He didn’t quite know how to reply to her nonsensical declaration. “But, Russia, he’s not a person. He’s—”
“He’s jist like a person to me, and don’t you go tellin’ me he ain’t got no feelin’s, on account o’ I know he does. I love him, Santiago. And when you love somebody, you want only the best fer ‘em. Even if it hurts you to do it, you always do the right thing fer ‘em. That’s what real love is.”
He knew then that she was intent on setting free her ox, realized it was going to break her heart to do so, and wondered what he could do to lessen her pain. “I’ll get you another ox,” he swore. “One that’s exactly like Little Jack—”
“There ain’t another ox in the whole universe like him. He’s one o’ them one-of-a-kind oxes.” Straightening, she took Little Jack Horner’s huge head in her hands and gazed directly into his moist eyes. “You and me’s been together fer a right long time, boy,” she whispered. “But comes times, y’see, when love makes us do what’s right. You gotta go. Go and be happy with that purty cow out there. She’s waitin’ on you.” Shakily, she removed the ox’s halter and sombrero.
Santiago watched Little Jack Homer swing his head around to look at Russia. He was sure his eyes were playing tricks, but he could have sworn the ox really did look as sad as Russia.
“Go on now, darlin’,” she told her beast, giving him a sweet push toward freedom.
He seemed to understand. Tossing his head, he made a small sound, then rubbed his snout against Russia’s chest. After looking up at her one last time, he turned toward the cow and set off at a brisk, lively trot. Upon reaching his mate, he sniffed at her, then began to prance around her, his head and tail held high.
Fighting tears and smiling bravely, Russia waved as the animals cantered away. “There they go, Santiago, Mr. and Mrs. Little Jack Horner. Headin’ straight fer their happily-ever-after. Lord o’ mercy, that’s the sweetest thing I ever did see.”
Despite the fact that he thought her ideas concerning romantic love between an ox and a cow were ludicrous, Santiago knew she firmly believed them. He was also aware that what she’d done had been a very painful thing for her. He couldn’t help but admire her for remaining true to her convictions.
To demonstrate his respect for her, he did something he never in his wildest dreams thought he would do. And while he did it, he swore he would never do such a thing for anyone but Russia.
His hand held high in the air, he waved good-bye to an ox and a cow.
* * *
Wirt tossed so violently upon the thin corn-shuck mattress that he slid to the dirt floor. Sand grazed his cheek, some flying down his throat when he inhaled. Choking, he tried to rise but realized his legs and feet were bound.
It took him only a few minutes to loosen the ropes. His head pounding, he sat up, but it was a moment before his vision cleared sufficiently for him to see his surroundings.
A brown lizard slithered out from a hole at the end of his lumpy mattress. He watched it scurry toward the weak sunlight that entered the room by way of a crack at the bottom of the stick-fashioned door. Other than a broken chair and a small, rusty chamber pot, there were no furnishings.
He noticed that the walls were moving. After a closer inspection, he saw they were made of brush and realized the wind outside was blowing across the flimsy structure.
Where the hell was he? he wondered. And how had he gotten here? His mind still befuddled by the lingering effects of last night’s drinking, he sat there for a long moment before noticing a bottle near his foot. He picked it up and shook it, smiling when he heard its contents swishing. After spitting dirt from his dry mouth, he lifted the flask to his lips and gulped until the drink was gone.
The pulque, liquor made from fermented cactus juice, moistened his parched throat and soothed his throbbing head. His thoughts clearer now, he tried again to understand where he was.
The sound of people singing drifted into the small room. He couldn’t understand the words to the song. Moreover, the sound irritated him. It was too loud. It was too early in the morning. There’d been too little pulque left in the bottle.
He staggered to his feet, determined to stop the singing, learn of his whereabouts, and find more liquor. One powerful kick broke the rickety door to splinters. Wirt stepped outside into the bright sunlight, cursing when it hurt his bleary eyes. He saw a multitude of adobe houses with red-tiled roofs. His horse, still saddled, was tied in front of one of them.
