Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (63 page)

Once out in the open, Brett directed Timpani to a sheltered rise where he could scan the area without being seen himself. Grandfather Nathan hadn't said how long the Gallardos and their friends had been missing from the Double A, but if riders had come to Acoma to ask questions, it probably had been a few days. Riders wouldn't have come asking unless the area had already been searched and nothing conclusive found.

And they wouldn't make that choice lightly,
Brett thought as he methodically scanned the terrain, because they'd be giving away that La Padrona was starting to think of some people as her property.

Brett's inspection of the area didn't show him anything as obvious as a posse neatly displayed out in the middle of the tall grass or threading their way through the scatterings of piñon, juniper, and other scrubby trees that were interspersed in copses through the plains. Last winter's rains had been good—by area standards—and the monsoons had established right on schedule, so there was as much green as brown in the undulating land.

Lowering his binoculars, Brett considered.
The people I'm looking for probably chose to leave the Double A at this time precisely because they could count on water and a certain amount of cover. The ranch is south of here; access used to be off 117. Acoma's certainly the closest community, but the runaways might have figured that's where La Padrona would look first. In that case . . .

Brett reviewed a mental map. Options for people who didn't want to be returned to La Padrona weren't good. There were other ranching operations south of El Malpais, but the ranchers were loosely allied, respecting one another's brands and sharing resources. All Annabella Andersen would need to do was tell some tale about the Gallardos owing her and they'd be turned back. So not the ranches . . .

It would be a long trip,
Brett thought,
but if I were them, I just might consider going west, then north, up toward some of the settlements in the Zuni Mountains or even to San Rafael. The Double A riders have got to have figured that, too. So why haven't Emilio and his band been found? Even with a head start, if they have children with them, a bunch of determined cowhands should be able to catch up.

He felt a tingle run up his spine, just like it had when Grandfather Nathan had posed one of those questions that had been meant to teach him and Leo to track with their minds, not just with their eyes and ears.

What if they're still close by? What if something happened to slow them up? A lamed horse, an injured person, a kid with a bellyache . . . I can think of a dozen possibilities. At this point, the riders would be looking farther afield, not behind. I wonder . . .

He tapped Timpani on one shoulder. In response to the command, the mare began to pick her surefooted way down the slope. Xenophon rose, shook himself, and followed.

Suddenly, Brett felt as eager as initially he had been reluctant.

Grandfather Nathan . . . Did he know? When he said he'd “dreamed” I'd be the one to stop the Double A, I just translated his words into Anglo—as “imagined” or “hoped”—but what if he meant it literally? What if he prayed for a solution and this was the answer?

In a twisted way, it made sense. Why else would Grandfather Nathan believe Brett had a chance to intercept people who should have been long gone from the area? Back when everything stopped working and the clear Western skies had shown all too clearly planes plummeting toward the earth as their engines failed, the elders had prayed—as tradition said Acoma had always prayed—for the well-being of the world. They had been certain that the catastrophic events were not caused by a short-term flicker in the electromagnetic field or any of the other bullshit explanations Brett had heard bandied around in Grants.

Brett guided Timpani south, skirting trees and larger rocks, rather than riding in the open: not hiding, but not making it easy for him to be seen either. After the third time he'd scanned the horizon, Brett realized that he wasn't looking for people so much as a landmark—a large rock, surrounded by trees. He could see the shape in his mind, clear as if he'd been there before, but he was certain that he hadn't. Problem was, he knew how the rock looked from a hawk's eye view, but not from the side.

As they had ridden their aimless course, Xenophon had decided that they must be searching for something. In his methodical hound's way, he had concluded that the something wasn't a deer or a cow or badger's den, since they'd passed up several interesting options in those categories already.

For the last few miles, the dog had been playing a sort of canine twenty questions with his human. He'd cast widely back and forth along either side of where Brett rode, snuffling enthusiastically. When he found something that he thought was interesting, he would woof softly to draw Brett's attention. Brett would dismount and inspect the find, rejecting a dead squirrel, an old quail's nest, a tree that a bear had recently clawed, and a neatly buried bit of porcupine scat. When Xenophon woofed and gently scraped his paw where something else had been covered with dirt and pine needles, Brett expected more of the same.

