She stiffened her back in the saddle as she sucked an angry breath. “I wanted to gut him like a pig! In fact, I brought a stiletto to our next planned meeting and would have done just that if he hadn’t found the knife in my riding dress. He cried. He fell to his knees and begged me for forgiveness. I refused him. I refuse him to this day and I would have continued to refuse him if . . . well, if . . .”
“I hadn’t finished him off for you,” Prophet said.
“Sí. You did me a favor in more ways than one. He was weak. There is nothing worse than a weak, simpering man. I hated Juan Carlos to his very fiber after I learned of his sinning with the putas on the seashore. He didn’t love me. Not really. He only wanted what he couldn’t have. Well . . . now he’s dead. You have put me at ease.”
She paused, then added ominously, under her breath, “Juan’s padre, Emiliano Zapata Amador, on the other hand . . .”
Prophet’s loins tightened at the thought of a slow death in Mexico. They tightened more when Colter called from the carriage behind him, “Lou! Looks like trouble ahead!”
Ah hell.
Chapter 14
Prophet glanced back at Colter, who, seated atop the tall, stagelike carriage, had a better view of the terrain ahead than he did.
“Several riders,” announced the redhead.
Prophet turned forward to see men on horseback galloping down two ridges, one on each side of the trail. Three galloped down the ridge on the left while four galloped down the ridge on the right, angling toward Prophet’s party.
Even from this distance, Lou could see the gaudy vaquero attire complete with steeple-crowned sombreros and the arched necks of the fine Arabian horses galloping sleekly through the high yellow grass. For the past hour or so, Prophet, Señorita Marisol, and Colter had been riding in lusher country than that in which they’d left the dead men.
Around them now was still some cactus, but not nearly as much as before. Greasewood and cholla had given way to stands of willows and mesquites lining arroyos through which clear water coursed. The fuzzy yellow grass sometimes grew nearly as high as Prophet’s stirrups.
This was high desert country, reminding Lou a little of the Montana Territory in his own country, with its broad, bowl-like valleys carpeted in wheat-colored grass and with small hills peppered with cedars and pines, and striped with racing cloud shadows. As here, the valleys swept upward toward far blue mountains brooding along the horizon in all directions. It was a vast landscape created by the sky as well as the land; throughout the day it was imbued with the rich colors of a painter’s palette.
Pretty it was, but dangerous, too.
Prophet reached around the señorita to slide his rifle from its scabbard. She placed her hand on his. “It is all right. Those are mi padre’s men.”
Lou frowned down at her, keeping his hand on the Winchester’s stock. She patted his hand reassuringly. “We are nearly to Hacienda de la Paz. I assure you, we are safe.”
Removing his hand from the rifle, Prophet sank back onto his bedroll, grumbling, “Maybe you are . . .”
He wasn’t sure how Marisol’s old man was going to take the news that he, Prophet, had killed Juan Carlos, the son of his blood enemy. The way Prophet saw it, he’d saved the woman’s life. On the other hand, he might have kicked up an old blood feud. While Don de la Paz would naturally be happy to have his daughter home safe and sound, that didn’t necessarily leave Prophet in the clear.
Not in Mexico, where nothing ever worked out the way you’d think it should.
Prophet glanced over his shoulder at Colter driving the carriage behind him. “Easy, Red. The señorita thinks we’re all right.”
“You are with me,” Marisol said. “You are safe.”
Prophet kept Mean moving as the riders approached, coming at a slant from ahead and along both sides of the trail. Their hoof thuds grew louder. They’d all slid rifles from their saddle scabbards and several were cocking the rifles now, the metallic rasp of cartridges being seated into breeches making the hair along the base of Prophet’s neck prick.
When the vaqueros were within fifty feet and still coming, frowning beneath the brims of their sombreros, likely puzzled by the señorita riding with one of the two gringo strangers, Marisol held up her right hand, palm out. “Reynosa, Huerta—stand down,” she ordered in Spanish. “We ran into trouble but I am all right. These two are friends. Ride ahead and alert mi padre!”
While the others slowed their horses to near stops, turning them, one man from the group on the right continued forward, scowling incredulously. He was a stocky, middle-aged Mexican with long, black sideburns liberally stitched with gray, as was his thick mustache. “Señorita Marisol—are you sure you’re all right?”
