José only considered stopping when he was certain they were far enough in the hills that Michael could not reach them by vehicle or foot. The sun now crested over the horizon, and it was strange to see Petra and Ramona riding together—two parts of his life intersecting. He hoped that the two women he cared for would become friends.
The sound of a creek met his ears, and he remembered this place from his journey down the mountain—a small place of refuge among the hills.
"Petra, stop in that clearing ahead," he called to her. "We will rest the horses . . . and ourselves."
"Yes, José," Petra called over her shoulder. She turned and looked back, and it was from the wild look in her eyes that he knew something was desperately wrong.
"What is it, Petra?"
"José! Calisto is bleeding!" The color drained from her face.
José quickly dismounted and saw the bright red stream of blood on Calisto's shoulder. Yet the horse had carried him to safety, and his steps hadn't wavered. Guilt washed over him for not stopping sooner to check the horse.
Petra helped Ramona dismount, and a few seconds later both women were at his side.
"Will he be okay?" Petra stroked his mane.
"Is it a gunshot wound?" Ramona took a closer look at the bullet wound in his shoulder.
"Michael . . ." Petra said. "He saw me leaving with the horses, and he ran out. He aimed the gun at me, but Calisto lifted his front legs and leapt—just as you'd trained him for show. I heard the gunshot, but I didn't know he was hit. I am so sorry, José." She fell to the ground, and silent sobs shook her shoulders.
José reached for her, patting her hair, and from the corner of his eye he noticed Ramona stiffen beside him.
He moved back to Calisto. "If there was any spot where he was hit, this would be the best place. It didn't hit any major arteries or enter his chest cavity." José turned and took his wife's hand. "And do not worry, Petra. My wife is a wonderful nurse."
Ramona's eyes widened. "I work on men, not animals." But her gaze softened as she turned to the horse. "Of course, the wound doesn't appear too deep. I only wish I had some supplies."
Petra lifted her head. "At the caves . . . your father packed bandages, needles. He had a very fine first-aid kit."
"Do you think Calisto can make it that far?" Ramona asked.
"It will take us longer, but I think he can make it if I don't ride him," José said. "You two can ride Erro, and I'll follow, leading the horse."
"Are you sure?" Petra straightened her shoulders. "I could go ahead and get the first-aid kit." She pulled the map out of her pocket. "I have this, remember?"
"Sí, good idea. We'll give Erro a chance to rest and graze before you head out. And then we will find a place nearby to wait. I'd like to stay with Calisto just in case."
Ramona took Petra's face in her hands. "José, why did you not tell me sooner God had provided you with a guardian angel?" She brushed the hair back from Petra's face.
A smile spread over Petra's lips, and she offered Ramona a quick hug. José smiled too.
After twenty-one days of living in dry riverbeds, their orders were to fall out. The action was over. This surprised Deion. During the days that were extremely hot, and the nights that were cold and caused him to wish again for the heat, he didn't expect that they'd ever be called back. This was their big offensive. He supposed they'd press on until they reached the end—wherever that was. Or until he met his end, whichever came first.
With slow steps, the troops marched to their reprieve. The men around Deion collapsed, and he had never ached with so much weariness in all his life. After withdrawing from the heat of the Guadarrama Valley, the Lincoln Bridgade moved to a rest camp at Albares, near enough to Madrid to permit the men to explore the capital.
"I don't think I could walk one more mile, even if they paid me in solid gold," Deion muttered to the man beside him. His back ached. His mind even more.
He had just drifted off to sleep when he awakened to see their commander, Steve Nelson, climbing onto a large rock before them.
A man shouted from somewhere in the crowd, "For Pete's sake, Steve, you're not going to tell us to go back, are you?"
"You know I would not do this if there were any other choice. The Spanish marines are surrounded. You, men, are their only hope. And even if we rest, it won't be for long. Word has it that we are threatened from the rear."
A low murmur moved through the crowd. And then silence, as if each man was weighing his options.
They'd do it fer us, Deion thought. How can we not try to save them?
"You're right!" someone called out.
"It's our duty. This is why we have come," another added.
Deion, with strength he didn't know he possessed, pulled himself from the ground and repacked his supplies—or what remained of them. They lined up for the trip back, but not five hundred yards out, another messenger arrived.
"Men, wait!" Nelson called. "The order has been reversed. Relax. Rest."
And with this announcement they somehow were more strengthened than they had been. Deion looked around at their faces and noticed their pride.
They'd been willing to give everything, to push past their pain. It was a good feeling—one that couldn't be explained.
Deion drifted off to sleep again that night with a feeling of hope.
The next morning came, and with it word that they'd been given ten days' leave in Madrid. Now what was he supposed to do with that? The six months he'd been part of the brigade ran together. He was either fighting, driving, or wounded in the hospital. Deion wondered if he even knew what to do with time to himself. Back pay also caught up with him from the International Brigade offices. He'd forgotten all about the pestas—which totaled a month's wages back home—promised him during training.
The drive toward Madrid was like a drive from death to life. From the barren land the road wound into green fields, and Deion even noted a river full of water. If he could have, he would have jumped into it and washed away the filth of the fight. Washed away the memories, too.
Instead of finding peace on the road, he had a strange feeling as others on the road turned and watched the truck pass. He noticed pointing and wide-eyed gazes, and he realized that perhaps it was the first time many of them had seen a black man.
When he entered Madrid, the first thing Deion thought of was Sophie's paintings of the city. There had been paintings of bombings overhead and people with terrified looks on their faces. It sort of surprised him that today the sky was clear and people walked around. Many buildings were pockmarked by bullet holes and some buildings had been reduced to rubble, but it appeared as if the city had done its best to clean up the mess.
If only it were as easy to clean up one's thoughts—pushing away the rubble. And one's heart, for that matter.