Читать книгу The Stronghold - Lisa Carter - Страница 9

Chapter 1

1

In the Sierra Madre a long time before

When the Mexicans—the Nakayé—came, she ran.

The Old One grabbed the rifle. “Do not let them take you, Ih-tedda.”

She did not wait to be told twice. She darted toward the brush. Only then did the other children run, too.

Behind them, pounding hooves. Guttural cries of defiance from the old woman. Gunfire. Curses from the riders in their hateful tongue. Bullets dinged the earth.

She flew swift as the wind and called under her breath to the name Nana had taught her. The children dogged her heels. The little one whimpered. The Other panted for breath. Their legs were not as long as hers. They’d not trained as she had.

If they could make the tree line . . . find the cave. Hide until the men grew tired of searching, of making sport . . .

Almost . . .

“Help me!” the Other cried. “We can’t keep up.”

Cursing her and the Nakayé, she slowed and scooped the little boy into her arms. The Other pointed to a clump of scrub brush. “There.”

Dragging them both, she hunkered under the scant cover. The boy wailed as a thorn bush pricked his bare legs. The Other laid her hand over his mouth. Beads of sweat and fear dribbled the length of her nose. They stared wide-eyed at each other.

The boy tried to squirm free of their tight hold. Angry, Ih-tedda placed her hands around his throat.

“No.” The Other tugged at her hands.

“We must not be taken. Last time, the Old One . . .”

The Other shook her head. Sadness filled her eyes. She trembled.

Ih-tedda, too, quivered at the memory of the last time the men found their camp. How the last protector had sacrificed his life to give the women time to escape. How a girl child had been too frightened to be quiet. The old woman had taken the child’s face between her hands and snapped her neck to stop the noise. And thus they’d escaped detection.

Her grip tightened on the boy.

“No,” hissed the Other.

Voices shouted. She and the Other ducked their heads. They covered the boy with their bodies and prayed to the name for invisibility. She wished the earth would swallow them whole to protect them from discovery.

Her breath caught at the sight of the scowling, scar-faced rancher leading the posse. He hated her people, Nana said, with a fierce, scorching hatred that would only be extinguished when their blood soaked the ground and he’d exterminated them from the earth.

Blood vengeance she understood. She vaguely recalled the woman of his they’d taken after leaving him for dead on the road. The woman had not lasted long in their camp. Carrion or traded, Ih-tedda didn’t remember which.

The boy twitched. Something in his hand rattled. The Other grabbed for him. But too late—

Scarface jerked his reins toward their hiding place. “Mira! Aquí!”

They’d been discovered.

Abandoning them to their fate, she dashed into the open and headed for the deer path. She scrambled from boulder to boulder. The Other heaved the boy from rock to rock.

Gunfire scored the cliff face. Dodging the flying chips, Ih-tedda climbed higher and higher.

Must not be taken, Nana’s words pounded in her brain. Must not be taken.

With a cry, the boy latched onto her long skirt, hampering her forward progress. Cursing him, she pried his tiny fingers free as he sobbed.

“Help us,” whispered the Other. “Do not leave us behind.”

Ih-tedda reached for the boy. His small body, shaking in terror, slumped against her chest. “Be brave,” she whispered in his ear.

And then jerking him away, she flung him over the rocks toward the mountain ponies who did not give up. Toward those who’d never give up until her kind were gone from the earth.

The Other screamed as his body bounced onto the hard-packed ground. The horses reared but stopped at the broken obstacle in their path. The Other grew as quiet as the boy lying in the pool of blood below. With a final glare, the Other descended from the precipice and lay beside the child. The men and their horses surrounded them, blocking them from Ih-tedda’s view.

Not waiting to learn their fate, she resumed her climb. Hand over hand, she pulled herself upward. Her bare feet scrabbled for placement. Rocks skittering, she turned to find Scarface, knife clutched between his teeth, climbing after her. Panic laced her heart. Her breath constricted, she hauled herself the last ten feet.

Wobbling, flailing, she edged as far as she dared until only nothingness yawned. And still he came, relentless as death. He removed the knife from his mouth and brandished it.

“Come,” he beckoned. “Come to me,” he crooned.

She’d heard the women talk. She understood what awaited her if taken alive. She’d heard of the slave markets.

Do not be taken, Nana had drilled over and over.

She swallowed and peered at the gorge beneath her feet. She swayed. Fear of the chasm assaulted her senses, numbed her heart, froze her reasoning.

He inched closer. She shrank until she could retreat no further.

One step and all would be over. Only darkness. Where was the name the old woman called upon now? Where had the name been when the men died, when the children were hungry and cold, when the soldados came?

She teetered. Her arms flailed. She righted herself.

And moved away from the edge.