Читать книгу Roma Arroyo - The Will Austin Adventure Series - Jackie Boone's Phillips - Страница 3

Northern Mexico, 1884. Approximately 50 miles south of Roma, Texas.

The hot September wind swept across the plain, rattling the dried cornstalks of their field, and Pilar glanced up involuntarily. The day didn’t feel right, though she couldn’t put her finger on the source of her fear. It was fire season in this part of northern Mexico, and her family had been watching for the signs of smoke for the last month, but she did not believe that this was the cause of her discomfort. There was something else, something that wasn’t right in the area, and it struck deeper in her heart than a fire would have. She gazed across the fields, squinting her eyes against the sun and searching for the cause of her discomfort.

“Pilar, if you continue to daydream we will never get our job done,” her brother Santiago snapped, interrupting her thoughts.

Pilar glanced at him and sighed. He was right, of course, though she hated to admit it. They had been sent by their mother to gather the last of the year’s corn before it went bad in the field. These cobs had been left to dry on the stalks, for winter storage and grinding, but were ready to come in now. The stalks themselves were dried and ready for tilling into the earth. There they would enrich the soil for next year’s planting, and ensure another year of successful harvest. Gathering the corn cobs was an important job, though both Pilar and her brother were comfortable with the responsibility; they were 11 and 12, respectively, and had been gathering the crops for as long as either could remember.

That didn’t mean that Pilar appreciated being under his thumb. She was just as capable of doing the job as he was, and more in tune with the world around her.

She tilted her chin up in silent protest and took another step into the cornfield to look for the remaining cobs. They had driven one of the family’s wagons out to the cornfield in the early morning to finish the gathering, and were already halfway through the field. It would be an early finish for them today. As long as things went the way they should. Pilar felt the prickling in her spine again, though, and frowned.

“Santiago, something is not right here,” she mumbled quietly. “I will be glad to get home and away from this place.”

Her brother snorted. “We’ve been here at least one million times, and nothing has ever happened before. You will be glad to stop working and get home to your dolls,” he teased. “I know you.”

Pilar smiled despite her fear. Santiago was her older brother, and had been her best friend since the day she was born. He was the one who had raised her, taught her to ride her first pony, and shown her how to shoot a gun. He was also the only one she allowed close to her – the only person on the ranch allowed to tease her in this way.

“One of these days, Brother, you will listen when I have a–”

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, followed by several more. The sound tore through the air around them and drowned out Pilar’s words. She gasped and froze, her eyes darting across the land to her left. There. Gunfire in the woods to the east. At least three guns, and they were still shooting. She turned back toward the cornfield, desperately searching for her brother, but he was not where she had last seen him. Her eyes found only corn stalks, swaying in the wind. Pilar froze, her heart pounding.

“Santiago!” she whispered fiercely. “Where are you, Santiago?”

She began to run, crashing through the corn stalks and their razor-sharp edges, and trying to find her way to the wagon. Before she had gone three steps, though, a hand snaked out from the vegetation, grabbing her ankle and bringing her down. She opened her mouth to scream, but the hand that had grasped her ankle moved quickly to cover her mouth and muffle any sound that came out of her mouth.

“Shhhh! What are you thinking, crashing through the field, making so much noise? Do you want them to shoot you, too?”

Pilar stilled on the ground, breathing heavily. Santiago. It was Santiago. He was safe, and she was not alone. She reached up to pull his hand away from her mouth.

“I could not see you. I was afraid that you had left me alone,” she mumbled.

“Silly girl,” he muttered back. He raised his head from the ground and peered in the direction of the forest. Pilar stopped her movement, listening with him. The gunshots had stopped, and all was quiet in the forest. Eerily quiet.

Pilar licked her lips and swallowed heavily. “Santiago, who would be this close to the ranch? Who would bring guns to this place?”

Santiago shook his head slowly, then pushed himself up from the ground. “I do not know, Sister, but it is not our place to find out, and it’s far too dangerous. We must get back to the ranch and warn the others that there has been trouble.”

Pilar stood, placing a hand on her brother’s arm. “Santiago, they may be hurt. We must at least find out.”

Santiago looked at her as though she had lost her mind, then shook his head and turned away. “Pilar, there are times when I don’t understand you. They are strangers. They are not our problem. You put too much of your heart out to other people, and it is bound to get you hurt someday. I am not going to find out who these people are, and neither are you.” He stopped and turned toward her, his brows drawn down over his eyes. “Pilar, it is too dangerous. Surely you can see that?”

