How quickly he had pounced upon her words! It was as if he was determined to trip her up, to frighten her and confuse her with the sudden changes of tactics he had shown already.
“I admit nothing! If my husband is what you say he is—he’s told me nothing.”
“But you’ve drawn your own conclusions, surely? Come, madame, you’ve already shown me you possess quickness of wit. Don’t disappoint me now! You’re a woman of spirit and breeding, a lady—why should you feel any misgivings about telling us what we want to know about a man who not only abducted you and forced you into doing his bidding, but deserted you when he found himself recognized, leaving you to face the consequences? Where’s your pride, young lady?”
“I am very much afraid, Ginny, that he is right.” Don Francisco’s voice sounded heavy and old, suddenly; as if every word he spoke was an effort. Ginny could not hide her surprise, she turned to him with her lips parted, her eyes like green flames, imploring him not to desert her now. But he went on adamantly, leaning his elbow against the mantelpiece as if standing was too much for him. She realized with a pang of pitying understanding how much it was costing him to say what he was saying now, especially in the face of Colonel Devereaux’s triumphant expression.
“You must think of yourself now, Ginny, as Esteban has done. He is my grandson, and I love him, but that does not make me blind to his faults—to his wild, irresponsible nature. If he is, indeed, a traitor or a spy, then—” the old man’s lips twisted, as if in pain, but he went on inexorably “—then he must be prepared to take the consequences of his actions. You’ll remember, we’ve talked of this before.”
His eyes looked somberly into hers and their haggard expression, so unfamiliar to her, made Ginny bite her lip in anguish.
“But Don Francisco, Steve is—oh!” she cried through her gritted teeth, looking imploringly at the implacable Frenchman. “He may be an outlaw, yes, even a mercenary, but he isn’t a traitor! A traitor to what? You tell me, colonel, that you think he’s an American spy—I deny it! And if he is, then my loyalty is to America! And no matter what you say about Juarez and his supporters, he is the elected representative of the people of Mexico. Just as President Lincoln was—and he had to use force to insure that the United States stayed united!”
“You see. He has converted her—she talks revolution, she supports Juarez!”
“I support no one, why must you twist my words?” Ginny’s hands were icy cold, and she clasped them together, desperately seeking warmth, and courage. “I love France, I’ve always been proud to be half-French, but I’m not proud of our role here in Mexico as—as conquerors and oppressors.”
“Ginny!” Don Francisco’s voice rang out warningly. “You’re overwrought—be careful what you say!”
“She has already said what she really thinks,” Colonel Devereaux said grimly. “It’s clear enough, unfortunately that she believes in this untidy revolution. A pity that her husband dragged her into it and then saw fit to abandon her! And you, madame—” his voice had become steely, “do you now comprehend that you have, in effect, convicted yourself? And before witnesses?” He took a short step towards her and paused, obviously trying to control his anger. “It grieves me, madame, that I am faced with the very unpleasant duty of placing you under arrest.”
The unreality of the whole scene seemed to deepen. The firelight flickered over Don Francisco’s ravaged, suddenly aging features, and turning her eyes from him to the Frenchman Ginny saw his lips move as he pompously recited chapter and verse from the emperor’s edicts giving him authority to arrest, interrogate, and if necessary, execute suspected rebels. She began to giggle, seeing the humor in it all, and they all looked at her as if she had suddenly gone raving mad.
“For God’s sake, Colonel Devereaux! Can’t you see she’s hysterical? She did not know what she was saying. I cannot let you do this! Whatever my grandson has led her into, I take the full responsibility. I insist that you arrest me. There’s no need to make war on women.”
“Don Francisco, your sense of honor does you credit, but I’m afraid it is not you, but your grandson’s wife we must arrest. She can give us information, I’m sure, that could lead to the arrest of some of these rebels, if not her husband himself. And as soon as she does—she’ll be released. You see, I do not willingly war on women, I can sometimes bend the law—one last chance, madame. I beg you, do not make me do this!”
