Chapter 4

I did not sleep well that night. I was looking forward to the next day with a mixture of dread and excitement. When I finally managed to drift off to sleep, it was no more than an excuse for my mind to rerun the all-too-familiar nightmare of that last hunt that William and I had been on in Africa. I woke up, shaking, and drenched in sweat as the first grey hints of dawn were lightening the sky. Salvador was going to be released soon. He'd been given a six hour head start on de Lobeiro and I, with no food, no tools and certainly no weapons.

By dawn, we were all downstairs. The topic of conversation at breakfast was inevitably the upcoming hunt. Supply packs had been made up for de Lobeiro and I. The only rules were that each of us was to leave the Hacienda alone, beyond that, anything was allowed. I overheard some of the men discussing a previous hunt which had devolved into both hunters going after each other, rather than the target. Bets were being laid on the outcome of the day's hunt. Anthero de Lobeiro would be quite a hunter if the odds I was being given against him were anything to go by.

Both of us spent the morning checking and rechecking our gear. I had to give him credit: he did it himself rather than relied on his servants: one of the hallmarks of a careful man. He was riding a quality horse showing more than a hint of thoroughbred character, and leading another, equally well bred as a pack horse. I'd taken up Don Ernesto's offer of using two of his Andalucian horses. They weren't ideal for the job, but I knew I'd have a lot of riding to do over the day and didn't want to get my own mountain ponies blown too early on. There was a fair chance I'd need their stamina for what was to come later.

De Lobeiro had won the toss and was the first to leave the Hacienda. Neither of us had been allowed to see the direction in which Salvador had left that morning, so it would be very much a matter of luck as to which of us would be first to cross his trail. That is, if I had been intending to follow the script, which naturally I wasn't.

An hour after de Lobeiro left, I mounted and prepared to ride out. Behind me the party-goers of the previous night were getting ready to follow, complete with their entourages of servants and picnics. Were it not for the prospect of someone getting killed, I could easily have believed that the ladies of the group were off on their way to Henley Regatta or Royal Ascot. Dona Maria, resplendent in a white dress and crimson shawl came over to me as I was about to leave, a disturbingly coquettish smile on her face. "Buena suerte, milord."

She was wishing me luck? It jarred for a second: for an instant I thought it was for what I had planned. It wasn't, of course, it was for the hunt. I looked at Don Ernesto, the crowd, then back at Dona Maria: hedonists, opportunists and murderers. I wasn't the one in need of luck, they were. Not trusting myself to reply, I pulled the horse's head around and headed out, making for the mountains. Once clear of the Hacienda I eased the horses back to a gentle lope. The forest was dense here, partly cultivated plantation, partly natural jungle.

It was mid afternoon before I found what I was looking for: a place where I could slip off the trail and make a good job of covering any sign of it. I dismounted and led the horses several hundred yards into the forest. The undergrowth was thick enough to make for heavy going. Then I backtracked and carefully removed any clue as to my passage. If my memory was accurate, there was another, faint trail heading back to the Hacienda about two miles through the forest. With the horses it was a struggle pushing my way through to the other trail. I'd have cut them loose, but I needed their speed for the trip back to the Hacienda. It must have taken more than an hour to cover those two miles. Once back in open ground, I remounted, and urged the now flagging Andalucians back towards the Hacienda.

The Hacienda was all but deserted. As I cautiously led the horses back to the stable block I thought I heard the faint echo of gun fire carry through the thin mountain air. The tactical side of my mind, the side that didn't care about casualties or suffering had taken over and was analysing the situation: worst case scenario, they would all be on their way back now. It was time to find out exactly where Domingo was being held and to free him. The task was easier than I had thought. The scared looking stable boy who had taken our horses on the first day came out to meet me. Fifteen minutes later, he had taken me to the storage cellar where Domingo was being held, eager to betray his ersatz master Don Ernesto.

There was no one on guard that I could see. I turned to the boy and said quietly: "You go now, muchacho. Get our ponies saddled, we'll be there soon, and thank you."

"De nada, senor! It is something for me to do, in memory of the real Jefe of this Hacienda, Don Ferdinand who was murdered by that cabron, Lopez. If you choose to oppose him, senor, I will offer prayers for you, that you are successful. Adios!"

