Lookout Hill (9781101606735) (5 page)

But when she heard the slightest clack of a small bell and watched the little goat walking into sight, her hand immediately eased back to her side, as if leading the way for the old man and his granddaughter, Erlina. Seeing them, Sens Priscilla almost let out a sigh of relief.

She caught herself as she saw the donkey walk into view. A man was sitting slumped atop the small animal’s knobby back, the front of his half-naked chest covered with bandages and dried blood. She eyed the gun lying across his lap.

There is the danger and, with it, evil.

She stood perfectly still until the little goat walked up from the rocky trail, bounded the last few feet and stopped and nuzzled her knee.

When the old man and Erlina came closer, Sens Priscilla rubbed the goat’s head and whispered, “What is it you bring me this day, little Felipe?”

The goat bleated and stared up at her.

“No, I do not blame
you
,” Priscilla said. “You are just a skinny little goat.” She brushed the animal aside gently. Then she stepped forward to make welcome these innocent ones who had delivered such danger and evil to her door.

The sparrows disbursed from the hitch rail and disappeared into the rocky hillside as Herjico and Priscilla helped Hodding Siebert through the front door of the house back into the torchlit cave. They sat the wounded man down on a pallet of straw covered by a faded striped blanket. With the hideaway Colt dried firmly to his bloody hand, Siebert lay back on the pallet against the stone wall and looked all around.

“What kind of deal is this?” he asked in a weak and slurred voice. His head bobbed on his chest as he struggled to stay conscious.

Ignoring his question, Sens Priscilla turned to the old man and nodded toward the front yard.

“Bring me the hot water sitting in the fire bed, Herjico,
por favor
,” she said. Then she lowered her voice just between the two of them and said, “Take Belleza from the barn and hide her, pronto. You know where to go.”

“
Sí
, I know,” said Herjico. Without another word, the old Mexican hurried away. No sooner had he left the
cave than Priscilla stooped down beside the wounded gunman and reached out to take the Colt from his hand. Siebert’s eyes had fallen almost shut, but he opened them quickly and in reflex swiped the barrel across her cheek.

Even though the blow was weakened by his loss of blood, Priscilla fell back onto the dirt floor with a hand to her cheek. She glared at him from within her hood.

“Huh-uh, witch,” Siebert warned. “Don’t be giving me no evil eye. And don’t be trying to disarm me. I’m not giving this gun up. I let it dry to my hand just for that very reason. Anybody tries to unstick it…I’ll know right off.”

When he was finished talking, his eyes fell shut again. Priscilla rose to her feet, her hand against her cheek, inside the blackness of her hood.

“Do not worry, gunman,” she said with bitter contempt, “no one is taking your gun from you. I only wish to move it aside so I can treat you.”

“You’re going to try to hex me?” Siebert said. His eyes opened dreamily. “Go ahead, then, witch,” he said with a smile, recalling how Bellibar had slipped his Remington from his holster unawares while he’d lain drinking water. “Hex me so this gun never leaves my hand. It would be the best thing could ever happen to me….” His words trailed.

“
Sí
, I will do it,” said Sens Priscilla, going along with the man’s delirium in order to quiet him down. Her tone turned soft, soothing, and fell almost to a whisper. “Now sleep, sleep deeper and deeper…and do not
worry about the gun. No one can take it. A gun will always be a part of your hand, a part of your arm…as much a part of you as your own bone and blood.”

A faint smile passed across Siebert’s lips.

“Yeah, a part of my hand,” he said dreamily, raising the bloodstained gun an inch and letting it fall back onto his lap. “I like that…keep going.” His voice trailed away into sleep.

Out front, Erlina, the donkey and the little goat stood waiting. They all watched as Herjico hurried past them toward a plank and adobe barn, also built against the stony hillside.

“Where are you going,
Abuelo
?” Erlina called out.

“Never mind where I go,” said the old man. “Wait here.”

