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LENGTH: Full Novel
SENSUALITY: Sensual

Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2002
ISBN 1-891020-58-7
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A man wakes naked and injured on a beach with no idea how he comes to be wherever he is. Worse, he doesn't know who he is. And worst of all, he has no conception of what he is. Not until the first full moon when he--changes. Harried by humans afraid of his kind, he travels from Gold Rush California to New Orleans, to Michigan, the killing fields of the Civil War and finally back to the fortress he's built in California to protect his family. He's safe there--until a long overdue debt forces him to invite danger inside the fortress walls....

Rating: This paranormal fantasy is set in the past from 1848 to 1880. Although violence and sex are an integral part of the story, so is love.

"Four and 1/2 Stars! This isn't the glamorized "werewolf" tale popular today in paranormal fiction (romantic anyway). These heroes aren't at peace with their two "selves." They're cursed and will do anything to keep the beast at bay. Their plight, their struggle to protect themselves and others, the mystery surrounding themselves and their curse, keeps the blood pumping and the pages turning. When you pick up Moonrunner: Under the Shadow, make sure you pick up Gathering Darkness and Dark Sunrise as well, because you won't want the saga to end. (Just make sure you have a lot of caffeine on hand!)" Scribes World Reviews

MOONRUNNER I:
UNDER THE SHADOW

By

Jane Toombs

© copyright Jane Toombs
Cover art by Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Road
Lake Park, GA 31636
http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter 1

He floated alone in darkness, the tiny flame of his awareness the only light in the Stygian gloom. The flame flickered, fading, he had no will to keep it aglow. As he drifted closer to the dark shore of no return, a beam of energy seared across the blackness and, drawn to the power, his life force flared anew, growing as it fed on the surging fountain of energy.

Before he came to full awareness, the source he fed from cut off abruptly. He mouthed a soundless cry and opened his eyes. Pain speared through his head.

He lay naked, sprawled on his back on damp sand, just beyond the sea's reach. Overhead, fog blanketed the sun. Though the sand chilled the bare flesh of his back, he was covered with cloth that snagged on his roughened hands as he fingered its smoothness. Silk?
A midnight blue silken cape.

"I was right!" a woman's voice cried in triumph. "You see, Tia Dolores, he lives."

His mind automatically translated her words into his own language. Making a major effort, he tried to turn his head toward the speaker. A woman's pale face appeared in his vision as she bent over him. Dark eyes gazed worriedly into his. Her black hair, partially covered by a shawl, framed an attractive oval face whose soft pink lips looked more accustomed to smiling than being tightened in distress. He'd never seen her before. Where was he?

His heart leaped in panic as he reached for memories and found a gray blankness. Pain tightened pincers against his skull as his mind roiled desperately, searching for a clue. Somewhere in the grayness a spool unwound a tiny thread of recollection--a man naked on a beach, a beautiful woman coming to his rescue with her servants; a princess rescuing a half-drowned adventurer. "Nausicaa," he whispered, identifying the princess.

"I can't hear you," she said. "Is that your name?"

His name. He closed his eyes in despair. A man was no one with his name gone.
What was his name?

"I tell you he is of the dark one," a second woman's voice, this one cracked with age, warned. "Diablo's servant."

"He's no more of the devil than you are, Tia Dolores." Nausicaa said. Her fingers brushed his forehead, light as alder down.

He opened his eyes again, searching for the second speaker. She stood to one side of Nausicaa, an ancient crone in black glaring malevolently at him. A glimmer of energy crackled around her and he drew in his breath as he recognized the life source he'd fed on. The old woman possessed power. Nausicaa's energy aura was normal, no more than a faint glow. How did he know these things and not his name?

"Who are you?" Nausicaa asked softly.

She wasn't Nausicaa, he realized confusedly. What he'd remembered was a tale--a Greek tale of a shipwrecked sailor cursed by the sea god who was washed onto the Phoenician shore where he was befriended by the king's daughter. The name of the god-cursed sailor Nausicaa had rescued slid into his mind.

"Ulysses." He had difficulty pushing the word past his bruised throat.

"Les?" she echoed.

"Diablo," the old woman muttered. "His name is El Diablo."

He caught sight of a small black animal at the corner of his vision, an animal edging around a boulder to pad toward Nausicaa. A dog? It stopped suddenly, turning its head to stare at him, then spat, tail erect, fur bristling.

"Koshka!" he exclaimed hoarsely, naming the cat in his own language. The black cat flew to the old crone and hid behind her skirts. A witch, he thought. She's a witch and the cat is her ally.

"You see," the witch hissed. "Sombrito knows him for what he is."

Sombrito, the man repeated to himself, translating.
The cat's name is Little Shadow. They're speaking Spanish and I understand the language though it's not mine. What am I if not Spanish?

"Senor Koshka?" Nausica said.

Mr. Cat. Why not? His true name was beyond his reach and Senor Koshka was as good as any other. "Where am I?" he asked, trying to ease himself to a sitting position.

Nausicaa reached to help him sit, her hands white and soft as they grasped his arm. His head whirled dizzily and he stifled a groan as his bruised body protested the shift in position. The blue silk cape fell to his waist and he adjusted it hastily around him, noting an already healing gash on his chest. He lifted a hand to his aching head, finding sticky, matted hair over a painful lump.

"You are on the land of Alvarado, my father's land," she said.

"Don Alfonso won't like this," the witch muttered.

He stared at Nausicaa. Alvarado land. Spain? He looked around at the boulder-littered beach, at the golden hills rolling away from the water. "Senorita Alvarado," he said. "Where is your father's land located?"

"To the south of San Francisco," she told him.

A word slithered free of the grayness clouding his mind. California. He was on a California beach.

The old woman ventured close enough to tug at Nausica's arm. "Come away," she urged. "Your soul is in peril."

"Tia Dolores, you're making me impatient," Nausicaa declared. "Senor Koshka is injured, he needs our help and all you can do is mutter about the devil."

"What will Don Alfonso say when you arrive at the casa with a naked stranger wrapped in your cape?" the old woman demanded. Nausicaa flushed, he could see she was embarrassed and upset by the witch's words. The black cat leaped atop a rock and glared down at him balefully. His head throbbed with pain and confusion.

