Solitaire (22 page)

She frowned, hearing the worry in his voice. “What do you mean?”

“Are you planning on going down to Bogotà with me on Monday?”

“Yes.”

Slade rested his hand against her back and hip. “Look, I meant what I said about your not going. You could stay at the ranch, if you want or–go to another job assignment.” It hurt to say the last of that sentence. “I think too much of you, Cat, and what might be, to have you go down to Bogotà unless you’re very clear as to why you’re going. I don’t want you to go out of guilt. The slate is clean between us.”

The troubled look in Slade’s eyes made her heart wrench, and Cat offered him a slight smile. “I’m very clear about why I’m going down there with you, Slade. It’s not out of guilt.”

He accepted her explanation. Cat and their relationship were more important to him than the mine. The softness of her skin as he stroked her cheek sent another wave of exquisite longing through him. “It’s going to be dangerous, Cat.”

“What mine isn’t?”

“I mean outside the mine. You’ll have to wear a pistol at all times, and we’ll be followed and watched. You’ll have to have eyes in the back of your head.”

“I’ve been in some pretty tense situations before, Slade. I’m no stranger to carrying a pistol when I have to. My dad taught me how to hit what I aimed at.”

“Those guaqueros are tough and dangerous. They’ve been bred and raised in the back alleys of Bogotà’s slums. If they think you’re carrying an emerald on you, they’ll slit your throat to get it.”

Cat gave an exasperated sigh. “Slade, why, all of a sudden, are you trying to scare me out of going?”

“Because,” he said thickly, leaning down to capture her lips, “your life means more to me than green fire.”

Chapter Ten

P
ools of sweat had darkened the color of Slade’s khaki short-sleeved shirt, and Cat wiped her brow with the back of her hand, grimacing. For seventy-five miles, they had bumped along in a ten-year-old Jeep on the only rutted dirt road leading from Bogotà to the emerald fields of the Muzo Valley. They passed several motley-looking groups of men, all stripped to the waist, their coffee-colored skin glistening from the harsh sun overhead and the humidity of the surrounding tropical forest. When they were near the guaqueros, Cat placed her hand over the handle of her revolver. The guaqueros glared, their dark, narrowed eyes quickly appraising Cat and Slade, trying to determine whether they were carrying emeralds.

Cat glanced over at Slade. All his attention was focused on keeping the Jeep on the miserable excuse for a road they were on. It had been washed out due to an unexpected thunderstorm the day before. Mud was everywhere. The guaqueros were covered with mud; only the whites of their wary eyes were visible. Despite the hardships, however, Cat was happy. She was back in the field once again, braving the inhospitable elements that seemed to come with sinking a shaft in some remote part of the world. Only when she thought about having to go in and inspect the mine shaft soon to be under construction did the black fear envelop her.

They crossed the brackish Rio Itoco on their way past Muzo Valley. The river’s once-clear waters had turned black with gritty shale washed down into it by the heartless bulldozers. Cat saw hundreds of guaqueros in the river at the V of the valley, backs bent as they sluiced through the river’s lifeblood. They sought the one precious pebble that would bring them a better life. Slade had told her that if a guaquero found one emerald a year he was lucky. In the same breath, he’d said: “The instant the emerald is found, the smart guaquero will hide it. If others have seen him discover it, they’ll ambush him on the only road to Bogotà. If he’s smart, he’ll sell it to one of the esmeralderos who wait on the banks of the Rio Itoco.”

Her heart went out to the treasure seekers. Cat saw not only men, but women and children amongst those who crowded in the Rio Itoco’s shallow waters.

“You never said there were women and children out here, Slade.”

It was his turn to grimace. He took off the baseball cap he wore to protect himself from the overhead sun. Blinding shafts stole in between the straight
pao d’arco
trees swathed in reptilian-looking vines. “Didn’t want to depress you, Cat. It’s a sad state of affairs down here. The women and even the children dig tunnels into Muzo’s shale mountains at night. Sometimes they suffocate because of lack of oxygen in the longer tunnels. Sometimes they die in cave-ins.” He glanced at her, seeing the anguish register on her features. That was one more thing he liked about Cat: she was incapable of hiding her reactions. He gripped her hand momentarily, giving it a squeeze. “It’s a perilous life at best, looking for green fire,” he said.

