Ambush at Shadow Valley (9 page)

As if on cue, Clarimonde looked back at him for just a moment. With a flat stare she veered the paint horse quarter-wide, raised her dress all the way up her pale, bare thigh and caressed herself ever so slightly with her fingertips. ‘‘Oh my goodness,'' he purred under his breath. Then the paint horse straightened and Clarimonde nudged it up closer to Soto before turning her flat stare away from Ransdale.

For more than a half hour, the three climbed an ever steeper and rockier trail until they reached a place where a narrow, grown-over path broke away and vanished into a deep forest. ‘‘Here's the path just where she told us it would be,'' Soto said back to Ransdale. As he spoke he sidled over to Clarimonde, reached out and adjusted the front of her torn and disheveled dress to better cover her breasts. ‘‘Fix yourself up,'' he said. ‘‘Get ready to do what I ask of you.''

She started to plead, to protest, to say whatever she thought might prevent them from riding to the old Spanish mission. But upon looking into Soto's eyes, she realized that nothing she could say would change his mind. ‘‘Tell me what you want me to do,'' she said submissively.

‘‘That's my
Clarimonde
,'' Soto said, nudging his horse forward, the two horses walking side by side, his boot touching her bare foot.

Ransdale watched the two in torment and disgust. He spit in the dirt and ran a dusty sleeve across his dry lips. ‘‘I'll get my part of her, and then some,'' he whispered to some unseen force. ‘‘Make no mistake about that.''

The old Spanish mission stood against the rocky hillside at the end of a narrow, stone trail. The entire fortlike structure had long been grown over in a tangle of hanging vines and a carpet of wild-flowers, junipers and ferns. Inside the large wooden gates, the old Mayan Indian heard the voice of the woman call out from the trail; he immediately climbed to the top of a rickety catwalk atop the stone wall and looked down at her.

‘‘Will you let me in, please?'' Clarimonde called up to him, her voice slightly atremble. ‘‘I am a herder from the lower hills. I need food and water. Please open the door and let me in.''

Without a word of response, the Mayan disappeared down out of sight. ‘‘What kind of black heathen refuses food and water to a poor woman traveling alone?'' said Ransdale, starting to reach for his holstered Colt. ‘‘I'll shoot a way in if this is how they're going to act.''

‘‘Easy, Nate,'' said Soto, staring up along the ancient stone wall. ‘‘He's gone to get someone. They'll open the door for her. It's their custom.''

The two sat atop their horses, out of sight behind a veil of hanging vines and twisted cedar branches. A silent moment passed; then a small door built into the larger door began to creak open. ‘‘There, you see?'' Soto said with a half smile. ‘‘I know how these people think. They can't turn away a stranger.''

‘‘It's about damn time,'' Ransdale grumbled under his breath, sizing up the old woman who walked out on brittle ankles and motioned Clarimonde down from her saddle.

‘‘What's going to keep our dear Clarimonde from ducking inside and locking us out?'' Ransdale asked, getting anxious.

‘‘She won't,'' Soto said confidently, ‘‘She's too afraid of what we'll go back and do to the old man.''

‘‘There's no way we'd ride back all that way just to kill that old turd,'' said Ransdale.

‘‘But she doesn't know that,'' Soto grinned. The two nudged their horses forward as Clarimonde and the old woman started to lead the paint horse through the open door.

Hearing the hoofbeats across the stone path behind them, Clarimonde clutched the old woman's forearm and whispered tearfully as she held the small door open for the advancing killers, ‘‘God forgive me for what I have brought here.''

Chapter 7

From his room high above the ancient stone courtyard, the old priest heard the sound of horses' hooves and angry voices. Hurrying to the balcony, he looked down in time to hear a short scream from the young French nun who had run from her garden at the sight of the old nun being knocked aside by the two galloping horses.

‘‘Oh no, they are inside the wall!'' the priest gasped, seeing one American down from his saddle in the middle of the courtyard while the other sat atop his horse, looking up toward his chambers as if he knew where to find him.

‘‘Good day to you,'' Soto called out, his wrists crossed on his saddle horn. ‘‘I hope we didn't arrive at a bad time.'' He spread his hand toward Ransdale.

