Moon Runner 01 Under the Shadow Page 8

  He longed to find a hollow among the trees and curl into it. If he didn't rest soon he'd collapse. But the rider, either by luck or instinct, still trailed him. He now traveled on all fours, lacking the strength to rise onto his hind legs. His muzzle drooped low and his senses began to blur. He didn't scent the bear until he was almost upon it. A female. With a cub.

  Veering abruptly, he made a wide half-circle around mother and child. In his condition even the cub might prove too much for him.

  When he was well past the bears he stopped and searched for the rider, finding no trace of man and horse. Either the man had given up or he'd come on the bears and retreated. Females with cubs were dangerous.

  Using the last of his strength, he searched for a safe den, rejecting a hole dug by an animal under tree roots. It was easy to trapped inside a hole. Ordinarily he could climb trees but the effort would be too much for him now. At last he located a hidden niche high in a rocky outcropping and settled into it. He'd done all he could. If he healed he'd live, if not, he'd die. Closing his eyes, he slept.

  Ulysses woke naked and shivering to gray light. Without moving, he surveyed his surroundings. Rocks. Where in hell was he? He sensed no men around so he uncurled, groaning. Why did he ache all over? Examining himself, he saw numerous healing wounds beneath the crusted blood that covered him. Bits of flattened metal littered the rocks. It took him a moment to realized they were bullets. Thrust from his body by the rapid healing? He wasn't sure but where else could the bullets have come from?

  He'd shifted last night, he remembered that much. Shifted while he was caged in that foul pit with the grizzly. Evidently the beast had gotten away. Easing from the shallow cave, he pulled himself to his feet, swaying dizzily. He was damned weak. Whatever had happened had taken a lot out of him.

  He saw nothing familiar, nothing that looked like any part of the Alvarado rancho. Scraggly pines and other conifers grew between the granite slabs that sprouted like rocky growths from the hills surrounding the outcropping where he stood. Treading warily, he made his way down to a stream and drank, then, shuddering from the chill, he sluiced water over himself until his skin was free of bloodstains. Grizzly blood, he supposed. How else could the beast escape except by killing the bear? He didn't want to think about last night's horrors. Not ever. Or at least not until after he decided what to do next.

  He seemed to be some distance from Alvarado property-- that gave him a chance. If a naked man, hungry and weak and alone in the wilderness had any chance to speak of.

  Not knowing what else to do, he walked slowly upstream, pausing often to rest. A bluejay, disturbed by his passing, followed him, warning everything within hearing of his coming. When he finally sat down on a rock the jay perched above him for a time, squawking, then lost interest and flew off. Ulysses, hunched forward, didn't move, conserving what strength he had.

  He sat so still that a snake slithered onto the rock beside him. Seeing it wasn't a rattler, Ulysses remained where he was, trying to decide if he was hungry enough to eat raw snake. He hadn't made up his mind when he suddenly sensed men and horses approaching. He tensed. The snake, startled by his movement, slithered away.

  The riders weren't behind him nor in front but followed a course parallel to his. Californios? Ulysses tried to count the men but found the large number made it difficult. Twenty? He frowned. Though there'd been at least that many Californios at the pit last night, would Don Rafael be able to persuade them all to ride in search of him?

  Since he was nearly helpless, his only defense was to remain hidden. He hadn't sensed dogs so he needn't worry about being nosed out.

  But what if the riders weren't Californios? Strangers wouldn't know what he was, strangers might help him--even if they were Americanos. He'd called Americanos his enemies when he fought on the side of the Californios. What would he call them now that the Californios were his enemies?

  God knows he needed help. He'd never know whether they were enemies or strangers unless he looked.

  Choosing a course to intercept the riders while keeping to cover, Ulysses hurried as fast as he could. After several hundred paces he found a trail. Ducking into a stand of willow saplings, he crouched and waited.

  Clinking metal and creaking leather announced the riders before they rounded the curve of the hill. The first, a tall red-haired man in a blue uniform, rode alone while the rest, all in blue uniforms, followed.

