Treasure of the Sun (49 page)

"Told her you'd get rid of her once she served her purpose."

He stabbed a finger towards Damian. "But you know, I was thinking. I bet this marriage of yours might not even be legal when the United States takes over. I bet you won't even have to divorce her."

Damian turned Katherine to face him, and she clenched her teeth together. "You believe every word this maggot says, and you won't believe me?"

"Don Damian-"

"If I were going to bind myself in an unhappy marriage, my dear, I would do it for money. It's the best cushion against the future, and I've had offers to do just that."

He blazed with anger, and the previous emotion between them was nothing compared to his bitter disappointment in her. The words were inadequate, but she had to say them. "I'm sorry."

"Hey!" Smith shouted. "Damn it, bitch, get away." Katherine jumped, but it wasn't her he spoke to. The treasure had shone too brightly for Vietta to ignore it, and she had edged closer and closer. Smith's vendetta against Damian and Katherine interested her not at all. No one person interested Vietta like the cold metal that glinted above their heads. Now she climbed the pillar, finding the toeholds and finger grips that carried her to her goal. Not the threat of the pit beside her, not the danger of the heights, not the pain of her thigh, could dissuade her from her goal. Only a few more steps, only a few more. The sunlight glinted off Vietta's black hair as she reached and strained, grasping the top of the ledge. She almost had it.

Smith lifted the revolver. "Get away from there." Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he aimed.

Without a sound, Damian dove for him. The pistol went flying; Damian flew after it.

Smith shrieked, his attention still fixed on Vietta, and he grabbed her foot from below. "Get away from that. Don't you touch it." He jerked and she slipped, caught herself, dragged herself up. "Get away."

She leaped up and seized the wooden container. Smith leaped after her. Hanging on both her legs, he shook her. Gold showered around them, littering the floor, then the whole box tipped and lurched. It fell with a smack that shook the floor. Gold nuggets, worked vessels, chunks of quartz scattered, skidding over the rocks.

"Hot damn!" Smith jumped down after it, salivating like a wolf chasing a tender child.

Vietta shrieked in fury, then in pain. She couldn't keep a toehold with her damaged leg; Smith's handling had rendered her helpless. Katherine ran toward her, but Vietta slipped, clutched, lost her grip and fell, tumbling to the middle of the cave. The floor broke beneath her. Gravel poured down into the abyss. She screamed, reaching out with flailing arms. She caught at the edge; Katherine caught at her. She pulled at Vietta, dragging her back up on the solid rock.

Vietta sputtered and groaned, resting on the ground. Katherine stepped away. She leaned her hands against her knees, gasped, tried to pull in enough air.

"Katherine," Vietta whispered, raising herself. "Katherine, thank you." She smiled, showing newly broken teeth. "You fool." She shoved at Katherine, and while Katherine was still off balance, tumbled her into the pit.

I5 June, in the year of our Lord, 1777

Fray Lucio sits in the sun and shivers with the cold. He seeks to help ", keeping a constant lookout, and I encourage him. Feeble though he is, he wishes to assist in any way possible. I suspect it is to hurry our work here so he can return to the mission and civilization, but I have learned to leave judgment to He who is the governor of all things.

The women work with a will, and I work at their sides, performing tasks I previously considered the province of animals and peasants. My body is strong and hearty. I can lift and carry heavy objects unfit far the weaker gender. Cutting logs, hewing stone, installing the snares to re/arm the greedy, I take pride in the toil and in my sagacity.

This work which I envisioned in the darkness of the night takes too many days. I fear the noise will bring our pursuers before we have finished. I begin to sense the need to hurry our tabors. Every night I pray, every night I listen, and every day I wake with renewed urgency. My premonition of disaster is at odds with the assurance of my God that all will be well, but the Lord is silent on this point. No doubt my understanding of God's plan is so infinitesimal that I am presumptuous in seeking reassurance. Indeed, the mystery of the ages has been the difference between God's definition of grace and man's.

Nevertheless, I hurry.

-from the diary of Fray Juan Estevan de Bautista

Chapter 22

Katherine grabbed the jagged ledge as she went over. Her 6ngers burned as they slipped on the gravel, and her feet dangled in midair. The air that rushed up smelled like a grave. She jerked when the pistol discharged above her. "Please, God, not Don Damian," she said, gritting her teeth, struggling to get her elbow up. She succeeded, only to have it shoved down again. Above her, Vietta peered down, smiling. Katherine's strength gave way; she hung with her arms extended.

It was night below, but a diffused light around showed her a sheer drop of rock in front of her. She could reach it with her toe extended, but why? Desperately, she glanced around. A few feet away, carved into the rock, was another drawing, another smiling clock. Its hands pointed down. Cursing Tobias's quixotic sense of humor, she realized she would have to move over and let go . . . and hope she landed on something without breaking her bones.

To advance, she would have to move hand over hand, and her mind refused to envision it. Yet she didn't have time to debate with her fear. Impatient to finish, Vietta was staggering to her feet. With the sole of her shoe she ground Katherine's fingers into the crumbling rock.

Katherine wanted to tell her how thin the shelf was, how only an idiot would stand there. But Katherine couldn't free the words from her throat. She could only move her hand to the left when Vietta struck sharply with her heel. Emboldened, Katherine moved the other hand. The rock disintegrated beneath her fingers as she moved hand over hand. Vietta's trampling feet followed with a vengeance.

Katherine wished Vietta's destruction would come with the collapse of the floor beneath her feet, and at the same time prayed that it would not. Tumbling to her death with her enemy was death nevertheless.

The clock was right in front of her, pointing straight down. All she had to do was loosen her fingers ... loosen her fingers. For some reason, it was important she prove her faith in Tobias by loosening her fingers before Vietta's painful assault forced her to.

