by Ralph Cotton
The rancid smell caused Clarimonde to turn away from her again. ‘‘No, I won’t use it,’’ she said.
"Oh?" The novice gave her an almost accusing stare and said, ‘‘Don’t you want them to leave you alone?’’
‘‘No,’’ Clarimonde said bluntly, ‘‘not if it means letting them see I have done something deliberately to turn them away. It will only make things worse for me . . . the same as it would only make it worse for me if they caught me trying to escape.’’ She stared at the young novice. ‘‘You used this oil before we arrived. I’ll tell them I couldn’t get rid of the smell. Perhaps it will help you—’’
Her words cut short beneath a long scream and the pounding of nails coming from the courtyard. ‘‘Father! Father!’’ Cecille screamed. She tried to run out of the room to the courtyard, but Clarimonde, catching her around her waist, wrestled her back inside and slammed the heavy door. ‘‘Please, let me go to him!’’ she sobbed.
‘‘There is nothing you can do for him now,’’ Clarimonde said, shoving her back into the room. ‘‘When the time comes, they will do even worse to you, if you don’t get out of here.’’
The young novice only had to consider Clarimonde’s advice for a moment, the pain atop her bandaged head throbbing, intensifying with each beat of her racing pulse. ‘‘All right, I’ll go. But I will tell you the way to go, so that you can use it if you get a chance to get away from them.’’
‘‘No, don’t tell me.’’ Clarimonde stopped her. ‘‘If they think you told me the way out of here, they will beat it out of me. I might not be strong enough to resist telling them.’’
‘‘You would rather take a beating for something you do not know, than be able to stop it by telling them what you do know?’’ The young woman looked confused by Clarimonde’s logic.
‘‘Just go. Go now!’’ said Clarimonde, taking no time to explain herself to an innocent. She gave the woman a shove toward a rear door and watched her hurry away. ‘‘Do not come back until you are certain we are gone.’’
Cecille grabbed the jar of oil and its lid from the tabletop on her way, then ran out of the room, slamming the rear door behind herself. Clarimonde slumped down into a chair and held her head in her cupped hands for a moment, wondering when her nightmare would end. Then she stood up, walked out the door into a stone hallway and followed it to a room where she found stores of cornmeal, dried beans and other food supplies. Without hesitation she took down a stained apron from a peg, tied it around her waist and went to work.
Outside in the courtyard, Ransdale stared at Soto, still getting used to his freshly shaved head and the strange tattoos that covered the top of it like a decorative skull cap. ‘‘With every day that goes by, I learn something new about you,’’ he said. As he spoke he pitched the bloody hammer to the ground and stuck his hands out under the water from the stone cherub’s mouth, washing them.
‘‘Are you complaining, mi amigo?’’ Soto asked in a firm tone.
‘‘No! Not at all,’’ said Ransdale, stunned at hearing the words in Spanish coming from Soto’s lips. ‘‘Just commenting is all.’’ He slung water from his hands and finished drying them on his trousers. ‘‘Uh-oh,’’ he said, his hands slowed to a halt, his right hand poised near his gun as he spotted the old Indian step into sight as if from out of nowhere. ‘‘Look who’s here.’’
A glistening machete hung from the Indian’s right hand.
‘‘I see him,’’ Soto said calmly. ‘‘I figured the old man’s scream would bring him out. These Mayan converts never fly far from the nest.’’ He nodded toward the wounded priest. ‘‘They need someone like this one to lay the whip to their backs.’’ Stepping toward the Mayan, he spoke to him in a language that Ransdale did not recognize. The Indian replied in the same language and went into a crouch as if to defend himself.
‘‘Huh?’’ Ransdale looked puzzled. ‘‘What did you say to one another?’’
‘‘I asked him what kind of fool stands with a machete before a man with a loaded gun,’’ said Soto. ‘‘He called me a dirty name.’’ He gave a thin, cruel grin, lifting his Colt arm’s length with his left hand, level to the Indian’s naked chest. ‘‘Can you imagine that?’’ He cocked the Colt. ‘‘He called me a dirty name?’’
‘‘Por favor, let him go, por favor,’’ the old priest moaned from against the thick wooden door where Ransdale had spread his arms and nailed him into place.
