Chapter Three #2
“Andreas!” he shouted. “Go back!” But it was already too late. A rifle shot rang out, his brother jerked as the lead ball slammed home, then slumped forward over the saddle, his shirt red-stained with blood.
Ramon felt a wave of fury like nothing he had known.
He started toward his brother, but Pedro Sanchez appeared at Andreas’s side and together they rode off toward the rear gate leading away from the rancho.
He thought of the girl, of the havoc she had caused, of her cool demeanor and haughty eastern ways.
In his mind, he saw his brother riding toward her, heard the deafening crack of the gun.
Ramon’s anger surged, turning to white-hot rage.
Beneath him the black horse reared. He spun the stallion, dug his heels into the horse’s ribs, leaned low over the saddle, and rode hard toward the girl crouching down behind the watering trough.
Lead whizzed past his ear, but he didn’t slow.
She screamed when she saw him racing toward her, then stood up and began to run.
It was exactly what he wanted.
As the black horse galloped up beside her, Ramon bent forward, leaned out and slid an arm around her waist, then dragged her up over his saddle.
She was screaming and fighting, trying to get away, but she was no match for him.
He forced her face down across the saddle, his hand pressing hard on the small of her back.
He could feel her trembling as the horse picked up speed, saw her long reddish braid dangling over the horse’s shoulder.
She was afraid to move, he realized, now that the animal was running flat out, and felt a shot of grim satisfaction.
He caught up with the others by the time they reached the trees, his vaqueros driving the herd relentlessly ahead of them.
They were moving with speed and efficiency, traveling the route that had been chosen well ahead.
Rifle shots still echoed in the distance, but his men were already out of range.
They moved a little farther into the trees, gaining distance from the rancho, riding out of danger and into the mountains that would insure their escape.
He stopped for a moment to secure the woman’s arms behind her, to bind her feet, and gag her when she tried to scream. Then he tossed her across his horse’s withers and rode on in search of his brother.
He found him slumped over the saddle, barely able to stay on his horse.
“Take the girl,” he commanded a vaquero named Enriquez, who dragged her off the stallion and over to his own horse.
The stout man loaded her face down across the saddle in front of him, then swung himself up behind her. Sanchez gave Ramon a sharp look, clearly marking his disapproval that the woman had been taken, but quickly turned back to Andreas.
“How is he?” Ramon asked, worried how seriously his brother had been hurt.
“It is very bad, my friend,” the older man said. “Very bad.”
A chill slid through him. Not just a shoulder wound as he had thought. “We cannot stop until we reach the pass. Can he make it until then?”
When Sanchez shook his head, “I do not think so,” Ramon’s worry increased tenfold.
His heart began to throb dully, forcing a tightness into his chest. He turned to Ruiz Domingo. “What about the others who are wounded?” he asked the thin-faced young vaquero. “Can they make it as far as the pass?”
“Si, Don Ramon. The others were not injured nearly so badly.”
“Ride as far as the canyon at Los Osos. There is cover there and water for the horses. Then you must separate as we planned. Martinez will take five men and head north to Sacramento City with the horses. The rest of you will wait for us at the base of the canyon. If we do not arrive by tomorrow at dawn, go on to the stronghold without us.”
There was only a slight hesitation. “Si, patron.”
Ramon just nodded, worry for Andreas overriding all other thought.
As the men rode away, Ruiz in the lead, Enriquez riding with the girl, he returned to where Sanchez stood next to his brother.
He was nearly unconscious, his limp form slumped over the horse.
Clamping his jaw against the fear that wrenched through him, Ramon took the reins and led the animal into the cover of the trees, next to a small shallow creek.
With hands that were no longer steady, he lifted Andreas from the saddle and heard his low moan of pain. “Do not worry, little brother. Ramon is here. Everything is going to be all right.”
Sanchez unfurled his bedroll and they rested Andreas upon it. Ramon tore open his brother’s linen shirt with clumsy fingers and removed the red-stained rag Pedro had stuffed into the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
“Madre de Dios…” Ramon’s heart squeezed inside his chest. He clenched his jaw against the sight of his brother’s torn flesh, at the shattered rib protruding through the smooth, dark skin and the frothy blood bubbling out of the hole with each of his brother’s ragged breaths.
“I am … sorry, Ramon,” Andreas said.
“Do not try to speak,” Ramon whispered, a hard lump rising in his throat. He blinked back a sudden well of tears. “You must try to save your strength.”
A wheezing sound rattled past his brother’s bloodless lips.
Ramon smoothed back the younger man’s damp black hair. “Por Dios, Andreas,” he whispered, “why could you not have listened?”
Andreas opened his eyes. When he saw his brother’s face, saw the wetness trickling down his cheeks, his own eyes moistened with tears.
“Do not … torture yourself … Ramon. The raid … was my idea. The fault was … mine … not yours.” He coughed raggedly, the motion jolting him, knifing him with so much pain that perspiration broke out on his forehead.
Ramon tried to steady him, but his hands were shaking so badly, he couldn’t hold on.
“Rest easy, little brother.”
Andreas moved his head. “Tell … our mother … that I love her.”
Ramon’s throat went so tight for a moment he could not speak. He reached out and gripped his brother’s hand, holding on as hard as he could, wishing it was he who lay on the bedroll, he who suffered such unbearable pain.
“And also … Tia Teresa,” Andreas whispered.
“I will tell them.” Ramon could barely force out the words. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening the front of his shirt. He wasn’t prepared for this. Mother of God, he hadn’t suspected his brother was wounded so badly.
“As I also love … you … Ramon.”
Ramon’s dark head dropped forward. He repeated the same words to his brother, words he had never spoken to another living soul.
Andreas coughed again, riddling his body with pain, and Ramon felt it as if the agony were his own. Amazingly, when his brother rested quietly once more, a corner of his mouth curved up, etching the grooves in his cheeks.
“You said … one day … a woman would be the death of me. In a way … I guess it was … the truth.” Then his eyes slid closed, a last soft breath whispered past, and Andreas de la Guerra was gone.
“No. Nooo!” Ramon threw back his head and cried out into the darkness. It echoed into the stillness of the night, a terrible shriek of pain, an agony so deep it seemed it would tear him in two. The sound was primitive, savage, like the keen of a wounded wolf.
Wordlessly, Pedro Sanchez eased away from him, his eyes as wet as Ramon’s.
“Vaya con Dios, my friend,” he whispered to Andreas, his deep voice rough and strained.
Making the sign of the cross, he moved off toward the horses.
He returned a few minutes later with a blanket, which he gently laid over Andreas’s still form.
Neither man spoke. There was nothing left to say.
Still it wasn’t until several hours later, his heart so heavy he could not speak, that Ramon finally released his brother’s lifeless hand.