Midnight Rider (5 page)

He wondered if his brother would go to Pilar, or if he would be patient and wait for the beautiful Anglo girl.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Riding a stallion as black as the clothes he wore, Ramon de la Guerra crested the rise and looked down at the narrow creek meandering beneath the sycamore trees. Andreas was waiting, as well as a dozen of his top vaqueros who had remained loyal to the de la Guerras since the time of their fathers and their fathers before them. Two Yokuts Indians from the great central valley to the east rode at the rear of the column.

Ramon nudged the black stallion forward and began to slide down the hill leading to the boulder-strewn creek. Above his head, only a sliver of moon marked his way, and even that was shadowed by a curtain of thin gray clouds.

“Buenas noches, amigos,”
he called to the men, reining the horse to a halt before them. “As always, it is good to see you.” Pedro Sanchez was among them, as well as Ruiz Domingo, Ignacio Juarez, Cisco Villegas, Santiago Gutierrez, and a number of others, many he had known since his childhood.

“As I have told Andreas, what we do this night is more dangerous than any of the raids we have done before. Austin and his men may be waiting. Chances are good that will not be so, that by now he will have relaxed his guard, but we cannot know this for certain. If one of you sees something amiss, you must call out a warning. We must leave the rancho, with or without the horses.”

“We need those horses, Ramon,” Andreas countered. “Do not make the men uneasy with talk of what may or may not happen. We can handle Fletcher Austin and his men.”

Ramon swore softly. Andreas was always hotheaded. Still, he would not undermine his brother's authority in front of the men. “Just be careful. Do not underestimate Austin. If something happens, ride out as fast as you can. Get yourselves safely away.”

Before Andreas could argue, Ramon spun the stallion and started off down the trail. It was more than a two-day ride from their stronghold in the mountains to Rancho del Robles, but Andreas and the others had camped in the hills close by. The horses were fresh, the men alert and well rested for the night's work ahead.

They reached the incline overlooking the rancho and reined up in a thick copse of trees. Ramon dismounted. So did Andreas and Pedro Sanchez.

“What do you think?” Andreas asked Ramon, his dark eyes scanning the sprawling hacienda, the
establo,
and granary, the bunkhouse, and
matanza
—slaughterhouse—the corrals filled with horses.

“It seems to be quiet enough.”

“
Si.
And look how many horses. He has built an extra corral just to hold them.”

“The
gringo
buyer in Sacramento City will be pleased,” Pedro said. “He does not care where the animals come from, only that there are many, and that they are sound.”

Ramon watched in silence for a long moment more. Satisfied that all seemed in order, he turned and walked back to his men. “We must be sure to get the remuda.” That was the saddle stock used by the ranch hands. “We do not want them coming after us.”

Grasping the horn, he swung easily up into his wide Spanish saddle, pulled his black flat-brimmed hat down over his eyes and his black bandanna up over his nose, then lightly touched his big Spanish rowels to the sides of his horse.

*   *   *

Carly couldn't sleep. She was still not used to the late supper hours kept by the California rancheros, or the strange night sounds of her new home: the creak of the heavy carved timbers above her bed, the crickets outside her window, the yipping of distant coyotes, and the occasional whinny of horses. The clock ticking over on the bureau read two o'clock; she could see the shiny brass hands in the thin ray of light slanting in through the shutters.

Wearily, Carly climbed out of bed. At supper, she had drunk some of the rich red wine her uncle made from grapes grown there on the rancho and now she was thirsty. She crossed the room to the porcelain pitcher sitting in the basin on the dresser, but found the pitcher empty. Her uncle would expect her to awaken her little maid Candelaria, but she wasn't about to do that. Besides, she needed an excuse to move around a little. Perhaps when she returned she could finally fall asleep.

Pulling a light embroidered wrapper over her long white cotton night rail, Carly lifted the wrought-iron latch on the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway. Built in the Spanish design, the hacienda faced a large central patio with a wide covered veranda running the length of the house on three sides. The kitchen was in a separate building a few paces off to the rear in case of fire.

