Ambush at Shadow Valley

In the nuns’ sparsely furnished living quarters, Clarimonde finished cleaning and bandaging the wound atop the young novice’s head. While she’d attended to the wound she had told the woman everything, letting her know the kind of men they were both up against. The young Frenchwoman took her by the forearm and said, ‘‘I will choose to die before I will submit to them.’’

‘‘I understand,’’ said Clarimonde. ‘‘And if you choose to die, then I’m certain you will die.’’ She pulled her forearm away from her gently but firmly. ‘‘They will think nothing of killing you,’’ she added flatly.

The young novice asked, ‘‘Do you think staying alive has been worth it to you? Will you ever be the same after letting them take away your soul?’’

‘‘Worth it to me?’’ Clarimonde thought about her father and the dogs, and the good, clean, simple years she had spent there attending the goats. She started to tell the woman that it was not for herself that she had gone along with these men. But she stopped herself and said, ‘‘It doesn’t matter what we think. Right now it matters only what we do.’’

‘‘I will do what God leads me to do,’’ the novice said, trying to sound strong through the raw, burning pain atop her bandaged head.

‘‘Listen to me, Cecille,’’ Clarimonde said, using the name she’d heard the priest use. ‘‘If there is a secret way out of here, you had better take it. I’ll tell them that you managed to slip away from me.’’

Clarimonde avoided the young novice’s eyes. ‘‘No, I will stay. I know what I am doing. I will keep them busy while you get away.’’

‘‘What will they do to you?’’ the young nun asked. ‘‘Beat you, torture you, rape you? I cannot have you suffer that for my sake.’’

‘‘I would not be suffering for your sake.’’ Clarimonde continued to look away. ‘‘But let me worry about that when the time comes. If there is a way out of here, take it. Take it now.’’

‘‘No.’’ Cecille stood up, stepped over to a wooden trunk and lifted the lid. She took out a clay jar, set it on the table and took off the thick lid. She dipped her fingers into a thick, gray oil filled with flecks of herbs and, reaching up under her arms, rubbed it on herself. ‘‘You must use this,’’ she said to Clarimonde, sliding the jar toward her. ‘‘It is something the old Indian’s wife made for me when I traveled to the villages. It is made to repel men.’’

"Oh?" The novice gave her an almost accusing stare and said, ‘‘Don’t you want them to leave you alone?’’

‘‘No,’’ Clarimonde said bluntly, ‘‘not if it means letting them see I have done something deliberately to turn them away. It will only make things worse for me . . . the same as it would only make it worse for me if they caught me trying to escape.’’ She stared at the young novice. ‘‘You used this oil before we arrived. I’ll tell them I couldn’t get rid of the smell. Perhaps it will help you—’’

Her words cut short beneath a long scream and the pounding of nails coming from the courtyard. ‘‘Father! Father!’’ Cecille screamed. She tried to run out of the room to the courtyard, but Clarimonde, catching her around her waist, wrestled her back inside and slammed the heavy door. ‘‘Please, let me go to him!’’ she sobbed.

‘‘There is nothing you can do for him now,’’ Clarimonde said, shoving her back into the room. ‘‘When the time comes, they will do even worse to you, if you don’t get out of here.’’

The young novice only had to consider Clarimonde’s advice for a moment, the pain atop her bandaged head throbbing, intensifying with each beat of her racing pulse. ‘‘All right, I’ll go. But I will tell you the way to go, so that you can use it if you get a chance to get away from them.’’

‘‘No, don’t tell me.’’ Clarimonde stopped her. ‘‘If they think you told me the way out of here, they will beat it out of me. I might not be strong enough to resist telling them.’’

‘‘You would rather take a beating for something you do not know, than be able to stop it by telling them what you do know?’’ The young woman looked confused by Clarimonde’s logic.

‘‘Just go. Go now!’’ said Clarimonde, taking no time to explain herself to an innocent. She gave the woman a shove toward a rear door and watched her hurry away. ‘‘Do not come back until you are certain we are gone.’’

Cecille grabbed the jar of oil and its lid from the tabletop on her way, then ran out of the room, slamming the rear door behind herself. Clarimonde slumped down into a chair and held her head in her cupped hands for a moment, wondering when her nightmare would end. Then she stood up, walked out the door into a stone hallway and followed it to a room where she found stores of cornmeal, dried beans and other food supplies. Without hesitation she took down a stained apron from a peg, tied it around her waist and went to work.

