Each Time We Love (2 page)

With never a backward look, they had used their stolen gains
to purchase the supplies and horses and mules needed for their venture.
Very early in 1804, the pack animals loaded down with all sorts of
brightly colored cloth and trinkets with which to tempt the Indians,
the partners had slipped across the border into the jealously guarded
Spanish territory and headed west. West to make their fortunes!

Luck appeared to be with them in the beginning, and by early
fall they were happily congratulating themselves on the large herd of
horses that they had amassed to sell at exorbitant prices in Louisiana.
They expected no trouble smuggling the animals safely across the
Mississippi River and were already discussing the riotous time they
would have in New Orleans, spending their money on liquor and fancy
women.

Unfortunately, it was then that they had allowed their innate
greed to overcome what common sense they possessed. Word of a band of
Comanches, the Kwerhar-rehnuh, or the "Antelopes," who were rumored to
be the possessors of unlimited herds of horses, reached the two
traders. The fact that these. Indians were known to be the wildest and
fiercest of all the bands of the Comanches did not deter the two men,
nor did the fact that the Antelopes were situated deep in the remote
windswept ranges of the Llano Estacado. The only thing that Jeremy and
Orval could think about was all those horses…

Finding a secluded canyon with plenty of grass and water in
which to corral their herd of horses until they returned from the
Comanches with more horses was simple enough to do, and it was then
that things started to go wrong for them. They were busily erecting a
barrier across the only entrance into the canyon when a Spanish patrol
stumbled across them. Since they were caught by surprise, there was
never any question of the outcome. All their possessions were promptly
confiscated and a Spanish jail looked to be their residence for quite
some time. But their luck seemed to hold. As the group came closer to
the small settlement of Nacogdoches, the Spaniards grew careless and
Jeremy and Orval were able to slip away one night with a pair of horses
and a couple of mules still laden with the remainder of their trading
supplies. The next morning they watched glumly from the concealment of
a canebrake as, after a cursory search for the escaped prisoners, the
Spaniards shrugged and rode away, driving in front of them the horse
herd that Jeremy and Orval had spent months acquiring.

Their fortune disappearing in a cloud of dust, Jeremy and
Orval decided to waste little time in finding the Kwerhar-rehnuh. Which
turned out to be the very worst idea they had ever had, Jeremy thought
resentfully now as he bit into a hard biscuit. Again Yates's words came
back to haunt him: "Are you crazy?" Yates had demanded in Natchez when
he and Haley had originally thought to cut him in on their scheme. "You
think you're going to get rich, but I'll tell you what's really going
to happen—you'll both end up dead and your bones will lie bleaching on
the plains! Trading horses with Comanches! Fool notion if I ever heard
one!"

Yates was right, Jeremy thought dejectedly, and Orval should
have listened to me after we lost our horses, when I told him that we
should go back to Natchez! But no, Jeremy mused with a bitter twist to
his mouth, he said we could recoup everything if we'd just show a
little grit! Well, that "grit" had served Orval precious little when
that Comanche buck lifted his hair! Jeremy decided spitefully.

Swallowing the last of his stale biscuit, he kicked his
bedroll together and methodically saddled his horse. It didn't do any
good ruminating about what they
should
have done,
but as he swung up onto his horse, he couldn't help but think that
Orval had been a damn fool for trying to cheat those Comanches at dice.
Which, of course, had precipitated Orval's scalping and his own frantic
escape from camp.

Remembering Orval's dying scream, Jeremy shuddered and glanced
nervously over his shoulder, fearing to see a bloodthirsty band of
warriors bearing down on him. He'd seen no sign of them for two days
now, and thankfully, all that met his gaze were the soaring walls and
rock-strewn floor of the canyon. Which didn't exactly reassure him—he
was lost in the seemingly impenetrable maze of cottonwood-dotted
arroyos and jagged walled canyons.

Doggedly he urged his horse into a trot. Keep moving, he told
himself grimly; keep moving, and sooner or later you'll find a place
that looks familiar!

