Wild Blood Read online

  It was utterly humiliating. El Miedo had glimpsed the hint of mirth in his officers’ eyes, the bitter glint of misbegotten joy and contempt. Yes, contempt! And he, El Miedo, leader of the largest expedition to cross the sea to this new land, had to be hauled back to camp in a cart pulled by a mule. His twisted back had eventually healed. But there was a deeper wound inside that seemed to fester and feed on his humiliation.

  Mules were supposed to be hauling rocks veined with gold and silver. Not him. It crushed his pride to have his men witness such indignity. But it wasn’t just his fall from Pego. El Miedo had arrived with 600 men, 85 carts, 24 wagons, and over 1,000 animals — horse, mules, burros, and donkeys. His expedition had made his rival the Seeker’s look like a bedraggled peasant parade during Holy Week in some dusty village.

  But now El Miedo’s herd of animals had been halved. First, a treacherous mule, Yazz, had escaped from the corral. Then others began to flee. Who would have imagined that a mule could turn so duplicitous, so faithless? Hadn’t he fed the creatures the best grains, for they needed their strength to haul the rocks? So what if his men beat the creatures bloody when they balked? Was it a crime to beat a mule? People had beaten the stupid beasts for centuries. El Miedo’s men had been feeding them, hauling water to their troughs all these months. What kind of thanks was that? Discipline was important. And when discipline was breeched, disorder ensued. Over the days following Yazz’s escape, other animals found ways to escape as well. Even several of the chickens had somehow sneaked from their coops. In a complete rage, El Miedo ordered fifty of the remaining chickens slaughtered. Which was foolish on his part: Now there were no eggs and the meat had spoiled quickly.

  He peeked out from a slit in his tent to regard the animals in the corral. There were simply not enough. Not for his plans. And there was no denying that the beasts had grown thinner, for the grazing was not good and the grain they had brought was growing scarce. But instead of pity, he felt only contempt for the creatures. The mules were growing more stubborn, and the horses had begun balking. They had all seen Pego’s treachery. El Miedo felt their scorn, their disdain — their mockery. And he loathed them for it. But he still needed them. He couldn’t conquer this land without beasts to carry his supplies and his men.

  And where was Coyote? Had the old perro zorro, the dog fox, abandoned him or betrayed him? The creature had twined through his dreams and brought him his first vision of the dark stallion, Pego. He’d taken it as a sign of God and had put his trust and faith in the horse …

  His competition with the Seeker, who had come a few months before him, was not going as planned. Whoever found gold first, whoever established dominion first in this new land would rule it, become a king. El Miedo ground his teeth. The dream could be restored if he could recapture Pego and the rest of that herd, including the mule. If it was the last thing he did, he’d get that mule back. Then, and only then, could he have his kingdom.

  The trail that had dwindled for El Miedo had not for Pego. Picking his way beneath a stony ridge that followed a dry riverbed, he found a clump of good grazing. It was a reddish grass and tastier than a lot of the tough grasses that grew in this dry country. It felt good in his gut. There wasn’t much, just a few patches of it here and there, making him glad he’s struck out on his own. The grass would never suffice for the ten horses and the mule that made up the first herd. Of this he was glad. The entire herd infuriated him. How he would have loved to seen them captured by El Miedo! He would like to see that cursed filly Estrella bridled and ridden by sharp-spurred Ibers, blood dripping from her flanks.

  He knew that the first herd must think him a coward for not leaping the ravine. They had stared back at him with withering disdain as El Miedo had tried to force him to jump. But who were they to judge him? He who’d been named for the winged horse! He would show them all someday.

  Unlike his former master, Pego did not lament the disappearance of the perro zorro. He sensed that the coyote had betrayed them by leading them to that ravine. Pego tossed his head with a snort. He didn’t need that trickster’s help. He didn’t need anyone.

