Deep Purple

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Each of the bearded and dusty men who appeared before her and Filomena looked over the two women with speculative gazes, yet the one American had managed to disconcert Catherine. There was something unhealthy about him that hung around him like a funeral wreath. She voiced her opinion of him to Filomena as the two women settled against a wagon wheel to eat.

  “Do not let the looks these men give worry you. The soldiers, like this Slovel man you speak of, they are only waiting to see which man the unattached women will choose. It is the way of nature, no?”

  “And you, have you picked a man?” Catherine asked, somewhat shocked that such a delicate matter was carried out so simply and unashamedly.

  Filomena smiled smugly. “Si, but he does not know it yet.”

  After the two women cleaned and put away the utensils, Filomena disappeared toward one of the larger campfires. Catherine's eyes searched among the men and women for a tall figure, certain that the pretty woman had gone to seek out Law.

  “You’re the little lady teacher, aren’t you?” a gravelly voice asked at Catherine's side. Startled, her glance ricocheted from the far campfire upward to the American, Slovel, who stood next to her, seeming to have slid out of the darkness.

  She shrugged and turned from him to set the cast-iron skillet in the mess chest. “I suppose I am the woman to whom you are referring,” she said with a studied casualness. She hoped by ignoring the man she would put him off, but he closed in on her.

  “They say you don’t have a man in Tucson to protect you— that you came along with us to find one.”

  She turned on the man. “What they say is wrong,” she said coldly. “Did they also tell you I killed the last man who tried to ‘protect’ me?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t the right man,” Slovel said. He caught her wrist and pulled her to him. “You gotta have a man, missy.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she gritted, trying not to show her uneasiness. Her free hand came up to shove him away.

  Slovel caught them both in one big paw and held her against him, a perplexed frown creasing his sloping forehead. “I’ll give you a chance to make up your mind, but I’m letting you know I mean to be the man. I’m a hell of a lot more than those other buggers. You’ll be safe with me, missy.”

  “The woman does not need your protection.” Loco crossed into the light of the campfire and Catherine’s line of vision. Under one arm he carried his bedroll, and in his hand he held the machete he used in cooking.

  Slovel looked at the old man incredulously. “You’d protect her!” He laughed. “She'd choose you!”

  “Let the woman go,” Loco said, unperturbed. “She is Lorenzo’s woman.”

  “Then why isn’t she with him now?” Slovel challenged, still holding her.

  Loco shrugged his bony shoulders. “Lorenzo is stationing the sentinels, perhaps. 1 only know he will come for her.”

  The American watched the old Indian innocently finger the long, wide blade of the machete, then his lifeless eyes slithered back to her. “Is the old man telling the truth?”

  “Yes—yes,” she whispered, wishing his cold hands would release her.

  "For your sake, missy, I hope you’re right.” Only then did he turn her loose and brush past Loco as he glided toward the larger campfire.

  "Thank you. Loco,” she said, closing her eyes with a deep sigh.

  The old Indian nodded, and she retreated beneath the wagon to prepare her bedroll. The day had begun so gloriously, and now she could only huddle under the wagon uneasily as the merrymaking continued at the far campfire. It wasn’t just the encounter with Slovel that made her uneasy. It was Law.

  She knew he would be irritated that she had already provoked discord in the camp, as he had warned her would happen. She did not really think he would leave her behind, for it wouldn’t solve the problem. There would be men ready to fight over keeping her with them.

  With that thought, that her only safety lay in seeking Law’s protection, she laid her head on her drawn-up knees in despair.

  CHAPTER 17

  Instantly Catherine was awake. Something hovered over her. She opened her mouth, and a hand damped down on her lips to silence her scream. “Sssh,” Law warned.

  Her tense body eased with a fractional movement, and he withdrew his hand. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself in a hell of a lot of trouble, Cate,” he hissed.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she whispered hotly. “That man Slovel insisted I accept him as my protector or whatever you call it, and there was nothing else to do but go along with Loco’s claim that I belonged to you.”

  His hand gripped her jaw. “Dammit, I warned you what would happen if you came around me again.”

