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  Frank heard soft crying and looked over his shoulder. Carmen Almanzar stood at the entrance to the hacienda, tears running down her face as she watched this display of cruelty, violence, and arrogant power. Frank thought about going to her and trying to convince her to return to the house, but before he could start toward her, she turned and half-ran, half-stumbled back inside.

  “Carry out the punishment, Cabo,” Captain Estancia said to his sergeant.

  Frank heard the hiss of indrawn breaths in dozens of throats as the burly sergeant raised his arm and drew back the whip. His arm fell and the whip lashed out, striking the prisoner’s back diagonally and curling almost lovingly over his shoulder. The prisoner lunged forward against the hitching post but didn’t cry out.

  When the sergeant pulled the whip back, it left a narrow wound that oozed blood. Taking his time about it, the sergeant got ready and then struck again, this time flicking his wrist so that the lash crossed the prisoner’s back in the opposite direction. The wounds formed a large, crimson X on the unlucky vaquero’s skin. Blood began to trickle down his back.

  Frank had felt rage stirring inside him even before the first blow was struck. This wasn’t right, and his sense of justice cried out for him to do something about it. But there was nothing he could do, not without the risk of starting a bloodbath. Like Don Felipe and Antonio and the others, he had to just stand there and watch this atrocity.

  But the day would come, he vowed right then and there, when he would settle the score with Estancia and that brutal sergeant.

  Again the whip flashed and peeled flesh from the prisoner’s back. The man had remained silent on the first two lashes, but the third one brought a choked cry of agony from his throat. He sagged against the post and twisted pitifully, trying futilely to escape the whip as it rose and fell yet again. After four lashes, the vaquero’s back was awash with blood, and crimson droplets splattered through the air as the sergeant drew the whip back. The prisoner cried and shuddered and writhed, but he couldn’t escape the pain.

  The sergeant poised his arm for the fifth and final blow. He took a step forward as he struck, putting all the strength in his muscular body behind the whip. More blood and little gobbets of flesh flew through the air as the stroke landed. The vaquero gave a gurgling scream.

  And once more the sergeant pulled his arm back, lifting the whip to strike yet again.

  Without thinking about what he was doing, Frank stepped forward. With the same speed that had saved his life in many a showdown, his hand shot out. Not reaching for his gun this time, but for the sergeant’s wrist instead. His fingers clamped like iron bands around that wrist before the sixth stroke of the whip could fall.

  The sergeant was taken by surprise. To tell the truth, Frank was, too, at least a little bit. He hadn’t planned this. He had acted purely on instinct. He jerked down on the sergeant’s wrist, and at the same time, his left foot hooked around the man’s right ankle and tugged hard. Already off balance, the sergeant fell backward and landed heavily. Frank plucked the bloody whip out of his hand and threw it on his chest. The sergeant recoiled from it as if it really were the snake that it resembled.

  “Señor Morgan!” Captain Estancia shouted. “You dare to interfere—”

  “You said five lashes,” Frank said coldly as he turned to face Estancia. Now his hand hung near the butt of his Colt, ready to hook and draw if he had to. “That hombre was about to hit him for the sixth time.”

  “You miscounted,” Estancia snapped.

  A faint smile tugged at the corners of Frank’s mouth. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve been able to count up to six for a long time.” His finger tapped the walnut grip of the Peacemaker as he spoke.

  For a long, tense moment, the two men stood there, their gazes locked. Then Estancia’s shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug and he said, “I suppose it could have been five.” To the sergeant, he snapped, “On your feet!”

  The sergeant climbed to his feet, and the look on his dark Indio face that he gave to Frank was full of murder and hatred. Frank knew that he had made a couple of enemies tonight, but he didn’t care. The whole thing had been unjust to start with, and there was only so much of that he could swallow before it stuck in his craw and he had to do something about it.

  Antonio started forward, toward the prisoner. Estancia said, “What are you doing?”

  “Cutting him loose,” Antonio said. He paused and looked back. “With your permission, Captain.” The scorn in his voice made it clear that he wasn’t really asking Estancia’s permission at all.