As he hurried past them, Little Felipe bleated, slung his head back and forth and darted forward trying to butt the old man’s legs from behind. But Erlina saw what the goat planned to do. She caught him by his stubby horns and held him as he squirmed and bucked against her.

“No, no, Felipe,” she said. “Our
abuelo
is busy. We must let him do what he needs to do.”

Our
abuelo
? The old man shook his head as he hurried to the adobe barn, slipped inside and shut the door soundly.
Dear, dear Erlina,
he thought. The poor, simple child had now turned him into the grandfather of a goat.

Seeing the old man disappear into the barn, the little goat settled and twitched its short, stubby tail. Erlina released her grip on the animal and stood patting its
skinny, coarse-coated back while she stared toward the barn.

“What is
Abuelo
doing in there, Felipe?” she asked idly.

In moments she saw her grandfather come out of the barn and hurry back to the fire a few feet from her and the two animals. He squatted down beside the fire and reached for the steaming kettle of water, using his wadded shirttail to protect his hand from the hot iron handle.

“Keep the foolish goat from under my feet,” he said aloud, in spite of the tenderness her words and actions brought to his heart. “He will cause someone to fall and break their neck.”

“No,
Abuelo.
Felipe loves everyone. He will tell you so,” the young girl said, hugging the struggling goat’s thin neck to her cheek as it tried to break free in order to butt the old Mexican. The goat bleated in protest. “See? Hear him?”

“I hear him,” the old man said grudgingly. He cursed the little goat under his breath, yet he couldn’t help smiling at his granddaughter and her sweet, childlike devotion to the little horned pest. It had been a mistake to allow her to make a pet of something that would someday have to be slaughtered and eaten. It had been foolish and cruel—but it was done now and there was no calling back the past to change anything.

As he stood with the water kettle in hand, he looked over at the little goat as it struggled in Erlina’s arms.

“Hold him back,” he said. “This water is hot. It would scald him if he caused me to spill it.”

“I’m holding him,
Abuelo
,” Erlina said, pressing her
cheek to the goat’s thin neck as the animal stared dumbly after the old man.

Herjico hurried to the front door and stopped for a moment. He looked across the yard at the adobe barn, then back at Erlina.

“Take them both to the barn and find some grain for them,” he called out. Then he stepped through the door, closed it behind himself and walked across the room to the open door leading down into the cave, hearing the sound of Priscilla’s voice chanting softly.

As he approached quietly, he found the healing woman standing over the wounded gunman with her hands raised chest high. She continued chanting until the old Mexican announced himself by clearing his throat. Then she fell silent, lowered her hands and folded them in front of her as she turned and faced him.

“I—I have brought the hot water as you asked me to, Sens Priscilla,” the old Mexican said. He held the kettle out slightly toward her, his shirttail wadded around the hot iron handle.

“Yes, thank you, Herjico,” Priscilla said. When she didn’t reach out for the kettle, the old Mexican set the kettle down on the dirt and stone floor.

“Did you do as I asked?” she said in a lowered tone.

“
Sí
, Sens Priscilla,” Herjico replied, also in a guarded tone. “And I took the liberty of sending Erlina to feed the goat and the donkey in your barn,” he said. “I hope this is all right with you. Perhaps I should have asked you first.” He looked down at his feet.

Priscilla smiled, but with her face hidden in the hood the old Mexican didn’t notice.

“You did not have to ask me, Herjico,” she said. She paused, then said, “You and Erlina must be hungry too. There is food inside.”

“But what about you, Sens Priscilla?” he asked.

“I have no need for food,” she said absently, gazing down at the sleeping gunman.

“What are you saying, Sens Priscilla?” the old man asked, stepping forward with a look of dark concern. “Are you ill?”

“
Shhh
. It is nothing,” said Priscilla. She appeared to collect herself and said, “Don’t worry about me, Herjico. Feed yourselves while I clean this one up and examine his wounds.”

