Scorpion (15 page)

“Are you certain Raúl Salcedo was the man with the Comanche breeds who tried to kill us?” Zion asked, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. He propped an elbow on a bookshelf in Don Sebastien’s study, a place where Josefina often took her afternoon tea. Though Najera and his soldiers had departed, they left behind a legacy of tension that permeated the hacienda.

Quintero’s widow was still reeling from the shock of Najera’s marriage proposal. She looked from her segundo to Ben McQueen. Once again he had acted on their behalf. His intervention had averted bloodshed.

“I may not know who the hell I am,” Ben growled, “but I sure as hell remember him. It was Raúl Salcedo who tried to kill you. But I doubt he was acting all alone.”

“I don’t understand. Surely Valentin wouldn’t be a part of this. The general was my husband’s closest friend.”

“Not anymore,” Zion said. He had never particularly trusted Najera. Now he was convinced his misgivings had been well-founded. “Why’d he come here, if you don’t mind me asking, señora?”

“He wanted me to marry him.”

Zion’s eyes widened. “Marry him?!”

Josefina ignored his outburst. She poured a cup of tea for herself and waved a hand toward the tray, inviting Ben to help himself. He declined and, having said his piece, excused himself from the study. It was obvious he was a troubled young man and preoccupied with his own problems. He had nothing else to add.

Zion finished his coffee and watched the americano disappear through the front door. “Never known the like of such a man,” he said. He scratched his chin with a thumbnail then drained his cup. “What the devil is Najera after?” he muttered, dismissing Ben from his mind.

“Ventana, of course,” Josefina said. “My husband was the sole inheritor of his sister’s estate. Her death gave him complete ownership of the ranch. Everything belonged to him. And now it is passed on to Isabella and myself. We are all that stands between Najera and his ‘empire.’”

“Hell, he’s got us by the balls! Uh, sorry, ma’am. Pardon my colorful—uh, I mean poor choice of words.” Zion coughed and looked away. Josefina’s half smile made him fume even more. “What I’m trying to say is, the general just about has everything his way. He’s taken our men, our horses, and there isn’t enough cattle to drive to the markets in Guadalajara. You aren’t gonna be able to winter here without some kind of income. He must know sooner or later you’ll have to leave. What’s making him so damn impatient?”

“He must want title to the Ventana, free and clear,” she said.

“And want it bad enough to marry you or get you out of the way permanently,” Zion finished. A breeze lifted the curtains, and the segundo lowered his face and closed his eyes as the sudden, welcome gust cooled his features. “There’s something else. Why act now and not years ago? I wonder what Najera’s up to. What does he know that we don’t?”

Josefina patted the extensive ledgers and notebooks her husband had kept. Another stack of documents-itemized the estate of his notorious sister, Theresa, who had lived a life of promiscuity and shocking immorality until her recent death. Josefina remembered Don Sebastien had talked recently of buying out his sister’s share of the Ventana. Theresa had inherited a stretch of land on the northwest border of the ranch, in the foothills of the cordillera. It was worthless mountain country, yet the trouble had begun with her death and Don Sebastien’s acquisition of his unmarried sister’s estate. Perhaps the answer could be found among the lonely silent hills.

There was only one way to find out.

Sitting atop a wooded ridge north of the hacienda, Angel Perez scratched at the scraggly growth he proudly had trimmed into a goatee, yawned, then stood and stretched the stiffness out of his lean, wiry frame. He had taken the first watch. Squat, solid Mariano Rincón lowered the spyglass through which he had studied the hacienda, barn, and bunkhouse for the last few hours. Now with night coming on, both men were preparing to end their vigil.

“What do you see?” Angel muttered, reaching for his canteen, a clay jug with a cork stopper.

“The same as you. One man, this Alacron, and the segundo. No vaqueros. Just
el negro
and Alacron.” Rincón rolled over, sat up and proceeded to fumble in his pocket for the brittle stub of a cigar that resembled a length of twig snapped from a tree. Tobacco in hand, he struck a match, lit the tip and proceeded to enjoy this simplest of pleasures. The aroma stank like burning rubbish. Angel wrinkled his nose and grabbed up the spyglass, working the focus until the man called Alacron appeared in the eyepiece. Ben was standing by the well in the ranchyard, facing north, one leg crooked on the edge of the well as he braided a length of hemp rope.

