Authors: Shirl Henke
Ruiz bowed stiffly, then offered the remaining sword to von Scheeling.
“The duel is to commence when I give the signal and continue until first blood—or until the honor of the challenge has been satisfied,” Vargas said, looking from the Prussian to Fortune.
“Blood be damned. I'll be satisfied when he's dead,” Nicholas replied, his expression cold, harsh, deadly.
Von Scheeling grinned sharkishly, revealing large, square white teeth. “I will cut you to ribbons and let your blood soak into this barren accursed soil.”
“Don't be premature, mein herr,`` Fortune said softly, his eyes once again lingering on the Prussian's black eye. “My wife would’ve cut you to ribbons with that broken glass. You backed down from her then, but there's nowhere to hide now.”
Nicholas watched as the Prussian stiffened and his big meaty fist tightened around the handle of his saber until the knuckles were white.
Something in the Mexican's tone of voice warned von Scheeling that he was in grave jeopardy. But his foe was, after all, a
criollo
, the spoiled son of a rich
hacendado
, he reminded himself, not a true soldier. He would kill Don Lucero, and soon after, he would have the haughty, golden-haired wife. Perhaps he would tell the
criollo
that before he finished him. Yes, he would indeed. The fine light of madness gleamed in von Scheeling's pale eyes.
Don Encarnación interrupted the tension building between the antagonists, asking, “Are you ready to begin?” When both men nodded, he made a chopping motion with his right hand and stepped back to watch the fight.
In spite of von Scheeling's breach in dueling etiquette regarding choice of weapons, the
criollo
onlookers were all eager to see this highly unusual combat. They had been raised on the blood sports of cockfighting and the bullring. Like the rest, Don Encarnación was inured to violence, yet the crackling aura of hate emanating from the combatants as they faced each other riveted his attention. His avidity was reflected in the faces of the other men who stood in a loose semicircle at the western edge of the hilltop. Several discreet wagers had already been made. Everyone watched intently.
None more so than Mercedes and Agnes, who crouched hidden and breathless in the thick mesquite at the edge of the clearing. Behind them lay a steep drop-off to the trail below, which they had scrambled up after leaving their horses hidden behind a stand of piñion pines.
Nicholas hefted the awkward weapon. Both men were about the same height, but von Scheeling was far heavier-boned with thick ropy muscles covering his arms and a wide barrel chest. He looked, Fortune thought grimly, like a German butcher.
Fortune had already mapped out his strategy. Now once again assessing his foe, he decided it just might work. Hell, it had better! He had received some excellent pointers in the fine art of swordsmanship from an old comrade at arms in the Legion, a former New Orleans fencing master named Andre Vichey.
He could still see the pursed-lip Gallic disdain of the old veteran who had explained, “No, no, no, Nicholas. The saber is not a gentleman's weapon. It is the cudgel of an oaf, a lout, fit only to slash and hack. Should you ever be forced to use this butcher's implement, your foe may well be physically stronger than you. Remember never to parry his strokes with the strength of your arm lest you tire in an uneven contest. Parry as you move around him in a circle.”
Mercedes watched as von Scheeling drove Lucero backward with a series of blindingly rapid slashes. Her husband parried the brutal blows by sidestepping, circling to avoid the full force of the attack, but he continued to give ground. She bit her lip fearfully but made no sound. Her hand slid inside her skirt pocket, where she had concealed a Sharps .32 caliber four-shot pepperbox. The cool, smooth, ivory grip on it felt reassuring against her palm as she clutched it tightly.
God forgive me, I'll kill von Scheeling if I must to save my husband… If he
is
your husband.
Mercedes squeezed her eyes closed for a second, willing away the awful suspicion, which had continued to grow as the months rolled by. The man she loved behaved less and less like the man she had married.
“Arnoldt is using his greater weight to press his attack,” Agnes commented critically. “Salmi said he'd do that. Now if only that wickedly handsome husband of yours is fast enough to use Arnoldt's clumsiness and has endurance enough to outlast him. He does handle himself well,” she added, watching the lightning speed with which Nicholas fended off von Scheeling's bullish attack.
Nicholas smiled grimly as he kept out of von Scheeling's reach, watching his foe's growing frustration. He was careful not to squander his strength by absorbing the Prussian's blows head-on, nor did he make sweeping offensive slashes, but rather used wrist action with the heavy blade, scoring a small nick here, a larger slice there, but von Scheeling seemed impervious to pain.
“Be as precise as the picador lancing the bull,” Andre had said. Unfortunately, what Nicholas was faced with here was more Black Forest boar than Spanish bull.
Both men began to perspire as they moved in an arc, back and forth on the rough, rock-strewn ground. Several times Fortune almost lost his balance while avoiding von Scheeling's murderous assaults.
“You grow weary, ya?” the Prussian taunted.
“I grow bored, ya,” Fortune replied, parrying an overhand stroke as he slipped to his own left. Although the maneuver had allowed the blades to make only glancing contact, he could feel a powerful shock surge up his arm into his shoulder. A few strokes like that parried flat-footed, and he would not even be able to lift the damned pig-sticker. He circled the smirking lieutenant, not attacking, not even wasting his strength with a feint. He simply waited.
Once again, the Prussian leaped forward with an overhand stroke, and once again, Nicholas slipped to his left as he parried. However, this time he countered, not with the classic cavalryman's slash to the head, but with a flick of his wrist. Quick as a striking rattler, the blade of his saber slipped over the Prussian's extended arm, leaving a deep slice in his thick shoulder muscle. At last von Scheeling winced, trying to counter with a clumsy backhanded swipe at his opponent's side. The blade only hissed through air. Fortune had already danced nimbly away.
