Ambush at Shadow Valley by Ralph Cotton Page A

cheek.
    â€˜â€˜Yes, I’m all right,’’ she replied, staring down, keeping herself supplicant to him. Her dress hung in her hand. She noted his breath had a sensation of coldness to it that she had experienced from only a few other men in her years on the Barbary Coast. To the man, those few had been murderers, bloodletters of the lowest order.
    She didn’t dare pull her forearm free, yet she nudged against his grip just enough to get him to turn her loose. Then she slipped the ripped and battered dress over her head and smoothed it down her front. ‘‘What do we have waiting ahead of us?’’ he asked. His tone implied that he might already know and was only testing her to see if she told the truth.
    â€˜â€˜Before we reach the top, we will pass a thin trail that leads back to an abandoned Spanish settlement.’’
    â€˜â€˜Abandoned?’’ Soto stared at her.
    â€˜â€˜There is only an old padre there, and three nuns. Sometimes there’s a Mayan Indian couple who looks after them. They are all old and harmless.’’
    â€˜â€˜Mayans, huh?’’ said Soto, as if in contemplation. ‘‘I suppose we’ll see how harmless they are.’’
    Clarimonde ventured warily, ‘‘We’ll miss them by almost a mile unless we turn onto their trail.’’
    â€˜â€˜But it’s a sure bet they’ll have food there,’’ Soto said, watching her eyes for a response, ‘‘maybe some wine. I have never seen a priest who doesn’t keep himself well oiled and well supplied.’’ He looked at Ransdale and said as he had before the two had ridden down onto the mule cart, ‘‘Are you hungry, Nate?’’
    Ransdale grinned and gave the same answer he’d given before. ‘‘I can eat, sure enough,’’ he said.
    Gathering and mounting their horses, the three rode on, Soto in front, followed by Clarimonde five yards behind him. Ransdale rode a few yards farther back, enjoying the swing of the woman’s long, wet hair with each step of the big paint horse. ‘‘I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away with teasing me this whole trip,’’ he whispered to himself.
    As if on cue, Clarimonde looked back at him for just a moment. With a flat stare she veered the paint horse quarter-wide, raised her dress all the way up her pale, bare thigh and caressed herself ever so slightly with her fingertips. ‘‘Oh my goodness,’’ he purred under his breath. Then the paint horse straightened and Clarimonde nudged it up closer to Soto before turning her flat stare away from Ransdale.
    For more than a half hour, the three climbed an ever steeper and rockier trail until they reached a place where a narrow, grown-over path broke away and vanished into a deep forest. ‘‘Here’s the path just where she told us it would be,’’ Soto said back to Ransdale. As he spoke he sidled over to Clarimonde, reached out and adjusted the front of her torn and disheveled dress to better cover her breasts. ‘‘Fix yourself up,’’ he said. ‘‘Get ready to do what I ask of you.’’
    She started to plead, to protest, to say whatever she thought might prevent them from riding to the old Spanish mission. But upon looking into Soto’s eyes, she realized that nothing she could say would change his mind. ‘‘Tell me what you want me to do,’’ she said submissively.
    â€˜â€˜That’s my Clarimonde ,’’ Soto said, nudging his horse forward, the two horses walking side by side, his boot touching her bare foot.
    Ransdale watched the two in torment and disgust. He spit in the dirt and ran a dusty sleeve across his dry lips. ‘‘I’ll get my part of her, and then some,’’ he whispered to some unseen force. ‘‘Make no mistake about that.’’
    The old Spanish