Pilar pressed her lips together and squared her shoulders, planting her feet in place. “Santiago Arroyo, where is your humanity? Those are people in the woods, and they may be hurt. Even dying. They may be our friends, and they may need help. The Good Lord tells us to help those in need, no matter who they are.”

The boy turned to face his sister, his brows drawn down in a dark frown. “Pilar, it is dangerous–”

She paused for a moment, then found her opening. “It would be an adventure, Santiago,” she replied, her eyes dancing. “Think of it. Perhaps they are cowboys, and they have killed banditos(italics). Perhaps we will be heroes for saving them.” She suppressed a smile and watched her brother’s face soften. Santiago could never turn down an adventure, and she always kept this as her final argument for any situation.

“Perhaps, if we were careful…” he murmured.

“I am going with or without you,” she continued, turning toward the forest where the gunshots had sounded out. “Do you want to be the one left behind?”

She began to walk quickly toward the forest, keeping low beneath the stalks of the cornfield so that she was hidden from view. Behind her, she heard a low moan and then Santiago’s footsteps, and smiled. Her brother was brave and strong, but he could never win out against her arguments. He moved up beside her, crouching low and putting a hand out to stop her. She allowed him to move in front of her, knowing that he would protect her with his own life, and keep her safe from whatever lay ahead. He was much bigger and stronger than she was, and the sight of him sheltering her warmed her heart and boosted her courage. Whatever happened, she knew, they would face it together.

They crept out of the cornfield and crossed the wide lane before them to enter the woodland. This was an old wood, with tall, strong trees above and a range of soft grasses and ferns below. The soft moss and fern matter on the floor of the forest cushioned their feet and silenced their footsteps, allowing them to dart from tree to tree with no sound. Soon they had come to a large clearing in the woods. Smoke drifted up from the clearing, indicating a campfire there.

Santiago turned and put a finger to his lips, motioning to himself and to the clearing ahead. He pointed to Pilar, then firmly to the ground. Pilar nodded. He was going ahead to see what was in the clearing, and she was to stay here. She watching him drop to the ground and crawl forward toward the opening, keeping his body close to the ground and below the ferns and shrubs of the forest. When he got to the clearing, he peaked around the tree in front of him, then stood and slowly stepped from behind the tree. Turning, he gestured to Pilar to come to him.

She ran through the forest as quietly as she could, anxious to see what had happened in the clearing. She caught up with her brother quickly and glanced around the tree to the clearing. Her breath caught in her throat at what she saw.

“Are they dead?” she asked quietly.

“I would say so,” her brother answered, matching her tone. “They have not moved.”

Before them, five men lay on the ground, riddled with bullet holes. One of the men had been shot in the face, and was obviously dead. The others had wounds in their chests, abdomens and even legs. None of them moved.

Pilar stepped carefully into the clearing. “This is a fresh campfire. Still burning. Some of these men were camping here.”

Santiago grunted, moving toward the men. “These two are certainly dead,” he replied, looking down at the men before him. “Mexican men, roughly dressed, and another there,” he pointed to a third Mexican man, laying a few feet from the first two. He looked up toward his sister. “These men have been traveling. They are filthy and stink.”

Pilar had moved toward the men on the other side of the campfire, and knelt down beside the first. She looked up at her brother, shocked. “These are white men, Santiago.”

Her brother raced to her side, dropping down to his knees beside her. “Americans,” he breathed. He reached out to touch the man’s forehead, then drew his hand back. “What are they doing here? Why would white men have come this far south? To engage in a gunfight with Mexican ranchers?” He moved toward the stack of gear sitting next to the man, and began to rummage through it.

Pilar moved to the other man and looked down at him. Americans. Her mother was American, and had told her stories of the people in her homeland, but Pilar had never met any of them herself. She stared at the man at her feet, wondering what had brought him here, to meet this fate in the woods. He had a strong, kind face, though he looked as though he’d been living rough for several weeks. Her eyes ran down his chest to his belt, then quickly back up. His chest was rising and falling. This man was still alive.

“Santiago!” she muttered sharply, drawing her brother to him. “This man is alive. He has been shot in the thigh and chest, but he is breathing.” She glanced up at her brother, her eyes sharp. “We must get him home so that Mother can tend to his wounds.”