  Soldiers! They'd be Americanos. Ulysses hesitated momentarily, then stepped from concealment onto the trail and held up his hand. He had no quarrel with Americano soldiers. "Column, halt!" the officer in the lead ordered. His men obeyed and he walked his horse toward Ulysses, stopping just short of him.

  "Please help me," Ulysses said as calmly as he could but his voice quivered despite his efforts.

  "Good God, man, what happened to you?" the officer demanded, his dark eyes flicking over Ulysses.

  "Bandits," Ulysses said, rapidly concocting a story. "They stole my horse, my clothes, everything I own and left me for dead."

  The officer dismounted, untied a blanket from his saddle and handed it to Ulysses. "I'm Lieutenant Sherman, United States Army. We'll do what we can for you."

  Wrapping the blanket about his nakedness, Ulysses desperately sought a name to give the lieutenant, aware Ulysses Koshka must die, here and now. "Uh--my name's Sherman, too," he stammered. "Sherman Oso."

  First he was Mr. Cat, now he was Senor Bear--not very imaginative.

  The lieutenant nodded. "Think you can ride?"

  The newly-christened Sherman nodded. The way he felt, the prospect of riding, even naked, was preferable to walking.

  The lieutenant snapped orders, supplies were transferred from a pack horse to other animals and a spare saddle was found.

  Sherman found himself riding at the head of the column with the red-haired officer. "Sorry to put you to this trouble, Lieutenant," he said.

  The officer waved a dismissive hand. "We're patrolling for Indians. Been looking for two days--haven't seen a sign of one. Have you seen any?"

  Sherman shook his head. "You and your men are the first to come along. Since the bandits."

  "California's full of desperados. Didn't anyone warn you it's not safe for a man to travel alone in these parts?" "I had to ride south to meet a friend in Los Angeles so I took a chance," Sherman improvised. He remembered Los Angeles as the name of a southern hamlet the don had mentioned once or twice.

  "We'll see what we can find to outfit you when we camp for the night," the lieutenant promised. "We're riding south-east for the rest of today--you can keep company with us until we turn back. I'd advise you to return with us, but if you feel you must continue south, I think the US Army can spare that old swayback you're riding."

  Sherman stroked the horse's neck. "Thanks. He's got a few good years left, swaybacked or not." He was careful not to commit himself to any plan.

  He still had tonight to get through. Glancing at the sky, heavy with clouds, he prayed for rain, rain that would last through the night so the moon couldn't shed her deadly rays on him. Otherwise he'd have to slip away from the night camp before moonrise without a mount. No horse could survive the beast.

  A drizzle began in mid-afternoon and the lieutenant ordered an early night's camp near a stand of pines. By the time the tents were up, the rain was coming down in earnest. To Sherman's surprise, he was invited to share the lieutenant's tent for the night. He could hardly refuse.

  By then he'd gotten a pair of uniform trousers from one soldier--too short but a tolerable fit otherwise--and a shirt from another. The lieutenant found a spare pair of his own socks for him. There were no extra boots to be had but Sherman was grateful for the clothes and the blanket and, especially, the food.

  "I haven't eaten for two days," he said as he took the second helping of salt pork and beans offered by the lieutenant's orderly. "Lucky for me you came along when you did. I owe you my life."

  "A naked man afoot's at a disadvantage, all righ
t," the lieutenant agreed. He eyed Sherman appraisingly. "Still, I'll wager you would've survived. You strike me as the kind who doesn't give up."

  Give up? Never! In spite of what he was. He watched the orderly pour more of the thick black coffee into their cups. The lieutenant produced a metal flask and added a generous dollop of brownish liquid to each. Liquor, Sherman decided from its taste and by the way it warmed his stomach. He sipped the mixture with relish.

  "A special brew from Captain Sutter's distillery," the lieutenant said.

  Sutter. Sherman had heard the name mentioned before in connection with gold. "Have you been in California long, sir?" he asked the lieutenant.

  "Hell, call me Cump--you're not one of my men, no need to say sir. I've been stationed in California for a couple of years--was raised in Ohio."

  Sherman had never heard of Ohio. Was it a city or one of the United States? Asking would reveal his ignorance so he said instead, "I've never been to Ohio."

