The rough rock walls were without ornamentation of any kind—not a picture, not a crucifix. In his first hours here, Frio had lain with a blazing fever and stared with glazed eyes at the dark door of death, which had loomed wide and open in the gloom just beyond the foot of the bed. Later, fever subsiding but the bedclothes still sticking to his body, he had studied those bare walls until he knew every crack, every little squeeze of mortar. In their rough shape and from the shadows that lay across them he could make out vague pictures of faces and mountains and horses and cattle.
Most of the fever was gone now, though a lingering weakness continued to hold him down. He was tired of lying here this way when there was so much that needed to be done. Experimentally he swung his legs off the cot and let his bare feet touch the earthen floor. His head swirled. He had to hold it in his hands. The wound began to throb afresh.
Cooking in the other room, Amelia McCasland heard him move. She dropped a stirring spoon into an iron pot and came to see about him. Frio pulled the blanket up to cover himself.
“Frio,” she scolded, “you lie back and be still. You’ll break that wound open again.”
His head was swimming so much that it was hard to keep his eyes on her. “Just wanted to see how I’d feel sittin’ up. I can’t stay in bed forever.”
“You’ll stay there awhile longer if you want to live. Now lie down!”
Grudgingly he pulled his feet up and stretched out again. It was true he felt much better this way. He doubted he could get to the front door afoot. He had lost a lot of blood.
“I’ve got to be up and out with my wagons.”
“Happy Jack can take care of the wagons for one trip, at least.”
Frio’s face twisted. A glowing anger had remained banked inside him since the night Florencio Chapa had so coldly killed Felix and had put the whip to Frio. “Just takin’ care of them isn’t enough. I want those wagons to roll far and fast. I want to show the Yankees how much war goods I can haul. I want to show them I’m a long way from bein’ dead—that they wasted the blood money they paid Chapa.”
Amelia said, “You’re hating too hard, Frio. Hate is a cruel master.” She sat on the edge of the cot, put her warm hand gently to his face, and tried to force a smile. “Try to put the hatred away. Be glad you can lie back and rest. Be glad you can spend some time here with me.”
He reached up and took her hand. “You know people are goin’ to talk, you stayin’ in the same house with me.”
“The condition you’re in, what could happen?” She wrinkled her nose. “It’ll take more than talk to hurt me anymore. Anyway, I’ll let you make an honest woman of me anytime you want to.”
He tightened his grip on her hand. “Someday, Amelia, when I can, I’ll take you with me down to Matamoros. We’ll be married there.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “I’m only sorry it took a bullet in the back to make you say that.”
Someone knocked at the front door. Blas Talamantes and his wife came into the house. María carried a tin bucket of milk. Blas strode directly into the bedroom, taking off his big sombrero. “Ah, Frio, you feel a little better, no?”
Frio nodded. “Some. How is everything goin’?”
Blas shrugged. “Bueno. The cattle are thin, but mostly they still live. Maybeso it rains in the spring.”
Standing in the doorway, María held up the bucket. “Madama, I have bring milk for the patrón. It will help to make him well.”
Frio grimaced. “Milk!”
María said, “You need it. You must drink it for strong.”
Frio argued. “You need it worse than I do, María. You’re drinkin’ it for two.” The tiny woman was showing her pregnancy more every day.
Blas placed his strong arm around his wife’s thin shoulder. “I burn prickly pear for the milk cow. Pear makes for plenty milk. We get enough for María and for you, too, don’t you worry.”
María’s fingers went up to touch Blas’s hand, and she leaned her head down so that her cheek rested against the man’s arm. She said, “So long as I have Blas, I have no need for anything else.”
Blas smiled down at her. In the moment of silence, Frio heard a running horse. Blas heard it too, for he turned his head to listen. The boy Chico burst through the door. Bundled in a coat twice too large for him, he had been playing outdoors.
He said excitedly, “Somebody is come!”
Through the open door they heard a man outside shouting, “Blas! Blas Talamantes!” It was a Mexican voice.
Blas stepped to the door and hailed the man. “Aquí, Natividad. Slow down a little. You live much longer.”
Natividad de la Cruz stepped hurriedly up onto the little porch. “There is no time to slow down. The yangui soldiers, they are not far behind me. Where is the Frio?”
Blas’s smile was wiped away in a second. “Frio is here, in bed. We cannot move him.”
“The yanquis will do more than move him!”