The boy sped off, while I searched around for a key to the store room. Less than a minute later I had the door open and Domingo free.

"Que pasa? Where is Salvador? Why isn't he.."

"Sh! I'll explain later. Right now, we have to go through this house and take everything that might be useful, particularly food, weapons and ammunition. Assume anyone you see wants to kill you, and you probably won't be far wrong. Come on, hurry!"

He clearly was full of questions but heeded the urgency in my voice. I was glad of that: I wanted to be fully equipped for the coming fight, and well clear of the Hacienda before I stopped to explain. I knew that the explanation would take too long. We met in the hallway of the house, both of us carrying supplies from the kitchen as well as blankets. I started looking through the gun rack on the wall. Don Ernesto… no, he'd become just Lopez now, whatever his pretensions to aristocracy, had taken all the worthwhile guns with him following the hunt that was on for Salvador. Ignoring the ancient shotguns that were left, I emptied all the spare ammunition into a borrowed carpet bag. Any I couldn't use in the guns I had with me, I'd dump once we were away from the Hacienda.

There were five ponies ready when we left the house, two with riding saddles and three with pack saddles. We spent a few minutes loading up the pack saddles with the things we had taken from the house as well as whatever we had been able to find of our own gear. The boy who had helped me was nowhere to be seen. I hoped he had decided to get clear, Ernesto Lopez did not strike me as the forgiving type. When it came down to it, I reflected, neither was I. We had three guns between us, so I took the .318 and a handful of cartridges and gave them to Domingo. He had used a Mauser earlier, and the .318 used the same sort of bolt action as the Mauser. I kept the heavier .470 double ejector for myself as well as the colt automatic.

We rode for the high country until the sun began to dip behind the mountains. Domingo found a secluded hollow in the rocks that would do for a campsite. It was with considerable relief that I got off the pony. I'd been in the saddle most of the day and ached all over. Domingo saw to the ponies, while I set up camp and got food and coffee ready. The tiny fire, which was all we could risk, did not shed nearly enough heat to counter the bone-deep chill of evenings in the mountains. I could not but appreciate the irony that we were here in the Andes, swathed in blankets woven in Yorkshire from Alpaca wool exported from Peru, and re-exported to Peru from Dickens & Jones of London at great expense.

"It is time, senor. Tell me about my brother."

I could sense Domingo looking at me over the fire. I didn't want to tell him about the fate I had consigned his brother to, that his brother had most likely been hunted down and shot like an animal by people who were no better than the jackals that scavenged carcasses on the savannah. I didn't want to tell him, but I did.

"I'm sorry, Domingo, but I believe that Salvador is dead."

He was silent awhile, then: "How?"

It was the question I'd been dreading. I stared into the fire, unable to meet Domingo's gaze. "You know that on that first day when I rode out with Lopez, he had followed me? Lopez led me to a quarry where a number of people whom he described as convicts were working, digging for silver. Salvador told me that he recognised one of the prisoners as his… your father. The evening of the Ball, he went back to try to rescue him. He failed: Lopez's men, perhaps Ramon, captured him. You know that I was trying to convince them that I was on their side? Unsurprisingly, they wanted proof. They ordered me to execute Salvador then and there."

I paused and looked at Domingo. He was tense, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight, and his hand was curled around the trigger guard of the rifle I had given him. There was a dangerousness about him: it was the sort of implacable enmity that had led to vendettas in Corsica that spanned generations.

I took a breath and continued. "Instead of offering him a clean death, I arranged for him to be hunted across these mountains. I didn't want his blood on my hands, I thought it might give him a chance, I… It didn't bloody matter, though, for all that I didn't pull the trigger I might just as well have killed him." I couldn't keep the bitter self-recrimination out of my voice. The mess that had arisen was entirely of my own making, and now Salvador was dead. I couldn't have faulted Domingo if he had decided to pull the trigger, but he didn't.