"Senor Koshka, I mean to help you but there is a problem," Nausica said finally, clasping her hands together tightly. "If you were to come with us now my father might not--understand. But if someone brought clothes to you--" She paused, her eyes traveling over him shyly but with determination as she estimated his size. "You are tall," she added.

"What clothes we have may not be a good fit. "Tia Dolores will--"

"No," the witch muttered. "I won't bring him clothes. Such as he deserves nothing."

"You'll see that it's done or I'll never forgive you in this world or the next." Nausicaa's voice rose angrily. "Mind what I say."

The old woman glowered at her in silence.

"I'm sorry to make you wait." Nausicaa bit her lip as she looked at him. "I can see you're in pain. A man will soon come with clothes and help you to our hacienda."

"You've already saved my life, senorita. You and your companion." He glanced at the old woman as he finished speaking, wondering if she knew he lived because of her energy transfer.

Her malevolent gaze told him she did and regretted it. Why? What made her so certain he was allied to the devil? Who was he? What was he doing in California? How had he been hurt so badly he'd almost died? His mind provided no answers to any of the questions. Why couldn't he remember?

"I must go," Nausicaa--no, Senorita Alvarado--said, leaving him with a farewell smile.
He watched her walk away, carrying herself with the proud confidence of a princess. Neither she nor the old crone looked back. The cat had disappeared. A snippet of memory teased him. Something about cats. Cats were dangerous.

Dangerous? He blinked. Cats were a source of danger only to small rodents and birds. Why to him? He seized his head in both hands, squeezing, trying to force his mind to disgorge what lay hidden from him in its depths. A dizzying jab through his skull was the only result. He dropped his hands, defeated.

Forcing himself to his feet, he noting that moving hurt less than it had at first. To be expected. His kind recovered quickly. His kind? What in the name of God did that mean? His mind refused to answer.

Gathering the silk cape, he wrapped it around his hips and thighs, tucking it in tightly at the waist. The smooth material stroked his bare flesh as he limped into the surf. He looked to the north, seeing smoke beyond the hills that lay between him and what Senorita Alvarado had called San Francisco. He knew the name. And more.

Gold. San Francisco and gold. California and gold. Nothing else surfaced. He gave up the effort to remember and gazed southward. Not even smoke, nothing but hills and the sea. The Pacific Ocean. With the scent of brine in his nostrils, he stared westward over the waves, seeing the black smudge of islands, but what their names were, he didn't know.
Far out on the water a three-master sailed northeast. Had he been in a shipwreck? He stared around him. No telltale debris from a wreck littered the sands. Possibly he'd been a sailor who'd fallen overboard.

Then why the bruises? He glanced at his chest. The wound there, a knife slash by its looks, had all but closed over. Gingerly, he felt his head. The lump was smaller. He healed fast.

They meant to kill me. He didn't understand how he knew this, but he did. He had no idea who "they" were or what he'd done to invite slaying. Alone and naked, no possessions, not even a name. He wouldn't know an enemy from a friend. He could trust no one, with the possible exception of Senorita Alvarado. She promised to be a friend. He desperately needed a friend but Tia Dolores was already an enemy. He'd have to watch her carefully since she'd set herself so determinedly against him.

He searched for the Spanish word to describe her. Curandero, a healer? More than that. Bruja, witch, was a better name for her. He'd do well to steer clear of her entirely.
He paced back and forth along the water line, his legs strengthening as he walked so that his limp grew less and less, finally disappearing. The bruises changed from ugly blue-black to an equally unappetizing yellow-green, the knife cut closed over, the lump on his head vanished. Should he stay or leave?

Senorita Alvarado had promised clothes; he needed them. Unfortunately she'd left it up to the bruja to order them sent. Obviously, the old woman would prefer to give quite another command to whoever came. And might well do so.

If he did leave, where would he go? Whatever he decided, he had to regain his strength fast. Since he had no weapons, there was nothing else to depend on. Once he was back to normal, he'd be difficult to kill. How did he know that? Damn his memory for teasing him with bits and pieces and refusing to yield the whole.

He windmilled his arms, then twisted his torso one way and another, exercising, keeping a wary eye and ear out. Time passed. The sun's rays splintered the fog into wisps that the sea breeze scattered into nothingness. Warmth caressed his bare shoulders. He squinted at the sky. Near noon. Hunger gripped his stomach.

He forgot the pangs when he heard hoof beats. One horseman. Had Tia Dolores sent friend or foe? Or was the rider someone else, someone who knew him? Assume the worst. He chose a fist-sized rock from those scattered on the sand, and, holding it, concealed the rock among the folds of the cape. Feet apart, his back to the ocean, he faced the rise, waiting.

A mustached vaquero dressed in working clothes rode onto the beach. He was a big man, in his thirties, hard-faced and unsmiling. The man reined in the horse and stared down at him.

This man was no friend. He met the vaquero's hostile gaze. "You bring me clothes. Where are they?"

The horseman hesitated an instant too long. In one smooth motion, the man on foot flung the rock. It struck the vaquero's temple and a half-drawn pistol fell from his suddenly limp grasp. He swayed, sagged, and slipped off the horse's left side, slumping unconscious onto the sand.

"Easy, boy, you're with a friend," the man on foot crooned to the sidling horse, grasping the reins. When he had the stallion calmed and tethered, he bent over the vaquero.
"How kind of you to bring clothes for me," he said, his face twisting into a grimace as he caught the rancid odor. "I could wish you were taller and that you washed oftener." Otherwise, the horseman's clothes, including his excellent boots, weren't a bad fit.

"Ulysses Koshka," he muttered to himself as he rode with the still limp, but now naked, vaquero draped across the horse in front of him. He allowed the stallion to choose direction, certain it would head for the rancho.

He'd face more danger there, of that he was sure, but he knew its source and confronting the bruja was preferable to being chased as a horse thief. He didn't care much for the name he'd concocted. Still it was a name and so better than the blank in his mind. It was all he could offer to Don Alfonso and he was aware it might not be enough when the rancho's owner asked who he was and where he came from. Neither he nor the name were Spanish, though he spoke the language with little effort. The don would certainly recognize this, despite the fact he was as dark as most Spaniards. He had to have a story ready, it was perilous to tell the truth, to admit he had no memory of how he came to be lying more than half-dead on Don Alfonso's beach. A man with no memories was, in a sense, defenseless.

