He was within a yard of her now and he held his hand out, keeping his head down so that he could watch the gun.
The sun poured down on her head, its heat intolerable.
Beside her, she could hear Sonya’s sobbing, her incoherent pleas for Ginny to be sensible, not to get them all killed.
As Ginny hesitated the man made a sudden, rattlesnake fast grab for her gun, and she heard it explode, the recoil knocking her backward. She was close enough to see the bullet go through the folds of his serape, and then she was conscious of an aching, numbing pain in her wrist as his hand slammed downward, knocking the gun from her nerveless fingers.
And, as if she needed further horror piled upon all the horror of the last quarter hour to drive her across the thin line into hysteria she had it now. She knew him. Even before she heard him swear at her, forgetting to disguise his voice, even before she brought her hand up, clawing at his face like a wildcat, tearing away the black neckerchief, she knew him.
His dark blue eyes were as bright and as pitiless as the blue bowl of the sky above them, his fingers bruising her wrists cruelly as he caught them, pinioning her against the diligence.
“You!” she panted, and then, with rising hysteria, “You! Oh, God, I should have killed you!”
“You always were a bad shot, Ginny. And just as well. You calmed down yet?” That he should dare smile at her so tauntingly!
He released her, turning his head to say something to the grinning Mexicans, and she flew at him like a cornered, half demented animal. Her nails raked at his face, she would have gouged his eyes out if he hadn’t caught her hand. With a quick movement that caught him unprepared she bit his hand and heard his hissed, indrawn breath of pain before he slapped her backhanded, half stunning her. She fell backwards against the coach and felt his fingers bite into her shoulder as he caught her, spinning her around.
“You goddam hellcat! You’re more trouble than any of the others put together! Will you hold still!”
But she would not. She screamed and kicked and bit, struggling against him until her strength ran out and she felt him push her forward, twisting her arms behind her until she fell onto her knees in the dust, sobbing with pain and defiance.
Now that Ginny’s actions had ended the need for concealment, Steve Morgan took charge quite openly. It had seemed like a nightmare in the beginning—but what was to follow was, unbelievably, worse.
Crouching in the dust with her wrists tied painfully behind her, Ginny could hear the staccato orders he issued, overlying the groans of the wounded Frenchmen and Sonya’s sobbing, pleading voice.
In English, Steve was saying quietly and conversationally to Sonya that he regretted the inconvenience.
“Sorry it had to happen this way, ma’am, but if you’ll remember I warned you about traipsin’ into Mexico. And it’s too bad your stepdaughter had to act up the way she did….”
“Oh, but please,” Sonya wept, “you’re not going to—you can’t! You’ve got the gold, what more do you want from us?”
Her scared blue eyes fixed themselves pleadingly on his frowning face, with the dark eyebrows drawn together so menacingly. She could see no pity in it—read nothing at all!
“I’m afraid, ma’am, that I’m left with only two alternatives, both rather unpleasant. I can have you all killed, so there’ll be no witnesses, or…” he paused consideringly, and Sonya released the breath she had been holding with a sob of pure terror.
“Please! Oh, please, not that! I swear—if you’ll only go away and leave us alive I’ll never tell anyone I recognized you! I’ll make them promise too, I know I can! For God’s sake!”
Her dilated, horror-stricken eyes saw the twitch of his lips, as though he had almost smiled. Still hesitating, he shrugged and looked down at Ginny, who had not said a word since they’d tied her wrists. Now, as though she had felt his gaze, the girl looked up at him through tear-swollen eyes, her face twisted with hatred.
“I’ll make no promises, you—you canaille, you unmentionable filth! You had better kill me then, because I swear that if you don’t I’ll have you hunted down and destroyed like the thieving, traitorous dog that you are!”
The world seemed narrowed down to the two of them as their eyes clashed—Ginny felt a shiver go through her, although she forced herself not to look away. At this moment, she did not really care if he killed her. Let him! He had betrayed her and struck her. He’d caused the death and wounding of innocent men, and all for gold—for money! She tasted a bitterness that was almost too much to bear—if her mouth had not been so dry she would have spat at his feet.