  The officer nodded and flicked a hand anyway, and Antonio went to the hitching post. He drew a knife from a sheath at his waist and sawed through the rawhide thongs. When they parted, the prisoner groaned and started to topple over. Antonio caught him and supported him, obviously not caring that he was getting blood on his fine clothes.

  Don Felipe signaled to his men, and several of them hurried forward to help Antonio with the whipped man. The Rurales made no move to stop them. The bloodied vaquero was taken off to the bunkhouse to be cared for by his compadres.

  Estancia turned to Don Felipe. “I apologize for this unpleasantness. It is necessary, however, to maintain order and respect for the authorities, and for El Presidente.”

  “As you say,” Almanzar replied stiffly.

  “As for you, Señor Morgan,” Estancia said, “I forgive you for your interruption. This is not your land, and you do not know our ways.”

  “I know right from wrong,” Frank said.

  Estancia’s lips tightened. “You will find that on this side of the border, Señor, the meaning of those words sometimes differs from your American conception of them”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Estancia glared, but he didn’t say anything else to Frank. Instead he turned to the sergeant and ordered, “Cabo, have the men withdraw a short distance and pitch their tents. We will remain here tonight.”

  “Sí, mi capitán.”

  Before turning away to carry out the command, the sergeant stared for a long moment at Frank, who had no trouble reading the threat in the man’s dark eyes. Then, as his lips drew back in a snarl he could no longer contain, the sergeant turned away. A second later he began to spit orders at the Rurales.

  “Once again I apologize for this unpleasantness, Don Felipe,” Estancia said to Almanzar. “Now, if you wish, we can resume our meal. . . .”

  “I no longer have much of an appetite,” Don Felipe said. “Dinner is over.”

  Even though Frank had known the man only a short time, he realized how uncharacteristic this lack of hospitality was in Don Felipe. That showed just how upset he really was.

  “I will have Esteban show you to your quarters,” Don Felipe continued.

  “You will tell Señorita Carmen that I said good night?”

  Don Felipe just grunted, not promising anything. Estancia’s face darkened a little more at this insult, but he didn’t press the issue.

  The vaqueros had all gone into the bunkhouse, and Antonio had gone with them. Esteban led Captain Estancia into the hacienda to escort him to his room. That left Frank and Don Felipe standing alone in the courtyard, where the dark splatters in the dust bore mute testimony to the violence that had occurred here.

  “You must think that we are a barbaric people,” Don Felipe said abruptly.

  “There are barbarians among every race,” Frank said, “and some believe that ultimately, they’re bound to triumph over the civilized men.”

  “And is this what you believe, Señor Morgan?”

  Frank looked at the splashes of blood on the ground and said, “I’d like to think otherwise, Don Felipe, but sometimes I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  15

  The rest of the night passed quietly. Frank didn’t see either Carmen or Antonio before he went to his cell-like chamber and climbed into bed, leaving the bandanna tied around his tender ankle. He slept soundly.

  By the next morni
ng, when he untied the bandanna, the swelling had gone down some. Likewise, the knot on his head was smaller and less painful to the touch. Another day or two and both injuries would be almost healed, he thought. For today, though, he left his Stetson in the room and pulled on the moccasins instead of his boots.

  As was his habit, he had risen early, not long after dawn, but of course the inhabitants of the rancho were already up and about, getting a fair start on a good day’s work. Vaqueros rode here and there, and the ringing of hammer against anvil came from the blacksmith shop. The sound reminded Frank of his friend Reuben Craddock, the blacksmith in the little settlement of Nemo, Texas, far to the north. The burly Reuben shared Frank’s love of reading, and that thought reminded Frank that he needed to find another book for his saddlebags before too much longer. Nothing passed the time like a good book.

  No one challenged him as he walked into the main part of the sprawling hacienda. When he came into the dining room, he found Carmen sitting at the table, the remains of her breakfast still in front of her as she sipped on a cup of coffee. She greeted him with a smile.