Ulysses was sure the vaquero had meant to kill him but he also knew there'd been no recognition in the man's eyes. The horseman, he had no doubt, had been sent on Tia Dolores's orders to get rid of a dangerous stranger. She might hate and fear him but she'd made it clear she'd never seen him before. Nor had the senorita. This didn't mean it was safe to bet the don didn't know him but he had a hunch it was the truth.

Ulysses Koshka, flotsam from the sea. He nodded. He'd make his a story of betrayal, one he vowed to avenge someday. For all he knew, that might even be what had happened. Pray God he'd soon remember. Meanwhile, he'd keep the pistol handy.

He rode over hills golden with long grass. Here and there clumps of trees clustered along water courses. In the distance, long-horned cattle foraged. Higher hills humped to the east. Had he ever seen California before? Nothing looked familiar but Ulysses felt a tug of belonging. The land appealed to him.

He topped a rise and the rancho spread out before him, adobe walls sealing in the red-tiled hacienda. Could he reach the gate without challenge? A compadre of the vaquero would certainly recognize this spirited stallion. If the man also recognized the clothes Ulysses wore there'd be trouble. Ulysses slowed, removed the folded blue cape from a saddle bag and wrapped the silken folds around him to conceal as much of the clothes as possible. He have to trust to luck no one would recognize the cape as Senorita Alvarado's.

As he neared the walls, an armed horseman rode to intercept him, commanding him to halt. Ulysses slowed the chestnut stallion but continued to ride toward the rancho. "I bring an injured man to the hacienda," he shouted. "He needs care, let me pass!"

"El Duro!" the vaquero cried, his eyes on the horse Ulysses rode.

Ulysses knew he couldn't give the man time to think. "Tia Dolores will know what to do for El Duro's master," he said, pushing the stallion on toward the wooden gate set in the adobe walls, hoping he was right about the old woman's status in the Alvarado household.

The vaquero hesitated, eyes flicking from the chestnut to Ulysses. Finally he wheeled his horse to ride alongside them just as the naked man draped across El Duro groaned and twitched. The chestnut danced sideways. Putting what he hoped was a quieting hand on the still limp figure sprawled in front of him, Ulysses leaned forward to murmur into the stallion's ear. The horse calmed.

Ulysses looked up to find his escort staring at him with his mouth open. He tensed but the man made no move. Then they were at the gate and the Alvarado horseman dismounted to open it. He waved Ulysses inside the gate and closed it behind horse and man, remaining on the other side.

The injured vaquero groaned again. Ulysses slid off the chestnut. "Not just yet, amigo," he said under his breath. "My story gets told before yours." He yanked off the silk cape and crammed it back into a saddle bag. Leaving horse and man, he strode up the white path, bootheels crunching shells. The red-tiled adobe was two story, with a balcony, a rambling casa built around a courtyard. Red and pink flowering shrubs sweetened the air and a brilliant magenta vine clung to the house wall.

Ulysses reached the massive oak door and lifted his hand to the iron knocker, shaped like a double eagle. He froze, a revelation flickering evil as a corpse light, something from the depths of his soul that chilled his blood. Before he could grasp its import, the memory winked out. Shaking his head, he grasped the knocker firmly, raised the black eagles and let them fall against the iron plate.

A woman, old and dressed in black like Tia Dolores, opened the door, frowned at him, then gaped past him at the horse and the naked man on El Duro's back.

"Find Tia Dolores and bring her to care for the man," Ulysses ordered, "but first take me to Don Alfonso. Pronto!"

Without speaking, she led him through the house to the courtyard. As he passed the rooms, Ulysses noted that the furnishings, though not cheap, seemed slightly shabby.

In the courtyard, Don Alfonso stood beside a flower- girdled pool where fish glinted gold in the still water. He stood a head shorter than Ulysses but his erect carriage made him appear taller than he was. The gray in his hair and the lines in his thin, tanned face marked him as old, at least fifty. Cold dark eyes measured Ulysses as he crossed the bricks toward the don.

Ulysses bent his head briefly in greeting. "I am Ulysses Koshka," he said. "I brought one of your men back unconscious. Your housekeeper is tending to him. I regret the necessity of having to borrow his clothes and his horse."

Don Alfonso's eyes widened momentarily as he reexamined Ulysses, taking special note of the boots he wore. "You speak of Rafael?"

Ulysses shrugged. "Your vaquero produced a pistol rather than his name."

"You wear Rafael's clothes. Are you telling me you rode El Duro?"

"I rode a chestnut stallion with a white blaze. He now stands before the casa with his master lying across his back."

The don kept his gaze on Ulysses for long moments. Ulysses stared back, doing his best to ignore the pistol that rested atop a blue-tiled rustic table, within easy reach of the Spaniard. He had time to wonder why Don Alfonso would need a pistol so close to hand in the safety of his own casa, before the don finally spoke. "I will listen to your story."

"Your man accosted me on the beach. No doubt on your property, although I did not realize I was trespassing. He was mounted and armed. I was afoot, naked, I had no weapon. He drew his pistol and, believing he meant to shoot me, I threw a stone that hit his head. I am not a violent man nor a thief. I chose not to remain naked while I returned the man and his horse to where they belonged, so I borrowed his clothes. The horse guided me here."

"Don Rafael is not my hired man," the don said. "He is a neighbor who kindly helps me with the cattle. You have made a life-long enemy."

"He set himself to be my enemy before he knew me. I was dangerous to no one, naked and unarmed. Don Rafael's possible vengeance is not my concern. I have revenge of my own to tend to, vengeance against those aboard ship who conspired to rob me of all I possessed, who tried to kill me and then dropped me overboard to drown. God's favor alone brought me to shore."

Ulysses watched Don Alfonso carefully as he told the tale he'd concocted. Had the Spaniard relaxed ever so slightly? "I must throw myself on your mercy," he continued. "I have been left with nothing."

Don Alfonso's lips twitched slightly, as though he might be repressing a smile. "You have Rafael's horse and his clothes," he pointed out. "Also, I suspect, his pistol."

"Borrowed only," Ulysses said.

The don nodded once, then again, as though he'd made up his mind. "If you rode El Duro and lived to tell of it, you are good with horses."

