“I hear him,” the old man said grudgingly. He cursed the little goat under his breath, yet he couldn’t help smiling at his granddaughter and her sweet, childlike devotion to the little horned pest. It had been a mistake to allow her to make a pet of something that would someday have to be slaughtered and eaten. It had been foolish and cruel—but it was done now and there was no calling back the past to change anything.
As he stood with the water kettle in hand, he looked over at the little goat as it struggled in Erlina’s arms.
“Hold him back,” he said. “This water is hot. It would scald him if he caused me to spill it.”
“I’m holding him, Abuelo,” Erlina said, pressing her cheek to the goat’s thin neck as the animal stared dumbly after the old man.
Herjico hurried to the front door and stopped for a moment. He looked across the yard at the adobe barn, then back at Erlina.
“Take them both to the barn and find some grain for them,” he called out. Then he stepped through the door, closed it behind himself and walked across the room to the open door leading down into the cave, hearing the sound of Priscilla’s voice chanting softly.
As he approached quietly, he found the healing woman standing over the wounded gunman with her hands raised chest high. She continued chanting until the old Mexican announced himself by clearing his throat. Then she fell silent, lowered her hands and folded them in front of her as she turned and faced him.
“I—I have brought the hot water as you asked me to, Sens Priscilla,” the old Mexican said. He held the kettle out slightly toward her, his shirttail wadded around the hot iron handle.
“Yes, thank you, Herjico,” Priscilla said. When she didn’t reach out for the kettle, the old Mexican set the kettle down on the dirt and stone floor.
“Did you do as I asked?” she said in a lowered tone.
“Sí, Sens Priscilla,” Herjico replied, also in a guarded tone. “And I took the liberty of sending Erlina to feed the goat and the donkey in your barn,” he said. “I hope this is all right with you. Perhaps I should have asked you first.” He looked down at his feet.
Priscilla smiled, but with her face hidden in the hood the old Mexican didn’t notice.
“You did not have to ask me, Herjico,” she said. She paused, then said, “You and Erlina must be hungry too. There is food inside.”
“But what about you, Sens Priscilla?” he asked.
“I have no need for food,” she said absently, gazing down at the sleeping gunman.
“What are you saying, Sens Priscilla?” the old man asked, stepping forward with a look of dark concern. “Are you ill?”
“Shhh. It is nothing,” said Priscilla. She appeared to collect herself and said, “Don’t worry about me, Herjico. Feed yourselves while I clean this one up and examine his wounds.”
“I do not like leaving you alone with this hombre, Sens Priscilla,” Herjico said hesitantly.
She stared at him with a look that left no room for further discussion.
“Sí, Sens Priscilla, I will do as you say,” the old Mexican said, his head bowed. He turned and left the cave as Priscilla turned back to the slumbering gunman and watched his eyes open slightly.
“You’ve got folks…dancing to your tune, don’t you?” Siebert said sleepily.
“Sí,” Priscilla said, going along with him. She stooped and set the small kettle down and lifted its lid in a gust of steam. “Now lie still while I get a clean washcloth.”
Siebert watched her walk through the torchlit darkness to a large sea chest and lift its lid. She carried back a folded cloth in her hand, and he chuckled and closed his eyes.
“It ain’t going to work, you know—this witching nonsense of yours.” His eyed opened with determination as she kneeled beside him, washcloth in hand. “Not on me, it ain’t.”
“I understand,” she said. Once again her voice turned softer, soothing. “Now close your eyes and sleep…sleep. Let yourself feel nothing but warmth, peace…as sleep surrounds you.”
As the gunman drifted away beneath her voice, she looked down at the gun in his hand, held in place by dried blood.
As she stood watching the gunman sleep, the old Mexican stole up quietly behind her.
He whispered in a trailing voice, “Is he…?”
“No, Herjico,” she whispered in reply, “he is only sleeping. Why are you not eating?”
“How could I eat,” he said, “worrying about you alone with this one?”
“You need not worry about me,” Priscilla said.
