chapter 25

Just Desserts

The thugs walked toward Nate, slowly and deliberately shortening the space between them. The five of them brandished machetes.

“Hey, Yanqui, you want our emeralds?” the big one in the middle, obviously the leader, shouted. “Here they are.”

Another yelled, “But first we’ll take something from you.” Nate recognized Flannel Shirt as the speaker. The man ran a finger along the edge of his blade.

Wonder where Mustache is. Maybe on the hill, covering them with a musket. This could get interesting. Nate stopped. Good to keep out of accurate musket range—allow them to come in close, and let his weapons do their work. As always, the fools never realized what his weapons were capable of.

They stopped. Behind them at the crossroads, a young woman in a shawl led a limping horse past, on the road back to Muzo. The leader—thickset, bearded, with long matted hair, and a head taller than the others—turned and spoke with her. Nate could just about catch what she was saying.

“My horse has gone lame. I need to get to town before dark. Can you help? I would be ever so grateful,” she said. Beneath her shawl, her shapely figure was partially revealed by her light cotton dress.

They had all turned around. The leader said to his men, “Wait. First, we take care of business.”

She called loudly, “Five of you and no one to help me?” She smiled and turned to leave.

Nate wondered what the hell a lone woman was doing out here. She should run from this scum as fast as her legs can take her.

Flannel Shirt took out a length of rope. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.” Carelessly bunched together, the four brutes approached her. Their boss remained between them and Nate, blocking the American’s view.

A large oddly colored rock came loose from somewhere on the steep slope. Bouncing down the hill and through the brush, the strange object launched the last few feet onto the road, where it rolled to a stop at the big man’s feet.

Purple tongue protruding from his mouth, Mustache’s severed head gazed up with unseeing eyes.

In the same instant, the air split with a single thunderous crack. The leader whipped around—a thick veil of smoke had enveloped his accomplices.

The commotion was too much for Jenny, who bolted into the underbrush at the side of the road. Hesitant to turn his back on his attackers, Nate ignored the loose mule and released the facón from its sheath, cursing his stupidity for not taking the guns from his pack on the animal.

The leader was still straining to see through the haze at the crossroads.

Flannel Shirt emerged, clutching his chest, coughing up red. Behind him, visible though the dissolving smoke, a mortally wounded man sank to his knees, staring at the ground as if searching for something important. Another lay in the dirt, flopping from side to side like a fish out of water. The fourth was unhurt. Recovering from his initial shock, he lunged for the woman.

A single shot rang out. The attacker fell at her feet, screaming, his hands clutching his thigh. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Nate calmly took out his knife and waited. The leader turned back to face him, his features contorted in fury. With his machete raised overhead, the big man charged, bearing down on the American.

Nate feinted, drawing the machete swing wide. A quick sweep-kick took out the attacker’s legs, pitching him on his face. Nate slammed his knee into the prone man’s back, keeping him facedown on the ground.

Nate reached down to grab the thief’s chin. He could feel the struggling man’s enormous strength. Nate twisted the head upward; a crunching noise, not unlike tramping over seashells, echoed in the close space. A watery gurgle and a rush of breath followed.

Nate rose, exhaling deeply. He retrieved his knife and walked toward the woman. She wiped the stained blade of her facón with the dark-blue bandana tied to her waist. The wounded attacker lay dead at her feet.

It was Julia, Bolívar’s assassin.

She cut off any questions. “Not now.” Adjusting her shawl around her shoulders, she said, “We must leave this place.”

Luis and Santiago arrived, leading the horses. Luis cast a look at the big corpse down the road. “Good job, Nate—a nice llanero move.”

“Learned that long before I met you, amigo,” Nate replied. He shifted his gaze to the woman. “It seems you appeared at just the right time.” Strange coincidence.

Julia stood with the reins of her horse in one hand, the other hand on her hip. Despite herself, she stared at Nate; she had seen him briefly at a distance that first week in Socha, but this was the first time she had a chance to study him up close.

Despite all he had been through, his eyes—the clear blue of a tropical sea—smiled back at her, full of intelligence and humor. Not much older than herself, he was clean shaven, his face tanned a mahogany brown, his long dark hair pulled into a braid that hung down his back.