Carly drew the pale blue robe a little closer around her, stepped outside into the cool night air, then crossed the yard and opened the door to the
cocina.
It was dark inside the kitchen, but she could smell the dried red peppers that hung from the ceiling, the garlic flowers and bay leaves all strung together over the huge wooden butcher-block table.

Bins of wheat, beans, lintels, dried peas, corn, and fresh vegetables lined the wall. She stepped carefully so she could avoid them. There were two six-burner iron stoves in the room, and on another wall, iron skillets, pots, pans, spoons, spatulas, and a hand-held coffee grinder dangled from the rack above the wood box.

It was usually noisy in the kitchen, alive with the slaps of tortillas being made, the chatter of the Indian serving women and the several Californio women who commanded their cooking efforts, but it was quiet now. Carly moved past the wooden butter churn to the covered barrel of water and lifted the lid. She dipped in the porcelain pitcher, filled it to the brim, then closed the lid and wiped the pitcher off with a freshly washed flour sack that served as a dish towel.

She had just reached the door when she heard it—horses pacing, snorting, their hooves thudding softly in the dirt; what might have been the creak of the corral gate swinging open. Carly walked to the window and looked out, wondering what could be going on.

At first she didn't see them, just thought the horses had somehow forced open the gate and were drifting slowly away. They moved steadily but not hurriedly, their hides a blur of color plodding past. Bays, paints, sorrels, white horses, grays, and blacks, they just kept walking through the gate until the corral was empty. Carly hurried to the door and jerked it open, but stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the mounted men.

Dear God in heaven.
The men were vaqueros; she could tell by the short jackets and flare-bottomed pants, and their low-crowned, wide-brimmed hats. But they weren't del Robles men. Dear Lord, they must be the outlaws she had heard about—men who rode with the Spanish Dragon!

Carly's hand shook on the cold wrought-iron latch as she eased the wooden door partially closed then peeked out through the crack. She needed to warn her uncle and the men in the bunkhouse, but once she stepped outside, the outlaws might see her. They might shoot her before she could sound some sort of warning.

Then her eye caught the heavy metal bell.

“That's it,” she whispered to herself, straightening her spine, working to build up her courage. The bell was used as a signal for meals, for mail, for a dozen sundry communications. It was also a warning of trouble and at this hour of the morning, no one would doubt what the ringing bell meant.

Carly checked the window to see if any of the raiders were watching the house, counted slowly to three, then jerked open the kitchen door. Bunching her nightgown in order to run left her legs bare but she hardly noticed the cold damp ground or the pebbles cutting into the bottoms of her feet.

Instead she dashed straight for the bell suspended from a stout wooden timber about twenty feet away, her long thick auburn braid flying out behind her. Carly grabbed the knotted rope and madly began to ring the bell.

*   *   *

Ramon jerked rein as the first harsh clang rent the air.
“Madre de Dios,”
he swore softly, his eyes searching the grounds for the source of the alarm. He spotted the small robed figure standing at the edge of the patio and knew in an instant that it was the girl.

“
Andele, muchachos!
Take the horses and go!”

“What about the remuda?” Andreas asked, racing up beside him, his bay horse nervously prancing. “We cannot leave without them.”

“Sanchez and Domingo are rounding them up. I will help them—you go on with the others.” But already Andreas had spun his horse toward the second corral and started in that direction. Ramon cursed but the words were lost in the raucous clanging, the shrilly neighing horses, and the shouting of the men. He spurred his horse and passed Andreas, shouted orders to Sanchez and Ruiz Domingo, then whirled the stallion toward the woman still fiercely ringing the bell.

By now lamps burned inside the thick-walled adobe hacienda and men streamed out of the bunkhouse in various states of undress, some of them carrying weapons. He wasn't concerned with Austin's vaqueros, since many of them were reluctant to oppose El Dragón, and most felt a certain amount of loyalty to any man of Spanish blood who opposed the
gringos.
But the Anglos were armed and already firing their rifles, Fletcher Austin among them.

