Warriors of the Night (22 page)

“He’s gone under,” Ben said.

Clay scowled and turned away. “The sorry son of a bitch.” The Ranger walked back to his horse and began to unsaddle the skittish animal. He tossed the saddle into the bed of a wagon that had been left in the shadow of the north wall, near the summer kitchen. A blue enamel tin coffeepot rested on the top of the stove, and the good smell of strong coffee filled the air. Clay didn’t wait for an invitation, but sauntered over to the cast-iron stove and helped himself. Chico followed him and held out a cup for the Ranger to fill. Since it appeared they weren’t going to shoot one another, he saw no harm in drinking together.

Jorge Tenorio, on the wall, was torn over whether to watch the courtyard or the canyon. Dawn was a couple of hours off and there was still the threat of another attack.

Down below, Ben looked at Anabel and had started to speak to her when he noticed the gleam of moonlight reflected on the shiny surface of an English silver crown dangling from around Miguel’s neck. Even the scrawled “GW” was visible. Ben turned toward the handsome young vaquero.

“That belongs to me,” Ben said firmly.

An arrogant smile lit Miguel’s features. He had no use for this particular
norteamericano
. The big man’s size did not impress Miguel. The vaquero had few equals with gun or knife. As far as Miguel was concerned, Ben was just an oversized target.

“It is mine now, señor. Unless you wish to try and take it.”

“Miguel… enough. No more children’s games,” Anabel said.

“Por favor
, señorita, but this does not concern you.” Miguel stepped aside and lowered his hand to the revolver holstered on his hip. Tension immediately returned to the courtyard. “You want something from me, Señor McQueen, you must take it.”

“Have it your way,” Ben casually replied. His right fist shot out and caught Miguel off guard. The vaquero had been waiting for Ben to reach for his gun. McQueen’s fist struck his target with an upper-cut that lifted Miguel off his feet and laid him on his back in the dirt. Ben leaned down, took the medal, slipped the chain over his head, and sighed as he tucked the keepsake in his shirt.

From his vantage point on the wall, Jorge made the wry summation, “That boy never will learn,” and returned his attention to the canyon.

Ben looked at Anabel. “I want to talk with you.”

She shrugged, indicated the house against the west wall, and started toward the front door. Gandy motioned for Spotted Calf to give him a hand, and the two men picked up Miguel’s unconscious form and carried him into the summer kitchen, where they stretched him out on one of the tables. Matt brought Peter over to the lamp hanging from one of the posts.

“I’ll tend your arm, son. There’s hot water next to the coffee and we can clean that wound.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Peter remarked, but he followed his father. He felt strangely happy and couldn’t understand it. Here they were, more than a hundred miles from the border, surrounded by murderous savages and without hope of rescue, and he was almost elated. He couldn’t make sense of it, and didn’t try very hard.

Ben followed Anabel into the house and closed the door behind him. She spun about to face him, her lustrous black hair whipping the air. Her dark gaze smouldered as she waited for him to speak.

For the past two weeks Ben had rehearsed this moment. He’d played it over and over again in his mind. Now, alone with Anabel, the phrases he’d so painstakingly construed failed him. Nothing seemed adequate or even remotely represented the emotions warring upon the battlefield of his heart.

Reacting on instinct, he reached out, pulled her to him, and kissed her. She made no attempt to resist as his mouth bruised hers. Then, when it was over, she stepped back and slapped him. They stared at one another like wounded animals. Ben slapped her in return with about the same force as she had used. Her cheek grew red as his. Her eyes flared and she struck again. This time he caught her wrist. She hesitated, and then, instead of pulling free, rushed forward and kissed him, taking the offensive and stealing his breath away. This time when they parted the soldier and the señorita warily retreated to opposite sides of the entranceway.

“Well, now that we understand each other…” Ben said. He touched the brim of his hat and made a hasty exit.

“Sí,”
Anabel weakly replied, and sagged against a ladder-backed chair. “We understand.” With the taste of her enemy lover fresh on her lips, Anabel Cordero proceeded to reload her gun.

A
S A PRESAGE TO
sunrise, the eastern sky shed its purple cloak of night and flushed, pale pink, then donned vestments of gilded gold clouds. Amber light washed the hacienda and its backdrop of hills, then swept down the canyon like a flash flood.