"I am." Although his mind released no memories of horsemanship, deep within himself Ulysses felt he spoke the truth.

"You are not a Spaniard, though you speak the language well. I can tell you're not one of those bastard Americanos, either. Your name is Greek?"

"I am not Americano," Ulysses agreed. "My name is Greek."

Again the don's lips twitched. "You are a man of few words, Senor Kosko, but I don't hold that against you. I happen to need vaqueros. In this way I can offer you assistance."

Ulysses took a deep breath, unsure of how he'd convinced the don to help him, but relieved that he had. He bowed. "I'd be honored to work for you."

"I will see to clothes for you. You may return Rafael's."

"Gracias." Ulysses eyed the don. "I doubt he'll be happy to have me working here."
"That is as certain as sunrise tomorrow. But Don Rafael is my friend and he knows how it is with me. While you ride as my vaquero he will keep his peace. I expect the same from you."

"You have my word I have no quarrel with anyone except the men aboard the ship."

Don Alfonso held out his right hand. Ulysses, starting to reach his to meet it, suddenly held, staring in startled disbelief at the Spaniard's palm. A reddish glow discolored the skin as a five-pointed symbol formed. Even as he gaped, the star faded and was gone. Ulysses swallowed, forcing himself to grip the don's hand and shake it while ice formed along his spine. Danger!

What from, he didn't know. But he knew he'd seen the circle within a star before. To his kind, the symbol meant death. Shaken to the depths of his being, he did his best to show nothing of what he felt.

Death stalked him here, too, it seemed. Desperately, he struggled to unblock his mind but grayness covered everything except the few shards he'd already grasped.

What was his kind? Had he walked into a trap that even now clamped iron jaws about him? Yet where else could he go?

Chapter 2

"They don't know what to make of me, Palo," Ulysses told his bay stallion as they rode out alone on the last day of February. "Who can blame them? I'm a mystery even to myself. Would you believe I don't know how old I am? I told the don eighteen because that number occurred to me. But am I? I'm never sure what I'll have to lie about next."
Palo flicked his ears and continued his steady lope toward the twenty or more long-horned steers grazing in one of the small valleys north of the Alvarado hacienda.

It was a fine, clear day, the only clouds high and wispy. Tonight, Ulysses thought, would be clear as well, unless the fog rolled in from the ocean as it sometimes did. He relished the mild and pleasant climate of these shores he'd been cast upon. All in all, he'd been fortunate where he'd washed ashore.

He was one of the three vaqueros working what remained of the Don's cattle but he always rode alone. Don Rafael spoke to him only if absolutely necessary and Juan took his cues from Don Rafael. As long as Don Alfonso remained cordial, Ulysses could shrug off the unfriendliness of the others--but it rankled.

Horses took to him, so did the cows, the rancho dogs and other livestock--even Esperanza's pet parrot. The only animal that mistrusted him was Tia Dolores's cat. To hell with the cat and its glowering mistress, he'd much rather think of pretty Esperanza. At least the don's daughter smiled at him when they met. Not that they met often enough to suit him. He'd like to get better acquainted with her but the old witch was always hovering about, a malevolent and formidable chaperone.

A formidable enemy, for that matter. The bruja had already tried to have him killed once. At the moment she was the dangerous one, not Don Rafael. In the three weeks he'd been working here he'd learned enough about Spanish--or Californio--pride and honor to understand that the don had been right when he insisted Don Rafael would never exact revenge for his humiliation as long as Don Alfonso stood behind Ulysses.

If only he could remember some small part of his past, enough to furnish a clue to who he was, what he was. All he could be certain of was that he wasn't of Spanish descent, nor Americano, because neither of those languages was the one he used when he thought or spoke to himself.

He trusted the don and, because the Spaniard hated and mistrusted the Americanos,
Ulysses was inclined to view them suspiciously even though he'd discovered that he knew a fair amount of their language--how or why, he had no idea. Perhaps he really had been a sailor on a ship with men from many lands. That was the story he'd given the don yesterday after he'd translated for the Spaniard when an Americano visitor arrived unannounced.

The stranger, Henry Penfield, blustering and red-faced, had offered to buy the rancho. "Tell the don he might as well sell to me," Penfield had said, "because I'll get the land one way or the other anyway. California's a territory of the United States now and soon she'll be a state. When that happens you Mexicans'll might as well skedaddle back to your own country."

There'd been no tactful way to translate Penfield's words.

"Vamos!" Don Alfonso had shouted. "Get out and never set foot on my land again."

After Penfield left and the don calmed down a bit, Ulysses cautiously asked a question. "What did he mean by Mexicans, sir? I thought you were Spanish."

The don stared at him for a long moment. "Surely you've heard that twenty-eight years ago Mexico fought for and won the right to be free of the Spanish yoke."

Ulysses covered as best he could. "I am not of these shores, sir, and it appears my education has been sadly remiss."

"I'm not certain what shores you are from."

Determined to keep his faulty memory hidden, Ulysses said, "I would gladly tell you if I was at liberty to do so." Giving him a stern, not altogether satisfied look, the don finally nodded. "I'll let it pass for the moment. If you weren't aware of Mexico's freedom from Spain, then you undoubtedly know nothing of what's happened to us Californios since the bedamned Americanos defeated our great General Santa Anna.

"California was a part of Mexico until exactly one year ago this month. As a result of losing the war with the United States, Alta California was ceded to them, leaving us Californios abandoned by our own country. If that wasn't misfortune enough, some fool had to stumble on gold nuggets." The don had slammed his fist on the table. "Gold! This cursed California gold lures more of those damned Americanos here every month. This is my land and I will kill any man who tries to take it from me."

Ulysses believed him. He also had an uneasy premonition it might come to that. He'd noticed how arrogantly the Americanos behaved, as though they had a divine right to California land, no matter who it belonged to. And he'd heard talk of a hacienda south of the Alvarado rancho that had been sacked and burned, supposedly by bandits. The family--two sons, a mother and father--had been murdered. Since he was neither Spanish, Mexican nor Americano, California wasn't his country but if fighting began, Ulysses knew he was squarely on the don's side.

"What and where is my country?" he asked Palo. "What is this tongue I speak to myself and to you?"