He looked at Lou and Colter, no doubt appraising the carriage, as well, wondering where his own men were, then returned his skeptical gaze to the woman.
“I am all right, Miguel. Alert my father. Tía Aurora is dead. It is a sad day at Hacienda de la Paz. ¡Vamos!”
Astonishment widened the man’s eyes. He neck-reined his bay Arabian around sharply and, leaning forward, nudged the mount’s loins with his large Spanish rowels. He lunged into a gallop in the direction of the hacienda headquarters now spreading out in front of Prophet, a hundred or so yards farther along the trail.
The ranch, a large one, nestled at the base of a high tabletop mesa—a table with two legs far shorter than the other two. The mesa slanted sharply down to the south. It dwarfed the hacienda headquarters beneath it, several red tile roofs glowing in the late-afternoon sun. Prophet put Mean into a fast trot now that they were in sight of their destination.
The contrary dun gave a snort and complied. Marisol bounced back against Prophet, her mantilla billowing against his face. He drew a deep breath of the woman’s scent—intoxicating, relaxing despite his natural unease with the situation before him.
He’d killed an important man. And this was Mexico, where revenge was a dish served cold.
Marisol didn’t help any when she turned her head to say, “Do not be offended if mi padre is not on his best behavior. He is an ill man and . . . well, trouble has been afoot here at Hacienda de la Paz.”
“I thought you said the tensions between you folks and the Amadors had eased.”
“Sí. It does not involve Amador. It is something . . . someone else entirely. Do not worry, Lou. It is not your problem.”
Prophet raked a thumb across his chin, inwardly groaning. Where have I heard that before?
Mean trotted into the yard between two large stone pylons roughly fifteen feet high. Across the top of the pylons, over the trail, stretched a heavy oak beam with the words HACIENDA DE LA PAZ ornately burned into it and painted red. Red for blood? Prophet silently, absently mused.
He looked around the broad, hard-packed earthen yard strewn with straw as chickens of every color, squawking angrily, scattered from Mean’s trotting hooves. The yard was sprinkled with large trees—mostly sycamores and nut trees, Prophet thought. There were others he couldn’t identify. The trees shaded sun-bleached, age-cracked, tile-roofed adobes—living quarters for the don’s men and peons as well as workshops, barns, and stock pens.
Several goats as well as pigs—one with a small litter—foraged freely in the trees and shrubs, some nibbling watermelon rinds. In fact, a goat and one large sow were just then kicking up dust over what appeared to be a cantaloupe rind, playing a tug-of-war of sorts, the pig squealing, the goat bleating.
There were several corrals to the right, and in one a vaquero in a bright red shirt and black sombrero appeared to be putting the finishing touches on the gentling of a young, mouse-colored bronc. Three other vaqueros sat on the corral’s fence, idly watching, though now as the newcomers and the carriage jounced across the yard, heading for the casa, the vaqueros turned their attention to Prophet and Marisol. The Indian-dark vaqueros, some wearing serapes, stretched their lips back from their teeth, squinting and shading their eyes with their hands.
; The vaqueros who’d ridden into the yard ahead of Lou’s party milled under the brush ramada of a long, pale adobe bunkhouse to Prophet’s left. They, too, watched the newcomers, muttering amongst themselves, no doubt darkly speculating on the trouble that had killed the don’s sister, Marisol’s aunt, as well as seven of their own compañeros.
A single Arabian stood in front of the main casa, in the shade of several fruit trees—lemons and oranges, it appeared—growing inside the adobe wall ringing the house. The branches, speckled with young lemons and oranges, angled out of the wall and into the yard, and the Arabian was tugging on a low-hanging leaf. That would be the horse of the man whom Marisol had addressed as Miguel. Miguel was no doubt inside, giving the don the tragic news.
Prophet stopped Mean near the Arabian and peered up at the casa. It was a grand adobe dwelling in the old Spanish style, though it was hard to see much of it from here because of the fruit trees growing in the courtyard inside the adobe wall. Prophet was about to step down off Mean’s back but stopped when voices rose from inside that junglelike patio—men’s voices speaking Spanish too quickly for Prophet to follow beyond the random phrase.