‘‘There this one goes again. He’s talking Spanish to you again,’’ Ransdale said quietly, to see what Soto’s reaction would be toward the priest.
But Soto ignored him. Instead, he raised his right palm toward the Indian and took another step forward.
‘‘Yep, every day it’s something new . . . ,’’ Ransdale repeated under his breath, slipping his gun from its holster and holding it ready, even though Soto had the Indian covered.
Clarimonde had stiffened instinctively at the sound of the single gunshot from the courtyard. But she did not go to the stone window ledge and look out on the courtyard to see what had happened. Instead she kept herself busy kindling a small fire in a corner hearth on which to boil a pot of beans hanging on an iron pothook.
Had she looked out upon the courtyard she would have seen the Indian fall to the ground, mortally wounded, and she would have seen Suelo Soto walk over and take the machete from his hand. She would have also seen Bess, the shepherd bitch, slink into the mission through the open front gate and work her way around the perimeter, going unnoticed while the two men stood over the dying Indian like vultures, Soto taking off his shirt and laying it aside to keep from covering it with blood.
Clarimonde had no idea Bess had followed them across the high trails, until she heard a soft whine and felt a cold nose against her forearm as she fanned the small fire. ‘‘Oh my God!’’ she gasped, turning and looking into the big shepherd’s panting face. ‘‘Bess! Bess. How in the world have you found me?’’ As she spoke she hugged the animal’s coarse, brush-flecked head to her bosom. The big shepherd licked her face as if asking for her approval. Oh, Bess, yes yes, you are a Gutes Mädchen. Such a good girl indeed.’’
But no sooner had she tearfully hugged and praised the big shepherd than she pulled back and looked toward the open, stone-framed window. ‘‘But you cannot stay here. We cannot let them see you,’’ she said in a harsh frightened whisper. She hurried to the window and glanced out just for a second, just long enough to see Soto standing naked and bloody above the Indian, his freshly shaved head bowed, the machete rising and falling viciously.
Clarimonde quickly looked away from the grisly scene, not letting the horror of Soto’s action keep her from looking for a way to protect Bess. ‘‘We must get you out of here. These men are monsters. They will kill you!’’
She quickly grabbed a handful of dried meat scraps from the tabletop and fed the hungry animal. Stooping, she hugged the coarse neck again and said, ‘‘I know you only came to protect me. But you have to go. We have to get you past these men. You must go back and stay with Papa and Little Bob.’’ Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she spoke to the curious face, knowing her words were not understood.
Leading the dog gently but firmly by the nape of her neck, Clarimonde looked back out onto the courtyard and said, ‘‘You must go quickly, while these two are not watching.’’ She turned the animal loose with a bit of a shove toward the doorway, gesturing with her arm in a sweeping motion to make her command understood. ‘‘Gehen sie, Bess!’’ she ordered in German, telling the animal to go. ‘‘Gehen sie.’’
The dog circled slowly and whined as if in protest. Then, obediently she ran out the door and hurried away along the perimeter of the courtyard. Clarimonde watched intently, silently praying under her breath until the shepherd had made it most of the way to where the smaller entrance gate stood ajar. "Please hurry, Bess! You must make it out of here! You must!’’ Clarimonde whispered, seeing Ransdale strike a match and hold it to a freshly rolled smoke dangling fr
om his lips.
But the big shepherd didn’t make it all the way to the front gate. Ransdale caught sight of her as she hurried along silently, running low to the ground, partly hidden by a wall of shrubs and brightly colored flowers. "What the hell—?" he said in surprise, his Colt coming up cocked and aimed. ‘‘It’s one of her damned wolf dogs!’’
‘‘Then shoot it,’’ Soto shouted, the Indian’s blood running down his chest, his arms, his face.
From the open doorway where Clarimonde stood, she screamed, ‘‘No!’’ just as Ransdale’s shot rang out.
The shepherd, hearing the woman’s voice, turned in time to see the man’s gun buck in his hand. She felt the bullet whistle through the air only an inch from her lowered head. But before Ransdale’s second shot exploded, the big bitch, fearful for her master’s safety, spun in the dirt and sprang across the ground like a streak of gray furry lightning.