Palo raised his head, his ears pricked forward and Ulysses came alert, his right hand reaching for the stock of the rifle in his saddle scabbard, his gaze searching for approaching riders. Because he had no past, all men were strangers and all strangers were potential enemies.

He sensed them before they crested the rise--two men, neither with dangerous energy levels. He reined in Palo, resting the rifle across his thighs. As he waited for the two riders to appear, he tried to understand how he sensed the men before he could see or hear them. He'd learned in the last three weeks that no one else at the Alvarado rancho had his ability. Except for the bruja. And that scared the hell out of him.

As soon as he saw the men, he knew by their clothes they were Americanos. He didn't quite aim the rifle at them but he made sure they knew he was armed. They halted just over the crest, some sixty paces away. One was stocky, running to fat, the other black-bearded, lean and rangy. Both wore holstered pistols.

"Hola!" Blackbeard called in Spanish.

"You're on Alvarado land," Ulysses called in return, speaking their Americano tongue. "What's your business here?"

"We've come to buy beef."

Aware Don Alfonso would starve before selling anything to an Americano, Ulysses replied, "We have none to spare."

Blackbeard gestured toward the steers below. "I see twenty head right there."

Ulysses repeated, "We have none to spare. And you're trespassing." He shifted the rifle.

Stocky's hand went to the butt of his pistol and Ulysses raised the rifle. Blackbeard spoke to his companion, his voice too low for Ulysses to hear, and Stocky took his hand away. The two men wheeled their horses. At the crest of the hill, Stocky turned. "We'll be back, you Mexican bastard," he shouted.

And I'll be waiting for you, Ulysses told them silently, his lips drawing back over his teeth.

When Don Alfonso first gave him the rifle the gun felt familiar in his hands, though he couldn't be sure what kind of a shot he was until he fired a few for practice. The first two were way off target, the third close and the fourth smashed the empty bottle he'd balanced on a rock. Either he was a quick study or he'd fired a rifle many times before. Stocky didn't know how close he'd come to death.

When he was sure the men were gone, Ulysses shoved the rifle back into the scabbard. He urged Palo toward the cattle, intending to move them to a different location in case Shorty and Blackbeard came back that night. He wasn't certain they were after the steers but it was best to take no chances. If the fog held off, the full moon would--

A shudder ran through him as something devil-dark slithered from behind the gray curtain shrouding his past. For a moment he shook like a alder leaf in an autumn gale and then the sinister half-recollection faded and was gone before he could grasp its import.
A warning sprang into his mind. The full moon brings death.

Unnerved, Ulysses rounded up the cattle. By the time he'd driven them from the little valley to new grazing closer to the hacienda, he'd recovered his equilibrium. He was damned if he'd let a full moon--or anything else--stop him. When he rode in that evening, he reported the trespass to Don Alfonso but didn't mention his own plans for the night.

As usual, he ate with Juan in the vaquero quarters outside the fenced courtyard--the food brought to them by Paquita, the old cook. Ulysses was glad that Don Rafael never waited to eat, returning to his own casa when the day's work was finished. He suspected, though, if Don Rafael did stay, he'd eat inside with Don Alfonso and Esperanza since he was not a hired worker but a neighbor.

Ulysses had pried from a reluctant Juan that Don Rafael had no cattle of his own, they'd either all been sold or run off by Americanos. Nor did Don Rafael have relatives in his casa.

"Like me, like Don Alfonso, Don Rafael has cousins in Mexico," Juan had said, "but no one here."

As they sat eating their puchero, a spicy stew, and tortillas, Ulysses made his plans. Not wishing to reveal his intentions to anyone, he'd wait until the other man slept before saddling Palo and riding.

It lacked an hour of midnight before Ulysses was finally ready to leave. The moon had risen just after sunset but patchy clouds had alternately hidden and revealed it. At the moment the moon was cloud-covered. Feeling strangely restless, he swung into the saddle and rode from the corral, only to rein in abruptly when a figure in white crossed his path.

"Esperanza!" he exclaimed, dismounting.

She drifted toward him, stopping only a few feet away. "Senor Koshka," she said softly.
In her filmy white robe, she was a fairy-tale creature, a beautiful and desirable princess. He stared at her hungrily, wishing he had the right to claim her for his own.

"How your eyes gleam," she whispered, shivering, yet making no effort to flee from him.

"You shouldn't be outside the gate so late at night and alone," he warned.

"I feel restless tonight."

"The courtyard is safer."

"Would I have met you inside the gates?"

His heart pounded at the implication. Did she have any idea how he'd dreamed of finding her alone? Unable to help himself, he held out his arms to her. She hesitated, then reached to him until he clasped her hands. But when he tried to draw her close, she resisted. He forced himself to stop, fighting his arousal.

"Why are you riding Palo so late?" she asked.

Unsettled by her sweet and provocative woman's scent and the feel of her soft hands in his, he told her the truth. "But you may be hurt," she protested.

"Not me." Aware he wouldn't be able to control himself much longer, he released her hands, strode to the gate and opened it. "I mean to see you safely inside before I leave."

By the time the gate had closed behind her and he was back in the saddle, the clouds had dissipated and the moon rode the sky, pale and luminous. Ulysses' insides churned. He dug his heels in, urging the bay into a lope, heedless of the perils of night riding. The quicker he left and the farther away he got from Esperanza, the better.

He was halfway to the valley when his inner churning turned to wrenching pain. Palo whinnied shrilly and reared. Ulysses, taken by surprise, lost his seat and sprawled onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, half-stunned, listening to the frightened horse pounding back toward the hacienda. What in hell had spooked Palo?

As he dragged himself upright to look around, something twisted hard inside his gut. Free! a voice inside his head demanded. Free! He found himself yanking off his boots, then tearing at his clothes in a wild desire to have nothing between him and the moon, full and bright above him. Its silver rays bathed him, seeping inside to quicken his blood. To change him.

"No!" he shouted, terrified. "No!" In vain. He had no more control over what was happening to him than he had over the moon. As he felt himself wrenching out of shape, exhilaration eroded his panic and sang through him.

Free! The night was his, the moon was his. He'd been set free to run.

