Francisco went for her horse. “You go too soon,” he said. “It is long since we have talked.”
“Remember the wild plums we used to find at that place on Snow Creek Trail?” I said. “It would be good to go there again.”
He nodded, putting his hands on his hips. “You come back. You and your woman. We build a kish for you. You stay.”
Meghan, when we were riding away, asked what a kish was. “A shelter … a house.
Often around here it is built of palm fronds.”
We rode on, talking only a little, happy to be together. Yet I remembered what Francisco had said about Iglesias and turned often to look back. “There is an Indian village ahead,” I said. “We will stop there. I know them. It is a place where Peter Burkin often stopped when he rode through.” “He will be an old man now?” she asked.
“I suppose so. I do not think much of ages. People are people. What does it matter how old or young they are? It is a category, and I do not like categories. It is a sort of pigeonhole or a label. But it would be good to see Peter.”
Iglesias was a frightened man. It was not only his horse that had been scared. He had seen the huge man loom up before him and he had seen the casual whip of the great hand that nipped Biscal off into the gorge. When he finally got his horse stopped, he was far up Burns Canyon, so he kept going, camping that night in Round Valley under the looming peak of Tip Top Mountain. When morning came, he fixed a small breakfast and considered. Maybe he had been dreaming. It was fantastic. There could be no such creature as he believed he had seen.
But that girl! She was real, vital, beautiful. In all his life he had seen nothing like her hair of red-gold, her slim, lovely body. He wet his lips with his tongue and swore. To have such a one and let her get away? He had to be stupid.
Yet … her home was in Los Angeles, and she would be going back. To go back meant she had to go through San Gorgonio Pass. If he were to take the Cienaga Seca Trail to Big Meadows, he could go up South Fork and cross over to the Falls Creek Trail. He had done it once, with several others, to escape some ranchers who were pursuing them.
He might get down into the pass and by discreet questioning discover whether the girl had gone past. It would not be easy, but he planned to ride into Los Angeles anyway.
He allowed his horse to graze a bit longer while he thought out the way. He camped that night in Cienaga Seca. Once, on the following morning as he was riding into Big Meadows, he looked back and thought he caught some movement. Deer, probably. There were a lot of them around. Yet before turning up South Fork, he looked back again.
Nothing…
A mile up the canyon, he camped. The wind off the peak was cold. Perhaps he was a fool. What did one woman matter? But such a woman! He drew his scrape around him and thought about her as he stared into the fire. Somebody would be with her. One man, no doubt. Wait for the right moment and shoot him down.
Stopping for a drink near Dollar Lake, he was getting into the saddle again when his horse’s head jerked up, ears pricked. Although Iglesias watched his back trail for the next few miles, he saw nothing.
Tomorrow he would be in the pass. Tonight he would rest well. He checked his rifle. Tomorrow, one shot for him, one for the horse. Of course, there might be more than one man with her, and that would complicate matters. Yet … he had done it before.
Before his eyes opened he heard the fire crackle and was immediately alert. His fire should be down to mere coals, and a fire does not crackle unless with fresh fuel … He opened his eyes.
A man was squatting on his haunches beside the fire, roasting a strip of meat over the flames.
He was not a tall man, but was enormously thick and strong. Iglesias could see the powerful muscles in his shoulders and arms, and the thick thighs that bulged the material of his pants.
Slowly, warily, Iglesias turned over and sat up. The man smiled at him. “You sleep soundly,” the man said. An accent, but not Spanish, not German … “In your business it does not be good to sleep too soundly.” Iglesias was wary, but his pistol was under his jacket on the ground near him.
His knife was there also. “And what is my business?” Iglesias asked. “You are a thief,” the stranger said. “Occasionally a murderer. And you attack women,” he added.
“I could kill you for that,” Iglesias said.
“You mean you would like to kill me for that.” The man looked into Iglesias’s eyes and smiled. “But you could not kill me, you could not kill me at all.” The man took the piece of meat in his fingers, and Iglesias knew it was hot, but the man did not wince. If it burned, he showed no sign of pain. Casually Iglesias let his hand drop to the jacket, and the stranger smiled again, tearing off a small bit of the meat with his teeth. “Do not look for the pistol. It is gone.
“So is the knife. I took it away while you slept.” The man smiled again. “My rifle is on my horse, but I shall not need it, either.” “What is all this talk? Who are you?”
“If you had gone back where you came from, you might have lived,” the stranger said, “but you decided to try to find the young lady again. That was when I knew you must die.”
“What are you talking about? Are you loco?”
“You do not learn. She escaped from you, and you followed. You left one of your friends-“ “I have no friends!”
“Naturally not. One of your companions, then. You left him dead and unburied.
Then you almost came up to her, when your other companion was killed.”
“Who are you?”
“Who? It does not matter, really, but I am Yacub Khan. A friend of the young lady and her father. A friend, also, I believe, of the young man-Johannes Verne.” He smiled again. “But no friend of yours.” Iglesias was thinking. This man did not seem to be armed, yet he was obviously very strong. To fight him was out of the question. Yet, a stick, a stone … What would the man do if he simply got up and walked to his horse? He got up, and the man continued to eat. Iglesias stared at him, uncertain what to expect. “You talk too much!” he said. “I shall leave.” “Look around you. Take a good, careful look. I want you to see this place. Really see it. Lovely, is it not? The sunshine on the water? The leaves rustling, the-“ Iglesias stooped suddenly and picked up a thick stick. The man simply looked at him, finished what he was eating, and stood up. “Look around you,” he said again. “Even one so evil as you can appreciate beauty. I want you to look, because it is the last thing you will ever see.” “You’re crazy!” Iglesias began to walk toward his horse. He sensed rather than saw movement. He lifted his stick and felt the stranger’s hand grasp his shirtfront. Iglesias struck down with the stick, but his hand was at an awkward angle and he could not use it with force. Yacub Khan was right against his body. A hand moved up; he felt the shock of the blow, and something within him burst.
Yacub Khan held his grip, looking into the panic-stricken eyes. “If you had gone the other way, you might have lived,” he said, and dropped him. Walking across to Iglesias’s horse, he stripped off its gear and turned it loose. Then he went to his own horse and mounted. A valley opened to the westward, a widening valley with a creek in the bottom. Turning his horse, he followed it. No doubt it would emerge in the pass or just beyond it. Anyway, the direction was right.
Iglesias lay on the grass, trying to catch his breath. It would not come, but blood did. It came up from his mouth and ran down the side of his face and neck and to the pine needles.
Sixty
It was quiet in the large room. Don Isidro sat in his cowhide chair, staring out across the patio. Elena, working with her needle, glanced at him. He rarely talked to her, but now he did not talk to anyone. “I shall return to Spain,” he said suddenly.