The Debt
Chapter 1
The sound of the door crashing open brought him instantly awake. He rolled over and reached for his gun, only to find that it wasn't where he had left it. His eyes fixed on the girl who was backing away, clutching his gunbelt to her chest.
"Puta!" he hissed.
There wasn't time to turn and face the intruders before hands reached for him, pulling him from the comfortable warmth of the bed. He shivered as his feet hit the cold stone floor. The small room was now crowded with grey clad figures, the uniform distinctive and sufficient to strike fear into his heart.
"Get dressed, mestizo."
The clothes that were thrust into his arms were far removed from his normal colorful attire. The loose white shirt and pants would mark him as a prisoner – a man of no importance.
The girl was whimpering now as one of the men approached her, snatching the gunbelt from her hands. "Go," he instructed harshly. "You have done your job well." A small pouch of coins was dropped to the ground at her feet. "No harm will come to your family."
So that was it, the reason why she had thrown herself in his path. How could he have been so damned stupid? All those years he'd survived on his own, priding himself on his ability to get out of trouble, and he'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Well, guess he couldn't really blame her. The rurales could be mean bastards when they were of a mind.
He hurriedly pulled on the trousers and slipped the shirt over his head, straightening his spine and staring them down silently, trying to work out how they'd even known he was in the area. He'd only been passing through, and hadn't been anticipating any problems. A gun was pressed against his chest as shackles were fastened around his ankles. It wouldn't be long before the metal started to chafe his skin. He'd seen men before who'd worn leg irons for years. Eventually, the marks didn't disappear. Would he last long enough for that to happen to him or was there a firing squad just waiting outside the door? His feet were bare and he knew from previous experience that they would stay that way. In these harsh conditions, a man without boots wouldn't get very far.
He shuffled toward the door without being told. Might as well get this over with, he thought resignedly. The local inhabitants had wisely decided to stay in their houses, although, he saw drapes twitching as some of the braver folk peered out to see what was happening. A dozen horses and men milled around, but, at least, it didn't look as if they were intending to shoot him straight away. Wherever they were going, he'd have to walk – there was no way he could ride with his ankles chained. So damned predictable, and no one to blame but himself.
"Lo siento." He turned toward the voice. Cierra was sobbing as she held out a hand imploringly. "Perdóneme por favor."
"Yo le perdono." He didn't feel very forgiving, but it wouldn't make things any better for him if he left her feeling so wretched. Sometimes people had little choice.
His wrists were tied and the other end of the rope was tossed to one of the mounted men. Walk or be dragged. No contest, really. He sighed as there was a pull on his arms, and took the first step.
The door closed with chilling finality. The condemned man pushed himself to his knees, crawling to the far corner of the cell. Twenty years! He shook his head in stunned disbelief. They might as well have just handed him a life sentence. Not that there had been anything legal about the proceedings. Less than twenty-four hours after his arrest, he'd been dragged in front of a tribunal, his guilt already established. Formal charges and evidence had been deemed unnecessary. The only order of business, so far as he could tell, was deciding whether he should live or die. All things considered, he might have preferred the death penalty. At least that would have been quick. The living hell he'd been consigned to could last for years. Now, he was locked away and no one would even know where he was. The shiver that ran down his spine wasn't only caused by the damp, chill air.
Tomorrow, he'd be put to work and his torment would really begin. The guards would try to provoke him, to push him into retaliation so that they could punish him. It was a cycle he had endured before. The only way to survive was to pretend a submission that was utterly foreign to his nature. Eventually, if he couldn't find a way to escape, they would beat the spirit out of him. But, he was a long way from that point – a long way from giving up. For tonight, he would try to sleep, harboring his strength to be ready for the days and weeks ahead. He'd find a way out. He swore that to himself with a fierce intensity. He would go home.
The day started early and with a flavor of what he could expect. Kicked awake, he was given a minute to relieve himself before being herded out into the yard. He shuffled his way into a line of prisoners approaching a rickety table. A bowl of slop and a stale hunk of bread were pushed into his hands. Under the watchful eyes of half a dozen armed guards, he sat with his back against a stunted tree and ate slowly. At a rough guess, there were twenty-five or thirty other inmates, all shackled as he was. They ranged in age from a boy, who looked to be no more than fifteen to the elderly man who had served them breakfast. All had the defeated look of men who no longer cared what happened to them. Their eyes were glazed and they moved slowly, never looking at any of the guards.
