Authors: Jennifer Blake
“She loved me as she might a pet dog.”
Pilar shook her head. “You think she loved Refugio? It seems to me she worshiped him because he had saved her, because he was the first man to make her feel safe. That isn't love.”
“Maybe. But that was what I wanted from her, that worship, and I knew that as long as the great El Leon was alive, she would never be able to give it. She as good as told me so the night you came, when Refugio forced her to accept you by giving you his bed.”
“So you offered your help to his enemy.”
“That was done weeks before you came, after Refugio let me have Isabel, after I saw how it would be.”
“You — it was you who killed my aunt, that night when I came to the hut in the mountains, when you were gone so long?”
“No, how could that be? The don sent others for that. Until that night, I only let him know, now and then, what little I could discover about the movements of the band; it wasn't much since only Refugio knew where we would go, what we would do. Then I saw how Refugio had hurt Isabel by bringing you. I saw she would never love me as long as he was alive, and I wanted him to die. I thought that if I arranged it, Don Esteban would reward me.”
“You tried to kill him, after all he had done.”
Baltasar looked away from Pilar. “I wanted the money for Isabel. For afterward.”
“Now there will be no afterward, for Isabel is dead; Don Esteban has seen to that.”
“How affecting,” Don Esteban said with a curl of his lips, half hidden by his perfumed beard. “But there will be no afterward for you, either, my dear stepdaughter. Or for Carranza.”
Baltasar stiffened, the frown deepening between his eyes. “You promised to let Señorita Pilar go if Refugio came.”
“Of course I did, because you would not have brought her otherwise,” the don said impatiently. “But it can't be. She would go straight to the governor with the story.”
“If Refugio is killed trying to keep you from taking her from him, that's one thing, since she's your stepdaughter and you can claim to be protecting her honor by saving her from him. But what excuse can you give the governor for killing her? You had better think again.”
Don Esteban's face tightened. “She's done nothing except make trouble since she left the convent, and I've been put to enough inconvenience because of her. It can be an accident. Possibly Carranza will attempt to use her as a shield from my wrath, or maybe Carranza himself will kill her in a jealous rage. No matter the story told, I want her dead.”
Refugio, his gaze steadfast on the face of the man who was once his friend, said, “You gave me your word in your note that Pilar would go free.”
“The note was written by Don Esteban.”
“But it was you who left it for me, you who gave me the terms of surrender. I hold you to them.”
“Pay no attention,” Don Esteban said in strident tones. “Think how glorious a revenge it will be, if he knows she will die with him, because of him.”
Baltasar studied Refugio, then turned back to Don Esteban. “It's not right,” he said doggedly. “I did give Refugio my word. He would not have come if he had not believed what I said.”
“What difference does that make?” the older man demanded, smashing his fist into his hand, his face growing purple. “This is no time for sudden scruples!”
“By all means let us dispense with scruples,” Refugio said. “If I can't have an honorable friend, let me at least have a suitably dishonorable enemy.”
Baltasar's brows knotted in a frown. “I wanted Refugio dead, but not Señorita Pilar. I don't hold with killing women.”
“It would make your revenge perfect, much more than just killing him,” Don Esteban said in virulent persuasion. “If she is first, he will suffer for a few seconds as you suffered when your Isabel died.”
Pilar, watching the big man's face, saw the reluctance reflected there. She spoke in abrupt comprehension. “What is it, Baltasar? Do you find it hard to kill a friend when he's facing you? Especially when the friend is El Leon? The honorable thing to do would be to give him a sword and match yourself against him. You never wanted that, did you? You tried three times to kill him, and three times you failed. Are you sure you want to kill him at all?”
“Shut up!” Don Esteban said, the words vicious. Refugio said nothing, only watching her and the other two men with taut attention.
Pilar went on, her concentration on the big man and the struggle inside him, which twisted his face and made him clench his great hands into vein-corded fists. “It was Don Esteban who caused Isabel's death, just as he killed my mother and my aunt and now wants me dead. He finds it easy to attack women. They don't matter to him; their deaths trouble him no more than if they were animals.”