He saw no people, but could still hear them singing. His pale blue gaze swept to the church, and he realized they were inside it. They were praising God. Praising Him for what? For giving them their pitiful existences? For allowing them to live their stupid lives in this pathetic village?
The church looked familiar. Bit by bit, he remembered why. Rosario. Yes, he was in Rosario. He’d stolen gold from that church the last time he was here. Gotten a good price for it, too, he recalled. Too bad there was nothing of value left in the miserable place.
He reached for his gun, intending to shoot the cross off the top of the church. He felt his gun belt but no weapons, and understood the villagers must have disarmed him before tying him up last night. He also knew that the damn bunch of peaceful peasants would not return them. Holy idiots, all of them.
He threw the empty liquor bottle at a braying donkey secured to the trunk of a shade tree. The animal’s screech of pain so delighted him that he began flinging rocks at the helpless beast. Only when his arm grew tired did he cease his game.
He noticed a building that appeared to be a small mercantile and stalked toward it. As he neared it, he saw a few goods on display between pieces of paper stuck to the windows. He doubted there were any guns for sale within, but was certain he’d find sharp knives. He would steal them and anything else he wanted.
Arriving in front of the little shop, he discovered that the sheets of paper on the windows were sketches of people, all of them signed by someone named Zeferino Sanchez. He scanned the charcoal drawings casually, wondering if Zeferino Sanchez was some Mexican lawman and if the pictures were actually posters of criminals wanted by Mexican officials.
He’d just decided he didn’t give a damn about the pictures when his gaze alighted upon one in particular that seized his complete attention. His pulse pounded in his ears; he forgot to take a breath.
An acute sense of longing tore through him. The girl’s beautiful image forced him to remember not only all the possessions he’d lost, but also the incomprehensible injustice of having lost them. Without a thought, he slammed his fist through the windowpane. His hand came away bloodied, but he held the picture within his grasp.
He stared down at the drawing of the sole piece of property he still had a chance of retrieving. She was the last thing of value that he owned in the world. “Mine,” he seethed. “Ya belong to me!”
Clutching the picture to his chest, he raised his head and scanned the drawings again, hoping to find a second likeness of the girl he could not, would not forget. Another portrait, one of a man, glared back at him. Wirt’s eyes were drawn to the long, jagged scar on the man’s cheek.
Santiago Zamora. There was no doubt that this was the face of the infamous gunfighter. He’d heard enough about the man’s sinister description to know for sure.
Venomous jealousy mingled with his anger. He thrust his fist into another pane and tore Santiago’s picture away. Dammit, how he wished the sketch really was a Wanted poster and that every lawman in the universe was out looking for the scar-faced gunslinger. It would make it that much easier to get rid of the bastard!
Hands shaking, he decided to rip the drawing to shreds. But no sooner had that thought come to him than another presented itself.
He pondered the idea. The drawing was good. Anyone would recognize it as Santiago Zamora, even those who’d only heard about him. And yes, with a few vital touches here and there, the picture could definitely be made to look like a Wanted poster.
So why couldn’t it be one?
>
Wirt smiled. His scheme would work; he knew it would. It was the best plan he’d ever had. One that would put an end to Santiago Zamora’s career.
An end to his life.
His smile splitting his face, Wirt ran his fat finger over the sketch. “So you and her have already been here in Rosario lookin’ fer me, eh?” he asked Santiago’s image. “Yer still on my trail. Backtrack to Calavera now, ya damn son of a bitch. That’s where she was before she come here to Rosario. Calavera. Come on. I’ll be waitin’ on ya.”
Laughing with utter glee and uncontainable excitement, he folded both drawings, slipped them inside his shirt, then rammed his mammoth body against the door of the store, ripping it from its hinges. Once inside, he found not a single gun, but did discover a case of kitchen knives and a razor-sharp hatchet He snatched every one of the knives, sticking several into his belt and a few into his boots. The ax he carried in his hand.
Outside, he stormed over to the church and climbed the steps that led into the sanctuary. Inside, he saw the villagers praying in unison with their priest, who stood in front of the altar. Wirt laughed long and loud, the sound of his laughter echoing throughout the small church.