“Perhaps there’s another way. We’ll take you with us, as insurance, you might say. Get to see a lot of country that way, an’ that’s why you came to Mexico, isn’t it?”
Ginny’s mouth opened in a silent, thunderstruck “O” and his glance seemed to flick over her with a contemptuous kind of amusement before he turned back to Sonya, who was already protesting.
“No! No you cannot mean it, you won’t…”
“Mrs. Brandon!” His voice cut like a whiplash over her stumbling, incredulous words. “There is no other alternative, madam, unless you prefer to be a martyr for your gold. Your stepdaughter will go with us to insure there’s no pursuit. Within a month or so I’ll see that she is returned safely to Texas—or to Mexico City, if you prefer.” He bowed ironically to Sonya, who began to weep hopelessly.
“I won’t go! You can’t make me—I’ll fight you, I’ll scream, I’ll—” Ginny was almost incoherent in her extreme anger and agitation, especially since she had noticed that Michel’s eyes were open—he was gazing at her with an expression of horror.
“Michel! Oh, thank God, you’re alive, at least—Michel, don’t let them.”
Steve Morgan pulled her unceremoniously to her feet, holding her against him in the steel vise of his arm and laughing, like the rest of his men, at her attempts to kick him.
“Olé! Such a wildcat, that one! You will have a hard time taming her, amigo!”
Although Ginny did not understand the Indian dialect the men spoke, Michel did, and he groaned silently, as much from mental anguish as from his wounded shoulder, which certainly throbbed like the devil.
Because of his wound, perhaps, and his having been unconscious the bandits had left him untied, but now as he attempted to move, one of them raised his gun, to be stopped by a sharp word from the American he had recognized and now knew to be their leader.
“Leave him! We’ll take their guns, and in this country, it’s as well they have someone to untie them after we leave. Señor soldado—” still holding the struggling girl Michel now knew that he loved to distraction, the American switched to the easier Castilian that Michel understood better than the polygot dialect the other men had spoken. “If you place any value on the—shall we say, continued good health of this young woman, you will see to it that we’re not followed too closely. The gold, you may be sure, will be spent well—as for Miss Brandon, what happens to her will depend on you.”
“Leave her! You can take me instead.” Michel Remy struggled to sit up, but fell back weakly with a muffled gasp of pain.
“Very touching! As was the tender embrace we were forced to interrupt! But I’m afraid, Señor, that we are wasting time. You will please remember that if you wish to see Miss Brandon as well as she appears now, you will do exactly as I’ve said.” The harsh voice sneered at him, and Michel Remy had never wished more passionately to kill than he did now.
“The—the lady is my fiancée, and if you harm her you’ll never be able to show your face in this country or in your own!”
The young captain heard Ginny scream as she was dragged away, heard Sonya Brandon’s wail of fear and pity. In spite of his growing weakness he forced his aching body into a sitting position, closing his eyes against the pain. But when he opened them, she was gone—all of them were gone. He heard the muttering of Madame Brandon’s mulatto maid as he attempted to drag himself over to where his
men lay bound, staring at him in silent commiseration, but the words made no sense to him in his present condition.
“I always knowed that man was no good,” Tillie was saying. “Knew he was a devil, an’ I tried to tell Miss Ginny so, but she wouldn’t listen—”
“Shut up, will you shut up!” Sonya screamed. “He has her now—oh God, what will I tell William? What will happen to us all now?”
PART THREE
The Conflict
18
They had been riding forever! Aching in every bone of her body, half-dazed with weariness, Ginny was sure of it. Night had fallen a long time ago, and the horses still plodded on, though more slowly now than they had at the beginning. She had no idea where they were or where they were heading, and it had, for the moment, ceased to matter. It was cold, and her clothes, soaked through from stumbling waist or neck-deep through mountain streams, clung soddenly to her shivering body. They were somewhere in the mountains, she knew that much, and already a few of the men, each carrying their share of the gold, had ridden off in separate directions.