In addition to the guards in the yard, there were armed men on the walkway that ran along three sides of the prison. The stone walls looked to be in good condition and anyone trying to get to the heavy wooden gate would be shot down before they got within ten feet of it. The fourth side of the square contained the cells, offices and basic infirmary. He'd seen them all on the way to his mockery of a trial.
"Get up."
The command was accompanied by another kick to his leg. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet. He kept his head bowed to hide the hatred on his face. From under lowered lashes he saw the men being divided into groups. He was pushed toward the ones who looked to be the most physically fit. Another group of older men were given buckets of whitewash and told to start painting the walls of the yard. He and his new companions waited in silence.
"Today you will start work on the new prison block. With all you filthy peasants defying lawful authority this prison will soon become overcrowded."
He recognized the voice of the camp commandant and risked a quick glance in the man's direction. Captain Arriaga was immaculately dressed in grey jacket and trousers edged with silver trim. His white shirt was pristine and he wore a wide brimmed sombrero to protect himself from the rising sun. The arrogant bastard was strutting around like a rooster, his chest all puffed out. He wished he had his gun. The man wouldn't look so proud, lying in the dirt coughing up blood.
"You will all work in the quarry, until there is sufficient stone to begin construction of the walls. Any man who does not work hard, or who tries to escape, will be shot."
As several of the guards mounted their horses, others hurried to fasten manacles around the prisoners' wrists. Chained hand and foot, it would be suicide to try to get away. The gate opened and they were ordered to form up into a column, walking two abreast.
"How far is it to this quarry?" Although he asked the question softly it carried far enough to reach the ears of the Captain.
"You are new here, mestizo, so I will forgive your stupidity. Prisoners do not ask questions. They do not talk unless they are given permission. You will learn the rules quickly or you will suffer a great deal of pain. If you cause no trouble for a month, you will be allowed one visitor, assuming there is anyone who cares about you."
"And if I do cause trouble?" He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, and the Captain's contemptuous smile was all the answer he needed.
The quarry proved to be about two miles away from the prison. The guards rode; the picks, shovels and the rest of the equipment were transported by wagon. The prisoners walked. The short chains ensured that it was a slow and clumsy journey. As soon as they arrived at their destination, their wrists were unchained and they were given a small ration of water then put to work.
He hefted the pick in his hands, checking its balance and looked around. The guards were standing far enough away to keep them safe from attack. And, even if he could get out, where would he go? Without the keys to free him from his shackles, he would have to travel on foot and would be lucky to cover a mile before he was recaptured or shot. They had passed no houses or water and no one living within the shadow of a rurales prison would offer aid to an escaped prisoner. Whichever way he looked at it, he was stuck here.
"Get to work." The shout was accompanied by the sting of a whip.
There was a sudden silence as all eyes turned to him, waiting to see what he would do. With an insolent smile, he raised the pick, bringing it crashing down on a large rock. There was a disappointed sigh from the other prisoners before they returned to work.
The day was long and hot, broken by periods of rest. Water was plentiful and the guards weren't entirely unsympathetic if a prisoner collapsed from the heat. The whip was used sparingly, with the guards mostly contenting themselves with sitting in the shade, keeping close watch on the workers.
By mid-afternoon, he was almost on his knees with exhaustion. He stumbled over to the water barrel, wiping a grubby sleeve across his forehead to try and mop up some of the sweat pouring down his face. As he lifted the ladle to his mouth, he happened to look up at the rim of the quarry. He squinted against the bright sunlight, sure that he had seen a rider outlined against the blue sky. He poured some water over his hair, allowing it to trickle down his face and back. When he looked again the skyline was empty.
The sun was hanging low in the sky before work was halted for the day. There was no energy left for defiance as his wrists were chained and he began the long walk back to the prison. Each step was torture. He kept his head down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
"Señor?"
The quiet voice belonged to the young boy he had first seen in the yard. He shook his head, glancing at the nearest guard. The man was relaxed, no doubt recognizing that half-dead prisoners posed no threat. Although he tried to ignore the boy, the continued furtive looks in his direction soon began to weigh on his nerves.
"What do you want?" he asked wearily.
"Nothing." The boy looked away.
With a heavy sigh he acknowledged that the boy was probably terrified, wanting no more than a kind word or two. "How did you end up here?" he asked, finally breaking his silence.
"I killed a man, one of the prison guards."
The unexpected answer piqued his curiosity. "Why?"
"He was trying to force my little sister. I told him to stop. He laughed and told me to go away and leave him to have his fun. I took his gun when he wasn't looking and I shot him." There was pride in the boy's voice, quickly replaced by a tremor. "They say they are going to execute me. Do you think they will?"