  “Buenos dias, Señor Morgan,” she said. “How did you sleep?”

  “Passable,” Frank said. “And you, Señorita?”

  She put her coffee cup on its saucer and a delicate shudder ran through her. “Not well. I kept hearing the crack of the whip and those cries of pain, even in my dreams.”

  Frank sat down and gazed solemnly across the table at her. “Do you know how that man is doing this morning?”

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose. The Indian women cleaned his wounds and dressed them with an ointment they make from plants that grow in the hills. My father checked on him this morning and said that he will recover, but I think it will take a long time. And the poor man’s spirit may never be the same again.” Carmen sighed and shook her head. “It was a dreadful thing. I could not watch it. Hearing it was bad enough.”

  Frank nodded in agreement. “It’s probably good that you went back inside, Señorita,” he told her. “There was nothing you could do to stop it.”

  She tilted her head a little to the side as she regarded him intently. “Antonio tells me that you stepped in to stop it, Señor Morgan, when the sergeant tried to exceed the five lashes Captain Estancia ordered.”

  “The fella must have lost count,” Frank said, as he had the night before.

  Carmen shook her head. “I do not think so. Many of the Rurales are brutal men. They like to inflict pain.” She paused. “Did you notice their sombreros?”

  “I suppose,” Frank said with a puzzled frown. “What about them?”

  “Did you see how some of the sombreros were gray, to match the uniforms, but many of them were black?”

  Frank thought back to the night before and then nodded. “I reckon you’re right. What does that mean?”

  “Most of the men who serve in the Rurales were recruited from prisons in Mexico City and elsewhere. They are given the choice of serving the sentences they have received for their crimes either behind bars or in the Gendarmeria Fiscal, which is the official name for the Rurales. It is said that any such prisoner who has been convicted of murder receives a black sombrero when he joins the Rurales.”

  Frank felt a chill along his spine. “Then more than half of the men in that troop are murderers.”

  “Sí,” Carmen said softly. “And those are the men who are supposed to bring law and order to our land.”

  “What about Captain Estancia?”

  “Rurale officers are first officers in the Regular Army. They are often aristocrats, not at all the same class as the cutthroats and brigands who make up the men they command.” Carmen hesitated. “But that does not mean they cannot be every bit as brutal and ruthless.”

  The young woman was speaking freely, probably because she and Frank were the only ones around at the moment. He decided to take advantage of that and hoped that she would keep talking.

  “Last night at dinner you seemed to be playing up to Captain Estancia,” he said bluntly “Why would you do that if you don’t like him?”

  “The captain wields great power in this region. Great power,” she said again. “It is best not to anger or defy him. A pleasant smile, and he rides on without seeking to humble us.” She added bitterly, “At least, not too much.”

  “Did the Rurales leave this morning?”

  Carmen nodded. “Yes, they are off on their . . . How do you norteamericanos say it? Their wild-goose chase?”

  “After the Black Scorpion?”

  “Sí.” She gave a little scornful laugh. “As if they would ever stand a chance of catching the Black Scorpion.”

  “Pretty slick bandit, is he?”

  “Pretty slick, yes. A bandit?” Carmen shrugged. “Who knows?”

  That was intriguing, but before Frank could say anything more about it, footsteps sounded nearby, and a moment later Don Felipe Almanzar strode into the dining room. He was dressed for riding the range, much like his vaqueros.

  “Ah, buenos dias, Señor Morgan,” he said. “I trust you are well this morning?”

  “Not bad,” Frank said. “I hear the Rurales are gone.”

  The affable expression on Almanzar’s face disappeared, to be replaced by a look of anger that seemed more natural somehow on his hawklike features.

  “Sí, Capitán Estancia and his men rode out a short time ago.”

  “And you were happy to see them go?”

  “As any honest man would be.”

  “That’s about the way I feel, too,” Frank agreed with a smile that didn’t reach his cold gray eyes. “The captain seemed like a first-class son of a—” With a glance at Carmen, he stopped before he could finish the epithet.

  “Indeed,” Don Felipe said. “Have you had breakfast, Señor Morgan?”

