Harvest of Fury Read online

  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?

  “Another man will be welcome,” she said.

  It was like going down a steep-walled cañon river, convinced there were deadly rapids ahead, but having no way to escape.

  V

  Güero gorged himself, mostly on meat. Between bites, he confirmed that Pete Kitchen was still holding out, as was the Patagonia mine where he’d had dinner. The dozens of mines and smaller number of ranches in the Santa Cruz Valley and the surrounding mountains had been deserted, plundered by Apaches or bandits. Rumors were that a Confederate general was at Fort Bliss in Texas, raising forces to complete Baylor’s conquest of New Mexico and push north and west to take California and Colorado. If Shea was with Colonel Baylor, which seemed likely, perhaps he’d be sent this way and could get a few days’ leave. Heartened at that thought, Talitha felt her peculiar fear and distrust of Güero ebbing and was able to applaud his singing when he borrowed a guitar and gave them, in a rich tenor, the boisterous song of a vaquero in from the mountains for a wedding.

  The godmother, too, if she suits me,

  I can also carry along:

  And a godfather is no problem,

  Caught here where my ribs are strong …”

  Talitha laughed with the others when he had finished the song of bragging machismo, but she couldn’t smile when he sang about the man who’d finally possessed a woman who’d long resisted him.

  “‘As the pears fell from the tree that held them,

  So you fell, into my arms, my darling!’”

  Then, smiling at Talitha, he gave the response in a coquettish falsetto that made even Pedro grin and clap.

  “‘Don’t talk to me like that, you impudent devil!

  Even though you see me thus, I’ve always been decent!’”

  Talitha didn’t laugh. “It’s time you were in bed, Cat,” she told the girl, who was speculating on the newcomer, “I’m tired, too. Good night, everyone. It was a lovely feast.”

  “Yes,” said Güero, rising with a bow as she collected little Sewa and shooed Cat to the door. Chusma, her old tabby, got down from a warm banco by the fire to follow them. “Most lovely, señorita. I’m glad I came home.”

  She didn’t answer but swept her rebozo about herself, the baby, and Cat as they hurried through the cold to their room. After the children were tucked in, Talitha got quickly under the covers.

  If Güero had to come back, she wished he hadn’t appeared on the night of the Roof Feast. She knew that was foolish. An extra man would be useful. Just because he watched her as he did didn’t make him a menace to the ranch. If she encouraged him, doubtless he’d try his luck; but she couldn’t imagine, if she treated him with the icy courtesy she intended, that he, a vaquero raised in spite of his recent fortune, would dare lift a hand to her.

  Even so, though Chusma curled warmly against the back of her knees, Talitha felt very cold and shivered for a long time.

  As days passed into weeks the edge of Talitha’s fear dulled. Güero attended to his duties, even helping grind corn and wheat in the little mill that was powered by a stream diverted from the creek, and for the first time seemed to fit easily in with his family and the other vaqueros. She’d been foolish, Talitha told herself. He’d only seemed different at first, dangerous, because he’d been away and naturally wished to swagger a bit over his travels and comparative wealth. Still, she couldn’t relax or joke with him as she did with the other men, and his green eyes, when she caught them fixed on her, had the power to make her turn quickly away.

  They celebrated Christmas and the Day of the Three Kings twelve days later, the smaller children receiving gifts each time, since by now Mexican and American holidays were hopelessly scrambled at the ranch. They celebrated St. John’s Day, June 24, with roping, fancy riding, and barbecue; and on November 2, the Day of the Dead, the vaqueros and their families took food and flowers to the graves on top of the hill so that the returned dead could feast with them. This custom had distressed Shea, though he hadn’t forbidden it, and Talitha had never gone.

  Shea was always at the back of Talitha’s mind, and Marc Revier came to her thoughts almost as often. Yes, in addition to Shea, who’d had her worship since she was seven, she remembered Marc and prayed for his safety, though she pushed away memories of his loving, which disquieted her lonely flesh. She and Marc had made love every night for a week after her abduction by Judah Frost, and after the first cleaning, Marc had sweetly, fiercely, taught her delights. When her deprived body dreamed its way to release, he was the man.

  That disturbed her, though she could scarcely control her dreams. Shea was her dearest love, but she couldn’t remember much of what had happened the night he’d finally taken her, except that it was ecstasy, shared loveliness past knowing.

  Mostly, when she thought of Marc, she saw him smiling, saying with an ironic twist to his long mouth which had dealt so wild
ly and yet so sweetly with her body, “I still have the sun.”

  So have I, thought Talitha, holding those bare, proud words like a talisman. But she wanted more: a life without constant threat and Shea home again, Marc safe.

  There had been no word from either of the men. Talitha had hoped, though not expected, that they might be able to send a letter by some traveler who could leave it in Tucson till Pete Kitchen got to town and picked it up.

  Pete did come by early in March with the news that a company of mounted rifles under Capt. Sherod Hunter had ridden into Tucson February 28 and run up the Confederate Stars and Bars, while his commander, General Sibley, was marching up the Rio Grande, promising the inhabitants to respect their religion and give them a “strong and lenient” government.

  “I—don’t suppose you heard anything about Shea? Or Marc Revier?” Talitha almost whispered.

  The keen gray-blue eyes watched her with sympathy. Awkwardly, he patted her hand. “No, Miss Tally, I didn’t hear any particulars, except that Captain Bascom—you remember he got in that wrangle with Cochise last year at Apache Pass—was killed at Valverde in a battle.”

  The then lieutenant had come for dinner at the ranch once with his friend John Irwin. Talitha remembered him as a pleasant, serious young man only a few years her senior. Dead now, that eager life wasted in a battle where he’d fought on the opposite side from Shea’s.

  Would the whole war be like this? Hearing of battles, but not knowing if Shea or Marc—or John Irwin, was in them, if they’d been hurt? Wrenching away from that agonizing prospect, she asked Pete if he thought the Confederates could give the Santa Cruz Valley any protection.

  “Those hundred men can’t do much but garrison Tucson and scout around a little.” Kitchen shrugged. “There aren’t many Unionists left in Tucson, but Hunter gave them a choice of swearing allegiance to the Confederacy or having their property confiscated and leaving the territory.”