  “But it’s not like that time under the Joshua tree, when I wanted—-I wanted you to kiss me.” A half-lie . . . or else why was her own body responding to the pressure of the one that partially covered hers?

  “The hell it’s not! We're supposed to be acting like lovers. And Cate, I’ll tell you now, as much as you want to go to the marriage bed a virgin, I won't promise you any such celibacy on my part.”

  Every so often he would let his education show in a slip of his vocabulary, catching her off guard, and she would have to remind herself she was not dealing with an illiterate oaf. “If you would just sleep beneath the wagon with me. We wouldn’t have to—touch.”

  He rolled from her with a grunt of disgust. "Ejoli, Madonna!” he swore. He threw one arm across his forehead. “For your sake—and my sanity—we'd better not be delayed in reaching Hermosillo.”

  After the warmth of his body on hers, the sudden coolness of the night air enveloping her was like a dousing of cold water, and she huddled deeper into her blankets, listening to the cadence of his steady breathing only inches away and wishing morning would hurry. When dawn did arrive, she awoke to find that he was already gone.

  She fell into packing and preparing for departure as if she were a veteran soldadera now, although her riding habit still set her apart from the other women. Most of the women rode in the front of the supply wagons. Catherine's wagon contained tinned jellies, coffee, highly salted and smoked bacon, salt pork, molasses, rice, and dried fruit and other delicacies. Filomena’s was packed with British Enfield muskets, new French artillery pieces, and whole bushels of gun caps. Another wagon might contain medical supplies, and so on. A few women rode burros, and every so often one would get out of a wagon and walk, tired of sitting.

  At first the journey progressed smoothly as the rutted wagon road began the slow descent to the drainage of the Magdalena River, a full day’s travel away. The land rippled with lanky grasses and was studded with occasional thickets. Then it gradually turned itself into rounded hills, baked and dusty and bristling with ocotillo, like mounds of dried sticks.

  After a while the hills, peppered now with oak, hunched higher and rolled away from the road like tidal waves. And it was at this point, midday, that Catherine was quite willing to exchange her heavy riding habit and top hat for a calico skirt and loose cotton blouse and, dear Lord, her hard boots for sandals. Perspiration soaked her clothes and filled her boots so that her feet itched. How much longer to Hermosillo—seven or eight days, Filomena said?

  Like the previous day. Law remained at the head of the brigade, and Catherine, who did not see him until camp was made that night at a rancho favorable to the Juarista cause, did not know whether to be relieved or anxious, for the last thing she wanted was Slovel to challenge Law’s lack of interest.

  The ranchero’s wife and her daughter and daughter-in-law, who were both plump with pregnancy, came out to welcome the brigade as it struggled through the hacienda gates late that afternoon. The ranchero women directed discreet looks at the American woman as Catherine rode by with the soldaderas.

  As customary, the phrase mi casa es su casa was passed among the women. To Catherine's delight the use of a tub and soap and water were offered for the women who wished to bathe. Even the promise of a festive banquet of food did n
ot sound as good to her as a tub of hot water.

  Once again there was celebrating. Servants scurried to bank tables of food set beneath ramadas. Aguardiente and three bottles of Kentucky sour mash, provided by an ex-Confederate, flowed freely. Though Catherine did not have to work that evening and was thus free of waiting on the men—Slovel, in particular—she stayed close to Loco, who remained apart from the others as usual.

  From a seat on a stone water well she and Loco watched the peones perform their native dances. There was one which Filomena danced with a Mexican brigand using the sombrero, which had to be as large as the wheel of a Mexican carreta. Was the pretty young widow dancing for Law? Catherine wondered as her own gaze sought out the honey-colored blond head.

  Easily found among the dark, shorter Mexicans, he stood with Tranquilino. The two men seemed to be in serious discussion with the hacendado, Don Ynigo, a short, heavyset man with a huge brushy mustache. Law hunkered on one knee, and the other two joined him. They only half watched the dancing, as one or the other of them took turns marking figures in the dirt with a twig.