His senses were overwhelmed by a multitude of odors and sounds--a rabbit, frozen with fright, crouched nearby to his left, a hunting owl, almost overhead, veered suddenly to avoid flying over him, and, some yards to his right, an alarmed steer caught his scent.
A craving gripped him, a need to hunt, to kill, to feast on his prey. The owl was beyond his reach, the rabbit beneath his notice. The steer, then. As he dropped to all fours, another smell drifted to him on the night wind, the intriguing and dangerous scent of man.

He lifted his muzzle to better ascertain the direction. The man rode a horse, the two of them upwind from him. The horse would scent him before the man saw him but not until they rode closer. Still, he dare not take a chance on giving way to the blood lust because then he'd be oblivious to all else. He fought his ever-increasing desire to run down the steer--now fleeing toward the man. Men could never be trusted. Men tracked his kind, tracked to kill.

Yet he'd marked the steer as his prey and refused to give it up. Once the steer no longer scented him, it would slow and stop somewhere beyond the man and horse. Stealth, not speed, would allow him to circle and remain safely upwind of his prey without being sighted by the man.

The bright moonlight made concealment difficult so he detoured to take advantage of the shadows under a string of sycamores bordering a nearby stream. As he trotted swiftly along the bank of the stream, the damp smell of leaf mold mingled with odor-traces of birds and mice and, once, the fear-rank scent of fox. The animals feared him, one and all. Men did, too, but men were craftier than any other animal. Except him--unless he was consumed by blood lust and lost all sense of his surroundings.

Far away a wolf sang to the moon, his cries thinner and higher than remembered wolf songs from long ago. Soon a dozen or more joined the first. Their name flashed into his mind. Coyotes. Brother to the wolf.

Their cries thrilled through him. How glorious to be free, to feel the brush of the wind through his fur and to test each scent the wind carried. The moon, climbing the sky, filled him with its silver radiance. The moon was his, he belonged to the moon. Soon the prey would be his as well, its hot blood salt- sweet on his tongue. Nothing else could satisfy the craving within him, a craving growing stronger and wilder with every passing moment.

The scent of horse and man and steer mingled. He scanned the silvered darkness with night-adapted eyes. There, ahead and to the left. The man shouted, seeing the steer, then yanked the horse sharply about and rode in pursuit. The steer increased its pace and veered toward the stream.

The man had no right to prey marked by him! For him! Rage overcame caution and he sprang from the concealing shadows to intercept horse and rider. Before he reached them, a loud crack assaulted his ears, an offensive stink filled his nostrils and the steer stumbled, falling into the water of the stream.

He raced on. The horse shied from him, rearing, while the rider fought for control. He sprang, tumbling the man from the horse as it screamed and died, its neck broken.
With the first taste of blood, his world turned red. With the blood lust mastering him, he scarcely heard the second crack or felt the sting searing his temple....

Ulysses opened his eyes to the grayness of predawn, his head aching and the remnants of a nightmare clouding his mind. He immediately took alarm. Where in hell was he and why was he naked and shivering? He sprang to his feet and staggered with weakness as he warily scanned his surroundings. He stood on the bank of a creek with not a living soul in sight--but death lay upstream. Cautiously, he made his way along the bank until he gazed with horror on what and who had died so bloodily.

A half-eaten steer lay in the water. Close beside the steer was a man's body so badly mangled Ulysses couldn't be sure whether or not it was the stocky man he'd seen the previous day. Farther from the stream, the torn remains of a horse mingled unpleasantly with riding gear and a rifle. A pistol lay between the man and the horse.

Ulysses couldn't bring himself to touch the gore- besmeared rifle but he reached for the pistol and, as he did, saw his hand was encrusted with dark blood. He recoiled, fragments of his nightmare flitting like bats across his appalled mind. He'd dreamed of death and killing, dreamed of running on all fours under the moon, dreamed of the taste of blood.

His head throbbed so painfully that, without thought, he raised his blood-stained hand to his temple. To his surprise, his fingers encountered a healing but still aching wound running across the side of his head. He closed his eyes in momentary thankfulness--that must be where the blood on his hand came from. His nightmare had been no more than a terrible dream, for all it had left him weak and shaken.

But he was no closer to understanding what he was doing here. What had brought him to this spot? What horror had happened here? Striding to the creek, he rinsed his hands in the cold water and splashed cold water over his face, shivering in the cool breeze. Where in hell were his clothes?

Putting aside the problem of what had happened during the night, he backtracked to where he'd awakened and then walked farther downstream, searching for his clothes. When he finally found them twenty paces away from the bank, he was more confused than ever.
Dressing hastily, he went over what he remembered of the night before. He'd planned to camp in the little valley in case the Americanos returned, so he'd ridden from the hacienda on Palo. He vaguely recalled feeling sick and being thrown by the normally obedient bay. Tracks showed a horse had been near the clothes but had galloped back toward the corral. Obviously something had spooked Palo.

Possibly whatever had killed the two animals and the man. A grizzly? He'd never seen one but Juan had told him about the Californio bull and bear fights, a bull and a grizzly either chained together or put into a pit and aggravated until they turned on one another. He moved his shoulders uneasily. Why had he been spared? He touched the scab on his head. A wound from a grizzly's claws?

His troubled mind and aching head distracted him so that he almost missed the approach of two riders from the direction of the hacienda. He whirled to look, cursing himself because he hadn't picked up the pistol. Chances are the riders would be Juan and Don Rafael but even so he'd feel safer with a gun. He relaxed slightly when he saw one of the men had a riderless horse on lead. They must be from the hacienda, searching for him and bringing Palo.

As they neared he realized he was right about Juan but not the other--Don Alfonso himself accompanied the vaquero. If he had his choice, he preferred the don to Rafael. He walked to meet them.

When they came up to him, he took Palo's reins from Juan and swung into the saddle, saying, "I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Don Alfonso."

The don looked him over. "Knowing your way with horses, I was concerned when I discovered Palo had returned without you."

Ulysses explained why he'd ridden off at night and the don nodded. "Apparently you met my daughter on your way. When we learned you were missing, she confessed that you scolded her for being outside the gates and she told me what you'd said to her about expecting Americanos to raid our cattle." His eyes narrowed. "What caused that gash on your head?"

"I'm not certain." Ulysses gestured upriver. "Something killed one of our steers last night--also a man and a horse."

Don Alfonso's eyebrows rose. "Something?"