The old priest's eyes followed Soto's gesture to where Ransdale stood, knife in hand. Having knocked the young nun's straw sun hat from her head, Ransdale held her by her short-cropped hair. His horse, the paint horse and the other spare horse ran in wild circles about the courtyard. ‘‘Turn her loose this instant! She is an innocent,
a novice
! Who are you? What do you want here?'' the priest demanded in a scorching tone.

Soto raised a gloved hand and motioned him down with his finger. ‘‘Get your pious ass down here before me, and we'll talk about it,'' he said in a grim tone.

‘‘I am not coming down there so that you will have all of us under your power. These doors have withstood worse than you.'' The priest jutted his chin defiantly. ‘‘I have a gun up here!''

Soto said, ‘‘Then you had better get ready to use it. He's going to cleave her head to the bone.''

‘‘You would not dare!'' the shaken priest gasped in disbelief. ‘‘She is not yet a
monja
, but she is still a
hermana de la fe
!'' he said instinctively.

‘‘Say another word to me in Spanish,'' Soto replied casually, ‘‘I'll have my pard climb up there and cut out your tongue.''

The priest bit his lip to keep from shouting what went through his mind. Hastily composing himself he said, ‘‘Even though she has not taken her vows, she is still a sister of the faith—''

‘‘I heard you the first time,'' said Soto, cutting him off. ‘‘I hate the Spanish language. It offends me.'' He gave a cruel grin. ‘‘Are you coming down, or do you want him to scalp her and slit her throat?''

The priest looked over at the cruel, eager expression on Ransdale's face for only a moment, then relented and said, ‘‘I'm—I'm coming down. Do not hurt her,
por fav
—'' He caught himself and corrected his words quickly, ‘‘I mean,
please
, do not hurt her.''

‘‘You learn fast,
old man
,'' Soto said, deliberately refusing to acknowledge him by his title, Padre. ‘‘On your way, how about bringing that gun you talked about. Hold it out with two fingers and drop it on the ground. Call it sort of a goodwill offering.'' As the priest disappeared back into his room, Soto looked at Ransdale and winked. Grinning, Ransdale held the terrified woman at arm's length, bobbing her up and down helplessly by her short hair.

‘‘Am I going to get to eat this little French
sweet cookie
when we're through?'' he asked. ‘‘It's all right by her, ain't it,
cookie
?'' He bobbed her head quickly, then said to Soto, ‘‘See? She wants me too.''

Lying on the ground a few yards away where Ransdale's horse had knocked her, the old nun, struggling in Clarimonde's arms, called out, ‘‘Turn her loose, you
pagano
, you animal!''

‘‘Uh-oh,'' said Ransdale. ‘‘Didn't you hear how bad my friend hates Spanish?''

‘‘Please, please be quiet,'' Clarimonde whispered into the old nun's ear, holding her against her side, half in her lap, trying to comfort her.

But the old nun would have none of it. She struggled against Clarimonde. ‘‘No! Turn me loose! You are no better than they. You are all
paganos
!''

Soto's Colt roared in his hand. Blood stung the side of Clarimonde's face as the impact of the bullet punched the old nun's forehead and sent her head snapping back. The gunshot resounded out like ripples on a still lake. Surrounding the fortlike walls of the mission, startled birds, screeching loudly, rose up from the treetops. Batting wings filled the air as if in dark applause.

‘‘Are we all clear how I hate Spanish?'' Soto asked flatly, the barrel of his Colt smoking in his gloved hand.

The old priest stepped out the front door of the stone building. He stood aghast, seeing the old nun lying dead in Clarimonde's bloody arms, his hands spread wide in disbelief. Even Ransdale looked surprised for a moment. But he recovered quickly. ‘‘Hot dang, that's what I call ‘sudden.' ''

From her bowed position, the young nun, seeing what had happened, screamed and tried to jerk herself away from Ransdale's powerful grip. Shaking her roughly by the hair, he growled, ‘‘All right, don't make nothing of it, sweet cookie! The old crow's dead. Don't get yourself killed too.'' He looked over at Clarimonde as he shook the young woman again. ‘‘Right, whore?''