Her head was suddenly clear; the coldness had spread from Ginny’s hands to her whole body, stiffening it, so that she felt as if she was carved out of marble, even her lips.
She looked back at the portly colonel, and he saw the pearly glint of her teeth as they caught in her bottom lip—her eyes seemed to shine with an unusual brilliance, and he could see the quick rise and fall of her breathing as her breasts swelled over the low décolletage of her gown.
What a woman! he could not help but think admiringly. Such courage, such spirit, and when she’s angry, as she was a moment ago, ma foi! What magnificent, savage beauty! It’s really a pity.
He waited, giving her time to think, his eyes trying to read the thoughts that must even now be scurrying through her mind. Doesn’t she realize the terrible position she’s in? Is she really willing to undergo arrest and even possible death for her husband? He found himself wondering fleetingly, what had really happened between them—this young, beautiful girl that young Capitaine Remy had raved about and the man who had abducted her and taken her all over the country with him. There were even rumors that he’d kept her in a whorehouse—and then, to end up married to him! It was unbelievable—he felt foolish when he thought that earlier in the evening he’d fallen for her story hook, line and sinker; wondering only how on earth Don Francisco Alvarado’s grandson had managed to find her and rescue her. And then Beal had seen her, and described her “husband” and the whole sordid story had come to light. Such a pity!
“I must think…” Ginny said slowly, surprised that her words had emerged from between her cold, stiff lips so clearly. She saw the colonel incline his head formally.
“I will give you three minutes, madame. No longer. You have already wasted too much of my time.”
“Ginny—my dearest child—you must tell all that you know. Never think it betrayal. Think of yourself, of your own future. If I had only known, when Esteban left, what he was leaving you to face I would have stopped him myself. I would have turned him in.”
She hardly recognized the hoarse, old voice as Don Francisco’s. She was almost beyond the point of hearing anything but her own thoughts. She walked slowly over to the small window that overlooked the patio and stood looking out.
Faintly, the sound of music came to her, and laughter. Which was real, all that gaiety of which she’d been a part such a short time ago, or this? This small, hot little room, and the fat, pompous colonel whom she’d dismissed so lightly earlier; the same man who now threatened her with arrest? She wanted to laugh again. Why am I doing this? she wondered. I don’t know very much, it’s true, but what I do know is damning. All I have to say is that he admitted to me he’s a Juarista, and it would be over—after all, he’s gone, they’ll never catch him now. A sudden spark of anger burned in her as she thought of the careless, cavalier way in which he’d treated her from the beginning. And then, this evening, he’d married her quickly and secretively merely to satisfy a promise made to his grandfather…he’d left without so much as a goodbye, leaving her to cope with all this unpleasantness. I must be crazy, she thought, why am I trying to protect him? All he has ever done is use me; he never cared two pins for me, and I suppose that now he’s only too glad to be rid of me. What difference would it make to him if I ended up in jail, after all?
“Madame!”
So her time was up. The Colonel wanted an answer, what could she tell him? I’ll never let him force me into betraying anyone else, she thought fiercely in the same instant.
Ginny turned slowly and the colonel, standing impatiently in the center of the ro
om, thought he saw the faintest smile trembling at the corners of her lips, giving her a strangely sensuous, alluring air. Her arms and shoulders seemed to reflect the firelight, like her opalescent gown—her skin looked tawny, her eyes like emeralds. He knew a fleeting sense of regret that he had not met her first. He had married his very young wife purely as a matter of convenience and because her family had wealth. Had circumstances been different he might have tried to make this woman his mistress. Yes, she was that type. She had the look of a born courtesan; an unconsciously natural air of seduction. She was born to be a mistress and not a wife…
“Well, madame?” Colonel Devereaux repeated impatiently, brushing his own thoughts away with some annoyance.
She seemed to bend her neck slightly as if under a weight. But even if she had made a gesture of defeat, her voice was as clear and as proud as ever.