Don Esteban drew the sword that hung at his side. “Yours,” he said, “will trouble me even less.”
Pilar barely glanced at the naked blade pointed at her, though she spoke more quickly. “Will you let him get away with what he has done, Baltasar? Will you let him use you to get what he wants, even though he would have let you be killed by the Apaches with the rest of us? The solution is easy. Give Refugio your sword. Give it to him and let the two men who have injured you try to kill each other.”
“An excellent idea,” Refugio said, his voice soft, as if he feared anything louder would sway Baltasar in the wrong direction.
At the same instant, Don Esteban took a step toward Pilar, shouting, “I told you to shut up!”
Baltasar moved quickly to match Don Esteban's stride, and Refugio kept pace at his side. The lantern light ran in a silver-blue gleam down the length of the sword Pilar's stepfather held.
She pushed herself up with her back pressed to the wall behind her. Using its support, she rose unsteadily to her bound feet. She jerked at her right ankle with desperate strength, trying to loosen the thong. She felt the wetness of warm blood creeping clown her instep, dampening the leather binding. She increased the pressure, oblivious to the pain. Abruptly, the thong slipped. Her right foot was free, though it was so numb she was not sure it would hold her.
Don Esteban advanced another step as he saw she had loosened, her bonds, though at the same time he glanced back over his shoulder at the door. It seemed he was not quite certain whether the jacal was surrounded, not certain he was free to act. He cursed, Baltasar, saying in tones of contempt, “You came in with me on this plan. Now stop playing the fool and help me carry it out!”
Pilar said quickly to the big man, “It isn't foolish to admit you made a mistake. You owe Don Esteban nothing — unless it's payment in kind for what he did to Isabel. You could give him that.”
“Listen to her, Baltasar,” Refugio, said in soft entreaty, “listen, and either take your moment of vengeance as Pilar said — or else give it to me.”
“Stupid fools, all of you,” Don Esteban said, his lips curling in a grimace. He tightened his grip on his sword, moving with it pointed at Pilar's heart. She gathered her trembling muscles, knowing any evasion she might make would be no more than a delay.
Baltasar moistened his lips as he listened to Refugio. “You will kill me for this, later,” he said.
“No,” his leader said hurriedly. “Escape is through the door.”
“Don't be an imbecile!” Don Esteban cried with a sudden note of fear in his voice. “There's no need for this.”
The big man shook his head, obviously wavering. “The band will shoot me the minute they see me.”
“They may try, so you'll have to be quick. But I pledge you a recompense for Isabel's pain and her blood.” Refugio's voice was steady. “And Pilar's life.”
“Not if I take it first!” Don Esteban drew back his sword for the thrust.
Baltasar made a strangled sound, muttering, “Pray God the band shoots straight.”
He dragged his sword, screeching, from his scabbard, and slapped the hilt into Refugio's hand. In the same instant he whirled around and dived for the door.
Refugio spared him not a glance, but lunged full length with the sword in his grasp, catching the driving blow Don Esteban had begun, wrenching the other man's blade upward in a rasping scrape that showered the dirt floor with orange sparks. The glittering point struck the wall above Pilar's head even as the guards of the two weapons locked together with a vicious clang. Refugio grabbed the older man's shoulder and shoved. The don plunged off balance, coming up against the adobe wall in a scattering of loose dirt, twisting around to face his opponent.
Refugio stepped back. Catching the hem of his cloak, he swirled it around his left arm, out of the way, then stood balanced and ready.
Pilar, her breathing fast and uneven, slid along the wall away from the men. She bent to snatch the blanket up from the floor under Refugio's feet, where it might be an impediment. He glanced at her, a swift and comprehensive appraisal, then he settled into his position, intent only on the man before him.