  “Not yet.”

  Carmen got to her feet, since she was finished with her meal. “I will tell Esteban to see to it, Papa,” she offered.

  Don Felipe nodded. “Gracias.” He turned back to Frank as Carmen left the room. “And after you have eaten, Señor, would you feel like riding?”

  “You want me to leave?” Frank asked, a little surprised.

  Don Felipe looked shocked. “On the contrary. I wish to show you my rancho, if you will indulge an old man’s pride.”

  Don Felipe might be getting along in years, but Frank had a hard time thinking of anyone so vital as old. He smiled again, more warmly this time, and said, “I’d be pleased to see your ranch, Don Felipe.”

  Almanzar took a quirt from behind his belt and flicked it against his leg. “Meet me at the main corral, then, in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” Frank said with a nod.

  Esteban bustled in with eggs scrambled with ham and peppers, along with the inevitable tortillas and some sweet rolls. Frank enjoyed the meal, washing it down with a couple of cups of strong coffee. When he was finished, he went back to his room and picked up his hat. Carefully, he settled the Stetson on his head and found that it didn’t hurt the lump above his ear. He wasn’t going riding without a hat on. He would have felt naked. He kept the moccasins on, preferring not to trade them for his boots just yet.

  When he reached the corral he found Don Felipe waiting for him, as promised. Almanzar stood beside a huge black stallion, and as Frank looked from man to horse and back again, he decided that they were a good match. They had the same sort of primitive wildness about them, despite the civilized clothes on the man and the silver-studded saddle and harness on the stallion.

  Stormy was hitched to the corral fence, too, already saddled and ready to ride. The Appaloosa tossed his head when he saw Frank. Dog sat nearby, his tongue lolling from his mouth and his tail swishing back and forth in the dust.

  “I hope it is all right that I took the liberty of having one of my vaqueros saddle your horse,” Don Felipe said.

  Frank nodded. “That’s fine, as long as he didn’t get a finger or two nipped off in the process. Stormy can be a m
ite feisty at times.”

  “I think my man emerged uninjured.” Don Felipe smiled. “A Mexican can handle any horse, Señor Morgan. The talent is in our blood.”

  Frank might have argued about that, and he probably could have demonstrated that he was right by offering to let Don Felipe ride Stormy and then giving the Appaloosa a single sharp-voiced command. But Frank had no desire to see his host or anybody else go flying through the air after being thrown from Stormy’s back, so he didn’t say anything.

  Instead he untied the reins, grasped them loosely in his hands, and swung up into the saddle. Don Felipe mounted the black stallion, and the two men turned the horses away from the fence. Dog trotted along behind them.

  The morning passed very pleasantly The sky was almost clear now, a deep blue with only a few puffy white clouds floating in its vastness. The snow-mantled mountains that loomed to the west seemed so close in the crystal-clear air, it was like Frank could have reached out and touched them. Frank and Don Felipe rode through high pastures, alongside cold, sparkling streams, and through stands of dark green, aromatic pine. The cattle had already been moved down to the flatland for the winter, so the hills seemed strangely deserted, as if this morning was the very morning of their existence.

  The hills weren’t completely empty, however. Frank saw birds flitting from branch to branch in the trees, and once he and Don Felipe startled a pair of deer drinking at a creek. Dog flushed a few long-legged jackrabbits from the brush. Don Felipe pointed out light-colored shapes moving around the lower reaches of the peaks and explained that they were mountain goats. There were wolves up there, too, he told Frank, although the two men didn’t see any this morning. Once a coyote loped across a pasture a couple of hundred yards in front of them, though.

  Don Felipe had brought tortillas and a small pot of beans with him in his saddlebags. At midday he and Frank stopped beside a stream and had a cold but satisfying lunch. When they were done, Don Felipe brought out a bottle of pulque. He and Frank sat on rocks and passed it back and forth, taking swigs of the fiery liquor. Almanzar filled a pipe while Frank took out the makin’s and rolled a quirly. They drank and smoked in silence, content with the beauty of the day.