‘‘Yiiii!’’ Ransdale shouted in terror, standing with his feet spread, unable to get an aim on the attacking animal. His third bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the stone tiles as the bitch dived into him. Instead of going for his throat, Bess clamped her powerful jaws around his crotch and slung her head back and forth viciously as his screams filled the air.
‘‘Stop playing with the dog!’’ Soto shouted, reaching for his Colt lying in its holster on the ground where he’d laid it. He raised the Colt with a bloody hand and took aim.
‘‘No!’’ Clarimonde shouted again, running from the doorway toward the blurred tangle of man and animal on the courtyard floor. But she stopped abruptly, her hands going to her mouth to stifle her scream as Soto’s bullet hit the shepherd squarely in the side and sent it tumbling away with a loud, pitiful yelp.
‘‘Help—help me, Suelo,’’ Ransdale pleaded in an injured tone, both hands cupping his bleeding crotch. His Colt lay in the dirt a few feet away. ‘‘I’m ruined. . . .’’
As Soto stepped over to Ransdale, the wounded dog yelped pitifully, struggling to get back on all fours. Clarimonde hurried toward the animal, but before she could get to her, Bess had managed to rise and stumble out the open entrance gate. ‘‘Stay back from that gate, Clarimonde,’’ Soto commanded. She froze as she heard him cock his gun hammer.
Tearfully, Clarimonde said, ‘‘But she is still alive. I must go to her.’’
‘‘She’s as good as dead, and you know it,’’ Soto said callously. As he spoke he lowered his Colt; the two listened to the painful yelping of the wounded shepherd disappear deeper down the hillside. In a moment it stopped altogether. ‘‘There, what did I tell you?’’ Soto said.
‘‘What—What about me?’’ Ransdale groaned on the stone tiles at Soto’s feet. He reached up with a bloody hand and tried to grasp Soto’s naked, blood-slick leg.
‘‘What about you, mi amigo?’’ Soto said harshly. ‘‘Like you said, you’re ruined. Now I must get three of Satan’s demons to replace you.’’
‘‘No, wait,’’ Ransdale said quickly. ‘‘I’m good. I’ll be all right. I can still handle my job. I’ll just get cleaned up some—’’
‘‘Adios, Nate,’’ said Soto, cutting him off. He effortlessly moved his lowered Colt sidelong just enough to put a bullet in Ransdale’s right eye. Ransdale fell back limply, his hand still clutching his crotch.
Clarimonde flinched at the sound of the gunshot. She stood weeping for the shepherd, her hands covering her mouth. ‘‘She—she only wanted to save me,’’ she said brokenly, staring out toward the vast, rugged hillside beyond the mission walls.
Soto walked up close behind her; she could feel heat from his naked, blood-gorged body. ‘‘Nothing can save you from me, except me, dear Clarimonde,’’ he whispered into her ear. ‘‘Is that what you want? Do you want me to save you?’’
After a moment of silence, without turning to face him, Clarimonde replied, also in a whisper, ‘‘Yes, save me. Save me from you.’’
‘‘Good.’’ Soto smiled with satisfaction and looked himself up and down. ‘‘I’ll go finish with the Indian. You prepare us some food for the trail. Let’s get moving. The lawmen are bound to be close enough to have heard all the shooting.’’
Chapter 9
The ranger and Hector had been following only glimpses of partial hoofprints now and then on the rocky ground, at times finding traces of the shepherd’s paw print in pursuit. But when they’d heard the sound of gunfire on the distant trails above them, they struck out toward it without hesitation. After an hour of pushing their horses, they’d made it to the fork in the trail and found clearer prints on the narrow, softer dirt path leading back toward the old Spanish mission.
‘‘We can’t stop now—we’re too close,’’ Sam said, noting the slant of sunlight falling over the slopes on the western horizon. He nudged Black Pot forward and added to Hector, ‘‘Watch out for a trap.’’
"Sí, I am always watching,’’ Hector replied, nudging his horse along beside him.
Moments later beneath the canopy of overhanging pine and spruce, in the grainy light, the ranger stopped at the sight of the big shepherd limping weakly alongside the trail toward them. ‘‘Hold it, Hector,’’ he said, although the young lawman had already spotted the wounded animal and had drawn up his reins. ‘‘Here comes the big female shepherd the old goatherd told us about.’’
