If anything could be done.
“Johannes should be near,” she said suddenly. “He would not have come further than this.”
She said it, and hoped they would believe it, even though she knew it was not true. Johannes was nowhere near.
Tomas straightened from the fire. “Of course,” he said. “He should be riding in at any moment.”
The other men ignored their talk. Except the boy who had worked with Tomas. He was quiet; he was frightened, too.
“You are young,” one of them said suddenly, “but you can be in it, too. The old one is too old. He does not matter.”
That one, the one whom they called Biscal, he looked contemptuously at Meghan. “We know where he is. He is in the desert, he is on foot, and they are following him. By now he is for the buzzards.
“He will not come.” Biscal smiled. “No one will come. We are alone.” “Captain Laurel is a man,” Tomas said suddenly. “He fears no one. He has much power, in Mexico as well as here.”
“Bah! He is far at sea. And when he comes back? She went into the mountains, so who knows what bear killed her?”
It was said now, it was declared, it was in the open. “You do not know my people,” she said, “or the friends I have among your people. If I am harmed in any way, they will never stop until they find you and hang you.” Biscal chuckled. “You are not the first, and I am not hung. Although,” he added, “you are the most beautiful. Had I not promised them, I would keep you for myself.”
She was still frightened, but now there was something inside of her that was very still, very ready. When the moment came, she would let him get close and she would kill him first.
The boy would help her, she was sure of that, and Tomas as well, but there were three men against them. She must kill one, quickly, surely. “She is under my protection,” Tomas said quietly. “She will not be harmed.” “Don’t be a fool, old man. Stay out of this and you may live. Of that I have not decided, but if you are wise … who knows?”
Tomas knelt beside the fire. He stirred the coals under the coffee, seemed to touch the pot, and jerked his hand away, his eyes meeting hers. He was telling her something.
The coffee, the hot coffee. That was a weapon, too. She remembered her father once saying that anything could be a weapon, that men had been killing each other for a million years before a gun was invented, and if one did not have a gun, there was always something.
To be alert, to watch her chances. That was the thing. Not to run, for she could not run as fast as any one of them in her heavy skirts, and running away left her vulnerable to attack.
She was thinking now. The coffee had been one thought, but there were others. There was a long stick near the fire. She took it up and poked it into the fire as if feeding the flames. There was that stick … “Let us eat, Tomas. Let a man’s pleasures come later.” Biscal turned his head and gave her a sidelong glance. “I have seen you about the town and wondered how I could get you.” He jerked his head toward his silent companion. “We talked of it. And then you decided to go into the hills … perfect! We could not have planned it better!”
Should she shoot him now? Unexpectedly? He had stated his intentions, and if she shot him without warning, when he had not moved toward her, she would take them by surprise. She might have to shoot but one.
To kill in cold blood? But to defend herself? The riding dress she wore had a slit inside the pocket to allow her to reach her pistol. That had been her father’s idea, and she had scoffed, doubting she would ever need a gun. Yet she must not put her hand in her pocket without reason or they might leap upon her and find the gun. She would, when the time came, make believe to sneeze. She would seem to reach for a handkerchief and then shoot him. She need not even take the gun out. She could shoot through the material. Iglesias was looking at her. “You are not afraid?” He seemed surprised and puzzled.
“Afraid? Why?” She leaned forward a little. “Have you ever seen Johannes with a gun? He is very good, you know, as his father was. Do you not remember what happened when they tried to steal his horses? There were many of them and he was alone.”
“Come!” Tomas said suddenly. “It is time for eat. Bring yourselves to the fire.”
He indicated a stack of tortillas. “Help yourselves.” It was a cool, starlit night. The smell of the fire was good. Meghan Laurel looked to the stars, and then to the fire. In her mind she whispered: Johannes, where are you?
She had been such a fool, but knowing that did not help now. Where was he? Was it true that they were pursuing him into the desert? Even now he might be out there, suffering, dying, alone. There was nothing she could do, nor was there anything he could do to help. What must be done, she must do. I will not wait, she told herself. I shall shoot him at once. Before he is ready. Before he makes a move. Shoot him suddenly and the others will be frightened.
She had never killed a man, never dreamed that she might, yet her father had warned her she might someday have to defend herself when he was not near. Suddenly one of the horses lifted his head, nostrils flaring. She seized upon the thought. “Look at him!” she exclaimed suddenly. “There is somebody out there!”
Startled, they looked. Iglesias, who had been crouching by the fire, stood up
and peered into the night
“Coyote,” he said at last.
“Was it?” she asked.
Biscal looked around uneasily. He spoke low-voiced in Spanish to Iglesias, who shook his head impatiently. Biscal took another tortilla and scooped beans and meat from the pot, yet occasionally he stopped to listen, too. She arose and went to the fire. She took her own tortilla and scooped something from the pot, and ate. “It tastes good, Tomas. You are a good cook. May I have some coffee now?”
“Of course, senorita!” He filled a cup and handed it to her. She sipped a little, then placed the cup on a rock near where she sat. She was ready now. Had they noticed that she took the cup with her left hand? She thought not, but Iglesias was looking at her, puzzled by something. The horse’s head was up again, ears pricked. So were the others. All were looking off into the night; then one turned and looked across the fire at something.
Biscal swore and stood up, peering into the dark. “Sit down,” Iglesias said impatiently. “You are jumpy as a girl!”
“Something is here,” Biscal muttered. “I don’t like it.” An old man, a boy, and a girl against three grown men, all strong men, vaqueros at least a part of the time. She must shoot one, throw hot coffee on another, if she could. She must be ready, and she must not give herself away, and when the moment came, she must move fast.
“What was that?” she asked suddenly.
Biscal looked up. “What? What did you hear?”
“Something … I don’t know. There was a sound. I-“ “There was nothing!” Iglesias said irritably. “Nothing at all!” Biscal looked around uneasily. Tomas stooped over the pot, then half-straightened, listening. Biscal wet his lips, watching. The third man, who had remained still, looked from one to the other.
“Estlipidor!” he said contemptuously. He got up. “I do not wait. I am ready.”
One of the horses shied suddenly, and they all turned to look. Meghan took the opportunity to get to her feet, cup in her left hand. She glanced at Tomas, nodding slightly. Her right hand slipped into her pocket, through the slit, grasping the small pistol.
The boy, at some signal from Tomas, was on his feet also. He was watching Iglesias, waiting.
Now they all heard it, something stirring out there. They heard a footfall, then another, then silence.
“Who is there?” Biscal challenged.
A slight breeze stirred the leaves. There was no other sound. Meghan had shifted her attention to the third man, who was not listening. He was looking at her. “Now,” he said, “you come to me, little one, and if you beg a little, I may not hurt you so much!”
“Don’t be a fool!” she said sharply.
Iglesias threw his coffee to the ground. “Now! Now it will be!” he said. “I, first, then…”