Harvest of Fury (9 page)

“Tulan was always a glutton,” said James. “If he hadn't been so eager for roast horse that he risked a fire, I might not have found him till after daylight.” James looked ready to drop. His mouth contorted. “He was a coward and an outcast, but I wish the first man I killed hadn't been Apache.”

Pulling away from Talitha, Cat ran to hug him, but he didn't bend so she could reach his neck and she caught his hands, pressing them to her face, kissing them. “James, I—I'm sorry! Sorry you had to kill the man—”

“I'm not.” James sank on one knee to hold her while she sobbed. “I'll never be sorry for anything I do for you. I just wish an Apache hadn't been my first kill. Stop that crying, Catarina! You need to go to sleep now.”

He picked her up and set her on Mancha, but as she clung to him for a last instant she murmured against his cheek, “I love you, James! Best in the whole world! I'll always love you.”

Though the sun was up, it seemed to Talitha to be suddenly muted. Fear gripped her. The adoration in Cat's eyes as she smiled down at James, the passion of her whisper, were altogether too much like the consuming way Talitha had, from a slightly younger age, worshiped Shea. With James fixed on being Apache, what could come of that but grief for them both?

Cat, Belen, and James slept that morning while the others gathered nuts. At noon Belen took the child home. After two more days of piñon collecting, the rest came down. James had been moody and silent, but when he showed them where Mancha had been led off from a mass of confused tracks marking where they'd stopped to gather nuts, he apparently decided it was time they had some lessons in tracking.

He searched till he found where a footprint had flattened the grass, then carefully pressed the marked grass down and examined it. “See the moccasin print?” he invited. “A white man's boot or shoe would crush the plants. The grass is discolored, which shows the print isn't fresh.” He broke off a few pieces and showed them there was still juice inside the stems. “But since the grass still had moisture inside, I know it hasn't been a long time since a Mimbreño walked here.”

A little farther on he picked up a piece of dung, broke it open, and showed them the residue of grama grass. “If it were sacaton, we'd know the horse came from where it grows. Barley usually means Americans, but maize would probably be Mexicans, or travelers from there. If you study droppings, you'll soon be able to tell how old they are from the amount of moisture left.” He pointed to where Mancha had urinated. “A mare goes like that, behind her rear prints. A stallion or a gelding shoots his spray forward toward his front feet.”

Intrigued, Patrick and Miguel begged him to take them tracking and he said he would, his spirits higher than since he'd returned with Cat. “Now I'm going to run down the trail a way and hide myself.” He grinned, including Talitha in the challenge. “You try to see me! I'll be in easy sight, but I think you won't find me.”

“Bet we do!” scoffed Patrick.

They proceeded carefully, scanning every thicket, every outcropping or pile of boulders. Suddenly the grass beside the trail heaved upward. James grinned at them, brushing away the remains of his disguise.

“That's one way. Now, watch.”

Scrambling into a slide of rocks, he hunched over and lay so perfectly still, so much a part of the landscape, that though they looked straight at him, it was hard to believe he wasn't just another boulder. He took his gray blanket, wrapped himself in it, and huddled down, sprinkling a few handfuls of earth on top, and became a hunk of granite that an unwary traveler would pass within a few yards without suspicion.

Talitha shook her head disbelievingly. “I wonder how many Apaches I've gone past without noticing!”

“Probably a fair number,” James said. “Apaches watch a lot more than they attack and usually study a party pretty thoroughly before they come down on it. If a group's armed and looks like it can fight, often it's not bothered. Apaches like careless groups that offer plunder without much trouble.”

“That doesn't sound very brave,” observed Miguel.

“Brave?” James raised an eyebrow. “Apaches have fought on with two or three mortal wounds. But they think it's crazy to take unnecessary risks. A man who charges into danger without thinking is considered simply a fool. No one would want to follow him on a raid or warpath.”

As they rode he told the boys how warriors prepared for war. The night before, all the invited men danced, showing how they'd fight and get the enemy's property. Then women joined the dance till dawn when twelve men, each of a different clan danced in turn and sang of some occasion when he'd proved his courage. The last of the twelve sang about death, reminding the warriors that it came sometime to everyone.