The jungle closed around them once again and the frequent foot traffic of guaqueros in the Rio Itoco area shrank as the miles fell away. Humic acids of decayed vegetation surrounded them and Cat spotted a white monkey above them on one of the cable-strong vines before he went into hiding. The macaws’ brilliant reds, blues and yellows made the dark, almost forbidding jungle come alive. Ferns, some as high as a man, cluttered the jungle floor, as did ringworm cassia and angel’s trumpet shrubs. Perhaps most beautiful of all were the multicolored orchids, peeking out in breathtaking splendor to relieve the green walls on either side of the thin ribbon of a dirt road.

The odors of life and death clung to Cat’s nostrils as Slade swung the Jeep up and out of the Muzo valley. The air was fresher and less humid as they traversed a shrinking road across the ridge, heading for Gato Valley. Compared to Muzo, Gato was spared man’s plundering. No human beings were in sight. Gato, named after the jaguars that ruled the valley, seethed with wildlife and birds. Cat began to relax and let go of her pistol. Slade had given her stern warning that if a guaquero made any kind of move toward them, she was to draw the gun and ask questions later.

By the time they reached the third and final valley, Silla de Montar, the sun was a red orb hanging low on the horizon. Cat was bruised and banged from the tortuous ride. From the rim of the valley, she saw the two peaks that created the saddle for which the valley had been named. On the left was Caballo Mountain, where Slade and Alvin owned the Verde mine land. Clothed in the green raiment of jungle, Caballo gave no hint of what lay beneath its verdant mantle. Cat smiled, thinking how skillfully the earth hid her treasure from passersby. Only Slade’s patient, methodical channel samplings had hinted of the wealth that lay on Caballo and down into the mountain’s heart of limestone and shale.

“It’s beautiful here,” she told him, meaning it.

“The air’s a little less humid over here than at Muzo,” Slade commented, aiming the nose of the sturdy Jeep down a steep incline toward the valley floor. “I think it’s because of the higher elevation.” He flashed her a tired smile. “We’ll be working up on Caballo and not down in the valley. That’s a plus, believe me.”

“More like Chivor’s mines,” Cat agreed. Her short-sleeved cotton shirt gave her some relief from the static heat and sweltering humidity. She took the red neckerchief she always wore out in the field and wiped the latest layer of grit and sweat off her face. In the distance, she could see the faint outline of two tented camps. Halfway up Caballo sat a smaller camp with three olive-drab tents and one fire. About a quarter of a mile below that was a small city of tents, bustling with men and activity. Construction machinery sat behind the main camp, steel chargers that looked dark and forbidding in the jungle twilight. In the valley, Cat could barely make out huge, neat piles of posts and stulls to be used in the creation of the mine shaft. Electricity was provided by a number of diesel generators, now heard faintly in the distance. All the comforts of home, Cat decided with satisfaction. Suddenly excited, she looked forward to meeting Alvin Moody, Slade’s partner.

* * *

Cat couldn’t resist a smile when she saw Alvin. He was stooped over a fire, stirring the contents of a black kettle, when he saw them. Slade hadn’t exaggerated the facts, she saw as Alvin rose to his full height. He looked like an honest-to-God Texas legend come to life: a ten-gallon straw hat was angled low on his silver hair and a caterpillar mustache sat above his lean mouth. A long, brown, chewed-up cigar was clamped between his teeth. Cat turned to Slade as he braked the Jeep to a halt.

“Alvin looks like a page torn out of the 1860s,” she said.

Slade grinned, shutting the Jeep off. “That’s Alvin, all right.”

“He’s dressed like a marshall from Dodge City–leather vest and two six-shooters low on his hips,” she pointed out gleefully.

“This is Dodge City and he is the sheriff, for all intents and purposes of this camp,” Slade growled. “Those two pearl-handled Colts he carries are the real thing. He’s used them a time or two, believe me.”

Cat gratefully slid out of the Jeep, her muscles protesting as she stretched to unknot all the kinks in her back and rear. “Where’s his badge?”

“Those Colts are his badge and they do all the necessary talking for him.” Slade came around the Jeep, sliding his hand beneath her left elbow. “Come on, he’s been waiting to meet you.”

She laughed. “The big question is, am I ready to meet him! My God, he’s a giant of a man!”

“Texas born and bred, sweetheart. In that state, they don’t do anything on a small scale.”

Cat agreed. As they drew up to Alvin, who stood with his large hands resting comfortably on the handles of his low-slung Colts, he grinned.

“Say,” he crowed, sweeping off his hat in a courtly gesture, “you ugly-lookin’ rock hound, you never said how purty this little filly was.”

“Hi, Alvin. The name’s Cat, Cat Kincaid.” She extended her hand, grinning broadly.