Fire Giver climbed to the table rock and stood with arms upraised to greet the morning light. His loud, clear chant rang out for all his people to hear and take courage from. The prayer song carried across the killing ground to the walls of the hacienda.

“Smoking Glass,

The darkness ends.

Your spirit will dwell in us

until the darkness returns.

The light brings warmth.

But the dark brings power.

I am the hands of the blood-eating god

The Destroyer of Enemies.

I am the heart of the blood-eating god.

Through me my people live.”

The warriors appeared along the canyon walls. Many of them looked to Young Serpent, for he had braved the thunder weapons and led the raid on the horses in the canyon. Standing on the hillside, Young Serpent’s heart was heavy with sorrow. Striker had been slain. Corpses had been carried from the canyon floor under cover of night and hidden among the mesquite trees and boulders on the steep hills to the north and south. Seven of Young Serpent’s clansmen had already been lost. And still, Fire Giver demanded more blood. Young Serpent could only wonder when their hungry god would be appeased.

Now the warriors were gathered. A great battle was coming; of this Young Serpent had no doubt. And maybe after tonight Tezcatlipoca would reveal his wishes and show them the way home.

“It is a bad thing, these deaths. The thunder sticks strike us down like petals in the wind,” Cut Lip spoke up. He was only a year older than Young Serpent. Stocky, with a deep chest, Cut Lip, it was said, could run night and day without tiring. Scars marked his limbs and torso, the legacy of other battles. But today there was fear in his voice. Perhaps it came with the dawn. He wasn’t alone in his dread of the white eyes and their weapons. Many of the warriors held a deep-seated dread of facing the thunder sticks. But they feared the wrath of their god in the person of Fire Giver even more.

“A bad thing. The Smoking Glass must have needed warrior’s blood,” said Young Serpent.

“It may need more before we leave this place,” Cut Lip muttered.

“If it be my blood, I am ready to die for my people.” Young Serpent fixed his steely-eyed stare on the walls of the hacienda barely fifty yards away. “But I shall not die alone.”

Another time and place and Jorge Tenorio would have been exchanging gunshots instead of pleasantries with Snake Eye Gandy atop the walls of El Tigre’s lair. The two men had lived all their lives at war, either with the Comanches, the harsh elements, or with each other during the struggle for Texas’s independence.

Jorge wiped a hand across his mouth and yawned. It was about time to summon Miguel to stand guard.

Snake Eye scratched at his half-scalped skull. The scar tissue always seemed to itch when his life was in danger. He had counted fifty-three strangely clad warriors dotting the canyon walls to either side of the hacienda. There were probably more.

“I kinda wish they was Comanche. At least I understand them,” the Ranger remarked. “And that fella on the rock gives me the willies.” Snake Eye patted the blued-metal gun barrel of his Patterson Colt. “Wish he’d step on down from them rocks and mosey on over so I could fill his hide with lead.”

“If he comes, it will be at night,” Tenorio said. “And with his warriors, and we will not hear them until they are upon us, too many for our guns to stop.” The
segundo
had heard the legends of these warriors in their feathered armor and beast-masks. But he had always thought such stories were tales told and retold around Comanche and Yaqui campfires to frighten the young into silence. It seemed he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Jorge shifted his attention to the courtyard. Miguel and Chico had retired to the barracks. Across the courtyard, Clay Poole and the Comanche were stretched out on long tables underneath the roof of the summer kitchen. With a half bottle of tequila beneath his belt, Clay had relaxed enough to be able to sleep, although not without complaining that it was a sad day when he’d have to bed down with Comanches and Mexican bandits.

Snake Eye glanced at the Mexican standing alongside him. He coughed, reached in his pocket a moment, and found a couple of
cigarillos
, one of which he offered to Jorge.

“Gracias,”
said the older man, who produced a battered brass tinderbox from a pouch on his belt. Soon both men were enjoying their smokes.

“I had you in my sights, back in April when we ambushed you boys west of the San Antone River.”

“Why did you let me live?” Jorge asked.

“My horse spooked and threw my aim off,” Snake Eye said. Smoke curled from his nostrils. The aroma of coffee and the smell of tobacco helped a man feel alive.