Taking a breath, she swung forward and jumped.

She landed almost before she started falling. She tasted blood in her mouth; she'd bitten her tongue. Her spine ached; she'd sat down hard. Crouching down, clutching the rock, she shook with a belated palsy of fear.

She was alive.

Glancing down, the dark rushed up at her, and she bit off a shriek.

A roar from above answered her. Damian called, "Catriona," and his anguish lured the tears from her eyes to splash on the stone at her feet. But at least he was still alive.

She retreated. Her back found the wall; she leaned against it, seeking security in its cool, solid strength. Clearing her eyes, she lowered her gaze. Dizziness assaulted her, turned her stomach, made her break out in a sweat. -

She rested on a narrow shelf that jutted from the stone supporting the floor above. Around her, there was nothing. Just a bottomless chasm in endless space. She closed her eyes. She opened them, stared straight ahead, and concentrated. There had to be a way off of this shelf. Tobias had been down here. Tobias had gotten out. There had to be a way off of here. Of course, Tobias would have brought a rope.

A flash from above attracted her attention, and she froze.

Vietta's head and two hands, outlined against the light from above, sent Katherine burrowing back. The shadow hid Vietta's expression, but not the searching sweeps of her head as she searched for evidence of Katherine's death.

Katherine didn't blink, didn't breathe, didn't think. A small laugh from above signaled Vietta's satisfaction, and Katherine held herself still until Vietta disappeared. She could hear grunts and cries from above. With her back hard against the chill wall, the fought to stand up. Betrayed by the seemingly solid rock, her head, then her shoulders slipped backwards. Where was the cliff? How could it disappear into a void?

Yet here she was, wedged into a crevasse. She twisted, and her hand met nothing. There should be stone, but it was empty. She squinted at the wall in the twilight. A hole, the darkest part of the already charcoal night, led off into the rock. With both hands, she probed the narrow passage, but she couldn't find the back of it. She pushed her head in; black assaulted her. Her eyes strained against the gloom, and she shut them. She twisted until her shoulders could fit, wiggled until her hips jammed at the entrance, wiggled some more. Her knees, her feet followed, and the burrow widened and lowered.

Her own stupidity stopped her. Where was she going? Into the bowels of the earth? Perhaps Tobias had escaped this way; perhaps not. What if she took the wrong turn? Would she wander until she died?

She tried to look back at the opening, but she couldn't turn enough to do that. This reminded her of a tomb, chill and silent. Would she be buried alive? This was a stupid place to die, and she was afraid. Her trembling made her slip on the damp stone. A drip of water from above made her jump and knock her head; she slithered backwards.

The fetid air moved; a breeze, light and unexplained, touched her cheek. She halted, experienced a tiny surge of courage; remembered her mission and what the stakes were. Somewhere in the cave above her, three people fought, all at odds with each other, and only one could win.

Damian had to win. She would make him win. She would prove herself to him and explain everything.

Thrusting out her hands, she groped forward. The tunnel dropped at first, frightening her again. Then it rose, a tiny passage leading almost straight upward. It twisted to the side. Where was she going? Oh, God, what would she find when she got there?

The tube that contained her lifted again, throwing her equilibrium of until she found handholds and toeholds. She climbed until she wondered why she didn't break through the floor, then she blinked. Was that the light? Staring up, she blinked again. It was. It was light, subdued, perhaps, but after the night in this tunnel, it looked like the blazing sun. Encouraged, she struggled on-and touched something. Something soft. Shuddering, she recoiled, wiping her palm on her skirt.

She could barely see it, a something on the shelf she must use to climb further. What was it? A piece of rotting flesh? A long forgotten trap? Could she stand to touch it again?

Yet it rested on the one place she must use to climb farther.

She had to go on, and she reached out again. A leather-bound book fit into the palm of her hand. Puzzled, she held it, but a sound made her lift her head.

In the tunnel, a low whistling swept her ears, and she obeyed the command of the wind. "Hurry."

His eye was swollen closed, his nose was bloodied, yet Damian lowered his head and drove it into Emerson Smith's belly. The big man went down, and Damian slumped.

Katherine was dead.

Katherine was dead, and nothing mattered. Nothing but making sure that neither one of these animals--not Smith, not Vietta-escaped the consequences of their villainy. If he could just get his hands on his gun. . . .

It had been all he could do to stay out of Smith's grasp.

Smith's reach was long; his fingers were like tentacles. His fighting expertise bespoke the streets, and Damian's training with the vaqueros had been barely enough. Now, Smith writhed on the ground. If Damian could just get his hands on the gun, the contest could be his. He would have won the battle, and lost everything.

If he could just get his hands on his gun; but the gun had been kicked all over the uneven floor. Vietta scuttled past on her hands and knees. Damian grinned and stalked toward her. Her knife rattled to the floor, loud in the cave.

She ignored it. She sought the gun. He would have it first. Like a wounded rattlesnake striking, Smith grabbed Damian's ankle. Smith jerked; Damian kicked with his other leg, using his boot heel to smash Smith's face. Smith's neck snapped back, and Damian scrambled away.

He couldn't let Smith catch him, for those long arms gave Smith an advantage Damian couldn't counter. Yet Smith leaped, tackling Damian and rolling all the way over. The pit yawned beside them; Damian felt its breath, knew its terror. He was trapped, Smith on his chest, death beside him. Smith reached for Damian's throat.

Damian understood Katherine's agony, now. Smith throttled him, silent, intent, working to finish the job and be done. Damian struggled, twisting, seeing colors explode and the floor lift like ripples under his gaze. A shiny object caught his eye.