  "You've missed some mighty pretty country." He gestured toward the open tent flap. "Nothing like this barren land.

  I hope to be transferred back east soon." He stroked his short reddish whiskers. "You're an Englishman, I take it." "Why do you say that?" Sherman asked, both taken aback and relieved at finding a possible excuse for being unfamiliar with the United States. England, he recalled, was across the ocean from America. Perhaps he'd learned the Americano tongue from an Englishman somewhere in his unknown past.

  Cump smiled. "You don't have much of an accent but I have a good ear. Your name threw me off for a bit--Oso's Spanish. But it's obvious you're no Californio. You came here looking for gold, I'll wager."

  Sherman hesitated, fearing being trapped in a web of lies. "No," he said finally, "I work with horses. And cattle."

  Cump stared at him as if puzzled. "Most everyone's interested in grubbing for gold these days. Even my men would much rather be in the gold fields than hunting

  Indians. To tell you the truth, so would I."

  The Don had grumbled about Indians stealing an occasional steer so Sherman knew they were around, though he'd never seen any.

  "For that matter," Cump went on, "I can think of a hundred better things to do than chasing Diggers."

  "Diggers?"

  "That's what we call the tribes in these hills. The women dig for food. The men are a thieving lot." He sighed. "When I trained at West Point I didn't foresee a career of rounding up Diggers." Evidently recalling that an Englishman might not understand, he added, "The United States Military Academy is at West Point in New York. A fine establishment." Cump offered him more of Sutter's liquor but Sherman declined, aware he had to keep his wits about him. Who knew when the rain might stop and the sky clear? Cump took another drink himself and went on talking about his years at West Point, much as the don had reminisced about the golden time of the Californios.

  What kind of a past did Sherman Oso have? Would he enjoy recalling those days if he could remember them--or were they better forgotten?

  "Your first name being the same as my last is quite a coincidence," Cump said, focusing Sherman's attention on him once more. "I've always been interested in how people get their names. Take mine. The reason I'm called Cump is because my father named me Tecumseh Sherman after the Ohio Shawnee chief who fought with the English against the Americans back in 1812."

  Cump smiled. "Tecumseh was one of your countrymen's allies but my countrymen didn't let him live long enough to regret it. Even though the Shawnee fought on the enemy side, my father admired Tecumseh's courage. But when my foster mother had me baptized as a child, the priest added a saint's name, William. So I became William Tecumseh Sherman.

  "I've sometimes wondered what my namesake--Tecumseh, not Saint William--would think about my military forays. So far they've all been against Indians. My first duty, nine years ago, was rounding up Florida Seminoles. I learned a lesson there I won't soon forget: Destroy the enemy's supplies and you break his morale."

  "Do you enjoy Army life?" Sherman asked.

  Cump frowned. "Not in California. If I don't get out of here I may remain a lieutenant for life. A man can't get married on a lieutenant's pay."

  A man like me can never get married, Sherman thought, even if he became as wealthy as King Midas.

  When at last they rolled themselves in their blankets for the night, Sherman fought sleep as long as he could but eventually succumbed.

  A high-pitched scream brought him abruptly awake, driving him to his feet, heart pounding. A horse whinnied, shill and terrified. Sherman stared at his hands. Human.

  He was himself, thank God. Some other beast was after the horses.

  The lieutenant plunged through the tent flap and Sherman hurried after him. Rain pelted them as they ran across the soggy ground toward the crude brush enclosure that coralled the horses. The Godawful cry came again, raising the hair on Sherman's nape.

  "'Tis a varmint!" one of the troopers shouted as three of them pounded up to join him and Cump.

  Just as Sherman sensed the animal, perched on a pine limb, ready to launch itself onto the nearest horse, the lieutenant sprang toward the frightened, milling horses, bringing himself directly under the animal in the tree.

