As the wagons squawked and rattled into the village, the families ran out from their brush huts or horse stables or chicken coops, scattering chickens and goats, and screaming and yelling and sobbing their delight at having their children safely returned to them. The old men who’d remained in the village with the women shook the hands of the men and boys who’d rescued the girls, and Prophet himself endured many grateful slaps and hand pumps.
He had to refuse several bottles and jugs thrust at him as Mean and Ugly shied from the din of the growing revelry as the other horses, having their tack stripped away, nickered and rolled. The big bounty hunter yearned for a drink of the raw Mexican bacanora, as well as a smoke and a plate of carne asada, but he couldn’t relax until he’d gotten Louisa into a warm bed and tended her wounds. Pushing Mean up through the crowd milling around him, he stepped down from the horse and into the wagon, in which only his blond partner remained, and gently scooped her up in his arms.
“What’re you doing?”
He looked over the tailgate. Chela stood, hair blowing, against the rosy ball of the sun rimming the purple peaks behind her. “Gonna take her into the stable.” He’d been holing up in the stable behind Big Tio’s jacale while he and the revolutionario had devised their plan to rescue the girls from the prison.
“She needs more attention than you can give her, fool. Stay there!” Prophet eased Louisa back down to the wagon bed as he watched Chela climb back into the driver’s box and release the break. He sank down quickly, nearly being thrown down as the lovely revolutionaria shook the ribbons over the backs of the tired team, and the wagon lunged forward, the wheels squawking loudly once more.
They rattled off into the brush beyond the main village, past the ancient church that had been cleaved in two rough halves by an earthquake, and across two shallow arroyos. Mean and Ugly followed at an anxious trot, not wanting to be left amongst the revelers. Five minutes later they passed a small brush stable and stinky hog pen and pulled up at the base of the high ridge that bordered the village’s northeast end.
Prophet stared over the driver’s box and the mules at what appeared to be a glow emanating from a crack in the ridge’s sheer rock.
There was a broad fire pit near the crack, and a dog ran out from the ridge, barking and snarling. The beast appeared part coyote; its ribs shone through its dull yellow coat, and its hackles were raised sharply.
“Silencio, Christos!” ordered Chela, setting the wagon’s break. “Silencio now, or I will give you the bullet you have so long deserved!”
“Don’t shoot my dog!” a voice of indeterminate sex screeched near the base of the ridge that was a soft salmon color in the mountain gloaming. “He brings my rattlesnakes!”
She’d spoken so quickly in Spanish that Prophet must have misunderstood her. She must have said the dog killed rattlesnakes, not brought them. Anyway, he was only half listening while looking around curiously as the dog barked at him from the end of the wagon. Chela appeared at the back of the wagon, kicking the dog, who yipped and ran off, then beckoned to Prophet.
“Bring the girl. This is the home of Sister Magdalena. If your friend can be healed, she is the one to do it.” Chela’s eyes widened impatiently as Prophet stayed where he was, hearing crippled-up old feet shuffling along the ground on the other side of the wagon’s dirty white canvas. “Come, I said. She’s not getting any better in there!”
Reluctantly, Prophet picked up Louisa in his arms and, keeping the blanket and the bobcat hide wrapped around her, carried her to the end of the wagon and handed her down to Chela, who grunted a little under the weight. Prophet leaped to the ground and, seeing a hunched figure with a raisin face slouch toward him, took Louisa back in his arms.
Some old Indian healer, Prophet thought, trepidation a cool hand on the back of his neck. This crone might very well do more harm than good.
5
CHELA SAW THE reluctance in the bounty hunter’s face as the old woman—she was a good seventy years old, at least, though it was hard to tell a person’s age up here in this tough country where folks grew old well before their time—shuffled up to Prophet and lifted her head to get a look at Louisa.
“Que nos tienen aqui?” the old woman asked. It was like a crow’s hushed caw, rising from deep in her narrow chest under a heavy, black shawl.
“A gringa, Sor Magdalena,” Chela told the crone. “One who has been badly treated by the Rurales.”
“Montoya?” the crone growled.