“Well, Colonel? I vow, you’ve quite frightened me with all your nasty threats. Tell me, what would you have me say?”
He was conscious of a twinge of irritation. Was she implying that he meant to put words in her mouth and force a “confession” that was no real confession at all?
“Why don’t we start at the beginning? When did your husband first admit to you that he was working with the Juaristas? Did he ever give you any indications that there might be some other agency behind him?”
“What a lot of questions. Am I supposed to answer them in order? Well, then—” She had remained by the window, leaning her elbow on the padded sill so that part of her profile was shadowed. The colonel found himself absurdly annoyed because he could not guess at the play of expressions on her face. Her voice continued, lightly mocking, it seemed to him. “Steve never did come right out and tell me he was working with the Juaristas. He did sympathize with their cause, I’m sure of that. But as for any other agencies, I really think you are barking up the wrong tree, Colonel. He seemed to know what he was doing, but he certainly never gave me the impression that he worked for anyone but himself.”
“Madame, you are playing with words! And as I’ve told you before I do not have the time for any more evasions. I don’t want your impressions, if you please, I want facts! Names—places. The names of villages where you hid out. The names of people who sheltered you both—persons this man considered as close friends—in fact, madame, anything that would help us round up as many revolutionaries and Juarist sympathizers as possible.”
He managed to drive under her mask of reserve at last—her head came up and her eyes sparked angrily at him.
“You are asking me, in other words to act as executioner, and merely on suspicion! No, Colonel, I remember nothing. The names of villages mean nothing to me, I’m afraid I can’t even remember faces. But indeed, I’m beginning to realize more and more why the people of this country resent your presence here as oppressors!”
She would tell him nothing else. Her defiant stubbornness drove the colonel into an equally implacable determination to crush her pride and force her into bending.
He changed his tactics only at the last moment, after he had informed her that she was under arrest, and that he must insist, regretfully of course, that she accompany him to his headquarters at Zacatecas. Even the threats and anger of Don Francisco could not alter Colonel Devereaux’s decision, although he put on an air of paternal concern and promised that there would be no overt scandal. With Don Francisco’s compliance, they would leave quietly, in Colonel Devereaux’s own carriage. He could make her excuses to the Sandovals—the young lady had developed a splitting headache and was so sick that she had been sent home. And in the meantime…
“You may be assured that I’m not exactly a heartless monster. She won’t be lodged in a jail cell, of course—I’ll see that she occupies my own quarters, which are comfortable enough, I assure you!” The colonel’s benign look had returned, his eyes twinkled as he lowered his voice. “Perhaps a little fright—the knowledge that I’m not bluffing—will help overcome her stubbornness. And of course—if her husband should decide to give himself up it will save us all a lot of trouble, won’t it? I’ll see to it personally that the young lady is released at once, in that case. You understand my position, Don Francisco?”
“There is no mistaking it,” the old man responded harshly. He said nothing else to the colonel and embraced the silent, cold-faced girl with real affection.
“You must not worry. The matter is not ended here, and I promise to move heaven and earth if need be to secure your immediate release.”
“You mustn’t be upset. I’m not afraid, you know,” she said quietly, and almost wonderingly. Because she was not. Not then.
PART FIVE
“La Soldadera”
34
Steve Morgan had merely changed clothes in Diego Sandoval’s room, with Diego’s connivance—concealing a new pair of revolvers under his serape. He had then strolled down the back staircase to join the gypsies, and mingling unobtrusively with them, he left the hacienda at the same time they did.
The interview with his grandfather had not gone very well, of course, but Steve had not expected that it would. He had informed his grandfather that he had married Ginny, quite legally, and in Don Francisco’s angry presence Steve seated himself at the writing desk and scribbled a short will which left everything he possessed to his wife.
“That should take care of it,” he said in a casual tone of voice which only served to infuriate Don Francisco further.
