“Perhaps I should save him. Perhaps if he rides with me to San Juan—”
“The widow, Pilar, can save him well enough. And there is always Miranda. She pines for him every moment he is away from the stronghold.”
“Si,I suppose you are right.” He took a last long look at the cluster of people milling like insects at the bottom of the hill. He thought he could just make out a small, auburn-haired woman beneath a pink-and-white-striped parasol.
He smiled. “On the other hand, what is life without a little trouble?”
Pedro laughed and the two men spurred their horses, riding on into the hills. At the crossroads, Andreas turned south and Pedro rode higher. Thoughts of the Americana with the pretty green eyes and pale skin, with the high, plump breasts and tiny ankles, drove Andreas on. He hoped in San Juan he would find a woman with the same full breasts who would, for a coin or two or maybe a few words of flattery, welcome him into her bed.
He wondered if his brother would go to Pilar, or if he would be patient and wait for the beautiful Anglo girl.
CHAPTERTHREE
Riding a stallion as black as the clothes he wore, Ramon de la Guerra crested the rise and looked down at the narrow creek meandering beneath the sycamore trees. Andreas was waiting, as well as a dozen of his top vaqueros who had remained loyal to the de la Guerras since the time of their fathers and their fathers before them. Two Yokuts Indians from the great central valley to the east rode at the rear of the column.
Ramon nudged the black stallion forward and began to slide down the hill leading to the boulder-strewn creek. Above his head, only a sliver of moon marked his way, and even that was shadowed by a curtain of thin gray clouds.
“Buenas noches, amigos,”he called to the men, reining the horse to a halt before them. “As always, it is good to see you.” Pedro Sanchez was among them, as well as Ruiz Domingo, Ignacio Juarez, Cisco Villegas, Santiago Gutierrez, and a number of others, many he had known since his childhood.
“As I have told Andreas, what we do this night is more dangerous than any of the raids we have done before. Austin and his men may be waiting. Chances are good that will not be so, that by now he will have relaxed his guard, but we cannot know this for certain. If one of you sees something amiss, you must call out a warning. We must leave the rancho, with or without the horses.”
“We need those horses, Ramon,” Andreas countered. “Do not make the men uneasy with talk of what may or may not happen. We can handle Fletcher Austin and his men.”
Ramon swore softly. Andreas was always hotheaded. Still, he would not undermine his brother’s authority in front of the men. “Just be careful. Do not underestimate Austin. If something happens, ride out as fast as you can. Get yourselves safely away.”
Before Andreas could argue, Ramon spun the stallion and started off down the trail. It was more than a two-day ride from their stronghold in the mountains to Rancho del Robles, but Andreas and the others had camped in the hills close by. The horses were fresh, the men alert and well rested for the night’s work ahead.
They reached the incline overlooking the rancho and reined up in a thick copse of trees. Ramon dismounted. So did Andreas and Pedro Sanchez.
“What do you think?” Andreas asked Ramon, his dark eyes scanning the sprawling hacienda, theestablo,and granary, the bunkhouse, andmatanza—slaughterhouse—the corrals filled with horses.
“It seems to be quiet enough.”
“Si.And look how many horses. He has built an extra corral just to hold them.”
“Thegringobuyer in Sacramento City will be pleased,” Pedro said. “He does not care where the animals come from, only that there are many, and that they are sound.”
Ramon watched in silence for a long moment more. Satisfied that all seemed in order, he turned and walked back to his men. “We must be sure to get the remuda.” That was the saddle stock used by the ranch hands. “We do not want them coming after us.”
Grasping the horn, he swung easily up into his wide Spanish saddle, pulled his black flat-brimmed hat down over his eyes and his black bandanna up over his nose, then lightly touched his big Spanish rowels to the sides of his horse.
***
Carly couldn’t sleep. She was still not used to the late supper hours kept by the California rancheros, or the strange night sounds of her new home: the creak of the heavy carved timbers above her bed, the crickets outside her window, the yipping of distant coyotes, and the occasional whinny of horses. The clock ticking over on the bureau read two o’clock; she could see the shiny brass hands in the thin ray of light slanting in through the shutters.
Wearily, Carly climbed out of bed. At supper, she had drunk some of the rich red wine her uncle made from grapes grown there on the rancho and now she was thirsty. She crossed the room to the porcelain pitcher sitting in the basin on the dresser, but found the pitcher empty. Her uncle would expect her to awaken her little maid Candelaria, but she wasn’t about to do that. Besides, she needed an excuse to move around a little. Perhaps when she returned she could finally fall asleep.
Pulling a light embroidered wrapper over her long white cotton night rail, Carly lifted the wrought-iron latch on the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway. Built in the Spanish design, the hacienda faced a large central patio with a wide covered veranda running the length of the house on three sides. The kitchen was in a separate building a few paces off to the rear in case of fire.
Carly drew the pale blue robe a little closer around her, stepped outside into the cool night air, then crossed the yard and opened the door to thecocina.It was dark inside the kitchen, but she could smell the dried red peppers that hung from the ceiling, the garlic flowers and bay leaves all strung together over the huge wooden butcher-block table.
Bins of wheat, beans, lintels, dried peas, corn, and fresh vegetables lined the wall. She stepped carefully so she couldavoid them. There were two six-burner iron stoves in the room, and on another wall, iron skillets, pots, pans, spoons, spatulas, and a hand-held coffee grinder dangled from the rack above the wood box.
It was usually noisy in the kitchen, alive with the slaps of tortillas being made, the chatter of the Indian serving women and the several Californio women who commanded their cooking efforts, but it was quiet now. Carly moved past the wooden butter churn to the covered barrel of water and lifted the lid. She dipped in the porcelain pitcher, filled it to the brim, then closed the lid and wiped the pitcher off with a freshly washed flour sack that served as a dish towel.
She had just reached the door when she heard it—horses pacing, snorting, their hooves thudding softly in the dirt; what might have been the creak of the corral gate swinging open. Carly walked to the window and looked out, wondering what could be going on.
At first she didn’t see them, just thought the horses had somehow forced open the gate and were drifting slowly away. They moved steadily but not hurriedly, their hides a blur of color plodding past. Bays, paints, sorrels, white horses, grays, and blacks, they just kept walking through the gate until the corral was empty. Carly hurried to the door and jerked it open, but stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the mounted men.