“Si.”
Sor Magdalena chuffed her disgust, then, heading for the ridge, threw up a spidery old hand for Chela and Prophet to follow her. Chela glanced at Prophet and fell in behind the old woman, who limped deeply on both hips. Prophet followed with Louisa hanging limp in his arms.
Ahead of him, he saw that the crack in the ridge wall was wider than he’d thought. It was about the size of a cabin door, but jagged-edged, the top slanting down on the right.
The old woman ducked under it, followed by Chela, glancing once more at Prophet, and then he had to nearly double over to get through the low opening. When he did, he straightened with a wince at the pain in his tired lower back and looked around at the cave, which was furnished as well as any cabin, with a charcoal brazier in a corner breathing smoke up through a crack in the ceiling.
The natural shelves in the walls contained a hodgepodge of provisions, from airtight tins to small burlap and rawhide pouches spewing what appeared to be roots and herbs. The place reeked improbably of horseradish and turpentine and several other things Prophet couldn’t place. Talismans hung from the walls. Some were Christian while others—including deer and wolf skulls, snakeskins and fangs, and bones of every shape and size—were pagan. They reminded Prophet of the hill folks he’d known back home in Georgia.
His stomach roiling against the stench of the place, Prophet jerked with a start when the crone barked at him in Spanish as she stood over a pallet of deerskins, beckoning.
“Set the gringa down there,” Chela ordered. “Sor Magdalena will see what she can do.”
Prophet glanced at the old woman skeptically. She stared back at him through molasses-dark eyes set deep in wizened, brick-red sockets. Her thin lips were moving and she was frowning impatiently, sort of mewling and grunting like an animal.
Prophet wasn’t sure he wanted to put Louisa in the care of this old she-cat, but he wasn’t exactly overrun with options. Staggering forward, ducking to keep the crown of his hat from brushing the rocky ceiling on which weird, brand-like signs were etched, he crossed to the woman, knelt, and gently settled Louisa onto the pallet.
Louisa groaned. Her puffy eyelids fluttered. She licked her lips, swallowed, and made a sobbing sound as she rolled onto one side, raising her knees toward her belly.
She was in pain. Physical as well as mental agony. Prophet could feel it himself, and his trigger finger itched with the desire to kill Montoya all over again.
The old woman dropped to her knees beside Louisa and began pulling down the bobcat skin she’d been wrapped in. Prophet remained where he was, his stomach burning with worry and dread. Chela gave his shirt a tug, and he looked up at her.
“Come,” she said, canting her head toward the door.
“I wanna stay with her.”
“You go, big gringo.” Prophet was surprised to hear the well-spoken English issuing from the crone, who kept her head down as she removed the hide from Louisa’s curled form. “I take care of your girl.”
Maybe it was the familiarity of the woman’s English or just the fact that she’d addressed him directly, sounding halfway sane, but he suddenly felt a little less apprehensive about leaving Louisa there in her care.
“All right.” He sighed, pushing off his thighs and heaving himself to his feet. “Much obliged, Senora. I’m gonna hang around, and I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know how she’s doing.”
The crone said nothing but only continued mewling and muttering to herself as she worked, and Chela pulled Prophe
t over to the door. She ducked out, and glancing at Louisa once more, Prophet went out as well.
“I’ll trust you on this, Chela,” Prophet said, doffing his hat and slapping it against his dusty denims. “But I don’t like how it smells in there.”
“It smells like healing in there, idiot.” Chela rammed her shoulder against his flirtatiously. “Sor Magdalena was a nun back before the last earthquake wiped out the church.”
“A nun?”
“Si. But she learned from the Yaqui, who used to haunt these mountains, about healing. And from the Apaches, too, as well as several other tribes. Over the years, she’s learned what works best in all the traditions she studied, and she’s very effective. I once saw her heal a man whose arm turned black after a fox bit him.”
“He lose the arm?”
“Does Big Tio not have two arms?”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Si. I treat you right so far, haven’t I, Lou?” Chela smiled up at him. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Nah, I’m gonna hang around here.” Prophet strode wearily over to where Mean and Ugly cropped bits of wiry brown brush near the wagon, his reins dangling. “Gonna stable Mean, give him some water and feed, and hang around the corral till I hear about Louisa.”