Outside in the courtyard, Ransdale stared at Soto, still getting used to his freshly shaved head and the strange tattoos that covered the top of it like a decorative skull cap. ‘‘With every day that goes by, I learn something new about you,’’ he said. As he spoke he pitched the bloody hammer to the ground and stuck his hands out under the water from the stone cherub’s mouth, washing them.

‘‘No! Not at all,’’ said Ransdale, stunned at hearing the words in Spanish coming from Soto’s lips. ‘‘Just commenting is all.’’ He slung water from his hands and finished drying them on his trousers. ‘‘Uh-oh,’’ he said, his hands slowed to a halt, his right hand poised near his gun as he spotted the old Indian step into sight as if from out of nowhere. ‘‘Look who’s here.’’

‘‘I see him,’’ Soto said calmly. ‘‘I figured the old man’s scream would bring him out. These Mayan converts never fly far from the nest.’’ He nodded toward the wounded priest. ‘‘They need someone like this one to lay the whip to their backs.’’ Stepping toward the Mayan, he spoke to him in a language that Ransdale did not recognize. The Indian replied in the same language and went into a crouch as if to defend himself.

‘‘I asked him what kind of fool stands with a machete before a man with a loaded gun,’’ said Soto. ‘‘He called me a dirty name.’’ He gave a thin, cruel grin, lifting his Colt arm’s length with his left hand, level to the Indian’s naked chest. ‘‘Can you imagine that?’’ He cocked the Colt. ‘‘He called me a dirty name?’’

‘‘Por favor, let him go, por favor,’’ the old priest moaned from against the thick wooden door where Ransdale had spread his arms and nailed him into place.

‘‘There this one goes again. He’s talking Spanish to you again,’’ Ransdale said quietly, to see what Soto’s reaction would be toward the priest.

‘‘Yep, every day it’s something new . . . ,’’ Ransdale repeated under his breath, slipping his gun from its holster and holding it ready, even though Soto had the Indian covered.

Clarimonde had stiffened instinctively at the sound of the single gunshot from the courtyard. But she did not go to the stone window ledge and look out on the courtyard to see what had happened. Instead she kept herself busy kindling a small fire in a corner hearth on which to boil a pot of beans hanging on an iron pothook.

Had she looked out upon the courtyard she would have seen the Indian fall to the ground, mortally wounded, and she would have seen Suelo Soto walk over and take the machete from his hand. She would have also seen Bess, the shepherd bitch, slink into the mission through the open front gate and work her way around the perimeter, going unnoticed while the two men stood over the dying Indian like vultures, Soto taking off his shirt and laying it aside to keep from covering it with blood.

Clarimonde had no idea Bess had followed them across the high trails, until she heard a soft whine and felt a cold nose against her forearm as she fanned the small fire. ‘‘Oh my God!’’ she gasped, turning and looking into the big shepherd’s panting face. ‘‘Bess! Bess. How in the world have you found me?’’ As she spoke she hugged the animal’s coarse, brush-flecked head to her bosom. The big shepherd licked her face as if asking for her approval. Oh, Bess, yes yes, you are a Gutes Mädchen. Such a good girl indeed.’’

But no sooner had she tearfully hugged and praised the big shepherd than she pulled back and looked toward the open, stone-framed window. ‘‘But you cannot stay here. We cannot let them see you,’’ she said in a harsh frightened whisper. She hurried to the window and glanced out just for a second, just long enough to see Soto standing naked and bloody above the Indian, his freshly shaved head bowed, the machete rising and falling viciously.

Clarimonde quickly looked away from the grisly scene, not letting the horror of Soto’s action keep her from looking for a way to protect Bess. ‘‘We must get you out of here. These men are monsters. They will kill you!’’

She quickly grabbed a handful of dried meat scraps from the tabletop and fed the hungry animal. Stooping, she hugged the coarse neck again and said, ‘‘I know you only came to protect me. But you have to go. We have to get you past these men. You must go back and stay with Papa and Little Bob.’’ Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she spoke to the curious face, knowing her words were not understood.

Leading the dog gently but firmly by the nape of her neck, Clarimonde looked back out onto the courtyard and said, ‘‘You must go quickly, while these two are not watching.’’ She turned the animal loose with a bit of a shove toward the doorway, gesturing with her arm in a sweeping motion to make her command understood. ‘‘Gehen sie, Bess!’’ she ordered in German, telling the animal to go. ‘‘Gehen sie.’’