Santiago glanced down, ready to protest his sister’s generosity, and noticed that the man’s eyes were open. He closed his mouth and ducked toward the injured man. “Please,” the American breathed. “Water. Please help me.” The man’s eyes rolled back before he could say more, and his head dropped back to the ground.

Santiago looked up at his sister and nodded. “You are right. We must help this man, and quickly. Go get the horse. We must get him into the wagon.”

***

Pilar galloped ahead of the wagon on her horse, rushing toward the ranch. She was the faster rider, and had ridden ahead of her brother and the wagon to warn her mother and the other ranch hands about the situation. Carrying the American to the wagon had been very hard work, and she was already exhausted. She pressed on, though, fearing for the man’s life. Fearing for the possible consequences of his death. Santiago rattled along behind her, driving the wagon at a slower pace to avoid harming the already injured man.

Before long she was at the outskirts of the ranch, flying past the outbuildings, the barn, and the corrals where they held the horses. This was a large, well-established horse ranch, and took up over 500 acres on its own. Normally she found the size to be a benefit – it kept strangers away from the house at the center, and gave her plenty of areas to find privacy. Today, though, the ranch’s size was a detriment. She put her heels to her mare’s sides, asking for more speed, and began to scream for her mother.

“Mama! Mama! Necesito! Necesito!(italics)” she shouted, her eyes flying over the courtyard that served as the center of the ranch. Her mother ran the ranch with other members of her husband’s family, and had years of experience in treating injured people. She would save the American they had found. But where would she be at this time of day? Pilar hauled her horse to a stop and jumped to the ground, turning in a circle as she called.

***

Elizabeth Arroyo came running from one of the barns, where she had been helping with one of the younger horses. The filly was several weeks old, and still having trouble nursing. She had been doing her best to teach the young horse to find her mother’s milk and nurse on her own. She had dropped the filly at the sound of her daughter’s screams, though, and rushed out. Several of the ranch hands followed her, alarmed at the sound of Pilar’s panic. Elizabeth spotted her daughter and raced toward her, scanning her body for signs of harm. When she reached the girl she pulled her into her arms, holding her close and searching every inch of her body for injury.

“Pilar, what is it?” she asked, pulling back and looking her daughter in the face. “Why are you screaming? Where is your brother?”

Pilar visibly slowed her breathing and started to speak. “Mama, Santiago is on his way. We were in the cornfield, gathering the last of the corn…”

As Pilar told her story, Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. A gunfight, so close to the ranch? And with her children there? Americans in the forest? What would they be doing so far south, and what did it mean that one had been killed, on her own property?

She turned quickly to the ranch hand standing next to her. “Miguel, ready one of the rooms in the hands’ house. This man will need a bed and a quiet place to sleep. Juan,” she continued, turning to another, “take my daughter back out to find Santiago. He has a wounded man. Bring him back here. And be careful – there may be other men out there that we do not know of. They may be armed, and they may be dangerous.”

Both men nodded and went quickly to their work. Elizabeth held a hand out to the second man, stopping him. “Juan. Take care of my children, please,” she muttered quietly. Turning, she followed Miguel to the hands’ house, where she housed her ranch hands and cowboys. She would need clean bedding, boiling water, needles and sutures, the tools of her trade, and her medications. One American had already died on her ranch. If she could save the second, she would.

***

The man in the wagon was well built, with dark, wavy hair and a handsome face. He was also disturbingly pale. Lifting the vest from his chest, Elizabeth could see why. The gunshot wound to his shoulder was deep, and he had lost a lot of blood. She turned her eyes to the wound on his thigh and breathed a sigh of some relief. That wound could have been worse, with the great vein that ran through the leg. The bullet had merely grazed the muscle, though, and passed cleanly by. That wound had lost some blood, and might delay his ability to walk, but was not as serious as the one to the shoulder.

“Move him to the bed we have prepared,” she told the two men at her side. “Quickly. Carefully. Very, very carefully.” She watched quietly as the men lifted the American from the wagon bed and carried him toward the house. He was badly wounded, but his wounds were not fatal. Not yet.

Once he was in the room and lying on the bed, Elizabeth sent the men from the room. Healing was women’s work, with men getting in the way and interfering more often than anything else. She had a skill for healing, and had been working with injuries since she was a young girl. If she needed help setting a bone, she would call the men back. Turning, she considered the man on the bed, and wondered. This was a good-looking man, with clear skin and breeding beneath the dirt on his face. He had been traveling for weeks, given the state of his clothing, and hadn’t been living well. That was to be expected, though, when men were in the wilds. His face and clothing were not meant for rough living. This was not a man meant for gunfights and death alone in a deserted forest. What was he doing here?