After that, the warriors were provisioned with mescal, ground seeds, and corn. The war chief told two old men who'd be staying home how many days the party would be gone and gave them a rawhide cord. The old men, now in charge of the camp, were to tie a knot in the cord each day so they'd know when to expect the warriors' return. On Mexican raids, they were usually gone thirty to forty-five days, going in the spring and fall when there was water.

“The leaders plan to reach enemy country in the full moon so the party can travel at night and see well to run off stock,” James added. He frowned regretfully. “I should have gone on my first raid this fall, though I couldn't do anything but gather wood and water, cook, and take care of the horses, and see how things are done.”

Patrick's eyes shone. “It really sounds exciting!”

“Yes, it's most interesting for the Mexican herders, like our own men, who get killed,” said Talitha sharply. “And for the women and children who're brought back as slaves!”

“Some of the best warriors were born Mexican,” James pointed out. “And none of the women taken to wife by Apaches have ever wanted to go back to their families, even when they had the chance.” He slanted an arrogant smile at her. “I have seen such women shoot arrows into Mexican captives and laugh to watch them die.”

“I have seen it, too.” Something in Talitha's throat tasted like warm, thick blood. “But your mother, James, hated her captivity. I—I was so glad to get you away from Juh, so you wouldn't grow up like him—” Her voice broke. What would become of him, this brother of hers?

The blue-green eyes met hers with hostility. “If I weren't Apache, Caterina would still be with Tulan.”

That was unanswerable. It was also true that it was good for the twins to learn all that James could teach them. It might save their lives. But James's insistence on his Apache identity was a twisting knife in her, a deep, sad aching. Though she told herself that Caterina was safe and had learned a valuable lesson, when she thought of the way Cat had kissed James's hands a great dread gripped her.

But perhaps it was a good thing. James loved Cat; if their devotion turned from almost that of brother and sister into that of lovers, wasn't there hope that, for Cat's sake, he'd stay at the Socorro, reconcile himself to his white blood, and live that way?

Let it be
, Talitha entreated her circle of gentle, loving powers—Socorro and her own mother, Judith.
Please let it be
.

As they forded the creek and started for the ranch Caterina came running out to meet them. Straight to James, who swept her up in front of him and teased her, laughing, as they rode toward the corral.

The Roof Feast fell in mid-December, a private thanksgiving for those of Rancho del Socorro. It commemorated the day in late 1847 when the founders of the ranch—Irish Shea, Spanish Creole Socorro, Papago Tjúni, and Santiago, who was mixed Opata, Apache, and Creole—had feasted to celebrate the completion of the roof that would shelter them from winter storms.

They had been thankful, too, for the wild foods they'd garnered, the two hundred head of cattle brought safely up from Santiago's despoiled home, and Mangus's friendship. Here the four of them, all homeless, without family or friends, had begun to build a home and were themselves almost a family, albeit a strange sort of one. Each had narrowly escaped death; each had despaired to extremity. Here in the broad valley watered by the clear, pleasant little Sonoita, surrounded by mountains near and distant, they had begun to live again.

And it was at that first feast that Shea and Socorro had stood in front of the dark Madonna of Guadalupe who smiled down on them from her niche in the
sala
as they pledged themselves to each other. Six years they'd had, loving each other with passionate tenderness.

Talitha still couldn't think of Socorro's death without rebellious grief, especially when she reflected that she'd only been twenty-three when she died, a scant two years older than Talitha was now. To die so young, leaving twin sons, a new baby, a husband who loved her as Shea did! But perhaps such a loving spirit never truly died. Though Socorro's body must long be dust in her grave next to Santiago's on the hill, Talitha sometimes seemed to feel her presence as a comforting strength, and she felt it tonight, mingled with the madonna's smile, as Socorro's children and those of the vaqueros feasted with hilarity at their table while their elders occupied that rough hand-hewn table made so long ago by Shea and Santiago.