  It was too late for a warning. Grabbing a rifle from the nearest trooper's hands, Sherman took aim and fired. The beast dropped from the limb, hitting Cump on the shoulder and knocking him to the ground. A chestnut horse screamed, rising on his hind legs to trample the dead animal. Cump tried to scramble out of the way of the sharp hooves. Thrusting the rifle back at the trooper, Sherman lunged at the panicked horse, catching the tether rope and dragging him to one side. As Cump leaped to safety, Sherman vaulted onto the chestnut's back to keep from being crushed by the milling horses and, leaning forward, soothed his mount to calmness.

  Touching those near him, he murmured words in his own tongue, soothing, quieting one after another until the horses were calm enough for the soldiers to handle.

  Later, when the dead beast had been dragged away from the horses and into the lantern light, he stood with Cump staring down at an animal he'd never before seen--some kind of gigantic tawny cat.

  "Puma, they calls 'em around these parts," a sergeant said. "Sort of a mountain lion, they be." He glanced at Sherman. "You got an eagle eye, I'll say that. Never saw the critter, myself."

  "Me neither," another trooper said. "But he grabbed my gun and nailed the varmint with one shot."

  Cump clapped him on the shoulder. "You sure as hell saved my neck," he said. "We could use a man like you in the Army."

  Sherman wished he dared join. He'd be handed food, clothes, a horse and living quarters--everything he lacked. Even if he dared remain near the Californios, though, the Army wasn't for his kind, it was no safe haven for a man who shifted shape when the full moon rose.

  "I have other obligations," he said regretfully.

  "If you ever change your mind, look me up," Cump urged. "I owe you and I don't forget obligations."

  Before returning to the tent, Sherman took one last look at the puma's limp body. Though he'd felt he had no choice except to kill the animal to save Cump, he wished he hadn't been forced to. He had a strange, uncomfortable feeling it was like killing the beast part of himself.

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully. The soldiers broke camp at dawn to return to San Francisco.

  "Without sighting a single damn Digger," Cump commented, as he shook hands with Sherman. "I hope to see you again one day."

  Earlier, without comment, he'd handed Sherman one of his pistols--a new Colt--and a pouch of bullets.

  "Thanks to you, I may live to see that day," Sherman told him.

  "Thanks to you, so may I," Cump countered.

  Sherman mounted the swaybacked dun, Rawhide, waved and set off southward without looking back.

  He hated to ride away from Cump Sherman. He'd liked the tall, red-haired lieutenant from the beginning and now he felt he was leaving a friend. He truly regretted it but what choice d
id he have? He was a man who didn't dare make a friend. He was glad, though, that he'd chosen part of Cump's name for his new identity.

  He owed Cump more than he could ever repay. Shooting the puma wasn't enough. Cump had given him not only a horse and clothes and supplies but also an acceptable reason for what he didn't know--being an Englishman in the strange country of the United States.

  He'd regained his strength, the wounds from the grizzly were practically healed. Not that he remembered getting them--he'd been the beast then. All he recalled was the grizzly roaring as a slim finger of moonlight touched the caged Ulysses.

  No, not quite all. Oh, God, why couldn't he wipe away the rest? He'd remember forever the cursed bruja forcing Esperanza to the edge of the pit to look down at him, to watch as the moonlight changed him.

  He hated the bruja as much for what she'd done to Esperanza as for the evil she'd worked on him. Don Rafael, whether he liked him or not, he could understand--he'd bested the Californio and then stolen his woman. Don Rafael wanted him dead for good reason. But the witch had planned his death an hour after she and Esperanza had found him on the beach. When her scheme failed, she'd bided her time and tried again. For no reason other than suspecting what he was.

  Humans whose energy flared blue were not to be trusted. Like cats, they sensed something amiss with him.

  With nothing but unhappiness for company, he traveled along the trail until the sun was half-way up the sky when, to the west, he sensed many horses. He halted Rawhide. What now? After a moment, he realized the horses had no riders. The don had told him of wild horse herds--is that what he sensed? Sherman decided it must be.

  Ready to ride on, he held, thinking. He had nothing but what Cump had given him. If he took over the herd and drove it south with him, he'd have horses to train and then sell when he reached Los Angeles.

  Nodding, he altered course to intercept the horse herd, confident of his ability to control them. As long as he remained human. During a full moon he'd be more danger to them than a marauding puma.