Chela followed him, her hands in her back pockets. “She really means a lot to you, huh, Lou?”
“We been up and down the river, Louisa and me.” He grabbed Mean’s reins and led the sweat-lathered horse toward the empty brush corral.
“Don’t worry.” Chela climbed into the wagon and released the brake. “Sor Magdalena can help her if anyone can.”
Prophet swung the corral gate open. It chirped loudly in the gloaming’s hushed silence, only mourning doves cooing in the far scrub. He stood staring toward the wagon as Chela turned the team in front of the cave’s dimly lit door and started back toward the corral. “I’m much obliged to you, Senorita.”
“My father and I are obliged to you, Lou.” The revolutionaria shook her black hair back from her face as she smiled admiringly. “Or should I call you Father Prophet now?”
Prophet chuckled.
The girl hoorawed the mules back out of the yard and across a shallow arroyo, turning the team on the other side of the cut and heading off toward the village from which victorious whoops and hollers emanated, as well as the raucous strains of a mandolin.
Prophet led the dun into the corral and shut the gate, securing the rawhide latch. He stripped the bridle and saddle from Mean and Ugly’s back, then jumped away as the horse immediately plopped into the dirt and rolled wildly, snorting and kicking up dust in all directions. Prophet set the tack atop the corral, casting anxious glances toward the ridge that was darkening quickly as the sun fell, the jagged-edged door brightening with candlelight flickering inside the cave.
After the horse was done rolling and Prophet had stayed well back from the scissoring hooves, he rubbed him down carefully and thoroughly with burlap from his saddlebags, taking his time and letting the horse cool down. That done, and glancing over his shoulder lest the horse should give him a playful nip and tear out another shirt seam, he headed off in search of water.
He found a well near the ridge and brought a bucket of the achingly cold liquid back to the corral and filled the hollowed-out log trough. When the horse had drunk, Prophet draped a feed bag with a couple pounds of oats over his ears, then walked out into the brush to relieve himself, taking a long drink from the spring, pouring the cool, refreshing water over his head and then shaking his hair out, ridding himself of a couple of inches of trail dust.
Heading back to the ridge, he resisted the urge to poke his head into the cave. The crone might lop it off with one of the several big, bone-handled knives he’d seen lying about the place.
He removed Mean and Ugly’s feed sack from the horse’s head, then paced for a time in the yard while the horse stuck its head over the top corral slat, watching him while curiously twitching his ears. The sun died. Prophet could see fires flicking around the village a half mile away. Shadows moved about them. Mandolin and guitar chords rose above the din of the villagers’ revelry.
Goats bleated. A dog barked. Someone pounded a kettle. In the distant hills, coyotes yammered as if joining the village debauch.
Finally, after he’d been pacing around the brush and rocks fronting the ridge for over two hours, he gave an impatient grunt and tramped over to the door. A rich fetor slammed against him, stopping him in his tracks. He grimaced and was about to continue forward when the crone’s hunched silhouette appeared in the door.
“She sleeps,” the woman squawked.
Then she reached up to let a grass mat fall over the doorway, and only a jagged-edged strip of darkness showed before him.
Prophet cursed. He went back over to the corral, dropped his saddle in the dirt near the gate, and unrolled his blanket roll. He was too edgy to eat so he rolled a quirley and smoked until Chela brought him a plate from the village, and the smell of the spiced goat meat and fresh tortillas and cactus syrup made his stomach bark for joy.
He ate with unexpected hunger, swigging tequila from the bottle that Chela had brought with the food. The revolutionaria said nothing but only sat beside Prophet, sharing the bottle with him as they rested their backs against the same corral post. When he was finished, scrubbing the last bit of goat gravy from the plate with a scrap of tortilla, Chela left the bottle and, grinding her quirley out in the dirt beneath her sandal, leaned down to give his cheek a tender peck.
Swinging her full, lovely hips, she strode off toward the village.
