Chapter 6

Soto and Ransdale sat on the bank of a wide stream and watched the naked woman wade out until she stood knee-deep in the cool, rushing water. "That’s far enough, Clarimonde," Soto called out. As always he spoke her name with mock emphasis, as if it were a joke or a nickname, not a name for someone of any significance.

She stopped and glanced back at them, making note of how far she had been allowed to go on her own. The next time she would try to stop before he had a chance to say anything. The less attention they had to pay to her the better, she thought. The less she had to be told what to do, the farther she could test the limits they held on her.

Clarimonde had learned a lot about these two in the short time since they’d forced their way in and taken over her life. These were rough, dangerous, crude, abusive men, but not too greatly unlike many of the men she had known in her past. She had survived the streets and brothels of the Barbary Coast among such men, she told herself as she dipped water in her hands and washed trail grit from her arms, her breasts.

Her hand went to a jagged, three-inch scar in the tender flesh above her right breast, at the edge of her armpit. With a cool head, clear thought and deliberation, surely she could survive these two, she told herself.

From the edge of the stream, watching intently as she dipped water and let it run down her long hair, Ransdale felt his cheek twitch nervously. ‘‘Damn black-hearted whore,’’ he said, to keep himself from being aroused by her action. ‘‘What goes on in their heads, you think?’’

Soto gave him a flat, sidelong look, then cut his gaze back to Clarimonde. ‘‘Getting themselves ahead in the game,’’ he said, ‘‘the same as the rest of us.’’ A few feet away, the four horses stood with their muzzles down, drawing water.

‘‘This one would cut our throats while we’re sleeping, and never bat an eye over it,’’ Ransdale observed.

Soto grinned, his eyes fixed on Clarimonde’s pale, firm flesh. "Yes, I admire that in a woman," he said, seeing her stoop down onto her knees and bow forward.

Allowing her hair to flow on the clear braided stream, she drank like some exotic creature from the wilds. ‘‘Hot damn,’’ said Ransdale. ‘‘Does she know what she’s doing to us?’’

‘‘Oh yes, she knows,’’ Soto replied. ‘‘You can count on it.’’

Ransdale considered it for a moment; his cheek twitched again, this time more severly. He swallowed hard and said, ‘‘I’m going to wade out there and beat the living hell out of her.’’ He started to rise. Soto stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

Looking at him again, Soto said, ‘‘Calm yourself down, Nate. Why would you want to do something like that?"

Ransdale shrugged, but it was a stiff, awkward gesture that required effort in order to make it look casual. ‘‘You know, just to be doing it. I’m restless.’’

"Restless, huh? You want to do something? Walk off into the brush, take a minute and check back along the trail, see how it looks.’’ He nodded toward the thick brush at the trail’s edge. ‘‘Hurry up though. We need to get above these hills.’’

His face reddening, Ransdale understood Soto’s suggestion and what it really meant. ‘‘Hell, I don’t need to do nothing like that. We’re not in prison anymore. I was just thinking out loud about the whore . . . smacking her around. Some of them like that, you know.’’

‘‘I’ve got a feeling this one doesn’t,’’ said Soto, his eyes going back to the woman. "Besides, she’s banged up enough already.’’ He smiled. ‘‘We are not gentlemen, after all that cell time.’’

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Ransdale said with a slight chuckle, ‘‘I have to say, it’s been a good trail so far. How many men break out of prison, run the border and come upon a whore just hanging out up here with a herd of goats?’’

‘‘Not many, I’d have to surmise,’’ said Soto.

‘‘None that I ever heard of,’’ Ransdale said, settling down a little and watching the woman without the tight twitch in his jaw. ‘‘If this is all a taste of riding with you, I have to say it’s an honor, mi amigo.’’

‘‘Don’t ever speak Spanish to me,’’ Soto said, his attitude bristling suddenly. ‘‘You’ve seen me cut men for doing it.’’

‘‘I—I forgot for a minute,’’ said Ransdale. ‘‘I meant no offense by it.’’

Soto cooled as quickly as he’d heated. Changing the subject he said, ‘‘Riding with me is going to get better and better, Nate. Just keep watching. Once we hook up with the Hole-in-the-wall boys, we’re going to be the top aces in the deck.’’