The old Mexican looked at the gun lying across Siebert’s lap and started to venture forward, whispering, “Soon none of us will have to worry—”
“No, Herjico,” she whispered, stopping him with a hand on his bony forearm. “We will not kill him. We will let him sleep.”
“But, Sens Priscilla, why?” the old man pleaded. “There is nothing but trouble for us from this one. It would be easy to kill him now while he expects nothing.”
Sens Priscilla didn’t answer. There was no doubt in her mind that she or the old man either one could take the gun from him now and shoot him without him ever knowing it had left his hand. Yet she knew that was not the direction fate had chosen.
If only it were….
In the night, Hodding Siebert awakened and stared into the flicker of torchlights lining the long cavern. It took him a moment to get his mental bearings and realize where he was. But when he looked at a small fire banked and burning low-flamed on the cave’s dirt floor in front of him, he took a breath and raised his free hand to the clean bandage on his chest.
The floor of the witch’s cave…the bruja. He pushed himself up onto his feet and looked over at the woman lying on a blanket across the fire from him. Rocking unsteadily, he caught himself with both hands on a chair back and stood wheezing loud enough that he woke the witch.
“What are you doing up?” she asked from within the darkness of the deep hood.
Siebert coughed deeply, red-faced with pain. He shook his head and leaned against the rough rock wall of the cave, the gun hanging from his hand. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
“Only through the night,” Priscilla said. She sat up on the blanket and adjusted her face deeper into the hood. “You should be lying down.”
Siebert stared at her. He wondered what power a man would take upon himself by killing a bruja.
“Don’t tell me what to do, witch,” he said menacingly. “I’m all right now.” He patted his bandaged chest with his free hand. “Better than all right, I’m damn good, for a man shot in the chest.” He still wore the big cross, and swung it back and forth on its chain. “You might say religion saved my life.”
“You should not make mockery of such things,” Priscilla said, watching the bullet-scarred cross come to a halt.
Siebert managed a weak but critical grin.
“Now I’m going to start taking religious advice from a witch?” he said.
Priscilla only stared at him.
He pushed himself from against the wall and stepped around the fire, feeling stronger after a night of sleep.
“Let’s take a walk, Sens Priscilla,” he said.
“How do you know my name?” Priscilla asked. Even as she asked she turned and walked ahead of him toward the door leading into the house.
“I heard a few things last night,” Siebert said. “The old Mexican called you Sens Priscilla. You called him Herjico.” He paused, looked down at the gun in his hand and said, “I see nobody took my gun, just like you said they wouldn’t.”
Priscilla stared straight ahead.
“How long have you lived up here, Witch Priscilla?” Siebert asked as they reached the door and stopped.
“I am a healing woman. I live here when it suits me, and I leave when I know it is time to go,” she replied. “Something you should consider.”
“Yeah, except I don’t have a way to get around.” Siebert grinned, feeling better, stronger, even with a throbbing pain
deep inside his chest. “How do you get around?”
“I walk, of course,” said Priscilla, “on these two feet God has given me, the same as God has given you.”
“Do you really?” Siebert said in a skeptical tone.
“Sí, I do,” said Priscilla, opening the door, stepping in ahead of him.
In the small room, Herjico stood up from a wooden table. The young girl was near her grandfather’s side, the goat nestled up beside her. When the little goat saw Siebert enter the room, he lowered his knobby head and gave a bleat of warning. But before he could execute his charge, Erlina grabbed him around his thin neck and held him back.
“My, my,” said Siebert with a dark grin. He raised his Colt and cocked it toward Little Felipe. “Breakfast on the hoof. Turn him loose, little darling. Hold your ears.”
“No, no, señor!” cried Erlina.
“Stop it, you fool,” said Priscilla. “Can’t you see how much the goat means to her? It is her cabra favorita.”
“Her what?” Siebert said above the sobbing of the child as her grandfather protectively pulled both her and the goat against his leg.
“Her pet, you fool,” said Priscilla. “Perhaps pet is a word you can understand.”