  He could tell that this trail along the ridgeline had been made by the humans the Ibers had called Chitzen. These humans seemed to be moving their village, for there were the signs of drags — animal skins stretched on poles for pulling their worldly goods. There were many clans of Chitzen in this land, none of which had ever seen a horse before El Miedo and the Seeker arrived. Some had thought the creatures were gods! There was a good chance that the humans who’d left this trail still hadn’t encountered one. Surely they’d be impressed by an animal as large as himself. Pego inhaled deeply, puffed out his chest, and practiced his paso fino, the elegant gait that would make him look regal when he approached. But he was not ready to reveal himself just yet. He needed to find these people and study them before he made his entrance. He’d learned that from Coyote. Although the creature had been a deceitful double-crossing cur, he’d had some clever ideas.

  Pego knew what he had to do. He would appear before the human clan like an apparition, and they would revere him like a god! That would show the first herd. That would show the wretched El Miedo! Pego needed no herd. He needed no master. He was destined for greatness on his own.

  The night was warm, but the healer of the Burnt River Clan was shivering — shivering under a blanket made from the pelt of the thunder creature. The healer’s wife, Pinyot, regarded him with a mixture of contempt and fear. He had sworn her to secrecy. She was not to tell anyone about his condition. After all, he was now not simply the healer but the chieftain of the Burnt River Clan.

  He shivered constantly, and his dreams were haunted by terrible visions. He had never recovered from seeing the lame boy Tijo on the enormous, four-legged beast. And with the Trickster’s head atop his own! It was a terrible omen. Then, to make matters worse, foolish Pinyot had stupidly opened her mouth about the blanket. She said that perhaps the thunder creature blanket was cursed since it had originally belonged to Haru, Lame Boy’s auntie-mother, whom the healer had poisoned. Pinyot had the audacity to suggest that this was all his fault!

  But the healer did not feel cursed. He felt diminished and sensed himself shrinking in the eyes of his people, which was worse. Ever since they had seen Lame Boy on that immense animal, towering over the healer, he’d no longer been the most powerful presence in their lives. He knew what he had to do. He must find that huge creature that the lame boy had ridden or one like it. Its spirit might fill him, and if he could ride atop the beast, he would no longer be diminished in the eyes of his people.

  He picked up his spear and, without a word to his wife, left the tent.

  Haru knew that though her spirit was strong, the lodge that sheltered it, the omo owl, was growing weary. Such was the way with spirit lodges. Although spirits weighed nothing, after a while they leeched the energy of the host. The owl had been a good lodge. Its wings were powerful, its gizzard strong, but it was growing tired. Haru would have to find a new lodge soon.

  It was still early morning, but as the sun broke over the land, warm drafts rose, and she lifted effortlessly on the soft billows of air. She marveled as she caught the sound of a mouse’s heartbeat as it scampered across the corral. She had grown fond of this lodge and the abilities that it had given her — including the power of flight, allowing her to soar free from earth without stirring a feather. Sounds filtered into her ears, like the heartbeat of that mouse below, and her eyes, on a moonless night, could catch the passage of the blackest wolf through thick grass. A pack of wolves had been stalking El Miedo’s animals, and more than once she had torn out of the night and released a terrifying screech that had saved a foal or chicken or one of the goats brought from the Old Land.

  But at the moment, Haru had even more pressing concerns than her deteriorating spirit lodge. Somewhere, deep inside, she felt a growing sense of alarm. Something terrible was coming to her Tijo and the horses who had been so good to him. She needed to find them befo
re this lodge wore out. She needed to warn them.

  Haru had raised that boy, who’d been abandoned by another clan, and cared for him until she had died. And now he was more horse than boy. Not that it troubled her. She reveled in delight every time she recalled Tijo riding into the Burnt River camp astride Estrella, terrorizing the healer, who had once called Tijo Lame Boy.

  But she was growing worried. She had seen El Miedo lusting for the first herd, chasing them to the edge of the ravine. They’d managed to escape him that day. Haru had flown over that ravine and watched as her boy, Tijo, sailed across on the back of the beautiful filly Estrella. For those incredible seconds, they’d all been suspended in the same sky together. But now El Miedo would seek revenge. Haru had seen how he treated animals. She had to do whatever necessary to keep the herd from falling into his clutches.