“You seem to forget our earlier conversation!” the old man shouted. “I told you then that you were going to settle down to your responsibilities. What kind of low-life mischief are you up to now?”
“If I don’t get away tonight, then you’ll probably see an end to all the problems I’ve brought you when they haul me in front of a firing squad,” Steve said calmly, looking his grandfather straight in the eye. In the same calm voice he went on to explain that he had in fact been mixed up with some revolutionary activities and there was a man here, unfortunately, who had recognized him as his alter ego. “Ginny knows, of course,” he added; moving Don Francisco to comment in a voice edged with acid that perhaps he should have married the poor girl to Renaldo instead—certainly she seemed to be getting something less than a bargain in his grandson.
The old man had shouted and blustered, causing Jaime Perez to wince several times when he felt that the command to shoot the Señor Esteban was imminent. It was the unexpected entrance of Diego Sandoval that had saved the situation. Above all, el patrón had a strong sense of family pride and honor—no matter how he might personally abuse and castigate a member of his family, he would not want to admit any kind of a rift to an outsider.
In a half-amused whisper Steve had informed his grandfather that in case of any emergency Diego would know where to get in touch with him—at least for the next day or two. He then flung an arm around his friend’s shoulder and they sauntered out of the room together.
When he left the Sandoval hacienda, sitting quite openly beside the flamboyantly beautiful Concepción, his features effectively hidden by the huge sombrero he wore, Steve began to feel at last the familiar quickening of blood in his veins. He reflected with some amusement that he was growing to like the elegant life less and less and becoming more of a ruffian at heart. The weight of the twin guns, sagging against his hips was familiar and welcome, and beside him, her shoulder brushing promisingly against his with every jolt of the small wagon, Concepción alternated between a string of vituperations and half-sighed demands to know how much time he’d spend with her this time.
When they had passed through the gates and were well beyond them, the wagons changed direction, no longer keeping to the well-worn roadway marked by many horses and carriages.
Concepción became silent and sultry, leaning against Steve, insisting that he take the reins. He put one arm around her and felt her hands all over him. They had known each other a long time, after all, and Concepción was not shy. But although his body provided, almost automatically, the respon
se that the girl desired, Steve found his mind curiously and annoyingly distracted. What in hell was the matter with him? He was free again, as he had not felt himself to be for the past few months, having been obliged to cart Ginny around with him all over the country, and cope with her changing moods, her unexpected moments of sharp rebellion as well. She had even stirred his conscience, of all things, in addition to annoying him almost intolerably. Well, he’d made amends, hadn’t he? In the darkness, his mouth curled sardonically. Honorable amends, to quote his grandfather. He had given her the respectability of his name, made his will in her favor, and left her free to do as she pleased. She ought to be relieved. He remembered her threat about taking lovers of her own choosing, and wondered why it didn’t amuse him any longer. Well, he’d married her and hadn’t touched her afterwards—there was no reason why either of them could not get an annulment later, if they wanted to, although he certainly did not plan on any more marriages! To be forced into it once was bad enough; God, but women became so boring when they started to cling and to beg for attention.
His own mind startled him with the sudden vehemence of the thought that sprang into it. Damned if I was ever bored by her. The little green-eyed hellcat—she always contrived to make me angry, somehow, and to forget all my self-control. And even when she wasn’t conscious of it, she was a seductress—teasing, tempting, and drawing back sullenly the next minute—fighting, screaming her hate and contempt, and then turning into a hungry tigress. A witch, leaving her brand on a man.
He thought about the night he had seen her disappear into the wagon with Carl Hoskins, reappearing quite a while later, looking shamelessly dishevelled. He had hated her then, and despised himself for not taking her sooner than he had, and with less careful tenderness. Even if she had been a virgin, she was one of those women who were born passionate—once a man had aroused such a one, she was unable to help herself or control her strong desires. And yet, he contradicted himself, I was never able to completely tame her. Just when I thought I’d succeeded she’d turn on me. What a vixen, I suppose I should really pity her next lover!
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