She bent over and carefully pulled the cloth from his chest, then used her scissors to slice his shirt up the front. As she pulled the pieces away, she gasped and pulled back. The wound to the shoulder was worse than she had anticipated. The bullet had ripped through the skin and muscles of his shoulder, leaving behind torn and broken flesh. It was lodged up against the bone, its side gleaming dully against the ripped and bloody muscle around it.

Elizabeth swallowed and sat back, pushing the wisps of her long, dark hair from her eyes. She’d seen wounds like this before, and she knew the consequences. The wound on the man’s thigh required nothing more than stitching, and would be relatively simple. This wound, on the other hand … she would have to pull the bullet out and cleanse the entire area, then stitch the torn muscle back together in layers to encourage healing. The flesh would either knit back together or not, and there was a chance that the man would die of blood loss or infection. He may not live through the surgery. He may never recover the use of his arm. If he did live, he would have to rest and avoid any movement for at least three months. If he did live, he would have to remain at her ranch for at least that long.

Elizabeth sighed again and took up her needle, reaching for the cat gut thread that would bind the wound. The man would not be convenient, but it was not in her nature to allow a man to die.

***

Elizabeth walked slowly out of the room several hours later, wiping her hands on a rag. She had done the best she could for the man, and thought that she may have done enough, but knew that time alone would tell. Looking into the courtyard, she saw that night was almost upon them; the sky had faded to a rosy purple, and the shadows were long on the ground. Her son and daughter were in the corral, working with one of the young horses from last year’s crop. The colt had been weaned for over a year but still pining for his mother, and required a gentle touch. He enjoyed the company of the children, and consented to eat and drink only when they were there. Elizabeth watched Pilar, who was more talented with the horses than her brother, and smiled. The girl would end up running the ranch one day, Elizabeth knew, and probably doing a better job than she herself did.

Pilar looked up and saw her mother at that moment, and came running.

“Mama, how is the American man?” she asked breathlessly.

Elizabeth shrugged eloquently. “He is alive, for the moment. I do not know if he will last, and I do not know how well he will heal if he lives, but I have done my best for him.”

“He will live,” the girl said confidently. “I am sure of it.”

Elizabeth let her eyes rest on her daughter, wondering. She believed her daughter that the man would live, she realized; Pilar had premonitions and feelings unlike any other person Elizabeth had ever met. It was unnerving, at times, but often accurate. She wondered if her daughter had been gifted with a sort of Second Sight, or if she was merely emotionally connected to the people around her. Either way, it was a good thing that they were isolated; that kind of premonition was too often taken for witchcraft in other areas of the world, and it would have put the girl in danger. Shaking her head, she turned to her son, who had joined them. This one, on the other hand, was as sturdy and practical as anyone; Elizabeth was often shocked that the two were related.

“Santiago, I need to know what else was at this camp of the Americans. Perhaps there is something there to identify this man, help us find his family.”

Santiago nodded slowly. “Blankets and saddle bags for horses, but no horses. They must have run off during the shooting. There were four dead bodies, but only one of them was American,” he answered.

Elizabeth bit her lip. “We must bury the other bodies out of respect, and to avoid suspicion. They were killed on our property, and it will go badly for us if they are found here.” She looked up at her son. “Santiago, can you find this place again? If I send you to take care of this, will you be careful, and do what must be done?”

“Of course, Mama,” he answered, eager to help.

“You must be very careful. These men may not have been alone, and there may be others looking for them. No one can know that you were involved, or that you saw what happened.” Elizabeth looked closely at Santiago, concerned. They didn’t have many problems in this area, but she had heard of a group of banditos(italics) making trouble recently, and knew that all of Mexico was an open hiding place for lawless men. If her son – or her ranch – was seen to be part of a killing of such men, and the rest of their gang heard about it … Santiago reached out and grasped her arm, nodding, and she nodded in return. “You will leave in the morning with the wagon. I will send several of the men with you to help. Bring back the dead American, any of the Americans’ baggage, but bury the rest of it. We do not want to be accused of theft.”

Pilar grabbed her hand as she turned away, and pulled her back around to face them. “Mama, should I go as well?”