“Maybe it’s just as well, gringo.”

“Oh?”

“Sí.
You may need me to save your ugly hide tonight,” said Jorge.

Snake Eye started to return with a caustic reply, but he looked up at the warriors lining the canyon. “Hell,” he muttered. “You may be right.”

There was a firing port in the front gate, and it was here Spotted Calf came to watch the Fire Giver make strong medicine to weaken his foes and impart strength and courage to his people. The sight of the warriors kindled memories deep within him of creation legends and stories of the time when the Ones Who Came Before walked the earth and the Elder Gods warred with one another until the Great Spirit banished them from the realms of men.

He did not understand the words of the Shaman, nor did he wish to, for these were things better left unheard. Better to be deaf than to understand the meaning of such songs and go mad. He felt a presence behind him and turned, keeping a tight grip on his rifle. His look of alarm became a scowl of anger as he saw Anabel standing a few paces from him.

“Why have you come here?” he scowled. “I have no ears to hear you.”

“Still I shall speak,” Anabel said. She kept her hands folded before her and felt relatively safe. If he made a move toward her, Chico, on the wall above, would intervene.

Spotted Calf’s flat, burned-copper features lost none of their hostility. But she planted herself right in front of him, allowing the Comanche no room to walk around her.

“I did not keep my word with you,” she said. “It was a bad thing.” Anabel fingered the dark stone on her ring. Sunlight glinted off its shiny surface as if it were ablaze with black fire. “I did what was best for my people. You would do the same for yours. But I wanted to tell you.”

“Now you speak straight. But it will not save you,” Spotted Calf said. He cradled his rifle in his arms and patted the stock.

“I will not plead for peace between us,” Anabel said. “I wanted you to know there was sorrow in my heart for breaking my word. But it had to be done.”

“One of us will not leave these hills alive.”

“Let it be as you have said,” Anabel replied, uncowed by his threat. Defiant to the last, she stepped aside. The daughter of Don Luis Cordero thought she caught a glimmer of renewed respect in the Comanche’s sideward glance as he walked past.

Miguel watched Anabel Cordero make her way across the sun-drenched courtyard and decided he could not live another moment without confronting the señorita about the decisions she had made within the past few hours. He waited beneath the north wall near the house while Anabel drew closer. Behind her, Spotted Calf found a patch of shade near the summer kitchen and caught a few moments’ rest, while close at hand, Jorge and Snake Eye were wolfing down a meal of bacon and beans.

Miguel left the wall and headed for the front door to cut the woman off. Anabel spied the jealous young vaquero and slowed her pace. She could see at an instant that he was upset. For the sake of his brother, poor Hector, she subjected herself to his caustic attitude.

“Señorita Obregon, a word with you. If you have the time,” Miguel said.

“Always time for my friends,” she answered.

“Yes. I see. Like the
norteamericano
officer, the one called McQueen. You invite him into the house of your father, to sleep in one of the very beds your father built with his own two hands. And mine. Yes, I helped El Tigre. I was always at his side. A place of honor, señorita.” Anabel caught the aroma of tequila on his breath. She started to admonish him, then changed her mind. After what he had seen the day before, witnessing his brother’s terrible fate, he deserved to drink himself into a stupor. But the rest of them couldn’t afford the luxury. They had to remain alert. Death awaited the unwary.

“My father was grateful for your loyalty, as am I,
mi amigo.”

“Friend? No. No, señorita, no friend. That title is reserved for the gringos who once were our enemies. Yankees like McQueen who you invite into your bed!”

“Lower your voice,” Anabel snapped. “You are drunk.”

“Sí.
But not blind, eh?” Miguel wiped a forearm across his mouth. “They have brought us horses. We could take them and ride out of here.”

“And what of McQueen and the Rangers?”

“Let them rot within these walls. It is what Don Luis would have done.”

Anabel started to make an angry retort in defense of her father. In all honesty, she could not. Deep down, she knew El Tigre would have greeted the arrival of the Rangers like a godsend and not thought twice about stealing their mounts and abandoning McQueen and the others to the devil warriors who had murdered Hector, Tomas, and the inhabitants of the settlement.