The voices grew louder, and then two men pushed out through the black, wrought iron gate in the wall’s arched entrance. They were flanked by Miguel, who stepped to one side and held his hat in his hands, demurely averting his gaze.
The other two men were old—in their sixties, at least. One was on crutches. He stood maybe six feet tall, but age had whittled his body to sinew. He was bald, and his shriveled face sported thin, patchy side-whiskers and a mustache and goatee that showed only a little dark brown through the gray. He was dressed in white doeskin leggings and a hand-tooled vest of calfskin over a red embroidered shirt open halfway down his pale, warty, birdlike chest.
The man beside him, clad in a mayordomo’s, or butler’s, livery appeared just as old but not as infirm as the man he attended, who was, Prophet opined, Don Augustin Frederico de la Paz. The mayordomo stood near the don, turned slightly toward him as though to catch him in case he should fall. The don stood unsteadily on both feet but with the help of two crutches over which he was crouched.
The don’s watery brown eyes went directly to his daughter. He frowned deeply, lips moving inside his goatee, then looked at Prophet and the carriage where Colter sat with the reins in his hands.
“Marisol . . . ?” said the don only slightly above a whisper.
“Papa,” Marisol said.
“What is this I heard . . . about . . . Doña Aurora . . . ?”
Prophet swung down from Mean’s back. He extended his hands to Marisol, who turned toward him, sagging into his arms, letting him lift her down from the saddle. As soon as her feet were on the ground, she hurried over to the old don and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly. The don did not hug her back, for his arms were occupied with the crutches, but he lowered his withered old head to her neck.
The embrace was both a greeting and a consolation.
Marisol spoke into the old man’s ear. Prophet couldn’t hear, not that he’d understand if he could hear, but he assumed she was telling her father about the dustup back along the trail.
Prophet saw the old man’s forehead crease and turn red. The don lifted his head from his daughter’s shoulder, pulling away from her. And now his face was a deeply creased red mask of grief and rage.
Gritting his teeth, his eyes filling with tears, he bellowed, “Ciaran Yeats! ” A veritable volcano of barely restrained rage, he staggered a little to one side and might have fallen if the mayordomo hadn’t grabbed him, steadied him.
“No!” Marisol shook her head. “No, Papa. Not Yeats. This time, no.”
Ignoring her, the don looked beyond her to several of the men who’d come up from the bunkhouse, moving as shyly as prospective suitors at a debutante’s ball, muttering softly amongst themselves, the dust puffing up from their high-topped, spurred boots. The don told them in Spanish, his voice high and raspy, that he wanted to see his hermana, his sister.
As Marisol turned to face the carriage, standing close to the don, one hand on his arm, several men gathered around the fancy rig. Prophet, holding Mean’s reins, stood to one side of the don, Marisol, and the mayordomo. Prophet doffed his own hat as the vaqueros opened the carriage door and gently pulled out the old woman’s lumpy body clad nearly all in black. Colter watched from the carriage’s driver’s seat, no doubt feeling, as Prophet did himself, like the fifth wheel on a lumber dray—awkward and out of place.
He glanced at Prophet, and then, seeing Lou holding his hat in his hands, quickly removed his own topper and hooked it over a knee.
As gingerly as possible, the four vaqueros carried the old woman’s body up to the don. The sunlight glistened off Doña Aurora’s open eyes and off the blood that had welled up from the hole in her forehead to dry in a long crust down her prunelike face.
The don drew a deep breath as he looked down at his sister. He scowled, jaws hard, a single tear dribbling out of his right eye to roll down his craggy cheek. He removed an arm from one of his crutches, which Marisol caught before it could fall, then reached forward and closed the old woman’s eyes with his long, clawlike fingers.
He turned to look at Miguel standing behind him, and said in Spanish, “Take her to Seville. Seville will tend her now, prepare her for burial.”
“Sí, patrón,” Miguel said. He glanced at the men holding the old woman gently between them, then turned and strode into the patio, heading for the casa. The four vaqueros bearing the old woman’s body stepped around Marisol, the don, and the mayordomo, and disappeared into the courtyard.