Ulysses prodded Palo into a walk. "I'll show you."

Juan turned away gray-faced after one look at flies buzzing over the carnage, glutting themselves, but the don dismounted and knelt to examine the steer at closer range. His horse stomped nervously.

"I thought maybe a grizzly mauled them," Ulysses offered as he slid off Palo, willing himself not to be sick. He noticed a condor circling above them, waiting to feed on the carrion.

"An animal of some sort, certainly," Don Alfonso agreed, turning away from the mauled steer. "A wild and vicious beast." He strode to the man's body, crouched to study it, then went on to the horse.

"Whatever it was prefers beef and horse meat to human," the don said as he returned to his horse, retrieving the pistol on the way. "It killed the man but didn't eat any part of him."

"I'm not positive, but he could be one of the Americanos I saw yesterday," Ulysses said, trying to ignore the uneasy roiling of his stomach.

The don turned the gun in his hand. "This is an Americano Colt revolving pistol." He glanced at the body and grimaced. "Much as I detest Americanos I'd wish such a death as this on no man. You were lucky to escape."

Juan, still mounted, his face averted, crossed himself furtively.

The don came up to Ulysses, who stood almost a head taller than he. "Bend down so I can look at that gash." Ulysses obeyed. "You heal unusually fast but that looks to me like a bullet crease. What do you think, Juan?"

Juan glanced down at Ulysses. "I think as you do, Don Alfonso."

The don nodded. "In my opinion the man shot at you, Ulysses, and the bullet creased your head, stunning you.

Then the animal attacked, sparing you because you lay motionless on the ground. I've been told grizzlies often don't harm men who play dead."

"I agree that could be the way it happened," Ulysses said, "but I don't recall being shot at." It didn't explain why he'd been naked but he had no intention of mentioning he'd been without clothes when he woke.

Don Alfonso shrugged. "It's possible you might not remember."

Juan crossed himself again and muttered, "Diablo," catching the don's attention.

"Don't be a fool, Juan," he snapped. "No devil's involved. Clearly an animal did the killing. Look for yourself."

Juan swallowed. "I take your word, as always, Don Alfonso."

"Good. Then we won't need to waste time. I want you to get the rifle that's lying on the ground near the horse and then we'll be on our way."

Ulysses, knowing the rifle was fouled with clotted blood and other death debris, saw the unhappy expression on Juan's face and decided he was better fit to retrieve the gun than the vaquero. But, before he could take a step toward the horse, the don touched his chest, holding him back. Then he understood Juan was being punished, perhaps for not dismounting earlier, and he was not to interfere. Very reluctantly Juan did as he was ordered, being noisily sick into the creek afterwards. Ulysses sympathized--he was queasy himself.

On the ride to the hacienda, Don Alfonso ordered Ulysses to rest for the remainder of the day. He didn't argue. Seldom had he felt so exhausted.

Once he pulled off his boots and flung himself onto his cot, he fell asleep instantly. When he came alert, sensing someone had entered the vaquero quarters, he had no idea how much time had passed. He didn't move or open his eyes more than a slit. He knew the intruder wasn't Tia Dolores, the bruja, he'd recognize the crackle of her energy anywhere. The intruder showed no more than ordinary energy as he slowly advanced toward the cot.

Ulysses tensed, preparing to spring up and defend himself. But, before it came to that, the faint scent of violets came to him and he relaxed. The intruder wasn't a man. She drifted to the side of his cot. A moment later he felt her soft palm on his forehead. Swiftly he reached, captured her hand with his, brought it to his lips and opened his eyes.

"Oh!" Esperanza's cheeks burned crimson as she stared down at him. "You slept so long I came to see if you were feverish."

He sat up, her hand still firmly clasped in his. Muted light slanted in through the open door. "One touch of your hand would cure any illness," he told her.

Belatedly she tugged at her hand and he reluctantly let her go. "I can't stay," she said breathlessly. "Paquita asks if you wish food."

He was far from hungry--at the moment he didn't feel like he ever wanted to eat again. "Thanks, no." He took a deep breath and added, "What I do wish is that we could meet again sometime--alone."

Her eyes widened and he thought she meant to refuse indignantly. Instead a faint smile curved her mouth. "Perhaps I wish it, too," she said softly, then turned and walked quickly from the room.

He rose and crossed to stand in the doorway, watching bemused until she disappeared from view. If he'd ever made love to a woman in the past, he couldn't remember but if he had, he was sure he hadn't wanted that woman half as much as he wanted Esperanza.
Staring into the gray light, wondering how soon she'd be able to arrange their meeting and how long he could bear to wait, he realized fog had rolled in from the ocean to hide the sun. To hide tonight's moon.

It was then he recalled the warning from his hidden past that had come to him as he rode out last night. A full moon brings death. A premonition? He grimaced. A bloody accurate one.

He eased through the door and stretched to loosen stiff muscles. What other unpleasant secrets were concealed behind his curtain of forgetfulness? Unease crawled along his spine and he whirled. The bruja was near, he could almost see the blue sparks of her energy. Uneasy as she made him, he refused to retreat, he'd face her.

The gate opened and her black-garbed figure slipped through. Tia Dolores stopped, one hand on the gate and looked at him. "I've known from the first, you spawn of the devil." Her words dripped with venom. "The rest are blind but soon enough all will see that you wear the mark of the beast."

Chapter 3

"Here comes the beggar again," Juan muttered as they finished supper. "The only thanks you get for feeding that damn parrot is to have him shit on you."

Ulysses paid no attention to Juan's grumbling, holding out his arm to offer Esperanza's parrot, Gayo, a perch as it flew through the open window. Gayo landed, sidled up his arm to his shoulder and rubbed his head against Ulysses' cheek. Ulysses offered the brightly colored bird the rest of his tortilla. Holding it in one claw, Gayo crunched the crisp corn pancake in his curved beak.

Juan pushed away from the pine table and eased himself flat on his bunk, hands behind his head, staring morosely at the ceiling. "When I close my eyes," he said, "even yet I can see him."

Ulysses knew he didn't mean the parrot but the bloody remains of the dead man he'd found by the stream two weeks before.

"It takes away a man's appetite," Juan complained.