There was venison, turkey, beef, and ham, Anita's succulent tamales, many kinds of stew, bread, grain dishes, nut cakes, candies, and panocha. When everyone had eaten to satiety, the dishes were cleared, the youngest children put to sleep on Shea's bed, and Chuey and Francisco got out their guitars.

They sang
corridos
they had composed: “The Valiant Women,” about Socorro and Tjúni killing the scalp hunters; “The Double Branding,” about the price Shea had paid for James; and “The Return of Santiago,” which recounted his death at Frost's hands and how Frost had perished in the desert, his brains roasted by Areneños. Mixed in with these stories of the ranch people were funny songs for the children and, of course, love songs.

“
If some day you pass my house
,

Do not forget ever that I was your lover
.

Because, anyhow, in this world there are other lovers;

As I loved you, so I can hate you
.”

All the vaqueros except Belen could play, so the guitars circulated to accompany songs doleful and gay, bitter and hopeful.

“
Your horse is wounded
,

Your spade is broken
,

Your deeds are strange
,

And there's no end to your loves!
”

“A man after my own heart!” chuckled someone in Spanish.

No guard was kept after dark, except on moonlit nights. Taken entirely by surprise, the vaqueros sprang up, then relaxed as Carmencita ran to the door and embraced the golden-haired, green-eyed man who lounged there, laughing at their discomfiture.

“Güero!” the plump little woman cried, patting his face and muscular shoulders as if to assure herself of his reality. “Oh, my son! How glad we are to see you!”

No one else looked in the least glad, especially not Natividad, his half brother, Anita and Juana, his half sisters, and Pedro, who'd accepted and reared some white man's careless sowing. Though he was expert in all vaquero skills, his cruelty to horses and his flaring temper left everyone but Carmencita glad that he'd taken to wandering after his first trip to California with a Texas trail drive over ten years ago.

About thirty now, he was in the prime of vital bull-like strength. Over his mother's graying head, he looked around the room as if he owned it, a sardonic curl to his lips.

Talitha stiffened as his eyes locked with hers. It was as if his big, square hands had closed on her, pressing life and air from her lungs, stopping her heart. She sat frozen, like a rabbit in the shadow of the hawk.

That angered her. Angry, too, for Carmencita, of whose love he was so contemptuous, she gave him the hard, proud look of
patrona
to hireling.

“You're late for the branding, but doubtless there are other things you can do for your winter's keep.”

“To be sure,” bubbled Carmencita. “And it's good to have all the men we can, to discourage attacks. Sit down, my son, and eat. How lucky we've been feasting! There are all the things you like.”

“Yes,
mamacita
.” He allowed her to seat him on a bench. His eyes weren't on the food she bustled joyfully to bring, but on Talitha. “There's everything I like.”

He shrugged when asked where he'd been since his last visit a year or more ago. “California. Several claims I had shares in finally proved out. Nothing wonderful, but I've enough to buy my own ranch.”

“Your own ranch!” Carmencita beamed with prideful wonder. “Ay, my son a ranchero! To think of it!”

“You may come and cook for me,” he said indulgently.

“My wife stays with me.” Pedro's wrinkled little monkey face was grim. “And I am not leaving this ranch where Don Patricio has been more than generous, allowing us to build our own herds.”

Güero stared at him before deftly scooping up stew with a tortilla. “I have heard Don Patricio rode off to that gringo war. One hopes for his safety, of course, but there's the chance he may not long require your loyalty.”

“Then his children will, more than ever,” cut in Talithia. He seemed a terrible, unnamable threat, and not because of his idle tempting of Carmencita. “It's a poor time to go into ranching, with thieves and Apaches running wild from Tucson to Magdalena.”

“You're right,
señorita
. I shall buy now only the land, while it's cheap, but I won't stock it till the Apaches are calmed.” His mocking gaze rested on her throat. She felt naked as the pulse leaped. “So, for the time, I am very much at your orders.”

Go away
, she wanted to tell him.
Go away and never come back
. But just one more good shot could make the difference in a siege. Besides, how could she dismiss Carmencita's beloved son?