“When the shooting started, one of the vaqueros, a man named Ruiz Dominguez, led the women and children deeperinto the mountains. Always we had planned that if anything should happen, we would meet at a cave in the hills. The men are gathered there now. They plan to ride into San Juan the night before the hanging and free those who were captured. I heard them talking.”
“Por Dios—they will all be killed!”
“I do not think so. They will go in quietly, break into the jail, then ride out to the south through an old dry arroyo that circles the town. The plan is a good one, I think.”
Rita hugged her daughter, her pendulous breasts in contrast to Miranda’s slender form. “You must say nothing more of this. Senor Austin would be angry.”
“I told you only because I cannot stay. I am returning to the mountains.” Beneath her dark skin, her cheeks grew slightly flushed. “I am going away with Ruiz. He is a fine vaquero, Mama, and I have come to care for him.”
Rita’s plump hands cradled her daughter’s face. “I am glad you came. Once you are settled, you can visit me again, no?”
“Si,Mama. That is what I am hoping.”
“You must eat before you leave. You are too skinny.” Rita squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I have just made tamales and a batch of fresh tortillas. You will have time for that, no?”
Miranda smiled. “Si,but I must hurry. I am told Senor Austin’s niece is here. If she discovers I am also here, I will no longer be welcome.”
Rita frowned but said nothing more. She was worried about her daughter. She wished her child could stay for a visit, but for now it was not safe. She was only glad Senor Fletcher would not hear of these things. If he did, he would be waiting the night of the raid. Her daughter’snoviomight not live to return to the hills.
***
Angel de la Guerra sat alone in his cell in the small uncomfortable jail in San Juan Bautista. In another cell at the opposite end, Pedro Sanchez and three of El Dragón’s vaqueros curled up on the thin corn husk mattress or sprawled on the hard wooden floor. Sheriff Jeremy Layton sat in his office in a separate building a dozen yards away.
In the square across from the mission, a makeshift gallows held four lengths of rope, each of them looped with a thirteen-coil knot. A hangman’s noose. And one of them was waiting for Angel de la Guerra.
Sitting on the floor of his cell, a corner of his mouth twisted up. Always he had known it would end like this. He’d been lucky to escape the gallows after the first man he had killed. Even telling them he wasn’t El Dragón would not save him. He had been in hiding at Llano Mirada. He had been firing at the vigilantes, had wounded at least four of their men.
And he was wanted for murdering one of the guards at the prison during his escape.
He almost smiled. Andreas was El Dragón but Andreas was dead. Ramon de la Guerra had used the name as well. Angel was also a de la Guerra. Why shouldn’t he have a little of the glory? In fact if he was going to die, why shouldn’t he have it all?
His chest rumbled with humorless mirth at the thought. Ramon would never admit the truth and neither would any of his men. Angel would go down as a legend. An outlaw almost as renowned as Joaquin Murieta.
Yes, if he was going to hang, this was the way he wanted to go. His head fell back against the cold hard wall of the cell. A cockroach skittered across the floor at his feet, and the smell of dampness and urine assaulted his nose. If the choice was death or more years in a place like this, he would choose death for sure.
He squashed the cockroach with the heel of his boot, the crunch of its shell echoing off the walls of the cell. Perhaps itwas poetic justice. Ramon had always bested him, always come out on top. Now Angel was gaining a place in history—a fair exchange for the night he should have spent in his cousin’s pretty wife’s bed.
***
“I hope you’re sure about this.” Fletcher Austin threw a hard look at his tall rangy foreman, Cleve Sanders, who stood next to him outside the barn while they finished saddling there horses. Dusk had fallen, a dark purple glow that hovered on the horizon.
Sanders merely smiled. “Sure as I can be, considering my sources. I told you what I heard, but you can always ask the woman yourself.”
Fletcher frowned. Rita wouldn’t utter a word against her Spanish friends. He’d have to beat it out of her and he wasn’t about to do that. Not unless he had to. “I think we know as much as much as we need to. We’ll let them go in, then be waiting for them when they come out. That way no one in town will get hurt when the lead starts flying, and we’ll have the bastards dead to rights.”
“Makes sense to me,” Sanders said with a satisfied smile. “We know which way they’ll be heading out. All we gotta do is sit and wait.”
“Exactly.” Fletcher pulled the cinch tight on his saddle, bridled the horse, drew the reins up, and swung up on the animal’s back. Impatiently, he sat waiting for the others to finish and join him. He was gazing back toward the house, eager to be away, when he saw the curtains flutter and his niece’s face appear at the window.
The next thing he knew she was opening the door, running toward him across the yard, her plum silk skirts rucked high above her ankles. Damn, would the girl never learn to behave like a lady?
“Where are you going, Uncle Fletcher?” She stopped beside the horse, a little breathless and obviously unnerved. “I didn’t know you and the men were riding out tonight.”
“It’s nothing to worry yourself about, my dear. The men and I have some business in town.”
“Y-you’re going into San Juan?”
“That’s right. You needn’t wait up. Odds are we won’t be back until some time tomorrow.”