Natividad, about the same age as Blas, was a one-time vaquero who worked for Hugh Plunkett in the cottonyard. Once Frio had brought medicine all the way from San Antonio for Natividad’s sick wife. She had died anyway, but the man’s gratitude had never changed. Natividad brushed past Blas and hurried to the bedroom.
“Mr. Frio, you get away from here quick! The yanquis, they come for to kill you!”
The color left Amelia’s face. Frio demanded, “How do you know?”
“Señor Plunkett, he say for me to ride like the wind. My horse he is go lame, and the soldiers they pass me while I am finding another. I spur him hard and go around them, but they follow close. You got very little time.”
Frio sat up shakily and put his feet on the floor again. Amelia protested, “Frio, you can’t go, not in your condition. Let them arrest you. What can they do?”
Natividad said, “Pardon me, señorita, but Señor Plunkett he say they don’t come to arrest him, they come for to kill him!”
Amelia cried, “You can’t ride a horse, Frio. You’ll tear that wound open and bleed to death!”
“I can’t just lie here!”
Blas had listened gravely. Now, voice urgent, he said, “I fix. Miss Amelia, you and María and Natividad, you take Frio out into the thick brush. Go as far as you can. Wipe out your tracks behind you. I take Natividad’s horse and lead the yanquis away.”
He dropped his sombrero on the floor and took one of Frio’s hats from a peg on the wall. He slipped off his Mexican coat and put on one of Frio’s.
Frio shook his head. “Too risky. I won’t let you do it.”
Blas said sternly, “You can’t stop me. Hurry up now, all of you. Ándele!”
Natividad helped Frio pull on a pair of pants and get boots on his feet. Frio tried to stand alone but swayed and nearly fell. Natividad caught and steadied him, pulling Frio’s good arm around his shoulder to give him support. He flung a blanket over Frio’s back to keep him warm when they went out into the chill of the open air.
Tearful, María clutched at her husband. “Blas, Blas, don’t do it!”
“Don’t worry, querida. It is pretty soon dark. They will think I am Frio. I let them follow, but I don’t let them get close.”
María cried, “Blas, they will kill you!”
He threw his arms around her and crushed her to him. He kissed her, then pushed her away. “Go now. No yanqui soldier can kill me, not when I have a son on the way that I have not even seen.”
Blas hurried out to see about Natividad’s horse. Frio said, “Amelia, bring the rifle!” She got it. With Natividad to help her, she brought Frio out into the fading afternoon. The chill cut him at first like the sharp edge of a knife, María hurried along behind, carrying several warm blankets over one arm. She clutched Chico’s hand and dragged the boy in a run. She paused a moment to look back at her husband, who stood beside the horse, awaiting first sight of the Union soldiers.
“Blas,” she called brokenly, “go with God!”
He blew his wife a kiss and watched her until she and the others disappeared south into the brush. Blas turned then and kept his gaze on the Brownsville trail. A cold sweat broke across his face. It wasn’t long, perhaps ten minutes, when he saw the first bluecoat push warily out of the brush. Shortly he could see forty or fifty troopers. Their officer gave a signal. The soldiers spurred into a run toward the house.
Blas waited only long enough to cross himself. Then he swung into the saddle and broke north, putting Natividad’s tiring horse into a lope. Blas purposely hunched over in the saddle, the way a wounded man would. It stood to reason they knew Frio was wounded, else why would they have come?
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that they were following him as hard as they could run.
Blas gritted his teeth and tore into the brush.
* * *
TOM MCCASLAND HAD ridden in torture all day. The whisky he had drunk last night still burned in his belly like a bank of coals, and his head throbbed as if someone were crushing his skull with a sledge. He had no recollection of going to bed. The last he remembered, he had still been sitting up in a chair. He hadn’t awakened until the impatient Major Quayle had sent someone this morning to find out why he hadn’t reported when he was supposed to. The major had ridden beside him in angry silence all day. Because of Tom, the patrol had been delayed more than an hour beyond its scheduled starting time. Twice they had to stop and allow Tom to be sick. Small wonder Quayle was disgusted with him.
Well, Tom thought, what had they expected, asking him to do a job like this? They couldn’t expect a man to help kill his best friend and do it cold sober.
For a while last night the liquor had at least numbed the edge of his guilt. Now nothing was left but the dregs of the whisky, and the guilt was with him again, riding upon his shoulders with the weight of stone. It shrieked in his ear like some querulous old beggar-woman at the city plaza, berating a passerby for dropping no coin in her outstretched hand.