He had no doubt as to the answer, but how could he say it and destroy the thin sliver of hope lingering in the boy's eyes. "Who knows? They would probably prefer to keep you alive to work. They can't get any work out of a dead man."
The misplaced gratitude made him feel sick. The boy was living on borrowed time.
"That was a fine meal, Teresa." Scott leaned back in his chair, comfortably full of prime rib and mashed potato.
"It was excellent." Murdoch smiled appreciatively at the young woman.
Teresa started to gather up the plates. "I thought I'd make some Mexican dishes tomorrow night, to welcome Johnny home."
"Good idea. After eating trail rations for the last few days, I'm sure he'll enjoy something hot and spicy." Murdoch stood and walked over to the liquor cabinet. "Scott, would you join me on the porch for a brandy?"
The warm air was pleasant as Scott sank down into one of the chairs. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the night. Long legs stretched out in front of him, he teetered on the edge of sleep. For the last two weeks, he'd been doing his own work and many of the tasks that would normally have fallen to his brother. There had been little time for leisure, but with Johnny due back tomorrow, he'd felt that he deserved an easier day. He'd returned early from the range, indulging in a long soak in the tub before pulling on clean clothes and sitting down to supper. Now, his body was sinking into a comfortable lethargy.
The door behind him opened and closed quietly and he lazily opened his eyes. His father was smiling down at him, holding out a glass of brandy. "Thank you, Sir."
"You've been working yourself too hard, Son." Murdoch sat with a sigh. "You could have left some of the jobs for the men."
"One thing I learned in the cavalry was that the men respect an officer who pulls his weight. It's no different on a ranch. Besides, I didn't want Johnny to come home to a heavy workload. He's had a long trip."
"Yes, he has."
Scott frowned at the note in his father's voice. "You still worry about him, don't you?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"I'm afraid so." The brandy slipped down smoothly, setting up a warm glow in his stomach.
"I know I'm just being foolish. I worried about both of you for so long and it's hard to break the habit."
"I know what you mean. But, Johnny's been a rancher now for almost three years. He's made plenty of trips to Mexico on business without there being the slightest hint of trouble. I don't think we have to worry about his past catching up with him any longer."
Sleep had come easily. It was the waking that was hard. His feet were sore and blistered, his muscles ached and the thought of another day in the quarry sent his spirits plummeting. He reached the yard, looking around disinterestedly. His throat tightened when he saw that a sturdy post had been driven into the ground about two feet away from one of the outer walls. A weight settled on his chest and he looked around frantically, trying to see the boy he had spoken to the day before. The sudden silence was broken by a pathetic whimpering. The crowd of prisoners parted to reveal the boy being dragged toward the post by two of the guards.
Tears ran down the boys face as he was bound to the post. His lips moved silently as a dark cloth was tied across his eyes. His whole body shook as he forced out tremulous pleas, calling on God and, most heartbreakingly of all, calling for his mother.
Four of the guards took up their position as the Captain walked into the yard. "This prisoner is a condemned murderer and the penalty is death."
The boy was quiet now as everyone waited in silence for the signal. There was no hope of a reprieve and everyone there knew it. When the order came, four rifles sounded in unison. Blood covered the boy's clothes and splattered the newly whitewashed wall behind him. There was no doubt that the boy was dead. The body was cut free and carried away.
One of the guards approached him. "Clean up that mess."
He looked at the man in shock. He'd seen a lot of death in his life, but this was one of the most callous killings he'd ever witnessed. With hatred in his heart, he snatched the bucket of water from the guard and did as he was told.
It had been a long day and Scott was later than he had intended. When Frank offered to tend to his horse he accepted gratefully and strode quickly to the front door, eager to see his brother. The great room was quiet. There was no sign of Teresa or Johnny, only Murdoch sitting behind his desk staring morosely at a stack of papers.
"Where's Johnny?"
"He isn't back yet."
"Something must have delayed him." Scott removed his gloves, setting them beside his hat on the table by the door. "His wire definitely said he'd be home today."
"Yes, I know."
"There's still time. It's not dark yet. Why don't I go and see if Teresa can delay supper for an hour?"
"Good idea. She went to a lot of trouble. I'd hate to think it was going to go to waste."
One hour passed, and then another, without there being any sign of Johnny. Eventually, they were all forced to concede that they wouldn't be seeing him that night. The appreciative words of the other two Lancers, as the food was served, did little to lift Teresa's spirits. They were part way through the meal when the front door opened. Scott turned in his seat and smiled broadly.
Johnny snatched off his hat, returned the smile and sauntered into the room. "Miss me?" he asked.
Tbc
