His mouth gaped with a cry that never came. She was close enough so she heard the heavy, sodden thud of the .44 bullet as it hit him. She stepped back quickly and turned the gun on Biscal and Iglesias.
“Senorita!” The boy shouted. “Senorita, please!” It was her horse, saddled … She fired another shot that missed, then grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle. Her skirt caught on the cantle as her other leg swung across the saddle, but the horse was off. Behind her she heard another shot, a cry … silence.
Who had been shot? The boy? Tomas again?
She had no memory of using her spurs, but she must have, for her horse was running wildly into the night, leaping rocks and weaving through the brush and cacti.
South. She must go south, into the wilderness Johannes loved so well; she must try to find him, try to find those Indians who were his friends. Tomas had not suggested she ride back toward Los Angeles … Why? Did he fear there would be too many bandits there? One had less to fear from the wilderness than from men. She drew up, listening. There was no sound of pursuit. What of Tomas? What of the boy? Yet, to return now would make all their sacrifice for nothing, and make their situation no better and hers worse.
She glanced at the stars. She had been often at sea with her father, and the stars were familiar. She knew no trails, but the North Star was there. She looked for the Pointers in the end of the Big Dipper, and found the North Star; then she turned south.
The San Bernardino Mountains were on her right, low against the sky. She would be safer if she were closer to them. There would be better grazing for her horse, more chances of water.
Far behind her the boy lay in the brush, biting his fist to keep from crying.
The old man was hurt, maybe he was dying. He had done what the old man told him. Prepare the horse, have it ready, then get away. There was no reason he should die.
“What of you?” the boy asked.
“I am an old man. I will do what needs to be done and trust in the Good God for what comes. These are evil men, and she is a fine young woman.” At the last moment he had not been foolish. He fled, but with a good horse under him. Now he waited, wishing they would go away so he could go to Tomas. He was a boy without a family whom Tomas had befriended. Tomas had given him work, made a place for him where he was not really needed, but where he must find work that needed to be done.
The old man was down there, and he was hurting from the bullet, if he was not dead. The boy hoped he was not dead.
The young woman had shot one of them. She had shot that dark, ugly man whom he did not know. He was someone who rode with Biscal, someone who might be one of the men of Vasquez.
Beside the fire Tomas had his eyes almost shut. The hurt was very bad, and he, too, wished they would go. He lay very still, guarding himself against a sound, hoping they would think him dead.
There was much blood. He could feel it, and he could feel the hurt, but the little one was gone, she had gotten away, and the boy was gone, too. So be it. He was an old man, not new to suffering and hurt. He could accept it. He wished his rifle was nearer. He might kill one of them or both, and so let the boy come back, and then they might help the senorita. Hah! The small pistol! Who would have thought she had such a thing or would use it?
Iglesias walked over to him. Tomas heard his boots on the gravel. Suddenly he was kicked viciously in the ribs. He made no sound. To moan was to die. “It was a little gun,” Biscal said, “two barrels. I have seen such a one called a derringer, and she has shot twice.”
“She is unarmed, then?”
“Of course. Let us go. It is very wild land. She will be lost and wandering. Let her be without water and she will welcome us.”
“The small pistol,” Iglesias said. “Who would have believed?” He looked down at Tomas. “He was an old fool. He need not be dead. Who is he to interfere with me?”
Biscal looked sourly at the fallen man, then at the other one. “She shot true, the little one,” he said. “That one is dead, too.” He took up his rifle and walked toward the brush where the remaining horses had been picketed, away from the flies. “She will not go far,” Biscal commented. “Our horses will find her horse. Let us go.”
Iglesias looked around. “You get the horses,” he suggested.
When Biscal had gone, he walked to the fallen man and went through his pockets.
“Fifty pesos,” he muttered. “You had fifty pesos.” When he had it, he stood up and walked toward Tomas. “Bah,” he spoke aloud, “you had nothing. Not for even one drink. It is better you are dead.” Not until the last sound of their horses had died out did Tomas move, and when he moved, it hurt. The bullet, he believed, had gone through him, for there was blood under him, too.
The coffeepot was on the fire. It was his coffeepot, and neither Biscal nor Iglesias had bothered with it. Their drink was tequila. Well, he could use a little himself. He could use it now.
The boy came slowly down, watchful, leading his horse. “What can I do?” he asked.
“For the senorita there is nothing. Now it is in the hands of God.” He looked up at the boy. “For me, also, it is in the hands of God, and you.” “I have not the experience.”
“We will drink the coffee, some for you, some for me. Then you will put water in the pot, get it hot, and bathe around the wounds. I do not know what good it will do, but I shall feel better.”
“Does it hurt much?”
“A little. I have been hurt before.” His face was gray and his eyes showed, the hurt his lips would not reveal. “In my saddlebags there is tequila, a little only. I shall have a drink. Then, when you have bathed the wounds, you will put some on the wounds. Again, I do not know what it will do, but we shall see.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, and the boy became busy. “There are plants. My good mother knew them all. I shall have to think. I shall have to remember.”
The boy came with a blanket and put it about his shoulders, and they drank the coffee.
“Now,” Tomds said, “the washing.”
A stick dropped in the fire, and sparks went up. The boy filled the empty coffeepot and turned; then he stopped, frightened. A man was standing at the edge of the firelight, a man like he had not seen before. He walked on into the camp, a horse following him. He glanced around, at Tomas, then at the boy. “Yes,” he said, “make hot. I look at him. While I am looking, you tell me what has happened.”
Yacub Khan knelt beside Tomds and drew back the coat; then with a knife, razor sharp, he cut away the bloody shirt “Tell all. Leave nothing out. Where is she who rode with you?” As the boy talked, Yacub Khan went to his saddlebags. Working as he listened, he took the hot water when it was ready and bathed the wounds, front and back. Tomas’s eyes flickered and opened. He peered at Yacub Khan, wrinkling his brow. “Do not worry,” Yacub said. “I have experience with this. From long ago I have seen men gun-shot, saber-cut, and stabbed. Stab is often the worst. I do what can be done.”
When day was breaking, Tomas was resting. “Let him rest. When he is awake, make broth of the dried beef. I come this way again.” He paused a moment. “If I do not, wait five days and then take him home.”
Tired as she had been, Meghan had slept but fitfully. Dawn was breaking now, and the strangeness of the place awakened her. She had slept among trees at the mountain’s foot, and now she sat up. Her horse grazed placidly on a patch of grass nearby.
She was thirsty and hungry, but there was no time to think of that. Johannes was somewhere to the south, and fortunately Tomas had been leading them that way before the trouble began. She saddled her horse, watered him at a trickle of runoff water, and started south.