Don Esteban attacked in fury, trying to take advantage of the small confines of the jacal, to force Refugio back into Pilar or else trap him in a corner. Pilar retreated in limping haste to the doorway, ready to step through. She could not bring herself to move farther, however, but stood watching with her fingers digging into the blanket. From the night beyond came the dull noise of hoofbeats fading away as Baltasar fled. There had been no shots, no shouts.
Refugio had been bluffing. He had come alone.
Don Esteban fought like an enraged animal caught in a trap, using every desperate ruse at his command, every trick learned from the New Orleans encounter between them. Refugio was fighting for two; his defeat would mean death for Pilar. His countermoves were smoothly efficient, but cautious.
The lantern cast their shadows, dancing in triplicate on the wall. It made shifting pools of layered darkness in the corners that were more treacherous than pure blackness would have been. The ceiling was low, and uneven with its sagging poles; both men had to watch above them as well as in front and to the sides, or they were likely to bring crumbling thatch, scorpions, and spiders cascading down the backs of their necks.
Refugio made not a sound. Don Esteban breathed like a faulty bellows, gasping in the warm air. Perspiration appeared on the older man's face, beading on his cheeks and forehead, running down his nose. It made a wet patch between his shoulders on the back of his jacket. Refugio's hairline grew damp and curling, and there was a satin sheen of moisture at the open neck of his shirt.
Their feet shuffled back and forth on the earthen floor, stirring up dust that glinted in soft gold eddies in the flickering light. Don Esteban grew more aggressive, his footfalls heavier, as if he wanted to slash Refugio to quivering ribbons and grind him into the dirt. Refugio evaded him, giving ground, expending a minimum of effort.
Backing swiftly, the younger man unfurled his cloak from his arm and dipped his left hand into the garment's pocket. He drew it out with his fingers clenched around a small leather bag. His gaze narrowed on the point of his opponent's sword, he put the bag to his mouth and used his teeth to loosen the string that held it closed. With the bag's neck open, he abruptly turned it bottom side up.
Gems poured from it in a stream as green and shining as the new leaves of summer. They hit the floor, bouncing and skittering under the feet of the two men, burying themselves in the dusty surface where they winked like cat's eyes in the dim light.
“You wanted the emeralds in exchange for Pilar,” Refugio said. “There you have them. Some may be a trifle marred before we're done, but I do keep my bargains.”
Don Esteban cursed in savage fury. He minced back and forth on tiptoe, darting quick, agonized glances at the floor with his teeth set together as if in anticipation of pain.
He trod upon a green stone and it made an ominous crunching noise in the gritty dirt. The don flailed in a sudden desperate feint, circling Refugio's blade, his own adhering, locking with it once more to the hilt. He shoved at Refugio as he leaped back, disengaging.
“Stand clear,” he ground out, his chest heaving with effort. “I must pick up my property.”
Refugio inclined his head in polite acquiescence. “By all means.”
Don Esteban squatted down, reaching out to pick up the sparkling emeralds from the dirt one by one, collecting them up in his left hand. His hasty gathering was clumsy, for he picked up quantities of dry earth with them. As he worked, he snatched quick upward glances at Refugio, as if he suspected him of some ruse or was planning one himself.
Disquiet rose in Pilar's mind. Before she could stop herself, a warning rose to her lips. “Take care—”
There was no need to finish it. Refugio was watching, waiting in long-held knowledge of the sly cunning that underlay Don Esteban's actions.
The don sprang upright, flinging the handful of jewels and dirt into Refugio's face. He followed them with a hard, straight thrust of his sword with all his strength behind it. Refugio bent swiftly under the hail of green stones in their cloud of dust, meeting his opponent's sword with a parry that jarred them both to the elbow, then leading into an Italian master's feint that slipped past Don Esteban's guard like an eel sliding into water.
Don Esteban cried out. The two men held their places while the dust the don had thrown settled, lazily billowing, to the floor. It appeared for a moment that the two were embracing, with Refugio supporting the older man. Then Refugio retracted his sword. Don Esteban staggered back, sprawling to lie in the dirt with a crimson stain spreading over his jacket front.