During the fight, a necklace—composed of the enormous claws of an animal she didn’t recognize—must have escaped from under his shirt and now hung loose about his neck. She sensed the power in his muscular arms, knowing the great strength it must have taken to kill a man with one’s bare hands. She had never seen a man kill the way he had. She found his grin irritating.

“We can talk later,” Julia said. “Right now, we must go. Mount up.”

Nate was careful not to stare back but did not look away either. She had dark skin, golden brown eyes, and high cheekbones; her hair had grown and now hung to her shoulders in a silken auburn wave, the same color as a field of grain in autumn. He could imagine her as a spy, the seductress in a luxurious bed.

“I’m not in the army anymore. I don’t take orders from anyone,” Nate replied, sounding more pitiful than he’d intended.

She sprang lightly onto the back of the large gray mare. “You may join us or stay here to get yourself killed. It’s your choice.”

They took the south road toward the Magdalena port city of Honda. From there, Julia and the soldiers would take the main road directly east to Bogotá and report back to Bolívar.

Knowing he couldn’t return to the capital, Nate hoped something would turn up before they arrived at Honda.

Under a gradually clearing sky, they rode quickly and silently. The trail ascended, the dense tropical vegetation eventually thinning into scrub oak forest. The sun dropped behind the high hills, and a hard chill crept into the air; the first sharp stars of night appeared. They found a clearing not visible from the trail and set up camp.

To avoid attracting unwelcome attention, they decided to eat their food cold by the light of the full moon. When they finished, Nate brought out a skin of aguardiente. He handed it to Julia. Without drinking, she passed it on to Santiago.

The llanero coughed as the fiery liquid scorched his throat. “The colonel must have given this to you. Everyone says he finds the strongest juice wherever we go.”

“Hold on, are you talking about O’Leary? That Irishman’s a full colonel now?” Nate shook his head in disbelief.

“He’s the only reason you’re still in one piece,” Julia said. It was the first time she had spoken since the crossroads. “When O’Leary heard you were heading to Muzo, he asked for volunteers to intercept and warn you of the danger.”

Luis interjected, “Colonel Julia was the first to come forward.”

She cast Luis a sour look. “Colonel O’Leary decided a small, quick squad would be more effective,” she lied, “and chose the three of us to find you.”

Nate smirked, causing her face to flush in the pale moonlight.

“I owed you a life, that’s all,” she said testily. “Now we’re even.”

Nate nodded as he tried but failed to wipe the grin off his face. He changed the subject. “What was that weapon you used against the bandits? I’ve never seen anything take down three men with one shot.”

Julia explained, “A special gift from Bolívar. A ‘duck’s foot’ pistol. It’s a prototype, from Europe.” She took out a four-barreled caplock pistol and handed it to him. “It discharges four cartridges at once. The general believed that someday it might be of use to me.”

Nate whistled. “I guess I’m lucky you didn’t use this going over the Pisba pass.”

Julia smirked. “It would’ve been too hard to hide under my ruana.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nate said, his tone light, “you were hiding quite a few things under that ruana—I think there was room for one little pistol.”

Julia arched an eyebrow. “Little?”

Nate hefted the ludicrous weapon, feeling its weight. “Compared to mine.”

Julia matched Nate’s smile as they tested to see who would look away first.

“You’re lucky you left Bogotá,” Santiago said, ending the moment nearly as effectively as if he had he heaved a bucket of ice water over them.

Self-conscious, Julia looked away. Nate scowled at Santiago. “I wouldn’t exactly call winding up in an ambush ‘lucky.’”

Oblivious, Santiago continued, “Santander disobeyed Bolívar’s orders and killed the Spanish prisoners of war, including Brigadier Barreiro. Maybe you would’ve been among them.”

Julia stared at Santiago for a long hard moment until he looked away. She took the aguardiente from the llanero’s hand and left for her tent, taking a swig from the skin.

“That’s mine,” Nate called after her.

“I know.” She looked over her shoulder at Nate, her hips swaying a touch as she disappeared from view. She left the flap open.

Nate and Santiago shared a look.