‘‘I believe it,’’ said Ransdale. He looked back at the naked woman and saw her turn and walk back toward them. ‘‘If I ever doubted it to begin with, I sure don’t doubt it now.’’

Soto also watched the woman. ‘‘If I’m not mistaken, this hidden trail she’s taking us on is going to cut two days off our getting around these hillsides to where we’re heading.’’

‘‘Can you tell me just where it is we’re going, yet?’’ Ransdale asked carefully.

Soto turned his eyes from the naked woman and looked Ransdale up and down. Grinning firmly he said, ‘‘To an old mining project. The people there used to work for my family. Once we get there, we won’t care if the ranger catches up to us. In fact we might welcome it as a source of amusement.’’

When Clarimonde stepped out of the braided stream and stooped down to pick up her dress, Ransdale reached out his hand and firmly gripped her wet, glistening buttocks. ‘‘A few years ago I couldn’t do that without burning my hand, eh, whore?’’ He squeezed harder, staring at her long, wet hair. ‘‘You’ve lost some of the fire and honey since then. Hair is about all you’ve got left.’’

Clarimonde stopped what she was doing and froze in place, making no effort to resist as he roughly joggled her by the flesh of her behind.

‘‘Get over here, whore,’’ Ransdale said suddenly, his free hand going to loosen his belt. ‘‘I’ve seen all I can stand.’’

Clarimonde gave Soto a look that said little, yet seemed to call upon him to intervene.

‘‘Save it, Nate,’’ said Soto. ‘‘We’ve got to get going. I’ve told you how important it is to get above these hills.’’

‘‘I know,’’ said Ransdale, letting out a breath and turning the woman loose with a slight shove. ‘‘I was just seeing how well we’re training her to do what we want.’’ He sat upright, then pushed up onto his feet.

Clarimonde said humbly, ‘‘I have told you I will do whatever either of you want me to—’’

In spite of her passive tone, the back of Ransdale’s gloved hand swung around sharply across her face and cut her off. ‘‘Keep your mouth shut, whore!’’ he said. ‘‘Unless one of us tells you to open it.’’

Landing on her side in the dirt, she looked up at Soto as blood began to trickle down the edge of her lips. But Soto showed no sign of sympathy for her as he stood up and dragged her to her feet. Looking at the dirt down her side, he gave Ransdale an icy stare.

‘‘I guess I get a little carried away sometimes,’’ Ransdale said with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his gloved gun hand. ‘‘The whore’s jaw is hard as a rock. Lucky I didn’t bust a knuckle on it.’’

‘‘Gain control of yourself,’’ Soto said solemnly. ‘‘What good are you to me with an injured gun hand?’’

‘‘Come on, Suelo,’’ Ransdale said, hoping to lighten things up. ‘‘My hand’s all right. That was just a manner of speaking. I’d never break my hand over a whore. I just snapped, let her get to me for a minute, is all.’’

Soto seemed not to hear him. Still holding Clarimonde by her forearm, Soto looked her up and down and helped her brush dirt from her side with his free hand. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ he asked quietly, holding her close to him, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

‘‘Yes, I’m all right,’’ she replied, staring down, keeping herself supplicant to him. Her dress hung in her hand. She noted his breath had a sensation of coldness to it that she had experienced from only a few other men in her years on the Barbary Coast. To the man, those few had been murderers, bloodletters of the lowest order.

She didn’t dare pull her forearm free, yet she nudged against his grip just enough to get him to turn her loose. Then she slipped the ripped and battered dress over her head and smoothed it down her front. ‘‘What do we have waiting ahead of us?’’ he asked. His tone implied that he might already know and was only testing her to see if she told the truth.

‘‘Before we reach the top, we will pass a thin trail that leads back to an abandoned Spanish settlement.’’

‘‘Abandoned?’’ Soto stared at her.

‘‘There is only an old padre there, and three nuns. Sometimes there’s a Mayan Indian couple who looks after them. They are all old and harmless.’’

‘‘Mayans, huh?’’ said Soto, as if in contemplation. ‘‘I suppose we’ll see how harmless they are.’’

Clarimonde ventured warily, ‘‘We’ll miss them by almost a mile unless we turn onto their trail.’’

