Spanish Serenade (40 page)

The pace Refugio set was relentless, harder than any they had so far endured. The only reason they were able to keep to it was the certain knowledge that the Apaches were riding just as hard, if not more so. The weeks they had spent in the saddle showed their worth, for none of them were unduly strained, at least in these early hours. How Doña Luisa was standing up under it, Pilar was not sure. For herself, she was determined to bear with anything that the injured men among them were able to tolerate.

They knew that what they were doing was foolhardy to the point of madness; there was no question of that. Regardless, they felt compelled to do something. They had all come so far together, had suffered so much, that it would have been a betrayal to go on without Isabel. No one voiced this truth, but the fact that they felt it was obvious in the lack of real opposition to the quest.

Thinking of what they were actually doing could make the hair rise on Pilar's head. She tried not to think about it. She only set her face forward and concentrated on staying in the saddle, staying abreast of the others. Bodily aches and discomforts were something to be ignored; there were other things more important.

She could not help wondering, however, what Isabel must be feeling, the terror and the pain, the humiliation and despair. Would she expect them to come after her? Would she be watching for them? Isabel knew Refugio was injured, and also Baltasar. She might not think them able to make the attempt. Moreover, she had appeared so confused just before she was taken, and so nearly unconscious afterward, that she might be incapable of realizing anything.

Poor Isabel. There were some people for whom things never went quite right, who never found their way to peace, much less happiness. They always wanted something more, something else, something they could not have. It was a lamentable way to live, but not one that could always be avoided. Pilar was beginning to fear that she herself was becoming like Isabel, always yearning.

They reached the Indian encampment just after dark. It was the smoke, rising from dozens of cook fires, that led them to it. The gray cloud hovered over the shallow valley in which the village lay, with the last rays, of the sunset reflecting red on its underbelly.

It was Charro who volunteered to go and investigate. He knew the countryside and the Indian ways; they let him go. He left them on foot, fading into the darkness. The others dismounted in a small draw and collapsed on the ground.

When Charro rejoined with them a short time later, there was an ill and haunted look on his face. They bombarded him with questions, disturbed by the whiteness around his mouth, and his silence. When he answered, his voice had the rasp of a file.

“The warriors who attacked us are there all right, along with maybe a dozen others, plus a few older men and twenty or so women. Isabel is with them. It appears she has been given to the women for torture. She — There are burns. And cuts.”

Baltasar had been sitting on the ground, holding his side. He struggled to his feet. “What are you saying?”

“You heard me.” Charro turned and walked away a short distance, standing with his back to them and his head down.

“Let's go,” Refugio said.

They moved as swiftly as they could without raising an alarm. A short distance from the camp they came upon the still body of an Indian sentry Charro had silenced, something he had neglected to mention. A few yards more and they dropped to a crawl, making their way to the crest of a hill overlooking the encampment.

It was not large, just a cluster of huts built of poles and brush set well back from the edge of a tiny stream. There was no order to them, or to the fires which burned like small yellow beacons before them. A herd of horses huddled nearby. There were a few dogs and a number of children scattered here and there. Most of the men were gathered around a single fire in the center. The women were nearer at hand, at the camp's edge.

They were too late. Isabel lay sprawled and unmoving beside a dying fire. Most of her hair had been singed from her head, except for a single strand at the crown of her scalp, and the little clothing she still wore was charred. Great bruises marked her legs, and between them were the red gashes of cuts without number. One leg lay at an odd angle, perhaps an explanation for why she had not been kept alive as a slave.

Refugio lay watching for long moment before he released his breath in a sigh. Turning, he motioned for a retreat.

“Wait! She's moving.”

It was Baltasar who spoke in that harsh whisper. His eyes were watering with the intensity of the gaze he kept on Isabel. And he was right. She was twitching, trying to shift her hand. Even as they watched, she made a low, groaning sound. One of the Indian women looked over at her, then reached for a stick which lay close to hand.

Baltasar had his musket in his hand. He lifted it to his shoulder, sighting along the barrel.

“No! Charro hissed, clamping his hand on Baltasar's shoulder. “You'll bring them all down on us.”

“I don't care!”

“I do! It's too late, my friend. Even if we could get down there to her, and then escape with her and our own lives again, she couldn't ride. I doubt she would live more than a few hours.”

Baltasar resisted for long seconds, then slowly the tension went out of him and he slumped over the musket. Tears gathered in his eyes, trickling down the sides of his nose. Finally, he straightened once more. “I'm not leaving her like that.”

“You have to, there's nothing else. Unless you want to die with her.”

“I would, if it would help. But I can at least see she doesn't hurt anymore.”

They saw what he meant, saw that there was rightness in it in spite of all the laws against it. No one tried to stop him as he aimed the musket at the woman he loved.

He aimed, but he could not fire. The hands of the big man began to shake. Tremors ran along his arms, invading his shoulders, making his head jar against the stock of his musket. His lips drew back in a grimace as he fought it. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran between his eyes to mingle with the wetness on his cheeks, while his big body shook as if caught in a violent palsy.

He let out his breath in a grunting groan and lowered the barrel of the musket once more. Below them the Indian woman got to her feet and began to walk toward Isabel, swinging her stick. Baltasar shuddered, then slowly he turned his head, searching.

His gaze found Refugio. “El Leon,” he said. “You must do it.”

The sound of his voice was tormented, pleading. The distant campfires reflected yellow upon his face, shining in the liquid slowly tracking down its broad, weathered expanse.