The people turned and saw him. Many gasped, others shouted, some began to cry. The sight of his weapons kept one and all from moving to restrain him.
“Damn ya all!” Wirt screamed merrily. Chuckling, he raised the hatchet and threw it.
In only seconds it found its mark. The priest and all but one of the villagers fell to their knees, crossing themselves. No one dared move until Wirt raced out of the church.
Listening to the pounding flight of a galloping horse, Zeferino Sanchez thanked God that the red-bearded criminal had left the tranquil town. His steps slow, he walked to the altar and helped the priest to his feet. His lips moved in silent prayer as he gazed up at the portrait of the Blessed Virgin.
Solemnly, he removed the ax buried deeply within her immaculate heart.
* * *
Russia felt as though her body was being held together by cobwebs and that at any second they would break and so would she. There wasn’t a spot on her that didn’t ache. Used to riding in her cart, which she’d been forced to leave behind after setting free Little Jack Horner, she was unaccustomed to riding on horseback.
After spending three days on a horse, she was exhausted. She tried to lean over Quetzalcoatl’s neck and moaned in frustration when the saddle horn pushed into her belly.
Santiago halted the stallion. Understanding Russia’s predicament, he maneuvered her so that her legs were draped over one of his thighs, her bottom rested on his other thigh, and her torso lay comfortably within the cradle of his strong arms. Gently, he coerced her head to his chest.
The new position relieved much of the pain in her back and thighs, and also enabled her to see Nehemiah, whose head was sticking out of the saddlebag.
“Better?” Santiago asked, urging his stallion forward again.
She smiled up at him. “You’re holdin’ me like a baby.”
He smiled back at her, but ruined the sweet gesture with his reply. “You’ve been acting like one for three days.”
She took immediate objection to that. “Well, your heart’s jist as big as Texas, ain’t it, Santiago? Look, I ain’t never rided a horse in my life, and I feel like I been chewed up and spit out. I’m so thirsty I’d suckle a she-bear, and my stomach’s emptier’n panties hangin’ on a clothesline. I ain’t had me a bath in four days. Lord, I prob’ly smell like I got sheepherders’ socks and dead fish in my back pocket. And worstest o’ all, you meaner’n-a-cornered-cottonmouth varmint, I miss my ox.”
He grinned. “Aside from all that, how do you feel?”
She mumbled a full minute’s worth of profanities into his chest.
An hour passed before Santiago slowed Quetzalcoatl again. A pool of muddy water lay before them, sending excitement racing through him. His mind spinning with the wonderful opportunity he’d just been given, it was a moment before he could alert Russia. “Look at that, Russia,” he finally said, his gaze still pinned to the water.
Unwilling to move her sore body, she turned only her head. There, just a few yards away, lay a small watering hole. It was little more than a large puddle, but she didn’t care. Water was water, and water meant a bath. Wiggling out of his arms, she jumped to the ground, landing on her bottom. Pain flowed through her, but her delight with the watering hole overcame it. “Fetch me my soap, Santiago. I’m fixin’ to git me a dippin’. I’m gonna scrub clean down to my bones.”
He supposed she could have a bath if she wanted one, but the water meant something much more important than that to him. “You’re fixin’ to get a horse, too.” He dismounted, stepped over the heap she made on the ground, and ambled over to the water, Nehemiah trotting behind him. “Do you see these trees?”
Russia removed her bag from Quetzalcoatl’s saddle and began searching for her soap.
“Russia, turn around and look at all these mesquite saplings.”
She heard the voice of authority in his command. To satisfy the high-handed man, she glanced at the hundreds of saplings surrounding the water. The expression on Santiago’s face told her he expected her to be delighted by them. “Be still, my poundin’ heart!” she cried, clasping her hand over her chest in a dramatic gesture. “Lord have mercy, them trees make me jist chock-full o’ glee!” Hoping she’d satisfied him with her feigned enthusiasm, she returned her attention to the task of finding her soap.
