Tomas was dead-of this she was sure. If not dead, then so badly hurt he could not help. The boy, if he escaped those others, would not know what to do. He would, if he could, ride home.
Iglesias and Biscal would follow her. They would be good trackers and they would come on fast. There were ways of hiding a trail, she supposed, but even had she known how, she had not the time. What she needed was a weapon. She had the pistol but no ammunition … yet, might there not be another cartridge or two in her saddlebags?
She was not in the desert, but at its edge, following a dim trail left, she expected, by Indians. Down lower she might find an easier trail, but also one more exposed. She was riding through foothills that were wooded or partly wooded.
The trail was suddenly open for some distance, so she rode faster. At the crest of a rise, she drew up among some pinons and glanced back. Was that dust?
She glanced ahead; the trail dipped down among the trees, then went up the slope opposite, winding higher along the slope. She would be visible while climbing, but there was no help for it. She rode on, glancing back from time to time. She had reached the bottom and was about to start up the far slope when her horse shied violently, almost unseating her.
She fought the animal for a moment, getting him under control, then started up the slope. What had it been? A mountain lion? A wolf? A bear? Suddenly off to her left she saw another trail coming up from the desert, apparently to merge with her trail. Frowning, she stood in the stirrups, looking ahead.
Nothing … Glancing back, she saw a rider come from the trees … Iglesias. Touching her spurs to her horse, she plunged ahead; then a rope shot from the brush and fell neatly around her horse’s neck. The horse reared, and she fell. Grabbing at the pommel, she failed to get a grip and hit the ground hard. Her skull rapped on a rock.
She felt the blow, felt a wave of fear and horror, then nothing … nothing at all.
Biscal came from the trees, coiling his rope. He glanced at the unconscious girl, then tied his horse and hers.
“You’d better hurry, Iglesias,” he said, “I think …” He had squatted beside her, but suddenly his eyes were riveted upon a foot, a foot in a moccasin, and it was the biggest foot he had ever seen. Awed, he tilted his head back as he came to his feet. His jaw dropped, and he gaped; his eyes went up and up… he screamed.
He started to step back, and a gigantic hand swept down and he was knocked from the path. He fell, hitting a rock ten feet below. His body slipped clear and fell again, bringing up on the rocks fifty feet below. His eyes opened to the sky and he whimpered, tried to draw his knees up and turn. He could not. His back was broken.
Iglesias … where was Iglesias? A shadow crossed his face, and Biscal opened his eyes.
A buzzard…
Fifty-seven
Her eyes opened to darkness and flickering shadows. She lay watching the weird lights dancing on the low ceiling without being consciously aware of them. They were just something that was there, like the dull ache in her head. After a while she closed her eyes, but when she opened them the flickering shadows were still there, doing a strange ballet on the ceiling of the cave. That was ridiculous, of course, yet it did look like a cave. But what would she be doing in a cave? She closed her eyes, living with the dull ache, a result of the fall, no doubt.
Fall? What fall? Oh … yes, of course. She had fallen from her horse, or been jerked from it. But who would … ? Her mind, still foggy, fumbled with the idea.
Now she was remembering. Somebody had thrown a lasso from the brush and jerked her from her horse. Biscal, that was the name. He had come from the brush coiling his rope as he walked toward her. That was the last thing she remembered.
Panic-stricken, she opened her eyes wide. Her fingers groped. She was lying on an animal skin, on a fur or hide, and she was in a cave and somebody had covered her with a blanket.
She was clothed except for her boots, which lay beside her. She started to sit up, but was hit by a wave of pain, so she lay back down. Something slipped across her eyes, and when she put up her hand, she found a damp cloth. It had been folded and placed across her brow. Slowly her mind fumbled its way back to awareness.
She listened for explanatory sounds. Beyond the crackling from the fire there was nothing. She turned her eyes toward the inner blackness of the cave, for this was a cave. Against the back wall she made out a rifle rack holding two rifles, and standing nearby, a pair of the largest snowshoes she had ever seen. On a rock shelf near them was a row of books.
Books? In a cave? She turned her head toward the fire. The fireplace had been built against the wall, and judging by the flames, had a good draft. Nearby, other shelves were lined with cooking utensils. There was a wood box as well as an ax and a cross-cut saw. Obviously this was no temporary shelter but a place where somebody actually lived, at least from time to time. Who had brought her here? What kind of person would live in such a place? There was a solid, tight-fitting door with hinges, one of the largest doors she had ever seen other than on a stable. Looking around again, she realized the cave was a permanent habitation prepared by a neat, careful person who enjoyed reading. That could be neither Biscal nor Iglesias, who were vaqueros turned outlaw.
Suddenly the latch lifted and the door opened outward, grasped by a hand as large as a dinner plate. She sat up quickly as the door was filled with the most tremendous human being she had ever seen. A huge head with beetling brows, bulging cheekbones, and a massive jaw. He came into the cave, closing the door behind him.
“Do not be frightened. I am your friend.”
He placed her saddlebags on the floor near her. “Your horse is cared for. All is well. You may rest.”
There was an amazing resonance to his voice, as though he spoke from a deep well. “The banditos? Do not fear them. They are gone.” “What happened?”
He sat upon the floor. Sitting down, he was almost as tall as she. “One caught you with his rope. He was surprised when I stepped down from the rocks, but he reached for his gun.” The giant was embarrassed. “I slapped him over the cuff. He fell on rocks, far below.”
“And the other one?”
“His horse was frightened.” There was a shadow of amusement in the big man’s eyes. “I have that effect on horses that do not know me. The horse ran away with him.”
He turned to the fire. “Will you have coffee? You must pardon the poor things I have here. This is just a place where I stay sometimes when I am in these mountains.” He paused, glancing at her. “Sometimes I am not well. I have headaches and must be prepared for that.” He pointed off to the south. “My home is in the San Jacintos.”
“You are Tahquitz!”
He chuckled. It was an amazing, rather marvelous sound. “Tahquitz! He used to capture maidens and take them to his cave and eat them.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “But I am not hungry!”
“I’m certainly glad you’re not, but I am! Dreadfully hungry!”
He handed her the coffee. “I have little here, but I will see what can be done.”
He glanced around at her. “You are Meghan Laurel. I am Alfredo.” He took down a frying pan and a slab of bacon. He began slicing bacon into the pan with an amazingly sharp knife. “Do you know who Alfredo is? Alfredo is the disgrace. Alfredo is the shame. Alfredo was born large and grew larger, and my father was embarrassed. He hid me away and then brought me to California, but on a different ship. Then he gave me to a servant and gave her money to take me away. Anywhere away from him. He could not stand it that he had sired a monster.” He added sticks to the fire. “She was a rare woman, that servant, a rare, rare woman.
“She had come from Spain with him, and she loved my mother and loved me, too, if you can believe that.”