Prophet finished the bottle, smoking, then slept fitfully against his saddle. Near dawn, the sky just beginning to turn lilac, he rose to evacuate his bladder and to study the cave door. It was black, and no sounds issued from behind it.
He dropped down, pulled his blankets up against the high mountain chill, heard Mean and Ugly snort wearily, then tumbled back into restive slumber.
Something prodded his side.
He jerked with a start, lifting his head up. The old woman stood over him, staring down at him. Behind her, the sky was bright blue though dawn shadows lingered amongst the rocks and cactus, and the ridge was purple. The sun was somewhere behind it.
He stared up at the woman who stared down at him, pursing her withered old lips. She shook her head grimly, then slumped back toward the ridge.
Prophet’s blood jetted through his veins, and his temples hammered. He sat up, throwing his blankets back.
“What the hell does that mean?”
The old woman disappeared inside the cave.
“Did she die?” Prophet called, hearing his voice crack.
Quickly, he pulled his boots on and ran to the ridge. He pushed through the grass mat and stopped just inside the door. The old woman stood over Louisa, who lay under the bobcat hides. Her swollen features were pasty and horrifically inert, her cracked lips slightly parted. A small rawhide pouch hung from her neck.
Prophet moved toward her, balling his fists at his sides. His heart turned somersaults in his chest. His voice quaked with anguish and fury as he said tautly, “Did you let her die, you old . . . ?”
A soft voice said, “Lou?”
At first, Prophet thought it had come from the old woman. Then he realized Louisa had said it, though her lips had barely moved. Her right cheek twitched. That was the only movement.
The crone looked up at Prophet, frowning. “You are Lou?”
“She’s not dead,” Prophet breathed to himself, forgetting the harsh smell of the place—the fetor of scorched herbs. He dropped his knees, reached under the bobcat hide, and pulled out Louisa’s right hand, enclosing the tender limb in his own large, sunburned paws.
His voice shook with fragile relief. “She’s not dead.”
He called her name several times, smoothing her hair back from her piping hot forehead. Sweat beaded her skin, glinting brightly in the light from the fifty or so candles the old woman had lit around t
he cave.
Prophet was still calling to Louisa when the woman touched his shoulder. He turned to see her kneeling beside him, a hide necklace in her hands. The hide was strung with what appeared claws of some kind, and the small, dried skull of what appeared a coyote.
A coyote pup with tiny, sharp teeth. Skinless, it appeared to be snarling.
“What the hell’s this?”
“Put it on.”
“Like hell, you crazy—”
“You can save her. She died once, but she has returned. She has said your name, calling to you from the other side. She wants you to pull her back to you.”
Prophet stared at the crone in disbelief, his mind reeling. He looked at Louisa, who lay with her swollen eyes shut, her smashed lips etched with pain.
“Christ!” Prophet grabbed the necklace, draped it over his head. “How in the hell is this supposed to bring her back?”
The old woman shuffled off to return wielding a big, bone-handled knife in her tiny but strong, brown fist. For a moment, Prophet thought she was about to try carving his heart out. He jerked back a little when she thrust the blade at him, and his brows mantled heavily.
“Hey!”
“Hold up your left hand,” squawked the crone.
“Huh?”
She gestured again with the knife, spittle flying from her lips. “Hold up your hand.” She gestured at the left one.
“Now, hold on.”
“She needs your blood. Hold up your hand. I cut just a bit.”
Prophet had no idea what the old bat was up to. Something told him, however, she meant no harm, only to help. He’d let her try a little more of her sorcery, and if Louisa didn’t come around, he’d haul her out of there and tend her himself, though what that would entail, he had no idea.
He held up his left hand, palm out, and winced as the crone swiped the knife’s razor-edged blade across it. He felt the icy nip, looked at the long, red line running from the base of his index finger to the opposite side of the heel.
The crone set the knife aside, knelt down with a grunt, and peeled the bobcat hide down to Louisa’s waist, exposing the girl’s bare torso. She gestured for Prophet to run his bloody palm from Louisa’s throat to her belly button.
Helldorado Page 4