What confronted him was a neat deposit of human waste, almost certainly from several people.

“Good boy!” Brett said, rubbing Xenophon's ears and rewarding him with a piece of bacon. “I don't think the Double A riders would all share a hole, but if I were traveling with kids and didn't want to leave sign, this is just what I'd do. Can you find the people who left this?”

Xenophon wagged his tail and began casting around, making the whining, snuffling noises that Brett translated as “I'm working on it.” Brett had barely settled back in the saddle before Xenophon gave a short bark and lined himself up along what, to Brett, was a still invisible trail.

“Go slowly,” Brett commanded and Xenophon, his tail wagging like a metronome, put his nose to the ground and led.

It didn't take long for Brett to find visual indications that they were indeed tracking humans who had been through the area within the last day. They'd been careful. Whenever possible, they had ridden over pine needles or gravel that wouldn't hold a print. However, with this being monsoon season, hiding the trail wasn't always possible. After examining the prints, Brett decided they were tracking four to six horses going no more than two abreast, often single file.

The riders were careful to keep to cover. When he saw the greyish white sandstone upthrust ahead, he knew that must be their destination. Chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he considered his options. He couldn't just ride up. These people were on edge. If they thought they'd been found, but only by a single man, they'd probably shoot—and surely someone would be good enough with a bow to hit if not him, then Timpani. He wasn't going to put the horse at risk.

With this in mind, he dismounted in a sheltered clearing, loosening Timpani's girth so she'd be more comfortable. The mare was content to nibble on stray bits of grass. Xenophon, of course, promptly went to sleep. Leaving behind his bow and arrows as both too cumbersome and too provocative, Brett crept forward until he could see his quarry's camp.

The chunk of sandstone was larger than he'd realized at first—but then Leo had always been better at estimating size and distance. It also was two pieces, not one. The refugees had picketed their horses between the two sections, where there was a little grass, then dragged a deadfall to close off the far end. In front of this rough corral, they'd pitched several small tents. The space was sheltered and somewhat defensible, but those very qualities also made it a potential trap. Something in the bearing of the people gathered within told Brett they knew this.

There were four adults—two black, two Spanish—four small children, all black, and a baby on the Spanish woman's hip. The black man and several of the children were napping. The older girl Nathan had mentioned wasn't visible. Brett guessed she was keeping watch from atop one of the chunks of sandstone. She was probably doing her best, but after Xenophon had found the spoor the trail had led through cover. Then, too, the girl was probably alert for a group of riders. One man could easily be missed.

Brett belly-crawled as close as he could, then took shelter behind a boulder that had probably once belonged to the larger chunk.

Trying not to sound threatening, he called, “Emilio, it's Brett Hawke. I've come to help you.”

Emilio Gallardo dropped the branch he'd been breaking into firewood, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion so quickly that Brett could almost read his thoughts. Emilio was a broad-shouldered man with the heavy torso of the classic blacksmith and sturdy legs. He was clean-shaven and wore his hair cut short. Suspicion still coloring his features, he rose, as if by doing so he could protect the entire group. Then, holding his branch firmly, he made a gesture that invited Brett to come forward.

Brett rose from behind his rock, stood so they could see he held no weapon, and stepped lightly forward. The black woman, broad-hipped, with heavy breasts, had her arms around her two older children. The littler ones—one hardly more than a toddler—clung to her voluminous ankle-length skirts. The Spanish woman—Felicita Gallardo, Brett guessed—hushed the baby. Only the last adult, a wiry man with skin the color of coffee with two splashes of cream, didn't move, but continued slumbering.

“Brett Hawke,” Emilio said, a smile breaking through his suspicion, “by damn and all, it is you.” He indicated the rest. “That's my wife, Felicita. Our friends, the Murchinsons: Winna, Jerome, and their kids.”