Siebert turned his Colt from the goat to Priscilla, putting the tip of the barrel up under her chin.
“Call me fool one more time, witch,” he said, “see if you don’t hear something you can understand.”
“Señor, por favor!” Herjico cried out, the child sobbing, the goat bleating, trying to pull free of Erlina’s arms and make a charge. “Do not kill her! I beg you!”
“See? He begs me,” Siebert said, grinning at Priscilla, close to her face. “I like that. Shows he’s got respect for his betters.”
Without fear, Priscilla reached a hand up and shoved the Colt away from her chin.
“Don’t worry, Herjico. This one cannot kill me.” She stared evenly into Siebert’s eyes, almost daring him to try. “How can he kill one who was never born…one who can never die?”
“Witch, you’ve got a powerful opinion of yourself. I’ll give you that,” said Siebert. “Adios,” he added. He put the tip of the barrel back under her chin; his hand tensed on the gun butt.
“No, no, por favor, señor!” Herjico shouted, pulling away from his granddaughter. “I brought you here to save your life. Do not repay me by murdering this woman.” As he spoke he grabbed up a handful of dried field beans that lay soaking in a wooden bowl of water on the table. In his desperation, he flung the handful at Siebert, pelting him with them.
Erlina shrieked and squeezed the goat tightly against her chest. The beans struck Siebert’s back and fell harmlessly to the floor around his bare feet. But Siebert’s hand eased on his gun butt as a bean fell from his tangled hair and hit the floor. He turned from Priscilla to Herjico with a strange, bemused look.
“Did you just bean me, old man?” he said as if in disbelief.
Herjico clenched his jaw and jutted his chest, taking a stand. Water dripped from his fingertips.
“Sí, I beaned you, and I accept my fate for doing it,” the old man said courageously.
“People—” Siebert shook his head. Another bean fell from his tangled hair. “It’s hard to decide which one of you idiots to kill first.” He swung the gun back toward Little Felipe and shrugged. “Back to breakfast, I guess.”
Erlina screamed loud and long and squeezed the goat tighter.
Again Siebert took close aim at the goat, this time with no more regard for the young girl holding it. But before he pulled the trigger, the muffled sound of a horse nickering caused him to stop cold and listen intently in the direction of the barn.
“Where’s that horse?” he said.
The old man and Priscilla looked at each other.
“I will not tell you,” Priscilla said firmly.
“Nor will I,” Herjico said.
“Suit yourselves, then,” said Siebert. “Since this witch can’t die and you ain’t worth killing, this young lady will have to do.” He looked at Erlina and gestured his gun hand toward the cave behind them. “Come on with me, little darling. We’re going to go play a game every girl your age needs to learn.” He grinned menacingly. “You can even bring your pet goat.” He looked at the old man and said, “When I’m finished, you won’t be able to tell which is which.”
“Dios santo, no, señor!” the old Mexican shouted, grabbing the girl and goat and holding them both tightly. “She is no more than a child!”
“Yeah, I know….” Siebert grinned lewdly as he eyed Erlina up and down.
“Wait. I will tell you—”
“Silencio, Hejico!” Priscilla shouted. She started to spring toward the old Mexican, but a sharp blow from Siebert’s gun barrel sent her sprawling on the floor. A trickle of blood ran from a nasty welt along her jawline.
The old Mexican gasped. Priscilla, struggling against unconsciousness, grasped at Siebert’s leg. He kicked her soundly in her stomach with his bare foot. She fell into silence.
“Now, as you were saying, old man,” he said, turning back to Herjico.
Chapter 5
In the hillside barn, Siebert stood with a hand on the small of Erlina’s slender back while the old Mexican walked out through a rear door into another cavern. As soon as Herjico left, Siebert rubbed his hand up and down Erlina’s back slowly, noting the firm rises of flesh pressing behind the front of her peasant’s dress. The rings of her breasts showed through the gauzy fabric like dark budding roses. Siebert leaned close and breathed in the scent of the girl’s long black hair.