The spasm that ran over Refugio's face was brief, instantly controlled, impossible to decipher. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

His voice when he spoke was zephyr quiet, but the edge in it was annihilating. “I will. For you, Baltasar, and no other. But the Apaches will swarm up here when they hear the shot. The rest of you must be ready to ride. Go now. Leave me. I'll catch up with you.”

They obeyed. What else was there to do? It was a relief to go, a relief to know they did not have to perform the task that Refugio had accepted. They stumbled often as they hurried back toward the horses, however, for they were waiting for the booming roar of the musket shot.

They had reached the horses when it came. They followed their orders, throwing themselves on their mounts and whipping them into a gallop back the way they had come. They rode as if demons were after them, as if pursued by every childhood horror ever conceived. And when Refugio rejoined them sometime later; riding in from the north after circling wide to elude his pursuers, it seemed they were not sure those fears had not caught up with them. They neither spoke to him nor looked at him, and they increased their pace as they rode on into the night.

They stopped to retrieve their supplies. They did not linger there where the mules lay like discarded mounds of carrion, but continued on. They stopped again for a short while before dawn, to snatch a little rest and cool down the horses before letting them drink. By the time the sun had cleared the horizon, they were moving once more.

It was late afternoon before they ceased looking back over their shoulders. There was small reason to doubt that the Apaches could have found them if they had wanted, or caught up with them if they wished; it appeared that the Indians had abandoned the chase. Whether the reason was the damage the band had inflicted, or something to do with traveling at night, or Isabel's death, they could not tell. They could only be thankful that there was no dust cloud behind them, no one on their back trail.

The trail behind them was clear of Don Esteban as well as the Indians. They could only guess what had happened to him. He could have been attacked by Apaches also, or else had discovered the surveillance of the Indians and turned back out of fear for his own neck. It was also possible that he and the traders had come upon the scene of the battle at the scrub oaks and followed their tracks in the direction of the Indian encampment, then somehow missed their return in the dark. Or, if they had failed to see the signs of battle, since the oaks had been off the trail, they might have ridden past and could now be ahead of them. Another possibility was that the traders, being familiar with the country, could have guessed the band's destination and left the Indian dangers of the Camino Real for some other, perhaps more southerly, route.

The band was thankful for the respite but did not trust it, not entirely. They made no fire when they stopped for the night, and they chose the location for their camp with even more care than usual. Charro, as one of the three able-bodied men, volunteered for the first watch, but in reality they were all on guard. In spite of their exhaustion, they were too strung up to sleep. They shifted this way and that and raked rocks and sticks from under their blankets. They sighed and cleared their throats and flexed sore muscles and counted the stars hanging close overhead. Vicente could be heard muttering prayers under his breath. Nothing seemed to help.

The guard changed, with Enrique taking Charro's place. Finally, somewhere toward midnight, Baltasar began to snore as usual, and Doña Luisa to breathe in a heavy and regular rhythm. Charro turned on his side and gave a long sigh. Vicente was silent while his older brother, as always, lay completely still beside Pilar. Pilar herself, with her eyes tightly closed, began to feel the quiescence that precedes rest.

She was disturbed by a soft rustle. Goose flesh rippled over her. She opened her eyes by slow degrees.

Refugio was getting up. He picked up his blanket and moved soundlessly away, climbing the slope of the small hollow in which they all lay. She heard him speak quietly to Enrique after he was out of sight, a brief exchange. Pilar waited a moment, then she rose also and left the hollow.

Enrique was sitting on a saddle, punching at the dirt with a stick. In a sound just above a whisper, Pilar asked of him, “Refugio?”

The acrobat pointed into the night. She nodded, and moved away in the direction he indicated.

The moon was like a slice of melon with the ends upturned. It floated in benign splendor, not too bright, not too dark, neither retiring nor intruding. In its light she saw Refugio walking ahead of her. Insects, disturbed by his tread, flew out from his feet. Somewhere a night bird called.

At some distance from the camp, near an outcropping of rock, he checked for possible snake, then spread his blanket. Sitting down, he drew up his legs and leaned his back against the sun-warmed stones.

Pilar stopped a short distance away. She was trying to think of some way to announce her presence when he spoke.

“If you have trailed after me with offerings of pity and reproach, you can save yourself the trouble; I have enough of both of my own.”

“I only have my company,” she said. When he did not reply, she went on, “If you would rather be alone, I can go back.”

“No. Please.” The words were stark with appeal. He moved aside on the blanket to give her room.

She took the place he offered, sitting down on the blanket with her back against the rock, and resting her hands on her drawn-up knees. She thought of saying something bland about the night air or the weather, anything to ease the tension, but it did not seem right. Nothing did.

She glanced at him, at the swath of bandaging about his head showing white against his bronze skin in the darkness. She wondered if his head was hurting him, if that was the reason he had got up, but would not ask for fear it would sound like the pity he had refused. Instead, she said, “I'm sorry about Isabel.”

His chest rose and fell before he answered. “So am I.”

“You cared for her, I think.”

“Not as much as I could have. Not as much as she wanted.”

“Why was that?”

He turned his head to stare at her in the darkness. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. Maybe to make what happened seem real.”

He looked forward again. “She was like a bird you find with a broken wing, one that never heals quite as it should. You have to protect such birds, because they can't protect themselves. If you fail, a cat or a hawk comes along, and there is no escape.”

“Therefore, her capture was your fault, her death your burden.”

“Deny it, if you can.”

“What happens to crippled birds who are never rescued?”