant would be suitably impressed.
Should he say more about Lucita, or would the merchant believe he was deliberately singing her praises? Taking advantage of the fact that he'd just been poured another cup of wine, he studied his surroundings. They'd met up with Pablo while he was passing through a small, narrow gully with low hills all around. In all his years, Sebastian had never allowed his troops to let down their guard while in such a vulnerable position. If the Chumash attacked, he and the others would be hard-pressed to defend themselves. However, as he reminded himself, so far he'd seen no evidence of organization among the Indians.
"The padres are most p
roud of their wine," he said. "You must deal with hundreds of wines; surely you are in a position to judge quality. Are they right to be boasting?"
"Indeed," Pablo said with a smile. "In fact, sampling the current stock is what I enjoy most about visiting La Purisima. So, what does your wife think of conditions there?"
* * *
As the men continued their conversation, the wind carried their voices to the east where Black Wolf lay on his belly on one of the rises overlooking the group of men and animals. He couldn't hear what they were saying and didn't care, because what mattered was that the leatherjacket represented danger to his people. More than once Black Wolf's thoughts strayed to his hand in things and what he might have done differently, but whenever he did, he remembered watching a young, dying Chumash woman and hearing the helpless cries of her husband. The Spanish surely called him a savage for what he'd done afterward, but he'd been an animal then, a wolf, an attacker driven by the need for revenge.
Shaking his head, he concentrated. The leatherjackets had left their horses grouped together some distance from the merchant's animals, and although their reins had been looped around convenient trees, no one was watching them. He couldn't possibly disarm the men, but if they were on foot—
Corporal Sebastian, although in earnest conversation with the merchant, occasionally scanned his surroundings, which was all Black Wolf needed to see to convince him that he wouldn't be able to get any closer without being seen. Still, he wanted to take advantage of the fact that the leatherjackets were away from their mounts.
Wolf Spirit, bring your thoughts to me today. Make your strength and cunning mine. A wolf attacks; a wolf does not fear death. Is that what you want of me?
Sensing a presence behind him, he turned, but he saw nothing except for the deep shade cast by trees.
I need your wisdom today, need to become you. If it is within my power to bring the horses to the ground I will do so, but not if it would result in my death. What—
He'd been wrong. The darkness under the nearest tree wasn't a shadow after all; at least, he didn't think so. Instead, he believed he was looking at a grizzly. Or maybe it was a changing shaman as had revealed itself to him after he'd fought with the first leatherjacket.