She had wondered, in the beginning, if they were really bandits, or followers of the deposed President Juarez. She had tried to count heads, to remember how many of them there were—she had even made an attempt to notice in what direction they were travelling. But now it didn’t matter, and had ceased to matter a long time ago, when it had first begun getting dark, and the gnarled and twisted trees and bushes that grew here had begun to look like crouching animals in the half-light.
Dear God, when would they stop? The utter exhaustion of mind and body that seized her now made Ginny feel that she might faint. She had struggled and kicked earlier, trying to throw herself off the horse until Steve Morgan, his face set and cold had slapped her twice across the face, his carefully calculated blows swinging her head back and forth, making it reel. He’d forced her to ride in the saddle before him, her wrists still tied behind her back—and when he’d reduced her to helpless, angry sobs he’d held his rifle across her body, under her breasts, tightening it against her whenever she attempted to struggle again so that she felt her breath cut off.
Now, she slumped wearily and dispiritedly against him, uncaring; even vaguely thankful that he’d thrown his serape over her shoulders for warmth.
Without knowing it, Ginny began to whimper softly, like a wounded animal. Why didn’t they stop? Would they ever stop?
It seemed hours later when they finally made camp, in the shadow of an enormous misshapen boulder that seemed to loom over them like a prehistoric monster, forming a natural cave that gave partial shelter from the wind.
Steve Morgan had to carry her off the horse and prop her up against the rocky wall, for she was too stiff to move or to offer any resistance.
Working silently with their knives, the men cut branches that they tied swiftly together, interlacing other branches to form a makeshift shelter. They fed the horses from nosebags tied over their heads, speaking softly to them and rubbing their sweaty coats dry with bunches of grass. Obviously, there were to be no fires built tonight.
Ginny had begun to shiver uncontrollably, her teeth chattering from cold and exhaustion. Morgan brought a blanket from his saddlebag and put it around her, but she could not stop shaking. Squatting beside her, he cut her wrists free and began to chafe them roughly. Had she the strength, she would have pulled away from him, but as it was, she was forced to endure his careless ministration, and the agony as her circulation, almost cut off by the tight rawhide strips they’d bound her with, began to be restored.
The men, talking softly among themselves, had begun to drink from their canteens and chew on strips of dried beef. Some of them produced bottles of pulque or tequila and drank thirstily. Somehow, even in her befuddled state, Ginny was left with the impression that they were used to this kind of travel—riding by night, building no fires to attract pursuers—what kind of men were they, and what was Steve doing with them?
Morgan offered her some jerky, but she shook her head sullenly.
“Better eat,” he advised her flatly. “It’s all you’ll get.” He swallowed deeply from his flask of tequila and held it out to her, but she turned her face away.
“You’re shivering with a chill,” he said impatiently, and then with harshness creeping into his voice, “you’ll be no use as a hostage when you’re dead of pneumonia!”
Brutally, he forced her head around with his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her face, and held the bottle against her mouth. Because in a minute he would have poured it forcibly down her throat, Ginny drank, choking and gagging on the raw, burning liquor. But he’d been right, in a few minutes, she felt almost revived, the tequila seeming to form a warm, glowing spot in her belly. He offered her some jerky again, and this time she took it, realizing suddenly that she was hungry.
The men were beginning to roll themselves up in blankets to sleep, unmindful of the rough ground they lay on.
Through dull eyes, Ginny saw Steve Morgan get up and stretch elaborately.
“You’d better try to get some sleep too—we’ll be riding again in about two hours.”
She was so tired that she scarcely understood what he had said. Two hours? It wasn’t possible—he must be crazy, like them, like anyone who would choose to live in this terrible, Godforsaken country!
Now he bent over her, tying her wrists again, but more loosely this time, and in front of her. There was no point in resisting, she had learned that already. She watched him spread a blanket on the ground, and then, quite calmly, he lay down beside her and pulled her down against him as he lay on his side. She began to struggle then, although her limbs felt weighted and strangely lifeless, but his arms held her too tightly and too closely, and after a while she stopped struggling and lay there stiffly. He chuckled softly.