“I do not like leaving you alone with this hombre, Sens Priscilla,” Herjico said hesitantly.

She stared at him with a look that left no room for further discussion.

“
Sí
, Sens Priscilla, I will do as you say,” the old Mexican said, his head bowed. He turned and left the cave as Priscilla turned back to the slumbering gunman and watched his eyes open slightly.

“You’ve got folks…dancing to your tune, don’t you?” Siebert said sleepily.

“
Sí
,” Priscilla said, going along with him. She stooped and set the small kettle down and lifted its lid in a gust of steam. “Now lie still while I get a clean washcloth.”

Siebert watched her walk through the torchlit darkness to a large sea chest and lift its lid. She carried back a folded cloth in her hand, and he chuckled and closed his eyes.

“It ain’t going to work, you know—this witching nonsense of yours.” His eyed opened with determination as she kneeled beside him, washcloth in hand. “Not on me, it ain’t.”

“I understand,” she said. Once again her voice turned softer, soothing. “Now close your eyes and sleep…sleep. Let yourself feel nothing but warmth, peace…as sleep surrounds you.”

As the gunman drifted away beneath her voice, she looked down at the gun in his hand, held in place by dried blood.

As she stood watching the gunman sleep, the old Mexican stole up quietly behind her.

He whispered in a trailing voice, “Is he…?”

“No, Herjico,” she whispered in reply, “he is only sleeping. Why are you not eating?”

“How could I eat,” he said, “worrying about you alone with this one?”

“You need not worry about me,” Priscilla said.

The old Mexican looked at the gun lying across Siebert’s lap and started to venture forward, whispering, “Soon none of us will have to worry—”

“No, Herjico,” she whispered, stopping him with a hand on his bony forearm. “We will not kill him. We will let him sleep.”

“But, Sens Priscilla, why?” the old man pleaded. “There is nothing but trouble for us from this one. It would be easy to kill him now while he expects nothing.”

Sens Priscilla didn’t answer. There was no doubt in her mind that she or the old man either one could take
the gun from him now and shoot him without him ever knowing it had left his hand. Yet she knew that was not the direction fate had chosen.

If only it were….

In the night, Hodding Siebert awakened and stared into the flicker of torchlights lining the long cavern. It took him a moment to get his mental bearings and realize where he was. But when he looked at a small fire banked and burning low-flamed on the cave’s dirt floor in front of him, he took a breath and raised his free hand to the clean bandage on his chest.

The floor of the witch’s cave
…
the
bruja. He pushed himself up onto his feet and looked over at the woman lying on a blanket across the fire from him. Rocking unsteadily, he caught himself with both hands on a chair back and stood wheezing loud enough that he woke the witch.

“What are you doing up?” she asked from within the darkness of the deep hood.

Siebert coughed deeply, red-faced with pain. He shook his head and leaned against the rough rock wall of the cave, the gun hanging from his hand. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“Only through the night,” Priscilla said. She sat up on the blanket and adjusted her face deeper into the hood. “You should be lying down.”

Siebert stared at her. He wondered what power a man would take upon himself by killing a
bruja.

“Don’t tell me what to do, witch,” he said menacingly. “I’m all right now.” He patted his bandaged chest
with his free hand. “Better than all right, I’m
damn good
, for a man shot in the chest.” He still wore the big cross, and swung it back and forth on its chain. “You might say religion saved my life.”

“You should not make mockery of such things,” Priscilla said, watching the bullet-scarred cross come to a halt.

Siebert managed a weak but critical grin.

“Now I’m going to start taking religious advice from a witch?” he said.

Priscilla only stared at him.

He pushed himself from against the wall and stepped around the fire, feeling stronger after a night of sleep.

“Let’s take a walk, Sens Priscilla,” he said.

“How do you know my name?” Priscilla asked. Even as she asked she turned and walked ahead of him toward the door leading into the house.