“How old are you, honey?” he whispered, his eyes closed.
“I—I am ten years old,” Erlina said, petrified, clinging to the little goat.
“Ten years old,” Siebert whispered, knowing the girl was lying to save herself from him. “What a coincidence, so am I.” He grinned and opened his eyes. His gripped her in case she tried to pull away.
The girl shivered in fear and revulsion. She almost looked around for Sens Priscilla for protection, even though Priscilla lay unconscious on the plank floor back at the house where they had left her.
“There’s nobody here but you and me, honey,” Siebert said, liking how he frightened her. Hell, she didn’t have to worry. He had no time for some skinny kid like her. Looking around, Siebert noticed the donkey standing off by itself chewing contentedly on a mouthful of hay. Seeing the knobby-backed animal, Siebert shook his head.
This whole bunch is a mess….
“If this witch woman’s livestock looks as poor as the old man’s, I might be better off walking,” he commented out loud to himself.
A moment later he snapped his gaze toward the rear door as it flew open. The old man was struggling with a lead rope. Siebert heard a low, powerful nicker on the other side from the cave as the old Mexican pulled hard, then almost shot backward out the door.
“Belleza! Por favor,” said the old Mexican as if pleading with some strong-willed person on the end of the rope. “You must come with me, for Sens Priscilla’s sake!”
Siebert shook his head in disgust. He shoved the little girl aside and walked toward the door.
“Yeah, Belleza,” he said in a scorching tone to an animal yet unseen, “get in here. If I take the rope, I’ll yank your fool head off.”
His words stopped short as he saw the tall, glistening black mare change her mind and lope through the open door, sending the old Mexican scurrying out of her way. Siebert had to jump back himself to keep from being trampled. The big mare circled the small barn, gracefully missed the little girl and came to a sudden halt less than five feet from Siebert, the lead rope dangling to the dirt floor. She blew out a hot, powerful breath, and Siebert felt the blast of it.
“Holy jumping monkeys!” he whispered in awe, taking another short step back, staggering at the sight of such power, such raw wild energy. “Now, that is some good-looking horse,” he managed to say.
“No, señor, please,” said the o
ld Mexican. “Belleza is a mare. She does not like being called a horse.”
“Belleza, huh?” Siebert said, his Colt hanging limply in his gun hand. “That means ‘beauty,’ right?”
“Sí, señor, it means ‘beauty,’” said Herjico. He rubbed a weathered hand along the mare’s withers in appreciation. “She is a rare beauty, no?”
The big mare chuffed deeply at the sound of her name. She shook out her raven mane and stared at Siebert. Another blast of hot breath hit his face.
“Yeah, she looks good,” said Siebert, grudgingly. “But we’ll have to see how she rides.” He stared at the mare and said, “Right, Blackie?” He stepped forward and put out a cautious hand to touch the big mare’s muzzle, but the big mare flipped her head to the side and stomped a hoof on the dirt.
“I think she does not like the name you call her, señor,” the old Mexican said.
“I don’t give a damn what she likes,” said Siebert. “As long as she’s between my knees, I’ll call her what the hell suits me.”
The mare stared at him menacingly. She scented the blood on the gunman’s chest and chuffed again. Then she lowered her head and scraped a front hoof in the dirt like a bull.
“Oh, señor,” the old Mexican said in a wary whisper, “I think she does not like you.”
“Now, that really hurts my feelings,” Siebert chuckled with sarcasm. “Get her saddle and bridle. The sooner you dress her, the quicker I’ll be out of here.”
“Sí, right away, señor,” said the old man, hurrying back through the door into the cavern. He wanted to get the gunman out of there before Priscilla awakened, knowing Priscilla would put up a struggle. She might not think she could die, but Herjico thought otherwise.
Siebert looked the big black mare over until the old Mexican came back through the door carrying a saddle with a bridle, bit and reins piled atop it.
“What the hell is this?” Siebert said, looking closely at the saddle.
“It is a sidesaddle, señor,” said Herjico with a worried look on his face.
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