Enraged, von Scheeling cursed, lunging recklessly after the faster man. This time the Prussian feinted an overhand strike but quickly turned it into a downward angling slash at Nicholas’ right side. Caught off guard, the slimmer man was forced to take the full force of the blow on his own parrying blade. The shock wrenched his shoulder, and he could see by the gleam in von Scheeling's eyes that the lieutenant knew it. But once again, Nicholas made his stocky foe pay a price. His wrist flicked up and this time von Scheeling grunted in agony as the tip of Fortune's blade left a deep wound in his triceps.
“You think to have me wear myself out, don't you?” the Prussian asked in Spanish, his voice as mocking as heavy breathing would allow.
“I think to bleed you like the pig that you are,” Fortune replied.
No one had ever mistaken the lieutenant for an intelligent man, yet even he was beginning to see that brute strength would not carry the day. It was time to change tactics. He began to slowly stalk his tormentor instead of charging in after him, taunting in mocking Spanish, “
Criollo
bastard! Do all of you dance the flamenco better than you fight?”
Ignoring the hissed rage of several young onlookers, von Scheeling lunged forward for what seemed to be another ineffective overhand stroke. Nicholas’ blade came up to parry as he slipped again to his left. Then von Scheeling sprung his trap. He had maintained his balance by not committing his full strength to the saber stroke. Now he reached out and seized the wrist of Fortune's sword arm with his left hand, while driving the elbow of his own sword arm against the lighter man's jaw. Nicholas crashed to the ground, slipping on the loose rocks.
The Prussian hesitated an instant at the collective gasp of spectator outrage. Don Patrico and Don Doroteo actually stepped forward, half ready to draw their weapons in protest over von Scheeling's breach of the code duello. Fortunately, the small distraction was sufficient to clear Nicholas’ fogged brain. When von Scheeling drove the tip of his weapon downward to impale his opponent on the rocky soil, Fortune rolled sideways, coming up on his knee and delivering a disabling slash to the side of the Prussian's knee.
Von Scheeling let out a grunt of rage, the sound of an animal in pain. Then he cursed and hobbled backward. Nicholas staggered to his feet. The lieutenant was covered with blood, but Fortune's right shoulder ached and he was having trouble focusing his eyes.
Christ, which one of us is in worse trouble?
Fortune decided that he was, in spite of his opponent's bloody appearance. Time to try something different. He shifted the saber to his left hand, facing von Scheeling in a relaxed stance. Then, he delivered an insult—in quite intelligible German.
Agnes Salm-Salm had learned her husband's language and was used to overhearing an occasional vulgarity, having spent years as the wife of a professional soldier. But Nicholas’ oath brought a flush of red to her cheeks.
“What did he say?” Mercedes whispered, her throat gone dry as she clutched the hidden gun.
“Well, it relates to Arnoldt's parentage,” the princess equivocated. “Er, something to the effect that his mother was a woman of loose morals who had relations with...well, barnyard creatures. You can imagine the rest.”
But Mercedes was too busy watching the enraged response of von Scheeling to imagine anything else at that moment. The lieutenant's head snapped back as if he had been smashed in the face with a fist. With a bellow, he lunged forward. Nicholas caught the blow on the hilt of his weapon. The mighty Prussian's right arm had finally lost some of its overpowering strength.
Holding his foe's blade motionless with his own, Fortune stepped close. For a moment two pairs of hate-glazed eyes locked. Then, Nicholas drove his knee into von Scheeling's groin. The lieutenant doubled over and Fortune—like a matador—came up on his toes, aimed the tip of his blade, and drove it through the Prussian's back and into his heart.
Just like the bull after all, Andre
.
Mercedes knelt on the hard rocky ground, numbly clutching the weapon which had proved so unnecessary. He had not needed her help...whoever he was...this stranger who used his left hand as skillfully as his right, who spoke not only French and English but obviously German as well.
I wonder what else he knows that a
hacendado
would not
. She could lie to herself no longer. Mercedes Alvarado carried the child of a man who was not her husband. And, God help her, she loved him. If need be, she would have killed for him.
“Come, we'd best be gone before the men find us. Salmi would be furious and so would your deliciously deadly Don Lucero. What a fighter he is,” Agnes rhapsodized, unaware of her friend's turmoil as she tugged at Mercedes’ arm.
Silently, Mercedes slipped away from the bloody dueling ground without saying a word. She did not look back.
Chapter Nineteen
Mercedes paced in their bedroom, her eyes darting to the clock sitting on the credenza near the door. Soon she would have to face him.
Him
.
He knew so much about the Alvarado family, the servants, everything on Gran Sangre, right down to childhood memories. Surely Lucero must have told him. No one else could have done it. But why would he? Could her love have threatened her husband's life? Sweet virgin, could he have killed Lucero? Certainly he was deadly enough. On several occasions now she had watched him kill with detached calculation. He was utterly ruthless and cool under fire, but he was also the man who risked his life to save Bufón. Lucero would never have done that, any sooner than he would have acknowledged Rosario.
Her lover was far more admirable than Lucero. Yet everyone believed he was Lucero. How could they not, when he was virtually identical?
“What a marvelous jest Lucero would think it—to send an alter ego to claim his bride,” she said bitterly. Her husband had never loved her.
But
he
does.
And now he had planted his seed in her. There was some consolation in believing the next patrón of Gran Sangre would be as conscientious as his father, she supposed. But it did not solve her moral dilemma. She was in love with this man and she did not even know his name!