The sun was blazing over the rim of the canyon by now, and to
his growing excitement, Jeremy saw that just ahead of him the canyon
appeared to open onto a rocky, brush-spotted plain. Jubilant that he
had finally found his way out of the aimlessly wandering canyons, he
was on the point of kicking his plodding horse into a swifter pace when
the stillness was broken by the chilling, agonized scream of a man in
mortal pain. Jerking his horse to a standstill, Jeremy first thought
his imagination was playing tricks on him—that it was the memory of
Orval's final shriek that rang so terrifyingly in his ears. And yet…

Face white, he reached with trembling fingers for the battered
old rifle secured on the cantle of his saddle. Swinging down from his
horse, he swiftly tied the animal and stealthily crept near the mouth
of the canyon. Concealed by a jumble of tumbled rocks, he cautiously
peered around one of the big boulders.

His breath stopped and his heart banged painfully at the sight
that met his eyes. Not a hundred feet in front of him, a naked man lay
spread-eagled on the plain, and standing over him with a bloodstained
knife was the most magnificent and frightening savage Jeremy Childers
had ever seen. Tall and powerfully built, with bronzed hawklike
features, the Indian wore his lustrous black hair, which shone with
blue lights in thick braids—but it was the sunlight glinting on the
bloodied knife that held Jeremy's fearfully fascinated gaze. He
couldn't tear his eyes away from the knife, so shocked was he by the
sight before him that it never occurred to him to lift his rifle and
fire.

In stunned terror, Jeremy watched as the Indian, with never a
backward glance at his victim, effortlessly leaped onto his horse and
rode away. Even after the Indian had disappeared, Jeremy remained
frozen in his hiding place, his heart pumping at a frantic rate, his
mouth dry with fear.

Eventually Jeremy gathered his shattered courage, and after a
thorough scrutiny of the area, retrieved his horse and walked over to
where the man lay. Staring down at the pitiful wreck that remained,
Jeremy blanched.

Jesus Christ
¹
,
he
thought sickly as his gaze moved over the mutilated body. It was
obvious that the man had been staked here for a while, and equally
obvious that he had suffered greatly before the Indian had inflicted
the final terrible wound—castration.

I wonder what the poor devil did to deserve such a fate,
Jeremy wondered, his curiosity stirring. From the signs, it was
apparent that the Indian had deliberately waited and watched for some
days before deriding to strike the final blow. Again Jeremy's gaze
briefly touched the naked man. A Spaniard, he decided, noting the black
hair and swarthy skin. The ruined features still showed a faint vestige
of a once-handsome face, but even in death there was a disagreeable air
of arrogance about the man. No peon, Jeremy thought as he stood there
considering the dead man. Some fancy hidalgo must have crossed the
wrong Indian.

His courage returning, Jeremy glanced around again. In front
of him, nothing but the vastness of the plains met his gaze, and behind
him, he knew, lay the twisting canyons with their incredible spires and
pinnacles. A fine-looking horse wearing a saddle lavishly inlaid with
silver was loosely tethered nearby, and Jeremy guessed it had belonged
to the Spaniard. He sighed. Except for the corpse at his feet and the
two horses, he was alone.

There wasn't anything that he could do for the man, and he
decided that since the Spaniard's horse and saddle looked a damn sight
better than his own, there was nothing to stop him from improving his
lot. He turned away, his boot heel crunching on the uneven ground.

"Blood Drinker?" croaked a voice behind him. His eyes widening
in disbelief, Jeremy spun around to stare at what he had thought was a
dead man.

Incredibly, the poor wretch was still alive! Dropping down
beside him, Jeremy quickly cut loose the rawhide that bound the man.
"What did you say?" he asked.

The Spaniard stiffened. "Who are you?" he gasped.

Jeremy hesitated, not trusting even a dying Spaniard, but it
was obvious that the man would not live more than a few moments longer.
"Jeremy Childers," he answered. "Who are you?"

"Bias Davalos!"

The effort to say even his name exhausted the man, and Jeremy
waited a second before asking, "Who did this to you? I saw that big
Indian buck ride away."

The blackened lips twisted into a snarl and Davalos muttered
painfully, "Jason Savage… Blood Drinker murdered… me!"

The names meant nothing to Jeremy, and swiftly reaching for
his canteen, he poured a little water onto the man's lips. Greedily
Davalos drank the precious moisture. The water appeared to momentarily
revive him, for his voice grew stronger and he said, "Savage must be
punished!" Weakening again, he added feebly, "Find him… New Orleans or…
plantation, Terre du Coeur."