Elizabeth shook her head gently. “No, Pilar, this is a job for the men. I will need you here with me, in case this American wakes up and needs more help.”

“Why do you want his things, Mama? Why not bury them with the others?”

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “We do not know who this man is, my love. Perhaps his things will help us identify him, and tell us whether he is an enemy, or a friend.”

***

Elizabeth walked back to the room where the American slept and looked down at the injured man, his right arm immobilized in a sling. His wounds had stopped bleeding, and some color had returned to his cheeks, but he was not yet safe. The wounds could become infected, or refuse to heal. If they did, the infection could move to his blood, and from there to his entire body. If he awoke, he may not thank her for saving his life, given the pain he would feel. She did not think that he would wake soon, but if he did, she wanted to be nearby.

She moved to his side, gathering the things he had brought with him. His gun holster was empty, though she assumed he had been holding his gun when he was shot; the weapon must still be in the clearing in the forest. She made a mental note to ask Santiago to look for it, and glanced at the rest of the gear. The belt attached to the holster still held several long knives for throwing and cutting. She moved this belt carefully away from the man, thinking that they would all be safer if the weapons were out of reach when he woke up. She pulled his shirt away from his body again, and slowly eased it out from under his weight, putting it to the side. She stripped the vest away from the shirt and looked at her hands in disgust. The man’s clothes were filthy, and smelt vaguely of raw alcohol. She glanced quickly down at the clothing, then paused and looked more closely. Deep brown buckskin pants and a matching vest. The shirt was fine white linen, underneath the layers of blood and grime, and the boots were well made. The clothing had fine, straight stitching. These were not handmade clothes. They did not come from the man’s wife or even a ranch seamstress, and they certainly hadn’t been made in the quick, rough pattern of a Texan seamstress.

Elizabeth folded the clothes carefully and put them on the bed, then stepped back. This man was wealthy, and that meant that he was also important, and therefore potentially dangerous, she thought. She sighed again, and looked back at the man lying on the bed.

“Who are you, and what are you doing on my property?” she asked quietly.

She moved back to the bed to remove his fine gloves, and noticed a gold wedding band on his left hand. She glanced at the man’s face again. Very few men wore wedding rings in this area, and those who did were either very rich or very sentimental. The thought made her pause, and she looked out the window, remembering a time and place that no longer existed. Her own husband had worn a wedding ring, once, though she hadn’t seen it since he had been killed by the thieves in the field. A smile touched her lips as she remembered. He had bought the ring himself, but that had never tempered his pleasure in the gift. He’d taken pride in the band, and had shown it to everyone he met when they first married. He’d told everyone that it was his own symbol of love, and that wearing the ring meant that he carried his wife with him.

The man on the bed coughed, bringing Elizabeth back to the present, and she firmed her mouth. It wasn’t good for her to stand around wishing to rewrite the past, and it certainly didn’t help those around her. She placed the belt with the knives out of her American friend’s reach, then moved to the chair by the window to work on her sewing until he awoke.

***

Elizabeth stayed with the man through the night and into the next day. She did not want him to wake up alone or in pain, and she wanted to keep him from moving as much as possible. She sewed and knitted as she waited, taking care of the last month’s mending and diving into the need for warmer winter clothing. This was a warm, mild area of the country, and didn’t present harsh winter weather. The colder season always required heavier blankets for the children, though, along with thicker socks and sweaters. She hummed to herself while she sewed, remembering the songs that her mother sang to her when she was young. Her mother had sung special songs when her children were sick, and always swore that they helped the sickness leave the body. Elizabeth had never believed that herself, but had found comfort in her mother’s voice. She’d also realized the value of that comfort, in itself, and had started singing to her own children when they were born. Now she hoped that the sound of her voice would bring the American back to the land of the living, and possibly give him some comfort while he slept.

Within a few hours of sunrise, the man began to develop a fever. His skin became flushed and hot to the touch, and his sleep dissolved into fitful episodes of tossing and turning. Elizabeth shouted for help and water, and began to strip the man of his remaining clothing. When help arrived, she soaked rags in the cold water and piled them around the man, seeking to bring the fever down. After a couple of hours of replacing the rags and praying, Elizabeth felt the man’s face to find that his temperature had returned to normal. She sighed in relief and moved back to her empty chair. Overcome with the fatigue and stress of the work, she fell asleep as soon as she sat down.