  Her gaze returned to Filomena, who had finished her dancing with wildly clapping hands and stamping feet and swirling skirts. She stood now, with applause and shouts demonstrating the men’s acclaim. A fine film of perspiration covered her olive-complected face. She smiled her appreciation before moving off toward the three men, who now watched with various smiles of approval.

  ‘‘You'd never know there was a war being waged, for all the continual celebrating,” Catherine told Loco in a cynical voice.

  The old Indian, who sat with his back to the well, his legs crossed beneath him, said, "It helps the Mexicans forget that the French have sworn death and dishonor to the wives and daughters of those who oppose them.”

  She had heard of Apache cruelty, but she could not suppose such a civilized nation as the French could be so brutal and inhumane. Yet had not many such incidents been perpetrated by both the Confederates and the Unionists on innocent American women and children?

  Even as she watched Filomena laughing with Law and Tranquilino and the hacendado, her hands on her hips, her head thrown back to reveal the lovely line of her throat, Catherine was uncomfortably aware of being watched herself. Her gaze shifted back to the firelight and the soldiers. Without finding Slovel’s face from among the men gathered there, she nevertheless knew he watched her.

  Still, she felt safe enough with all the people about her to take advantage of the offer of a bath made by the ranchero’s wife. Catherine made her way across the crowded courtyard and located the ranchero’s daughter-in-law. The pregnant young woman expressed delight in being able to accommodate Catherine. “Ahh, si," she said. “It is not so many norteamericanos who pass through our gates—and for us to offer our home to a norteamericana, a woman, it is our pleasure.” '

  With her hands folded across her great belly, the young Mexican woman, waddling, led Catherine to what must have been a bedroom though there were no beds, only petates, straw mats. The tub was little more than a watering trough, hand-carved, but for Catherine, after three days of dust and dirt and grease, it could have equaled the famed marbled bath of Maximilian’s wife, the Empress Carlota, at Chapultepec Castle in Mexico City.

  An ancient Indian woman materialized through the curtained doorway to attend Catherine. Her gnarled fingers were in the midst of unbuttoning the myriad rows of buttons at the back of Catherine’s cambric blouse when the curtain swished behind them. Both women turned, and Catherine’s breath hissed in outrage at Slovel, who stood in the doorway. His pale eyes slid down her like slime. “Get out!” she gritted.

  “Vayate," he told the Indian woman with the sibilant noise of a viper and a jerk of his head.

  The old woman glanced at Catherine with fear in her rheumy eyes before she edged toward the curtained doorway. Slovel stepped aside and let the curtain drop in place when the woman had gone. “El Capitan does not seem to have so much interest in you after all,” he said as he slowly advanced on Catherine.

  She clutched the blouse that now hung loosely about her shoulders. Fear knotted her insides. The man could attack her and with all the noise outside no one would hear. Dear Lord, was it her fate to attract that type of man?

  The hulking ghoul ripped the blouse from her grasp and caught her against him. A repugnant odor assaulted her, not just the mescal and sweat but the fetid smell of decay. Just as with Jeremy, stark fear galvanized her. She twisted against the grimy hands that held her, thrashing her head as the wet mouth slid across hers like a suction cup.

  “Slovel!”

  Still holding her, the man whipped around. She saw Law in the doorway, behind him the old Indian woman. Slovel’s hand dropped for the long pistol at his hip with a rapidity Catherine would not have believed. Yet Law must have been quicker, for even with the burst of gunfire Law managed to at once dodge to his left and grab the candle from the wall sconce. He drove the molten mass into Slovel's face. Sudden darkness blanketed the room and was lanced by a shriek of pain.

  The two men rolled, snarling and struggling like two catamounts. In the darkness she could barely make the two men out, but just the sound of the brutal beating—of one surely pummeling the other to unconsciousness—made her sick to her stomach. A light flared, and Tranquilino stood in the doorway, candle in hand. Behind him were Don Ynigo and a crowd of brigands and peones.

  Law staggered to his feet above an inert Slovel. The man lay with Law’s knife buried between his ribs. Blood trickled from a comer of Law’s mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand before he snapped something to Tranquilino that Catherine did not catch. Then he turned on her. She expected to see bitter anger written on his face, but his eyes mirrored only weariness. “Are you all right?’'