Clarimonde looked down in submission. Soto shook his head. ‘‘What a waste of time,'' he said. ‘‘All this just to get a meal and water our horses.'' He looked back at the priest. ‘‘Step away from the door, old man. Where's the gun? I told you to bring it.''

‘‘I—I was only bluffing about having a gun,'' the priest said, staring at the dead woman still cradled in Clarimonde's arms. ‘‘I have no weapons here. This is a—'' He caught himself in time to keep from saying the words in Spanish,
un lugar santo.
‘‘It is a holy place,'' he said instead.

‘‘Holy . . .'' Soto seemed to consider it. ‘‘Why? Because
you're
here?''

‘‘No,'' said the priest, ‘‘it is not holy because of me, but because of God, and because of the ancient ones who have come before—''

"Save it," said Soto, cutting him short. "You lied about the gun. I'm disappointed.''

‘‘I only tried to distract—''

‘‘You lied,'' Soto said in a stronger tone. ‘‘So now, it turns out that I lied in return.''

Understanding what Soto meant, the priest said in a humble tone, ‘‘No, please, I beg you in the name of—''

‘‘You beg me in the name of
nothing
,'' Soto snapped. His eyes darkened, as if the evil in his spirit had swelled up and taken him over. ‘‘You lied! Now I lied. This is why we all go to hell in the end. Who can stop the sin once it's made its start?'' He turned a quick nod toward Ransdale.

‘‘At your service,'' Ransdale said eagerly. He made a quick slash with the knife and kicked the young nun away from him. She flew to the dirt with a scream as he stood holding a ragged circle of short-cropped scalp dripping in his hand. Clarimonde dropped the dead woman and scrambled through the dirt to grab the young novice and hold her screaming against her bosom.

The priest stood helpless, Soto's Colt cocked and aimed at his chest, and called out through the young nun's screams, ‘‘Cecille, be strong. Pray to God for strength! Pray to God for strength!''

‘‘I pray, Father, I pray!'' the young novice managed to sob through her screams, her face buried against Clarimonde, her fingers clawlike and trembling above her bloody, glistening head.

‘‘She gets done
praying
, get her cleaned up some to where she's not stinking,'' Ransdale said to Clarimonde as he held the short-haired scalp for a closer inspection, fingering the dark, two-inch-long hair. ‘‘I want us to get acquainted before we leave.'' He grinned and slung the gore from the underside of the dripping scalp. ‘‘This is ‘holy hair,' the way I see it.''

Soto watched Ransdale closely for a second, always judging just how much he could depend on the man. Finally he said flatly, ‘‘Put the ‘holy hair' away. We came here for something to eat, for ourselves and the horses.'' He looked at Clarimonde as she comforted the maimed woman. ‘‘Is she able to rustle us up a meal?''

‘‘I'll do it,'' Clarimonde said, standing and pulling the young nun up beside her. ‘‘Please let me dress her wound. She's in terrible pain.''

‘‘Wound?'' said Ransdale, inspecting the bloody patch of scalp before hanging it to dry on his saddle horn. ‘‘This thing isn't three inches around.''

Hearing the young woman whine shrilly and pitifully under her breath, Soto said to Clarimonde, ‘‘Go ahead. Get her settled down.'' He turned his eyes to the priest, who stood watching, still stunned by all that had befallen the ancient mission. ‘‘You, old man,'' Soto said to him, ‘‘call the Indian out here. I need to see him.''

‘‘The Indian?'' the priest said, Soto's words having caught him by surprise.

‘‘The old Mayan I saw standing atop the wall when we rode up,'' said Soto. ‘‘Don't play dumb with me. I know he and his woman both live here.''

‘‘Oh, the Mayans,'' said the priest. He looked all around as if the Indians might be among them. ‘‘If he saw you coming, he and his wife slipped away into the forest. Mayans are a shy, retiring people. They run away at the sound of gunfire.''

‘‘Right, shy, retiring,'' Soto said dubiously. ‘‘Now call him out here, old man. I know he's coming. Let's get it over with.''

‘‘What do you mean? Why do you want him? He is an old man. He's harmless. He is no threat to you,'' the priest pleaded.

But as he spoke, Soto shifted his gun to his other hand, took off his glove and held his right palm out for the priest to see. ‘‘Do you recognize this?'' he asked, showing a tattoo that circled his palm.