“The son of a bitch bluffed us,” Angel snapped.

“And sent us packing with our tails tucked between our legs.” Rincón chuckled.

“You think it is funny?” Angel said, glowering at the mestizo.

“You are too proud, my headstrong friend.” Rincón blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

“And you have no pride at all,” Angel retorted. He tossed the spyglass on the ground next to Rincón and began to pace the narrow confines of the clearing. To the west a fading glow brought the day to a close. Shadows quickly deepened on the hilltop beneath the dry pine and oaks. Bats began to swarm across the night sky. Rincón finished the remaining inch of his cigar and crushed the glowing remains against a chunk of limestone. He unrolled his blankets and, helping himself to the supply of beef jerky, crawled into his bedroll.

Angel turned back his blanket and started to get comfortable, then jumped up and swatted at the ground. “Bastard!” He brushed a scorpion from his bedroll. The insect attempted to scuttle to safety but lost its race with death. Angel took a flat rock and crushed the meddlesome intruder.

“Ah … now you have your revenge. Let it end there.” The mestizo’s stomach growled. “Never kill a man for anything but money. Pride … revenge … love, these things can put a man in an early grave.” Rincón rubbed his paunch and gnawed at a leathery strip of jerky. He wondered what Señora Montenez was serving at the Casa del Noche. Perhaps roasted prairie quail with potatoes and wild onions, smothered in gravy, or her stuffed chili rellenos. He began to salivate.

Food was the furthest thing from Angel’s mind. His thoughts had taken a darker turn. For too many months he had walked in Raúl Salcedo’s shadow. He glanced down at the rock in his fist and the smear that had been the scorpion. It was time he proved his own worth, to Raúl and to
El Jefe,
Valentin Najera. Angel tossed the rock aside. His lips curled back in a semblance of a smile. He began to formulate a plan.

Night and a breeze like a whisper from God turned the blades on a windmill out in the meadow east of the hacienda. Water drawn from an underground aquifer trickled into a cattle tank. The lowing cattle, vague silhouettes in the darkness, added their voices to the chorus of evening sounds. Starlight brought a chill as the earth relinquished its borrowed warmth. Ben’s breath clouded the air. He needed a coat but lacked the will to retrace his steps to the bunkhouse and retrieve one. Zion would be there, and Ben simply wished to avoid the segundo for the moment. The americano wanted to be left alone. At least those were his thoughts until Josefina arrived from the hacienda. Her long, shining, unbound hair lent an air of ethereal beauty to the woman, which transcended the reality of their situation. The lantern dangling from her hand was turned low, its amber glow highlighting her slender neck and delicate features. In the distance, the call of a coyote went unanswered. The animal would sleep lonely tonight.

“The rancho reminds me of a ghost town. I have never known it so quiet.” Josefina approached the man seated on the wall by the gate, his lariat coiled and looped over his left shoulder. “It seems only yesterday that the barracks were noisy with the rough camaraderie of men. Vaqueros sat in the ranchyard and serenaded the moon. There were cattle everywhere, and horses. Something was always happening. War has a habit of ruining things, doesn’t it?” She wore a gaily dyed blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“War …? Yes, ma’am.”

“You left so abruptly, I didn’t have time to thank you. Once again you saved us. If you hadn’t bluffed Najera’s men, Zion might have been killed. Without him, Isabella and I would be truly finished.” She glanced over her shoulder at the hacienda. “I watched you from the study window.” She swung a leg up on the wall and kept her other foot on the ground for balance. “You can have part of this blanket. There is room I think for us both.”

“You had best be careful, ma’am. An offer to share a blanket is akin to a marriage proposal among the Choctaw.” The words slipped out before Ben could think. But his eyes widened the minute they were spoken. The Choctaw! What did he know of such matters? He was so excited by the information he had blurted that it took him a moment to realize Josefina’s embarrassment.

“One proposal is enough for today,” the widow said.

“I suppose so, señora. I spoke without thinking.”

“I accept your apology, but if you wish to truly make amends, perhaps you will accompany me tomorrow.” Her eyes were round and limpid by starlight.

“Where?”

“Out there.” She gestured to the western horizon where the Cordillera loomed. “I may have discovered what General Najera is really after.”

Ben watched as the woman set the lantern on the wall and turned up the flames. She brought a small, ornately carved walnut box out from beneath the blanket and set it beside the lantern.