Alvin gripped her hand, refusing to relinquish it as Slade stood nearby.

“If I’d told you how pretty she was, Alvin, you’d have left this pit and come back to Texas,” Slade said, slapping him on the back.

“That’s for sure, Slade. Miss Cat, welcome to the Verde mine,” he told her, sweeping his arm toward Caballo Mountain just above them. His pale blue eyes twinkled. “We’re right glad you’re here to help us.”

“Thanks, Alvin.” Cat cast a glance over at Slade. “Your partner had to do a lot of talking to get me out here.”

Alvin chortled and finally released her hand. He settled the huge hat back on his head. “This Texan’s got more ways to twist a cat’s tail than even I do. I figured if anyone could talk you into consulting for us instead of that kangaroo outfit in Australia, Slade could do it. By Gawd, I was right. You’re here and that’s all that matters.”

Slade looked around, taking off his cap and stuffing it in the back pocket of his jeans. “What’s cooking, Alvin?”

Alvin gave him a hint of a smile from beneath his mustache. “In my kettle or around Caballo?”

Hunkering down over the kettle, Slade stirred it briefly. “Both.”

Alvin motioned for Cat to sit down on a log near the fire. “We got us some sidewinders prowlin’ around, Slade.” He patted his Colts affectionately. “Nothing I can’t take care of.”

“How many?”

“About half a dozen guaqueros have been hoverin’ around since the mining equipment and workers was brought in.” He pointed to the left, toward the shadowy mountain. “Everything you ordered is here–bulldozers, backhoes, shaft equipment. The whole kit and caboodle. That pack of guaqueros came with it.” He squinted to the east of them. “As far as I can tell, they’re makin’ camp up there on Lazo Mountain and waitin’.”

Cat glanced at Slade, watching the frown on his face deepen. “Waiting for what, Alvin?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

The Texan joined them, pulling three tin plates from a nearby wooden trunk that had seen better days. “They smell green fire, Miss Cat. This bunch has a nose for emeralds like a starvin’ coyote does for meat on the hoof. Right now, they’re being real patient and checkin’ us out.” Alvin cocked his head in Slade’s direction. “El Tigre is headin’ up that bunch of no goods.”

Slade scowled. “Him?”

“Who’s El Tigre?” Cat asked, suddenly interested.

Alvin heaped a tin plate with the vittles. “One of the meanest two-eyed snakes in the business of being a guaquero. He’s a puny little bastard. Lean as a whippet, with eyes like a viper. He got his nickname over at Muzo because of his reputation of jumpin’ other guaqueros after they’ve found green fire.”

With a muttered curse, Slade stood and came over to where Alvin was doling out the food. “He’s been accused of kidnapping, raping and thievery. Not necessarily in that order.”

Her eyes widened. “Raping?”

“Sure,” Alvin snorted, handing her a plate. “Men ain’t the only ones to hunt for green fire. We got some tough women who pan right alongside the other guaqueros. El Tigre doesn’t care if it’s a male or female who has the emerald on them. He treats both sexes equally. If they don’t give ’em the green fire, he’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it. That can be anything from torture to murder. If the guaquero’s smart, he or she will hand over the loot and thank God for getting away alive. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, El Tigre will butcher his victim anyway as a warning to other guaqueros. There’s a hundred-thousand-peso warrant out for his arrest by the owners of the Muzo mines.” Alvin snorted. “El Tigre was born and raised in these mountains. Ain’t no one gonna catch that oily weasel alive.” He patted one Colt. “That’s why you wear these at all times, Miss Cat. You eat, live and sleep with ’em.”

Cat took the tin plate, now covered with beans and something with a red sauce on it. She sniffed it cautiously.

“That’s rum beans for a main course,” Alvin explained, “and sourdough bread and the tomatoes with biscuits is called pooch. It’ll stick to your ribs.”

Cat grinned. “As long as it doesn’t grow hair on my chest, Alvin.”

Alvin slapped his thigh, his laughter sounding like the rumble of thunder in his large chest. “Spunky little filly, ain’t she? I like her, Slade. She’s got a down-home sense of humor.”

With a grin, Alvin served up a heaping plate for Slade and himself. The Texan sat across from them at the fire, wolfing down his portion of the food. “All I cook is cowboy food served on the open ranges of Texas. Rum beans has some bacon, molasses, mustard and a half a cup of good hundred-and-eighty-proof rum in it. Pooch is an old cowboy dessert.”