When the war was over, he would have to leave this part of the country; he knew that. He realized he would be regarded from now on as a Judas. He could never hope to make people understand. His friends would turn away, loathing him. And his sister.… He shook his head sadly at the thought of her. When Frio died, Amelia would reject Tom with a hatred that probably would last the rest of her life.
Yet, he knew what his duty was, and he would do it. But at what a cost!
Perhaps when the war was over he would change his name. Maybe he would go west to California, for that was a new and growing land. Or even down into Mexico. He knew the Mexican people well, and by now he spoke their language almost as they did. He could start fresh.
Or could he? Did a man ever really start fresh? No matter where he went, no matter if he changed his surroundings, his clothes, even his language, he would take his memories with him. He would take with him the cancerous guilt that eroded his soul. Not even the love of a woman like Luisa Valdez would be enough to offset that.
Luisa! He remembered the shock in her face last night when he had told her what he was going to do. She could not have been more shaken if he had struck her with his fist. He had half expected her to turn her back on him and call him a betrayer. Yet, this morning she had seemed strangely calm. She hadn’t tried to argue with him. That was one thing about most Mexican women: They believed it was the man’s place to make the decisions. Right or wrong, they followed him.
“It’s getting late,” Major Quayle said. It was the first time he had spoken to Tom in a couple of hours. “How much farther?”
“We’re almost there. We’ll break out of this brush in a minute and into the clearing where the houses are.”
The major turned to the sergeant. “Get the men closed up. Tell them to have their carbines ready. We’ll go in running. We’ll give them no time to set up a defense.”
Tom said bitterly, “Who? A wounded man, a couple of women, maybe one or two Mexicans? Remember what I told you, Major: My sister is there. I don’t want her hurt.”
“We’ll get this over with in a hurry. She won’t be hurt.”
Won’t be hurt! The major’s words struck Tom like some sardonic joke. Killing Frio was the worst hurt they could do her.
They rode out into the open. Tom’s sight was blurred, for last night’s drinking had left its mark. But he saw the horse in front of the rock house. He made out a man standing behind the mount. He made out Frio’s black hat.
Quayle said, “That him?”
Tom swallowed and looked down. “It’s him.”
Quayle waved his arm and shouted, “Charge!”
In an instant the troopers were in a gallop. The first rush left Tom behind. He had no wish to be up front. He had no wish to be here at all. He let the soldiers take over. Sick at heart, he watched the fugitive swing into the saddle and spur northward toward the heavy brush.
“Run, Frio!” he found himself whispering. “For God’s sake, run!”
Tom touched spurs to his horse then and tried to catch up with Quayle, but already he was too far behind. The troopers hit the brush. The heavy limbs lashed at them, the thorns clutched and tore. But the soldiers had seen their quarry. They spurred through the brush like Mexican vaqueros born to the chaparral. They started a ragged pattern of shooting, but it was of no real avail. There was no chance for accuracy from horseback at a speed like this, through a thorny tangle of brush that grabbed at a man and tried to pull him out of the saddle.
For a mile or more they ran. The horses were beginning to labor. But the fugitive’s mount was slowing more. In despair Tom watched the soldiers making a slow but steady gain. Of a sudden now he wished that by some miracle he could place himself on that horse up yonder, that he could take the soldiers’ bullets instead of Frio.
To hell with the major! To hell with the Union! He wished he could call back the day, could have another chance at the decision he had made. Tears burned his eyes and trailed down his cheeks.
“Run, Frio! For God’s sake, run!”
The soldiers shouted in excitement. Blinking hard, Tom saw that the quarry’s horse had gone down. It lay kicking on the ground. In the brush the fugitive began to run afoot, limping as if the fall had hurt his leg. It occurred to Tom that Frio was making a pretty good account of himself for a man who had been wounded so badly.
Quayle signaled, splitting his riders, sending half of them around one side, half around the other. They would ring Frio and then close in on him. In a few minutes he would be a dead man.
Tom knew the situation was out of his hands now. Nothing he could do would help Frio. He stopped his horse and sat slumped in the saddle, the tears streaming. He wished God would see fit to strike him dead. Oblivion now would be a blessing.
Eyes closed, he could hear the soldiers threshing through the brush. They shouted to one another. Above them all he could hear the loud commands of Major Quayle. Finally came the exultant yells of the men as they cornered their prey.
A volley of shots echoed through the chaparral.