‘‘But it’s a sure bet they’ll have food there,’’ Soto said, watching her eyes for a response, ‘‘maybe some wine. I have never seen a priest who doesn’t keep himself well oiled and well supplied.’’ He looked at Ransdale and said as he had before the two had ridden down onto the mule cart, ‘‘Are you hungry, Nate?’’

Ransdale grinned and gave the same answer he’d given before. ‘‘I can eat, sure enough,’’ he said.

Gathering and mounting their horses, the three rode on, Soto in front, followed by Clarimonde five yards behind him. Ransdale rode a few yards farther back, enjoying the swing of the woman’s long, wet hair with each step of the big paint horse. ‘‘I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away with teasing me this whole trip,’’ he whispered to himself.

As if on cue, Clarimonde looked back at him for just a moment. With a flat stare she veered the paint horse quarter-wide, raised her dress all the way up her pale, bare thigh and caressed herself ever so slightly with her fingertips. ‘‘Oh my goodness,’’ he purred under his breath. Then the paint horse straightened and Clarimonde nudged it up closer to Soto before turning her flat stare away from Ransdale.

For more than a half hour, the three climbed an ever steeper and rockier trail until they reached a place where a narrow, grown-over path broke away and vanished into a deep forest. ‘‘Here’s the path just where she told us it would be,’’ Soto said back to Ransdale. As he spoke he sidled over to Clarimonde, reached out and adjusted the front of her torn and disheveled dress to better cover her breasts. ‘‘Fix yourself up,’’ he said. ‘‘Get ready to do what I ask of you.’’

She started to plead, to protest, to say whatever she thought might prevent them from riding to the old Spanish mission. But upon looking into Soto’s eyes, she realized that nothing she could say would change his mind. ‘‘Tell me what you want me to do,’’ she said submissively.

‘‘That’s my Clarimonde,’’ Soto said, nudging his horse forward, the two horses walking side by side, his boot touching her bare foot.

Ransdale watched the two in torment and disgust. He spit in the dirt and ran a dusty sleeve across his dry lips. ‘‘I’ll get my part of her, and then some,’’ he whispered to some unseen force. ‘‘Make no mistake about that.’’

The old Spanish mission stood against the rocky hillside at the end of a narrow, stone trail. The entire fortlike structure had long been grown over in a tangle of hanging vines and a carpet of wild-flowers, junipers and ferns. Inside the large wooden gates, the old Mayan Indian heard the voice of the woman call out from the trail; he immediately climbed to the top of a rickety catwalk atop the stone wall and looked down at her.

‘‘Will you let me in, please?’’ Clarimonde called up to him, her voice slightly atremble. ‘‘I am a herder from the lower hills. I need food and water. Please open the door and let me in.’’

Without a word of response, the Mayan disappeared down out of sight. ‘‘What kind of black heathen refuses food and water to a poor woman traveling alone?’’ said Ransdale, starting to reach for his holstered Colt. ‘‘I’ll shoot a way in if this is how they’re going to act.’’

‘‘Easy, Nate,’’ said Soto, staring up along the ancient stone wall. ‘‘He’s gone to get someone. They’ll open the door for her. It’s their custom.’’

The two sat atop their horses, out of sight behind a veil of hanging vines and twisted cedar branches. A silent moment passed; then a small door built into the larger door began to creak open. ‘‘There, you see?’’ Soto said with a half smile. ‘‘I know how these people think. They can’t turn away a stranger.’’

‘‘It’s about damn time,’’ Ransdale grumbled under his breath, sizing up the old woman who walked out on brittle ankles and motioned Clarimonde down from her saddle.

‘‘What’s going to keep our dear Clarimonde from ducking inside and locking us out?’’ Ransdale asked, getting anxious.

‘‘She won’t,’’ Soto said confidently, ‘‘She’s too afraid of what we’ll go back and do to the old man.’’

‘‘There’s no way we’d ride back all that way just to kill that old turd,’’ said Ransdale.

‘‘But she doesn’t know that,’’ Soto grinned. The two nudged their horses forward as Clarimonde and the old woman started to lead the paint horse through the open door.

Hearing the hoofbeats across the stone path behind them, Clarimonde clutched the old woman’s forearm and whispered tearfully as she held the small door open for the advancing killers, ‘‘God forgive me for what I have brought here.’’