“Russia, these mesquites mean that—”
“Jist lemme git my soap, Santiago, and I’ll go over there and turn some cartwheels over ‘em.” Digging deeply into her bag, she finally located the soap.
After shedding her clothes, she skipped to the shallow water and waded in. It rose only to mid-calf, so she decided to lie in it. “Git in, Santiago. It ain’t much and it’s a mite muddy, but if it was any better I couldn’t stand it and the sheriff wouldn’t allow it.”
His back to her, he didn’t answer. It puzzled her when he didn’t turn around. She took a moment to study him, realizing he was staring fixedly into the distance. Wondering what held his rapt attention, she sat up and looked in the same direction, but saw nothing except what she’d been looking at for days on end: masses of dry brush, rocks, cacti, withered trees, and patches of wildflowers. Figuring that Santiago was only daydreaming, she lay back down in the water.
“They’re out there, Russia,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping across the distance. Though he couldn’t see what he wanted to see with his eyes, he saw it in his mind, a vision so real he could almost hear the pounding of hundreds of hooves, could almost smell the scent of sun-heated horseflesh.
The mustangs. They were here, led by their stallion. And if Santiago had his way, that proud male would soon be forced to give up one of them.
He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?” Finally turning to look at her, he saw she was lying in the shallow pool, her face and the tops of her firm breasts the only parts of her not immersed in the water.
She ran the soap across her neck, sighing with contentment. “My favorite color? Blue.”
His smile faded; a frown replaced it. “There’s no such thing as a blue horse.”
“Horse?”
“The mesquites,” he mumbled, his mind working on what he was getting ready to do. He returned to Quetzalcoatl and removed the equipment and saddle from the horse’s back. His stallion would be unhindered without it, and speed was vital.
Russia glared at the mesquites one more time. “What the hell is it about them damn mesquites that’s got you so all-fired-up excited?”
After retrieving a long coil of rope from his saddlebag, Santiago mounted, scanning the distance again.
Russia was bewildered by his strange behavior. She staggered out of the water, soap in hand. “Where are you—”
“To get you a horse.”
Water dripped into her eyes. “What horse?”
Santiago t
wisted and tied the rope into a noseband that resembled a bridle complete with reins. “Mesquite is more abundant farther west. The fact that there are so many saplings concentrated near that watering hole proves that a herd of mustangs has been here. The horses brought them.”
She glanced at the small trees again. “Yeah, right, Santiago. Ever’body knows how them horses fancy mesquite trees. They pulled them saplin’s up over west, brung ‘emhere betwixt their teeth, and planted ’em.”
“Exactly. Only they didn’t bring them between their teeth. They ate mesquite beans and carried them here in their stomachs. The beans sprouted from manure. This area must belong to a particular stallion. He brought his herd here to water. And judging by the shallowness and murkiness of that watering hole, they haven’t been gone very long. Now what color horse do you want?”
“I—” She stopped speaking when she saw his head snap up. His gaze was directed at the horizon again. He smiled broadly.
“God, what a beauty,” he said.
She heard a loud whinny. Looking up, she watched a snow-white horse appear in the distance. He didn’t seem at all afraid. In fact, the arrogant steed trotted closer, his long mane brushing his knees. He was truly a majestic sight to behold.
Santiago tapped the rope bridle against his thigh. “That’s the master stallion, Russia. Watch how he paces. Other horses must be trained to pace like that. That one does it instinctively.”
“Oh, and here come his sweethearts!” Russia exclaimed, watching a herd of mares join the stallion. “What are they gonna do?”
Santiago saw the stallion’s ears begin to twitch and knew the pale steed was signaling to the lead mare. Instantly, a sturdy gray mare began to run. As Santiago knew they would, the other mares followed her. The stallion fell behind. Whenever one of his mares decreased her pace or began to separate from the bunch, the stallion quickly returned her to where he wanted her to be.
While the sound of their thundering flight roared in Santiago’s ears, the thrill of the challenge shimmered through his very soul. “You have five seconds to tell me what color horse you want, Russia.”
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