The don turned to his daughter, drew a deep breath, and said in raspy voice taut with barely restrained fury, “Dime, hija, ¿quién mató a mi hermana?” (“Tell me, daughter—who killed my sister?”)
Marisol didn’t have to answer. Four other vaqueros were just then hauling the second body out of the carriage. They all stared in glint-eyed shock at the body of Juan Carlos Amador as they carried the body up to the don, who stared down at the dead man with his own wide-eyed exasperation.
“In the name of the saints,” intoned Don de la Paz, “who in the devil’s own hell killed the son of Emiliano Zapata Amador?” He was almost breathless, and he wobbled on his crutches so that both Marisol and the mayordomo had to grab him.
Marisol looked at Prophet then lowered her eyes uncertainly to the ground.
The don followed his daughter’s gaze to the big gringo standing by the ugly horse, holding his badly weathered hat in his hands.
“Uh . . .” Prophet gave a wooden grin. “Hola, there, Don. Uh . . . name’s Prophet. Lou Prophet. I’m from up north, don’t ya know . . .”
Chapter 15
“I’m from up north, don’t ya know,” the don said, mimicking Prophet in nearly perfect English, including the big bounty hunter’s pronounced Southern accent. It was as though he were repeating the phrase not only to absorb it for himself but also to brush up on his English. “Lou Prophet.”
“How-de-do, Don.” Prophet stepped forward and extended his big, gloved right paw. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, though, uh . . . I sure wish it was under different circumstances. Poor ole Doña Aurora.”
“Sí, sí . . . poor ole Doña Aurora.” The don frowned, cutting his curious gaze from Prophet to Colter Farrow sitting in the carriage and then to his daughter. “How did . . . how did . . . ?”
“We met at One-Eye’s place,” Marisol said, now speaking in English out of respect for their gringo guests. “I stepped in for a drink of water and became acquainted with Señor Prophet and his friend”—she glanced at the redhead—“Colter Farrow.”
Colter smiled and dipped his chin at the don.
“Colter Farrow, Colter Farrow,” the don said, again speaking in near-perfect English, with only a hint of a Spanish accent. “Where have I heard that name befo . . .” He let his voice trail off as he studied the tattoo on the redhead’s cheek.
Colter flushed and glanced away.
“Anyway,” the don said, shaking his head as though to clear it of unnecessary thoughts and looking at the body of Juan Carlos still being held before him by the grunting vaqueros. “I don’t understand . . . what happened here . . . with Juan Carlos?”
“He must have learned somehow that I would be returning from Mexico City today,” Marisol said. “He was quite passionate. Him and a half dozen of his cutthroats ran down the coach. He must have wanted to kidnap me, the fool. They killed all the men when a wheel got stuck in a sand trap. One of the bullets punched through the carriage and killed Tía Aurora. I tried to make a run for it during the shooting. I thought I would hide and wait for dark, then try to slip out of that crazy man’s clutches. But he ran me down. He threatened to kill me. He said if he couldn’t have me, no one would. That’s when Lou appeared and shot the pendejo loco.”
She gazed beseechingly up at her father. “Por favor—you must understand. Lou had no choice but to kill Juan Carlos. It was him or me. The poor fool has obviously gone even crazier than he was before. To think that I would marry such a fool against your own forbiddance!”
The don nodded, smiling at Marisol. “Sí, sí . . . I know you would never do such a thing, mi amada hija.” (“My beloved daughter.”)
Prophet had a feeling the old man didn’t know the full story of Marisol’s and Juan Carlos’s forbidden relationship, that she’d only turned on the young man because he’d cheated on her and not because her father had forbidden her to see him. Prophet choked back a chuckle. The woman was obviously quite adept at manipulating her father, as she was any man. As beautiful and captivating as she was, it couldn’t be too hard.
Don de la Paz returned his attention to Juan Carlos. He looked at Prophet and then at the dead man hanging slack in his vaqueros’ arms. Miguel, who Prophet assumed was the don’s segundo, or foreman, walked up to the old man and said in a tone hushed with foreboding, “Patrón, do you know what this means? This man has killed the son of your blood enemy. The only child of Don Amador. Up to now, the fighting has stopped . . . more or less. But when Don Amador gets wind that . . .”
The Cost of Dying Page 11