The bell had gone silent; now the air hummed with the deadly roar of gunshots. Villegas returned fire, wounding two of Austin's men, but a lead ball smashed into Ignacio's arm, and Santiago's thigh ran red with blood. The girl crouched low behind a wooden watering trough. Ramon had started to rein away from her, to head back toward his men, when he realized Andreas was riding straight for her.

“Andreas!” he shouted. “Go back!” But it was already too late. A rifle shot rang out, his brother jerked as the lead ball slammed home, then slumped forward over the saddle, his shirt red-stained with blood.

Ramon felt a wave of fury like nothing he had known. He started toward his brother, but Pedro Sanchez appeared at Andreas's side and together they rode off toward the rear gate leading away from the rancho. He thought of the girl, of the havoc she had caused, of her cool demeanor and haughty eastern ways. In his mind, he saw his brother riding toward her, heard the deafening crack of the gun.

Ramon's anger surged, turning to white-hot rage. Beneath him the black horse reared. He spun the stallion, dug his heels into the horse's ribs, leaned low over the saddle, and rode hard toward the girl crouching down behind the watering trough. Lead whizzed past his ear, but he didn't slow. She screamed when she saw him racing toward her, then stood up and began to run.

It was exactly what he wanted.

As the black horse galloped up beside her, Ramon bent forward, leaned out and slid an arm around her waist, then dragged her up over his saddle. She was screaming and fighting, trying to get away, but she was no match for him. He forced her face down across the saddle, his hand pressing hard on the small of her back. He could feel her trembling as the horse picked up speed, saw her long reddish braid dangling over the horse's shoulder. She was afraid to move, he realized, now that the animal was running flat out, and felt a shot of grim satisfaction. He caught up with the others by the time they reached the trees, his vaqueros driving the herd relentlessly ahead of them.

They were moving with speed and efficiency, traveling the route that had been chosen well ahead. Rifle shots still echoed in the distance, but his men were already out of range. They moved a little farther into the trees, gaining distance from the rancho, riding out of danger and into the mountains that would insure their escape.

He stopped for a moment to secure the woman's arms behind her, to bind her feet, and gag her when she tried to scream. Then he tossed her across his horse's withers and rode on in search of his brother.

He found him slumped over the saddle, barely able to stay on his horse.

“Take the girl,” he commanded a vaquero named Enriquez, who dragged her off the stallion and over to his own horse.

The stout man loaded her face down across the saddle in front of him, then swung himself up behind her. Sanchez gave Ramon a sharp look, clearly marking his disapproval that the woman had been taken, but quickly turned back to Andreas.

“How is he?” Ramon asked, worried how seriously his brother had been hurt.

“It is very bad, my friend,” the older man said. “Very bad.”

A chill slid through him. Not just a shoulder wound as he had thought. “We cannot stop until we reach the pass. Can he make it until then?”

When Sanchez shook his head, “I do not think so,” Ramon's worry increased tenfold.

His heart began to throb dully, forcing a tightness into his chest. He turned to Ruiz Domingo. “What about the others who are wounded?” he asked the thin-faced young vaquero. “Can they make it as far as the pass?”

“
Si,
Don Ramon. The others were not injured nearly so badly.”

“Ride as far as the canyon at Los Osos. There is cover there and water for the horses. Then you must separate as we planned. Martinez will take five men and head north to Sacramento City with the horses. The rest of you will wait for us at the base of the canyon. If we do not arrive by tomorrow at dawn, go on to the stronghold without us.”

There was only a slight hesitation.
“Si, patron.”

Ramon just nodded, worry for Andreas overriding all other thought. As the men rode away, Ruiz in the lead, Enriquez riding with the girl, he returned to where Sanchez stood next to his brother. He was nearly unconscious, his limp form slumped over the horse. Clamping his jaw against the fear that wrenched through him, Ramon took the reins and led the animal into the cover of the trees, next to a small shallow creek.

With hands that were no longer steady, he lifted Andreas from the saddle and heard his low moan of pain. “Do not worry, little brother. Ramon is here. Everything is going to be all right.”