The dog circled slowly and whined as if in protest. Then, obediently she ran out the door and hurried away along the perimeter of the courtyard. Clarimonde watched intently, silently praying under her breath until the shepherd had made it most of the way to where the smaller entrance gate stood ajar. "Please hurry, Bess! You must make it out of here! You must!’’ Clarimonde whispered, seeing Ransdale strike a match and hold it to a freshly rolled smoke dangling from his lips.

But the big shepherd didn’t make it all the way to the front gate. Ransdale caught sight of her as she hurried along silently, running low to the ground, partly hidden by a wall of shrubs and brightly colored flowers. "What the hell—?" he said in surprise, his Colt coming up cocked and aimed. ‘‘It’s one of her damned wolf dogs!’’

From the open doorway where Clarimonde stood, she screamed, ‘‘No!’’ just as Ransdale’s shot rang out.

The shepherd, hearing the woman’s voice, turned in time to see the man’s gun buck in his hand. She felt the bullet whistle through the air only an inch from her lowered head. But before Ransdale’s second shot exploded, the big bitch, fearful for her master’s safety, spun in the dirt and sprang across the ground like a streak of gray furry lightning.

‘‘Yiiii!’’ Ransdale shouted in terror, standing with his feet spread, unable to get an aim on the attacking animal. His third bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the stone tiles as the bitch dived into him. Instead of going for his throat, Bess clamped her powerful jaws around his crotch and slung her head back and forth viciously as his screams filled the air.

‘‘Stop playing with the dog!’’ Soto shouted, reaching for his Colt lying in its holster on the ground where he’d laid it. He raised the Colt with a bloody hand and took aim.

‘‘No!’’ Clarimonde shouted again, running from the doorway toward the blurred tangle of man and animal on the courtyard floor. But she stopped abruptly, her hands going to her mouth to stifle her scream as Soto’s bullet hit the shepherd squarely in the side and sent it tumbling away with a loud, pitiful yelp.

‘‘Help—help me, Suelo,’’ Ransdale pleaded in an injured tone, both hands cupping his bleeding crotch. His Colt lay in the dirt a few feet away. ‘‘I’m ruined. . . .’’

As Soto stepped over to Ransdale, the wounded dog yelped pitifully, struggling to get back on all fours. Clarimonde hurried toward the animal, but before she could get to her, Bess had managed to rise and stumble out the open entrance gate. ‘‘Stay back from that gate, Clarimonde,’’ Soto commanded. She froze as she heard him cock his gun hammer.

‘‘She’s as good as dead, and you know it,’’ Soto said callously. As he spoke he lowered his Colt; the two listened to the painful yelping of the wounded shepherd disappear deeper down the hillside. In a moment it stopped altogether. ‘‘There, what did I tell you?’’ Soto said.

‘‘What—What about me?’’ Ransdale groaned on the stone tiles at Soto’s feet. He reached up with a bloody hand and tried to grasp Soto’s naked, blood-slick leg.

‘‘What about you, mi amigo?’’ Soto said harshly. ‘‘Like you said, you’re ruined. Now I must get three of Satan’s demons to replace you.’’

‘‘No, wait,’’ Ransdale said quickly. ‘‘I’m good. I’ll be all right. I can still handle my job. I’ll just get cleaned up some—’’

‘‘Adios, Nate,’’ said Soto, cutting him off. He effortlessly moved his lowered Colt sidelong just enough to put a bullet in Ransdale’s right eye. Ransdale fell back limply, his hand still clutching his crotch.

Clarimonde flinched at the sound of the gunshot. She stood weeping for the shepherd, her hands covering her mouth. ‘‘She—she only wanted to save me,’’ she said brokenly, staring out toward the vast, rugged hillside beyond the mission walls.

Soto walked up close behind her; she could feel heat from his naked, blood-gorged body. ‘‘Nothing can save you from me, except me, dear Clarimonde,’’ he whispered into her ear. ‘‘Is that what you want? Do you want me to save you?’’

After a moment of silence, without turning to face him, Clarimonde replied, also in a whisper, ‘‘Yes, save me. Save me from you.’’

‘‘Good.’’ Soto smiled with satisfaction and looked himself up and down. ‘‘I’ll go finish with the Indian. You prepare us some food for the trail. Let’s get moving. The lawmen are bound to be close enough to have heard all the shooting.’’