Having no intention of involving himself in Davalos's
vendetta, but knowing that time was running out for the man, Jeremy
said soothingly, "I'll do what I can." Bluntly he added, "Is there
anyone you want me to tell of your death?"

Davalos nodded faintly. "Daughter… bastard," he gasped.
"Savanna O'Rourke. Crow's Nest. Stack Island."

Jeremy's eyebrows raised. He was familiar with Crow's Nest and
he was surprised that this Spaniard's daughter lived there. Situated
fifty miles north of Walnut Hills, it was well known as a hideout and
gathering place for all sorts of unsavory men.

Davalos seemed to lose consciousness, and Jeremy, oddly loath
to leave the dying man, hunkered down beside him to wait uneasily for
the end. But the Spaniard was not done yet, and he suddenly thrashed
about and muttered fiercely, "I must find the gold! The map! Jason
knows!"

It was obvious that Davalos was raving, but at the word
"gold," Jeremy's interest became acute. Avarice gleaming in his blue
eyes, he leaned nearer the dying man. "Gold?" he questioned softly.
"What gold?"

"Nolan's golden armband… I killed him… hid it! Savanna will
have it…"

Jeremy's eyes widened. A golden armband! His interest fully
whetted, and impatient with the man's ramblings, Jeremy murmured
eagerly into Davalos's ear, "Tell me about the gold."

"It's here! It's mine!" Davalos panted feverishly. "Mine!
Aztec treasure! They found it, but it's mine— all
mine!"
He had barely stopped speaking when there was a funny little rattle
deep in his throat and he lay very still.

"Here?" Jeremy yelped, glancing around at the bleak landscape.
"What do you mean it's here? Where?"

There was no answer from Davalos, and reaching out to touch
him, to shake him, Jeremy knew the instant his fingers had touched him
that Davalos was dead. Disgustedly Jeremy stared at the dead man. Now,
why couldn't he have lived just a few minutes longer? Now I have to go
find that daughter of his to figure out what she knows, and then I'm
going to have to find this Jason Savage! As for the Indian, Blood
Drinker… Remembering the tall savage as he had stood over Davalos's
naked body with the bloodied knife in his hand, Jeremy shuddered. No.
He wouldn't go looking for Blood Drinker. Savanna O'Rourke or Jason
Savage should be able to tell him what he wanted to know.

Already speculating on ways to make Savanna tell him about the
treasure, Jeremy walked over to Davalos's horse. Deciding that the
obviously well-bred animal was a vast improvement over his own sorry
mount, he quickly transferred his rifle and bedroll to the dead man's
horse. Whistling tunelessly, he swung up into the saddle. Taking one
last look at Davalos's corpse, he concluded gleefully that maybe this
hadn't been such a bad trading trip after all. Wait until he told
Yates! He glanced around the vast landscape. An Aztec treasure, huh? A
treasure just waiting for someone to find it…

Leading his old wind-broken horse, he kicked the Spaniard's
mount into a swift trot, his thoughts busy on how he was going to find
Savanna O'Rourke and, er,
convince
her to tell
him all she knew about the Aztec gold. And then there was always Jason
Savage… Confident that his luck had finally changed for the better, he
was eager to leave the Spanish territory and begin his search for the
golden treasure.

But fickle fate wasn't quite through with Jeremy Childers;
three days later he rode smack into another Spanish patrol. Worse, this
particular patrol had been led by a lieutenant named Bias Davalos—a
lieutenant who had mysteriously disappeared with a Cherokee named Blood
Drinker…

Davalos's men had been searching for their vanished commander
for nearly a week, and though Jeremy vociferously protested his
innocence of any wrongdoing, the fact that he was in Spanish Texas
illegally and was riding Davalos's horse, with the lieutenant's prized
silver inlaid saddle still on the animal, was damning evidence against
him. Feeling the noose tightening around his neck, he frantically told
them how he had come to possess Davalos's belongings. Sullenly they
listened to his story, but it was obvious they did not fully believe
him.

Even his eager, desperate cooperation in leading them to
Davalos's body did not help him—it only seemed to increase their
certainty that he had killed the lieutenant. As far as the temporary
leader of the patrol was concerned, there was nothing to do but bury
Davalos and leave for San Antonio with their prisoner. The officials
there would decide what to do with the gringo.