Emilio might have said more, but Winna Murchinson interrupted. “You've come to help us? How do you know we need help? You sure you aren't coming from La Padrona?”

“I'm here because Nathan Tso of Acoma mentioned that La Padrona was hunting some folks,” Brett replied. “He told me that one of them was Emilio here. I got to thinking about how I wouldn't have horses with sound hooves if it weren't for what Emilio taught me, and so I came. What's the problem? Why are you holed up, rather than moving along?”

“It's my husband,” Winna said. “He was riding point. Jerome has a good eye for the land.”

“He does,” Brett agreed. “He did a fine job of hiding your trail. Not easy to do with so many horses.”

Winna flashed him a smile. “Jerome was being so careful about making sure we rode where we wouldn't leave too much sign that he missed a big old rattlesnake sleeping in the sun across our trail. The snake missed us, too, I guess, because Jerome's horse was right on top of it before it set to rattling. Horse spooked. Jerome went off, busted a leg. I've got it set, but he's in a right large amount of hurt.”

This must be the nurse and
curandera
Nathan had mentioned. Brett could see that all three adults had questions, but he held up a hand to forestall them.

“Ma'am, can your husband ride?”

A rusty voice, thick with sleep, cut in. “I can. It'll hurt, but if someone will lift me up, I'll hang on. The worst of the pain let up after Winna got it set, just that the setting hurt like . . .”

He stopped, obviously swallowing a profanity in deference to his wide-eyed children.

“Where were you heading?” Brett asked.

“San Rafael,” Felicita Gallardo replied. Like Emilio, she spoke English perfectly, but with the accent of the New Mexico Hispanic who is bilingual from childhood on. “Can't hope Jerome can make it that far now.”

“No,” Brett agreed before Jerome could insist otherwise. “Am I right that you folks were going to lie low until the hunt died down, give Jerome a chance to rest, then move on?”

Nods.

“What if I offered you a safer place to do just that? There's a risk, because once we start moving, it's possible that La Padrona's posse will see us, but this is big country and it's possible they're visiting the other ranches, seeing if you're hiding out there.”

The adults exchanged glances. Winna, perhaps because she had the most to risk, spoke first. “That would be kind of you, but where can we hide that they won't find us as easily as they would here?”

“In the malpais,” Brett said. He glanced up. Thunderheads were gathering. “If we're lucky, it's going to rain this afternoon. That will give us cover and wash out our trail. Even if La Padrona is offering a bonus, her riders aren't going to figure they'll see much in the rain. They'll find cover. I suggest we pack you up and get moving. That way we can take advantage of the rain when we get to the point where we need to cross open ground.”

Emilio forced a smile. “Ah, the summer monsoons. You can set your watch by them.”

“It rained yesterday,” said a little girl of about four. Something about her big dark eyes and soft wooly hair made her look like a lamb. “We got wet, even in the tents.”

“And we'll get wetter today,” Brett promised.

He tried to sound cheerful, but he knew it was going to be a miserable trip. The monsoon rains were usually what the Navajo called “male rain”—hard, driving wetness that soaked you to the skin in minutes. Its blessing and curse both was that the actual rainfall didn't usually last long but, by the time it stopped, drying out took hours.

“Rosamaria!” Emilio called softly. “Come down now. We're leaving.”

Brett shook his head. “If that's your scout, have her stay up there until we're packed. I'd feel better knowing someone was keeping watch.”

“Rosamaria didn't see you,” said the oldest little boy. “Are you an Indian?”

“Not quite,” Brett said, “but I try. Now, scamper and help your mama.”

The refugees didn't have all that much. Felicita and Winna took charge of breaking camp while Emilio and Brett tacked up the horses and consulted on how best to distribute the weight.

“My Rosamaria can ride with Jerome,” Emilio said. “She's not full-grown and he's not a bruiser like me. He can hold on to her, and she'll let us know if he's slipping. Yolanda”—this was the little lamb—“can ride with her mama. Carl and Oscar can ride together. I'll take Nancy.”