"Listen to me senor, Juan. My brother is dead. From what you say, he was as much to blame as you, if not more so. When he left last night, he ordered me not to go with him. I should have followed, but I did not, so I too am to blame. Now we have determined that we are all, in some way, to blame, what do we do?" There was a hint of angry sarcasm in his voice, castigating me for my assumption of responsibility for his brother's death. His words returned a sense of purpose to me.

"We go to the quarry and free everyone who is held there, not just your father, everyone. I think it's about time to start hitting back."


The next day we were on the move as soon as the sun was up. The quarry was a few miles northward of where we had camped for the night. The left the ponies in some cover, then sneaked forward on foot to check out the situation. It proved to be much as I remembered from my last visit. Luis Ortega was there, lording it over the other guards, as well as the prisoners. Apart from Ortega, I could make out seven more guards, most of them armed with shotguns, but two up on the rim of the quarry had Mauser rifles.

Domingo and I backed away, and returned to where we had hidden the ponies. To minimise the guards' opportunity to hurt the prisoners, we would have to take them by surprise, shoot them down in cold blood. It was not a task I was looking forward to, but Domingo seemed sanguine enough about the idea. I put my doubts aside and settled down to work out the details. Domingo sketched a diagram of the quarry in the dust, marking in the locations of the prisoners and the seated guards. We studied it for a few minutes.

"How good a shot are you?" I asked Domingo.

"Usually sure up to about a hundred and fifty yards, but I don't know this rifle well enough to be as sure as I would have been with my own."

I nodded, each rifle had its own idiosyncrasies. I had the beginnings of a plan in mind. It would be a gamble, but stood a better chance of success and with fewer incidental casualties than if we just stood off and tried to pick off the guards at long range. It depended on whether or not Lopez knew it had been I who had freed Domingo and if he had informed Ortega of my change in status from being one of his guests. I outlined the plan to Domingo, telling him his part in it. He looked at me as if I was crazy. Perhaps I was, but I felt alive, truly alive for the first time in months.


An hour or so later, I had tidied myself up as best I could and was riding into the quarry, holding the pony to a casual walk. The colt automatic was loosened and butt forward in its holster at my left hip, the .470 booted, barrel forward, under my left leg.

"Buenas dias, Senor Ortega!" I shouted, adding a wave to the greeting. Ortega rode forward to meet me, the warm joviality on his features as false as that on my own.

"Ah, Lord Roxton, how are you this morning? Perhaps you would care to join me for some coffee?"

"Thank you, I could certainly use a drink. While we drink, perhaps one of your prisoners could check over my pony? I think he's picked up a stone in his off fore."

"Of course," Ortega replied. I looked over to the group of prisoners until one met my eyes, then I beckoned him to me with an imperious gesture. He trudged over, a sullen expression on his face. I leaned down and pulled up the pony's hoof. The prisoner had leaned over to look at the hoof, searching for some sign of any stone lodged in there and finding nothing: there wasn't any stone, of course, but I needed him to carry word to the others. Before he could say anything, I whispered quickly to him.

"Pretend to pull out a stone then go back to the other prisoners. Pass the word: when you hear gunfire, get into cover and keep your heads down. We're getting you out of here."

He said nothing in reply, but kept hold of the hoof and maintained the charade. I hoped he wouldn't accidentally damage the hoof in the process. I'd have need of the pony later. I wandered over to where Ortega was getting the coffee ready. A few minutes later, the prisoner led the pony over to us and tethered him beside Ortega's own horse. The coffee tasted foul but I drank it: I needed to give the guards something to watch while Domingo quietly took out the two carrying the Mausers. All the time that I was drinking, I was listening for some shout of alarm or sign of a scuffle. Nothing. I started to worry if Domingo was even going to bother with his part of the plan. If I started to act with the guards still in place, things would get very uncomfortable, very quickly. It would be a neatly trouble-free way for Domingo to deal with the man responsible for his brother's death.

I sat there, chatting to Ortega and trying not to grimace too much at the coffee. Then I heard hoof beats approaching. For a moment I thought it might be Domingo, but the sound was that of larger horses than any of ours, drawing near at a fast canter. Ortega rose to meet the group of newcomers as they came into sight.

My heart sunk as I recognised Ramon at their head.

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