  Haru spread her wings and caught a breeze that took her over El Miedo’s encampment. The animals were pathetically thin and worn, their bones jutting out. Two men were trying to shove a small mule into a yoke. The mule was braying and squealing as a man approached with a heavy whip. Was this the destiny of the first herd? To be captured and whipped until the wildness was beaten out of them?

  Haru had to seek out Tijo and Estrella and warn them. If only the omo owl could make it. The lodge was thinning. She did not have much time and certainly not time to seek a new lodge. Even now, with the billows of warm air easing her flight, her wings were growing weary as she carved a turn to head in the direction she thought the herd had gone. It was almost night by the time she found them, and a full moon was beginning to rise. The air had turned cold. She was exhausted. Her wings felt as if they might simply fall off.

  The herd had settled under the spreading branches of a lace tree. It was Angela and Corazón who named the tree, for the delicate leaves reminded them of the mantillas their mistresses had worn in the Old Land. The nearly full moon’s silver light filtered down through the leaves, casting cooling shadows in beautiful designs. Unconsciously, the herd had developed a loose arrangement for sleeping. Some stood and some lay down, but the stallions — Grullo, Arriero, Bobtail, and Hold On — were always on the edges of the group. They were equally comfortable standing or lying down. But it was the stallions that would signal the fight or flight command if a predator approached — human, mountain cat, or wolf.

  Tonight, they paid particular attention, as wolves had been spotted. Even though they were smaller than horses, wolves could be very dangerous in a large pack. They were cunning killers when working together, and very strategic. Although nearly blind, Hold On was essential to this lookout because of his uncommon powers of smell and hearing.

  Tijo was not standing still or lying down. He had walked out from the canopy of lacy light and was scanning the night sky. He saw Hold On’s ears twitch, then heard the slither of a rattlesnake some distance off as it coiled to strike prey — most likely a desert rat. The snakes hunted in the cool of the night and slept through the hot days. But the snake posed no danger to the herd. Tijo walked back to Hold On, touched his ears, and whispered, “It’s far from here. Go back to sleep, old fellow.”

  Tijo tipped his head up again. The moon burned silver, and against its bright disk, a pair of wings were printed. “The omo owl,” he whispered into the starry night as the bird began a steep banking turn. He watched and saw it land in the lower branches of a nearby cedar tree. Its white face glowed like a smaller moon come down to earth. It twisted its head in that odd way of owls, then tipped it to one side to stare straight at Tijo. Then another little twist, followed by a nod toward Estrella, who slept just inside the circle of stallions. There was no mistaking. Both he and Estrella were being summoned.

  So Tijo made his way toward the filly. She stood in the customary sleeping position with her forelegs locked. But he could tell she was not asleep. Her withers flinched, a definite sign that she was anxious. Her eyes opened as he stepped toward her.

  “Come,” he whispered, nodding toward a cedar tree.

  “Is it the tiny horse?” Estrella asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.

  “No. It’s her. She wants to speak with us,” Tijo replied. Estrella knew immediately who he was talking about. It was the omo owl, the spirit lodge for Haru. The owl sometimes appeared as a male and sometimes as a female. Such was the way of spirits when they lodged within another creature.

  The white-faced owl perched on a low branch of the cedar tree. She fixed them both with her large black eyes, then let out a deep sigh as if the spirit of the Haru inside the lodge were profoundly weary.

  “Something bad is coming …”

  “What kind of bad?” Estrella asked, suddenly alert. She jerked her head from side to side, sifting the wind for the scent of a predator.

  The owl shook her head. “You are safe at the moment, but not for long.”

  “What is it?” Tijo pressed.

  “My spirit wears thin in this lodge. It is hard for me to see everything. Just take heed. El Miedo needs horses. He is growing desperate and is coming after you. The only way to escape him is to split the herd. That way, he won’t be able to lure all of you into a trap.”