“She tried to kill you, amigo.”

Nate was already standing. “Shut up, Santiago.”

Nate considered the roof of Julia’s tent. Julia faced him, lying on her side, using one of his arms as a pillow.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

Julia squinted at him through her eyelashes. “Do you Americans always apologize after sex?” She smiled and patted him on the chest. “Don’t worry, Yanqui. I take it as a compliment.”

She rested her head again and closed her eyes, exhausted.

Nate considered the roof of Julia’s tent.

“I usually last longer than that. Must be the altitude.”

Feeling him move under her blanket, Julia groaned and rolled away.

“I thought you took it as a compliment,” Nate said.

“No,” Julia murmured. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Nate considered her back. He was in a considering mood. “Why did you try to kill me?” he asked.

Julia turned back to Nate, moving on top of him. “If you insist on bothering me all night, I might as well give you a second chance.”

They rose with the first light of dawn, the starry points of the Hunter still visible in the indigo sky. They ate a quick meal and set off for Honda. Having studiously avoided eye contact with them over breakfast, Santiago and Luis rode on ahead, where they loudly debated the relative merits of a mule over a horse. Julia grinned as she and Nate rode abreast.

Their horses matched pace, walking shoulder to shoulder.

Eventually, Julia pulled away. Now she was frowning at Nate. Familiar with these little plot twists in his relations with the fairer sex, Nate looked straight ahead and pretended not to notice.

They rode for a few moments before Julia said, “You must understand that Bolívar is squeezed between the great powers, all pushing their own interests.” Her brow creased in concern. “There are spies everywhere.”

“That’s ironic, coming from you.”

Julia ignored him. “You probably won’t live much longer, the way you’re going, so I’ll tell you.” She shifted in her saddle as if sitting on a burr. “The British have come to Bolívar offering their secret support. That’s what Captain Gunn is doing here. But the Dutch East India Company has also offered assistance to the general.”

“The Dutch? What do they have to do with it?” Nate asked.

“All I know is the Dutch are trying to manipulate Spain and Britain into another war, and maybe even involve the Americans. They think Bolívar would have to turn to them.”

He looked at her. “How do you know so much?”

“The Dutchmen are no different than other men: they like to talk. Like Barreiro,” Julia said spitefully. “He would say anything to impress me. In a way, he impressed his way to his own death.”

Julia goaded him. “Now, you tell me: Why is a scout and gem peddler interested in such things? The mysterious Yanqui—so at home in the woods, yet so lost on a battlefield.”

Nate explained, “I grew up spending more time with the Wampanoags than with anyone else. They taught me a lot about the wilderness. Their fighting is much more personal than your great armies with cavalry, flags, and all the rest,” he continued, “it’s a close-up, look-’em-in-the-eye affair.”

“Where were you raised, that you to spent so much time with the natives?” She was curious. “You seem to have been in the woods your whole life.”

“In New England, not far from Boston.”

“Your parents?” she asked.

“My mother was from one of the oldest families in the colonies. I never knew her.” He took a deep breath, “She died in childbirth.”

“And your father?”

After a slight pause Nate said, “I’m afraid we had a falling-out. In fact,” he continued with a wry smile, “we can’t stand the sight of each other, to put it mildly. Never could.”

They rode in silence for a while, the wind carrying the far-off sounds of a boar nosing in the underbrush.

“And that’s the reason you left your country?” she asked.

“Among other things,” Nate said.

“Are you sure you’re not running away from a nagging wife or jealous lover?”

“No wife”—he looked at her closely—“and no lovers.”

Julia laughed quietly. Although her laugh was brief and restrained, he liked the fact she was amused.

“You should laugh more often. The Wampanoag say it keeps a person young.”

“I haven’t had much to laugh about. At least after Valencia—but you’ve probably heard about that.”

High clouds had moved over the rising sun, which now gleamed dully like a tarnished silver wafer pinned low in the sky. A cool breeze stirred the branches in the pine trees.

Nate pointed. “See that?”

“What?”

“The bark on that tree. See how it’s scored, about seven feet off the ground?”

“Yes, now I see. What is that?”