Seeing the animal stop and wobble unsteadily in place, the two stepped down from their horses and led them slowly forward. ‘‘Easy, girl. We won’t hurt you,’’ Sam said quietly, seeing the dazed and wounded animal take a stand, her blood-matted hackles standing high on her neck and shoulders.
But the shepherd would not be consoled. As Sam and Hector took another step, she growled deeper and bared her fangs, in spite of blood and saliva swinging from her flews.
‘‘It’s not working,’’ said Hector, stopping alongside the ranger. ‘‘This one is not going to let us get past her on the trail.’’
‘‘We’ve gotten too close to let these birds slip away from us now,’’ Sam said. Yet, even as he spoke, the two stepped back cautiously until the shepherd’s growl lessened.
‘‘But what do we do about this wounded animal?’’ Hector asked in a lowered voice, seeing the big shepherd had faced them down in her weakened state.
Sam didn’t have to consider it. ‘‘We’re going to help her if it’s not too late,’’ he said. Without turning toward Hector, he nodded toward a tangle of bracken and downfallen limbs along the trail and added quietly, ‘‘See if you can find me a good long branch.’’
As Hector stepped away to the side of the trail, Sam walked around his stallion, took down a coiled rope from his saddle horn and took out a rolled up length of rawhide strap from his saddlebags. The shepherd settled down, but watched both men closely, her loss of blood causing her to have to straighten herself up every few seconds to keep from losing her balance.
With the ten-foot-long pine limb Hector brought him, the ranger fashioned a snare. With an open loop on one end of the limb, and the rope wrapped around the limb leading up to his hand, Sam stepped forward, Hector right beside him, his gun cocked in case the shepherd found the strength to attack. ‘‘Easy now, girl,’’ Sam said again as they moved closer.
But this time the shepherd had grown too weak to put up a fight. She faltered and went down on her hind quarters. Taking advantage of the narrow opportunity, Sam slipped the loop over her head and drew it tight before she had time to collect herself.
Feeling the rope grow snug on her neck, the big animal lunged and growled and fought, even summoning the strength to rise up once on her hind paws and snarl, then try to force herself forward. Sam held on to the limb and the rope and braced himself until her strength waned and she fell onto her side, lying panting in the dirt.
Handing Hector the limb and the rope, Sam said, ‘‘Keep some pressure on, while I get in there. I don’t want her in my face.’’
‘‘I’ve got her,’’ said Hector, holding the limb steadily, bracing himself, prepared for a
nything.
With the length of rawhide from his saddlebags, Sam hurried in close and kneeled down beside the shepherd. Knowing that at any moment she could decide to make another lunge at him, he quickly hitched a muzzle around the middle of the animal’s strong flews, wrapped it back around her head and tied it securely behind her ears. He let out a tight breath, patted her head and examined the deep gunshot wound in her side.
‘‘You can ease off on it now,’’ he said to Hector. ‘‘I believe she’s lost too much blood to put up any more of a fight.’’
"Sí," said Hector, ‘‘if we don’t stop the bleeding, I think she will soon be dead.’’ He laid the limb down and stepped back toward his horse. ‘‘I will tear up an old shirt for bandages.’’
In the distance a streak of lightning licked across the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder. ‘‘Hurry,’’ said Sam, ‘‘we’ve got a storm brewing.’’ He glanced in the direction of the thunder as he rubbed a gloved hand back along the shepherd’s fading eyes. ‘‘This brave gal has come too far and done too much to be left out here to die.’’
In the first purple shadows of darkness the young novice had ventured back into the mission. With her came the Mayan Indian woman who had fled earlier under her mate’s insistence. Before slipping back inside the walls, the two had watched the mission from the shelter of pines for a long time after the men and the German woman rode out along the high trail. Yet they still approached the mission warily. Once inside the walls, they quickly locked the entrance gate behind themselves.
Upon their arrival in the darkened courtyard, the two women lit torches, found the bloody claw hammer lying in the dirt and immediately removed the slender iron spikes that held the unconscious priest’s hands nailed to the thick oaken door of the rectory. Then they laid the wounded priest on an old canvas gurney that the Mexican army had left behind at the end of some long-forgotten campaign against the dreaded Apache.