  “Split the herd,” Estrella repeated, shocked. The idea went against everything she had worked toward since they had first swum to shore. Apart, the herd was nothing. Together, they had power. What Haru was suggesting was impossible. They had gone through so much to be together. Sacrificed so much. There was the canyon fire that had blinded Hold On. They had escaped together from the City of the Gods. They had confronted mountain cats.

  “I know what you are thinking,” Haru said, breaking the silence.

  “You couldn’t possibly know, Haru.” Estrella tossed her head and stomped her hoof. “You’ve never had a herd. Owls travel alone. And even when you were a human, you lived apart from your clan.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Tijo said. He reached up and stroked Estrella’s neck, trying to calm her. “Just listen to Haru.”

  “You must take the long way to the sweet grass.” Haru’s feathers drooped as she perched on a branch, and although she spoke calmly, there was a note of weary frustration.

  “What long way?” Estrella asked. “We’re heading toward the Mighties.”

  “Ahead is the plain of the thunder creatures. If you go across that plain, the Iber will see you clearly and ambush you.” She sighed as if trying to summon the strength to say what she had to next. “You must go around the plain to the Mighties.”

  “But there isn’t time. We must get to those foothills by autumn at the latest. If winter comes …”

  “If you don’t heed my warning, you won’t see another winter.”

  Tijo and Estrella exchanged a worried glance. “But if we take the long way, we might not make it across the Mighties before winter comes,” Tijo said. “It’s too much of a risk.”

  “Don’t argue with me.” It was the same scolding tone she had sometimes used with Tijo when he was a small child, but her voice was much weaker. “I feel something bad coming. It whistles down these hollow bones of mine like a cold bitter wind. You must split into two groups and take two different paths around the plains before meeting on the other side of the mountains. It’s the only way.”

  “Are you sure?” Tijo’s voice trembled.

  “Am I sure?” The omo owl seemed to bristle and appeared twice her size. Then she immediately shrank again and seemed smaller than ever. “Tijo, when have I ever not done what I think is best for you? Yes, I am sure.”

  “Don’t be angry, Auntie.”

  “I am not angry. I am weak. The spirit camps are calling me back. My lodge frays.” The black eyes of the omo owl pierced through him. She opened her sharp beak wide and inhaled deeply, then spread her wings and staggered into flight.

  Little Coyote had been listening from a burrow he had dug downwind of the first herd. He was surprised now to catch the sound of the owl’s wings just outside. Then the owl peeked in, its luminous white face filling the opening, an
d he nearly yelped in astonishment …

  “You’re not afraid of me?” Little Coyote asked.

  “Why should I be afraid of you?”

  “Every creature is. They think we are … are …”

  “Tricksters?” the omo owl asked.

  “Well … er … yes. Deceitful. Dishonest.”

  The omo owl cut him off. “I think you are worthy of trust. But I am weak, so I must speak fast.”

  Little Coyote was stunned. “You mean you don’t think I am like my father?”

  “Not in the least. I trust you.”

  “Why?”

  “I am a spirit. Spirits see long. But as I said, I am very tired for reasons you won’t understand, not now — perhaps later.”

  Little Coyote cocked his head slightly. In the vaporous mist above the crown of the owl’s head, he saw a twinkling. “What … what’s that?”

  “A small horse? The tiny horse? Is that what you see?” The owl’s voice was low but urgent. Little Coyote nodded. “That’s the proof,” the owl continued with a hint of satisfaction.

  “The proof of what?”

  “That you are worthy of trust. It means you might be called upon.”

  “Called upon to do what?” Little Coyote had one task: to avenge his father’s murder. The last thing he needed was to talk nonsense with this strange creature.

  “To help the horses and the boy who rides with them. The first herd.”

  “Help them? How can I help them? They killed my father. It makes no sense.”

  But before he could ask the omo owl another question, the sparkling tiny horse dissolved into the mist. The owl had not even spread her wings. She just vanished without a sound.