  Her tongue acted as if it were paralyzed. She nodded her head. He picked up her blouse and held it out to her, shielding her from the curious spectators at the doorway. The people began to disperse, the voices fading off into the courtyard. Her hands fumbled with the buttons at her back, and he stepped around behind her, his fingers working deftly with the small fastenings.

  “It’s over with,’' he said, as she began to tremble violently. He pulled her against him, and she let him support her, the back of her head limply lying against his chest.

  “I didn’t like him . . .” Her teeth were chattering. “But I didn’t want him dead, Law.” Her voice rose an octave. “I never wanted anyone dead, not Jeremy, not anyone!”

  Law’s lips brushed the vein that beat at her temple like a live telegraph wire. “Hush. Cate. I didn't want him dead either. If nothing else, it doesn’t set a good example—two men fighting over a woman. And . . . I don’t like killing. I never have.” A sigh escaped him. “But somehow it seems to be a part of the life I’ve chosen.”

  She turned to face him. “You don't have to choose this kind of life. Law" She clutched at his leather vest. For some reason the thought of him going into battle, risking his life time and again—the thought of him lying dead like the man at their feet—was unbearable. “You could make a life for yourself at Cristo Rey. It’s as much yours as it is Sherrod’s.”

  For a brief second lights flared in the depths of the toast-colored eyes, then it was as if shades were pulled over the pupils. One brow arched. “Where’s your loyalty to Cristo Rey, Cate?”

  She wrenched away, hating the mockery that quirked his lips. Fist on her hips, she glared up at him. “It’s not a question of loyalty. It’s a question of your life!”

  “Just a minute,” he said, catching her forearm as she pivoted toward the door. “There are a hundred and twenty other men out there who would willingly take Slovel’s place. No matter how much you want to share your bed with your husband first, it’s going to have to be me until we reach Hermosillo.

  “I know. I know,” he said, holding up a palm to forestall her protest, “I’m a worthless scoundrel. But I’m just scoundrel enough to dislike bedding a woman who’s got marriage written across
her forehead like Cain's mark, so you’re safe enough with me, God only knows. Your determination' ought to be enough to dampen even a lecher’s lust, Cate.”

  She jerked her arm away. “And you’d be the last man on God’s green earth I’d marry. Law Davalos, so you’re safe enough from me!”

  He laughed. “I knew we'd get along famously!” He swatted her on the buttocks. “Let's go bed down.”

  CHAPTER 18

  At the nebulous gray of predawn Catherine awoke in the rancho's stables with the sour memory of Slovel’s death the night before. She found herself still enfolded in Law’s arms, her back against the shielding width of his chest. As if he sensed that she was awake, though she had not moved, his lips nuzzled the hollow behind her earlobe. His mustache tickled, but it was the knot in her belly his kiss aroused that made her shiver.

  “You said you liked my kisses,” he reminded her in a husky whisper.

  She would have been anxious about what could follow but for the note of playfulness in his lazy voice. “Yes,” she agreed, squirming away, “but I also told you I didn’t want you to kiss me again.”

  “You say a lot of things I don’t think you mean.” He sat up, resting one elbow on a bent knee. Chewing on a piece of straw, he watched her as she knelt, straightening her rumpled skirt and brushing the hay from her blouse and hair. "You want a husband. But why did you come out here to find one—to the territory? You’re a damned good-looking woman, Cate. You’ve fine lines that’ll weather age well. Surely all the Yankee males aren’t that blind.”

  She smiled wryly. “I take that as a compliment, coming from you. Law—the lines that weather well.” She chuckled then. “Oh, that’s priceless.” She smoothed the wisps of hair back into a knot, rearranging her hairpins to hold the heavy mass. “I told you. I came for adventure.”

  "Adventure!” He grunted. “Well, you’ve sure got it now, tramping along with a mercenary army, camping out in open fields. My God, Cate, I must have been out of my mind to agree to let you come along!”