“Frio!” Tom cried. “Oh, God!” He touched spurs to the horse and put him into a run. The choking veil of gunsmoke still clung in the thick brush. Tom spurred past the soldiers toward the still figure he could see lying broken on the ground. He slid his horse to a stop and was off running.
The body lay facedown, torn half apart by the troopers’ bullets. Major Quayle rode up and stepped out of the saddle as Tom gently started to turn the body over.
Tom looked into the dirt-covered face and felt his heart bob.
Major Quayle suddenly began to curse. “That’s not Wheeler!”
Tom slowly shook his head, his chin dropping. He folded Blas Talamantes’s hands carefully and wiped dirt from the Mexican’s face. Tears burned in Tom’s eyes.
“No, Major,” he said tightly, “it’s not Frio Wheeler. You’ve killed the wrong man!”
* * *
FRIO’S WOUNDS BURNED as if a hot branding iron had been shoved against his shoulder. From its stickiness, he knew it was bleeding afresh. They had carried him here into the thickest of the brush, for he had little strength to support himself. He had leaned heavily upon Amelia and Natividad. María had followed along with Chico. The little woman had a broken-off catclaw limb and was walking backward, scratching out their tracks as she went.
Frio groaned despite himself, for the wound was blindingly painful.
Amelia said, “This is far enough. He’ll die if we keep this up.” While Natividad held Frio on his feet, Amelia found a thick clump of shoulder-high prickly pear, growing so tightly that at first glance there seemed no way into it. But she found a way and beckoned. “In here. If we’ll all huddle in here, they may not find us.”
Pear thorns dug into their legs like tiny needles of fire, but there was no time to worry about that now. They moved into the heavy clump. María came last, dragging the catclaw limb to brush away the sign of their passing. It wouldn’t fool a good tracker, but it might be overlooked by the Yankees.
“Wrap Frio in this blanket,” Amelia said to Natividad. She had taken command with all the firmness of a soldier. “We may have to lie here a long time, and he’s going to be cold.” They laid him out in a narrow spot between the prickly pears, one edge of the blanket beneath him. Amelia stayed on her feet and watched until the others had bundled themselves and were lying flat upon the ground. Then she crawled under the blanket beside Frio. She found him trembling from cold. She pulled her body against him and drew the blanket up tightly, hoping her own warmth would protect him. With that wound, pneumonia could come easily.
“It’s going to be all right, Frio,” she whispered.
Presently they heard a far-off volley of shots. María screamed, “Blas! Blas!”
Then came a deadly silence. They could do nothing except lie there and listen to the little woman alternately sobbing and praying. Amelia buried her face against Frio’s chest and let her own tears flow.
Much later they heard men and horses approaching slowly. Chico whimpered. María’s voice spoke quietly, steady now with resignation, “Easy, little one. Easy, so they do not hear.”
The soldiers had fanned out in the brush and were combing it slowly, knowing the man they sought must be hiding there. Amelia turned and lay quietly, her breath ragged in fear. She knew the cold presence of death. At ground level was a small opening through the pear plants, and she could see a Union soldier moving in her direction. His gaze moved carefully back and forth. She held her breath, certain he was going to spot her. She wanted to pull the blanket back over her face but was afraid the movement would catch his eye. A scream rose in her throat. She clamped her teeth together.
The soldier rode close, peering over into this heavy growth of pear. Amelia’s fingers closed on the rifle. If that trooper saw them, she would shoot him, even though she knew it would bring the others on the run. They wouldn’t kill Frio without a fight; not without killing her too!
The soldier saw nothing. He pulled away. Amelia let her breath out slowly and loosened her hold on the rifle. Her heart seemed to race.
The line had passed. Unless they came this way again, Frio was safe.
She saw another movement then. Another rider was coming, one not in uniform. This man trailed along behind the soldiers, not taking part in the search. Amelia squinted, trying to make out his face.
He moved closer, and recognition came with a shock.
“Tom!” she cried out. Immediately she wanted to bite off her tongue. Tom McCasland reined up. He had heard. His gaze searched through the prickly pear, and their eyes met.
She lay paralyzed in fear, watching her brother, sure he was going to call back the soldiers.
Then Tom tore his eyes away from her. He dropped his chin and rode on.
With dusk came the smoke, drifting slowly southward from the direction of the house. Frio sat up weakly. “They’re burnin’ us out,” he said. A great sadness came over him. He knew Blas was dead.
María stood up, weeping quietly. Frio wished he could go to her.
“María,” he said bitterly. “I promise you this: I promise you they’ll pay!”