“Bear sharpened its claws on that tree. They probably like to eat the sugar in the base of that plant over there.” He indicated a clump of puya plants. “More dangerous than people realize. The bear is the only animal that will lay a false trail if it knows it’s being followed, and then turn around and stalk its pursuer.”

They rode in silence for a while, the sun now hidden behind the thick clouds gathering in the west. The woods were quiet save for the sound of tree limbs groaning in the breeze.

She spoke abruptly. “Everyone believed you were an emissary from your president. They believed you came to offer Bolívar a deal to betray the revolution.”

She caught his eye. “Just the rumor was enough to threaten the shaky ties we have with many of the caudillos.” She added evenly, “You were a liability.”

They heard Santiago laughing at something Luis had said. Julia’s horse gave a low whinny.

“Have you ever heard of El Jefe?” she asked.

Nate was silent for a long time, then replied, “The emerald?”

“Bolívar regretted his treatment of you and asked me to give you two documents. They concern El Jefe.”

She took a leather pouch out of her saddlebag. Opening it, she withdrew a file containing two letters sealed with the general’s stamp.

“You must promise not share these with anyone,” she said, handing them to the American.

“You have my word.” Nate broke the seal on the first document and read it. He looked up, his azure eyes narrow and inscrutable. Then he opened the second and quickly scanned through it.

“To your liking, I hope,” she said.

He asked, “Where did they come from?”

“The viceroy’s files. The coward fled so fast he left everything behind. O’Leary came upon the records and thought they were a fraud. But knowing that the general’s family owned mines, the Irishman thought Bolívar would be amused. The general believes the dossier is authentic,” Julia said, “and wants you to have it. He also said the Indian tribe who attacked the mine was last reported somewhere west of the river.”

“This is not the first I’ve heard of El Jefe,” Nate said thoughtfully, “but this is the first evidence I’ve ever come across that hints at its actual existence.”

“What do the papers say?” Julia asked.

“The first was the mine manager’s official report to Bogotá the day after the discovery. The second was written a fortnight later by an assistant superintendent”—Nate glanced again at the paper—“obviously under great stress. The paper’s torn and stained, but best I can make out, he describes an attack, the death of the manager, and the loss of the gem.”

“Do they say where the emerald is now?”

“No. But most likely with the Indians. If it exists at all.” Nate asked sharply, “And tell me again: Bolívar wanted me to have these?”

“He said it was for your service, and so there would be no hard feelings between him and his only American patriot.”

“Certainly sounds like the general.” A plan began to take shape in Nate’s mind. If these documents were authentic, and the tribe still had the gem, that made two lucrative leads, both having to do with the payoff of a lifetime, and that was too good an opportunity to pass up. Especially for someone who had no other options. Anyway, no one was in a better position than he was to find the tribe and get that gem.

Things were definitely falling into place. About time.

Julia was silent until they came to the place where Nate was to leave them. Only after he had taken leave of Santiago and Luis, did Julia approach him.

“This is goodbye. I wish you much luck in your hunt.”

He said, “Here’s to the next time.”

She said, “If you can manage to stay alive, Yankee, which I strongly doubt.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, lady.” He smiled and followed his path to the west while the other riders continued south.

After a short distance, he heard her call out, “Vaya con Dios, Nathanial Yankee.” To herself, Julia said, “Until we meet again.”

In the former viceroy’s place in Bogotá, Julia sat on a settee across from General Bolívar. She said, “I’ve delivered the documents, General, as you requested. I’ve also told him the last known location of the emerald tribe.”

Bolívar leaned toward her and spoke with gentle attentiveness. “We both know King John will need British help before all this is through. And the emerald will be the greatest of inducements, believe me. There’s no other gem on earth like it. El Jefe will prove irresistible to a fortune hunter like our American.”

“If he tries to leave with the emerald from anywhere in Brazil,” Julia added, “the king will know.”

“And if he tries to leave from anywhere in Gran Colombia,” Bolívar said pointedly, “I will know.”

“But does such a gem truly exist?” she asked.

“I believe it does. Don’t worry. If the treasure is real”—Bolívar smiled—“the Yanqui will find it.”