“Body heat’s the best thing for keepin’ warm on a night like this,” he said tersely.
Ginny was silent, miserably aware of her own helplessness. He could do anything he wanted with her, anything, and she could not prevent it. The thought made her shiver with fear and a kind of terrified anticipation; but he did nothing—continuing to hold her until she felt warmth creep into her aching body at last and slept in spite of herself.
Slept only to be awakened in what felt like almost immediately. Jerked unceremoniously to her feet and deposited once more across his saddle. The deep night-blue of the sky lightened into the paler blue of dawn as they rode deeper into the mountains, sometimes along trails that seemed no more than narrow footpaths, clinging precariously to the edge of deep canyons into which Ginny dared not glance.
The sun came up to beat fiercely down on their heads, and one of the men, with a sidelong, grinning glance, produced a battered straw hat which Ginny accepted apathetically.
She lost track of direction and time, and even, she thought, of days. When they stopped it was only to water their horses and fill canteens from tiny mountain streams. They ate jerky, and she became used to the fiery taste of pulque and tequila. At least, because they seemed to accept her as Steve’s prisoner, there were no attempts to molest her—indeed the hardbitten Mexicans seemed even to have gained some admiration for her stoicism; not realizing that it was caused simply by her own utter exhaustion of mind and body that made her feel drained of all emotion, even fear. She heard them refer to her as “la niña,” the little one, and when her gown had begun to fall in rags about her, one of them, a slim youth who could have been no more than eighteen or nineteen, produced from his saddlebags a rather dirty pair of colzones, the loose trousers worn by Mexican peasants, and an equally loose camisa, or shirt. He gave them to Steve, with an apologetic shrug and a torrent of words in his own dialect, glaring at some of the other men who laughed and made ribald comments.
It was late afternoon, and since they had climbed higher into the mountains, growing chilly as well. The land was almost frighteningly wild and magnificent in its bleak loneliness. The day before, one of the men had shot a puma, using only a bow a
nd arrow. They had grinned at Ginny’s expression of mingled fear and disgust, but had been surprised when later, she had refused to eat its meat.
Now, they had paused in their relentless, headlong flight to wherever they were going—this time on a small plateau thickly covered by pine and juniper trees.
Ginny had grown used to taking orders, but she hung back rebelliously in this instance when Steve began to lead her deeper into the grove of trees, amid the good-natured gibes and laughter of the others.
“I won’t—I won’t wear those—those disgusting garments!”
Angrily she bit back the rest of the words she had been about to utter, but he gave a short laugh that sounded more taunting than amused.
“Would you prefer to ride naked? Bare-breasted, like an Amazon warrior? I’m not saying that it would not be interesting for me, but my friends back there might find the temptation too great.” His voice changed, becoming curt, almost harsh. “Ginny, don’t waste time arguing with me. Or—do you want me to tear your clothes from you? As I recall, you did not make it too difficult for me to undress you, once.”
“Oh!” The color drained from her face and she took a backward step when she saw the look in his eyes. “Is nothing too low for you? Do you dare to remind me that—that you—”
“Don’t provoke me, Ginny!” His voice held a warning note that made her grow cold with fear. “And don’t pretend any sudden modesty. You’ve taken off your clothes for a man before. For me, and for Carl Hoskins, and no doubt for your French captain who called you his fiancée. Why do you continue to play your silly games with me?”
He had untied her wrists so that she could eat, and now Ginny found her fingers curling into her palms, aching with the desire to claw at his dark, mocking face. She had clawed at him before and he still bore the faint scars—now she wished she had taken his eyes out.
“Games?” she hissed at him in a fury, “do you think I could possibly feel anything but hate and loathing for you? I hate you, hate you, hate you, Steve Morgan! You sicken me. The thought of your touching me makes me ill! Yes, I’d rather be Carl’s mistress, or Michel’s, or the mistress of any other man whom I chose myself, rather than have you touch me again, you—you dirty half-breed dog!”
Sweet Savage Love Page 20