“I found this in a concealed drawer in my husband’s desk. I discovered it quite by accident.” She unlatched the box and revealed its contents, a piece of parchment bearing a map crudely drawn by Don Sebastien’s own hand, and a small buckskin bag. The map indicated a creekbed and a mountain that lay to the west of the hacienda.

“Check the pouch,” Josefina said.

Ben obeyed her instructions and emptied the pouch into the palm of his hand. He sucked in his breath. It was a nugget the size of a goose egg.

And damn near solid gold!

T
HE TEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL RODE
as well as any vaquero. Isabella had learned to sit a horse at an early age, and given the opportunity, would rather ride than walk any day of the week. Her dog Niño charged among the cattle, scattering the remnants of the herd. With Niño’s help, Isabella cut the calf away from its mother and drove the frightened animal toward the segundo. Zion caught the little animal’s front hooves with a well-timed toss of his lariat, looped the rope around the saddle horn, dismounted and jerked the calf to the ground. He ran up to the struggling animal and quickly tied off the calf’s flailing hooves with a piggin string. Then he dragged the squalling critter over to the fire.

Zion raised the branding iron and spit on its surface. The moisture sizzled on contact. He knelt on the calf’s neck and applied the iron to its left flank. The smell of singed hair and flesh momentarily filled the air. The entire ordeal lasted but a few seconds, and the calf was released to run bawling back to its mother. Isabella watched the entire scene unmoved. Such things were a common occurrence at the rancho; however, the branding usually involved more than three calves.

Zion straightened and dabbed at his brow with the bandanna he wore about his neck, then stood and surveyed the puny excuse for a herd. Thirty head spread over hundreds of acres could hardly be construed as a thriving enterprise. Isabella’s great-grandfather had begun the ranch with about the same size herd. It had taken many years and much sacrifice to establish Ventana and see it become the largest rancho in all of Coahuila. Zion wondered if Quintero’s widow was up to a task most men would hesitate to undertake. Of course gold ought to make rebuilding a herd somewhat easier. If there was indeed a seam of gold in the cave above Turtle Creek, as Don Sebastien’s map had indicated, Señora Quintero could mine enough ore to buy breeding stock from the ranchos to the south and speed up the process of replenishing the herd. Zion shook his head and sighed. Who would have thought it? Gold. How sadly ironic that such a find, while possibly saving Ventana, might well have cost the haciendado his life.

Zion’s thoughts drifted back to the previous evening, when Josefina and Ben had awakened him in the bunkhouse and shown him the nugget and the map the widow had discovered. Zion immediately recognized the drawings, although he could recall no cave above Turtle Creek. He did point out that the discovery was on the section of Ventana deeded to Theresa Quintero, Don Sebastien’s errant sister. No doubt this was the reason Josefina’s husband had refrained from confiding in the rest of the family. He wanted to be certain of ownership.

Zion immediately surmised that General Najera must have found out about the possibility of gold in the hills west of the valley. Perhaps Don Sebastien had confided in his closest friend while attempting to figure out a way to wrest control of the land from his sister, Theresa.

The segundo, standing on the plain with the branding iron still gripped in his gloved hand, pictured the forest-lined ravine and the cliff from whose base the spring had flowed. Zion had not ridden up into the western hills since the ground tremors earlier in the spring. The shifting earth just might have revealed an entrance heretofore concealed. According to the haciendado’s notes, Turtle Creek was no longer the lovely spring-fed watercourse that had provided water for the cattle as they grazed their way up into the high country. Evidently the quake had been strong enough to alter the water table up in the hills, for the spring had ceased to flow, leaving a dry, rubble-strewn creekbed in which Don Sebastien had quite by chance found the gold nugget and supposedly tracked it to its source.

“How long do you think they will be gone? I don’t know why Josefina refused to allow me to come along. I might have been of help.” Isabella crossed her hands on the saddle pommel and pouted.

“Yes’m. As much help as a snakebite,” Zion said while kicking dirt into the fire and shoving the branding iron into the sod until it had cooled enough to carry back to the barn. He reached over, snatched the hat from Isabella’s head and sent it sailing through the air. Isabella grinned and tried to return the favor, but Zion was too quick for her and sidestepped as she grabbed for his sombrero. She lost her balance and slipped from the saddle. But the segundo was close at hand and caught her, depositing her on the ground.