Ulysses only half-heard him for, as he caressed the parrot, he discovered a tiny tube of paper tied with thread to one of Gayo's tailfeathers. Heart pounding in expectation, he turned his back to Juan, removed the paper and unrolled it. One word was written inside--Encina.

Live oak. Ulysses knew Esperanza must mean the huge, ancient tree growing in the courtyard of the casa near the outer wall. He rolled the paper into a tube again and slipped it into his pocket. Tonight, when he met her there, he'd pass the paper back to her to use the next time. He smiled at his assumption that she'd want to meet him more than once. But he had tonight to look forward to and he could at least hope for more.

"With your narrow escape from el diablo," Juan said, "I can't think how you sleep at night."

Juan had said much the same to him every evening since that bloody night. Ulysses repeated his same answer. "I can't remember what happened."

"Who has to remember? Seeing what he left behind is enough. No animal kills like that--it was a devil-beast."

Ulysses much preferred anticipating what might lie ahead with Esperanza to Juan's devil-beasts. Though he'd accepted the don's explanation for the now completely healed wound on his head--a bullet crease--he couldn't imagine any reason why he'd been naked when he came to his senses. Unless he'd meant to bathe in the stream. If he had planned to, he didn't remember and he didn't think he'd have tried anything so foolish on a moonlit night when he expected to encounter armed trespassers. Was it something from his past that had made him strip off his clothes in the moonlight? An involuntary shudder ran through him before he could thrust the thought away.

"A cat walked over your grave, no?" Juan observed. Realizing Juan had seen him shiver,

Ulysses forced a smile. "Maybe. Cats don't take to me. At least Sombrita doesn't."

Juan scowled. "Everyone knows black cats, they are bad luck. But Tia Dolores--" He paused and crossed himself. "She does what she will," he finished.

Juan suspected she was a bruja, just as he did.

To hell with this talk of witches and devil-beasts and bad luck. Tonight he'd be with pretty Esperanza, whose very name meant hope. Would she let him kiss her?
He was still wondering hours later when he scaled the wall and climbed into the branches of the giant oak. It crossed his mind that Don Alfonso wouldn't take kindly to this secret rendezvous but he flicked the worry aside. Imagining how she'd feel in his arms was preferable to imagining what her father might do if he discovered them together.

The night was clear, the moon, less than a waning quarter, was just rising. The darkness was perfumed by the heavy, sweet scent of tiny white star-shaped flowers blooming among the glossy green leaves of the vines climbing the adobe wall. He must remember to ask Esperanza what they were called. Since he had no past, like a curious child, he was obsessed by a need to know the name of everything.

He glanced up through the oak leaves at the sky, brilliant with stars and suddenly a memory drifted within reach, a remembrance of a time he'd watched the night skies with another, the two of them learning the constellations as though for a tutor, the two of them laughing together, close, sharing. Grief overwhelmed him, burdening his heart, cutting off the memory. Gone, the other was gone. Forever....

A rustle of clothing warned Ulysses someone approached and he came alert, the sadness wafting away like alder down blown by the wind. A vision in white drifted toward the oak and he slid downward until he perched on the lowest branch. Why could he recall tales of beautiful princesses when he couldn't remember his own name? Esperanza, though her hair was dark instead of golden, reminded him of those fairy tales. Perhaps she was Nastas'ya--but, no, though a princess, Nastas'ya was a warrior maiden while Esperanza was a soft and gentle girl.

When she stepped under the branches of the oak, he whispered her name. "Esperanza."

She glanced about her. "Where are you?"

He broke off a twig and let it fall onto the filmy scarf covering her hair.

"Oh!" Startled, she looked up and saw him.

Ulysses straddled the thick branch and reached down for her. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hands in his. He gripped her wrists and lifted her up and onto the thick branch where he sat, easing her down next to him.

"I've never been in a tree," she said breathlessly. "Tia Dolores taught me girls don't climb trees."

"Ah, but you didn't climb one."

"I won't fall, will I?"

He put his arm around her waist. "Not with me here to hold you."

She leaned against him, soft and warm and smelling of violets. "I can't stay long," she whispered. "I shouldn't be with you at all."

"I won't harm you." It was the truth. He'd never do anything she didn't want him to.

"I don't believe what Tia Dolores says about you."

He didn't want to hear what that was. "Is she really your aunt?"

"Papa says she's a distant cousin who came to be with my mother before I was born. She stayed on when my mother died. Tia Dolores has been very good to me." She pulled away to look at him. "But she's wrong about you."

He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "When I came to myself on the beach and saw you bending over me, I thought at first you were Princess Nausicaa rescuing me, poor castaway that I was."

Her lips were temptingly close. "And now?"

"I still believe you're a princess." No longer wondering what might happen between them, no longer thinking at all, he bent his head and touched her lips with his. Though obviously inexperienced, she responded eagerly to his kiss, her arms going around his neck to hold him to her.

His hands followed the curves of her body, finding that tonight she wore no corset, only a thin nightgown and nightrobe, both with ribbons in the front that tempted him to untie them. When her gown fell open revealingly, how could he be expected not to touch her round white breasts?

Her sighs at his caresses excited him as much as the feel of her softness under his fingers. He struggled to keep his head. A tree branch, no matter how solid and wide, was a precarious place for lovemaking.

He ached to possess her but at the same time he feared he'd hurt her. "I want you very much," he whispered hoarsely. "I wish--" He stopped. He couldn't tell her that he wished he knew who he was, couldn't say he was a man without a past.

"What do you wish?" she murmured.

He answered with another question. "What do you think I'm wishing?"

She didn't reply directly. "I don't care if you aren't wealthy," she assured him. "It doesn't matter that you're not a don. Not to me."

"It would to your papa," he said, nuzzling her throat.

"Then you do mean to ask for my hand! Oh, Ulysses!"

She kissed him fervently, clinging to him, almost making him forget his surprise at her words. The feel of her softness against him played havoc with his good intentions.
He forced himself to stop while he still could, lifting her arms from around his neck and holding her away from him. "You'd better go in. We don't want Tia Dolores to wake and come looking for you."

"Saints, no!" She bit her lip. "I can't be sure when we'll be able to meet again."

He slipped the tube of paper into her hand. "Send Gayo with this when you can get away." He started to lift her down from the tree but she stopped him.

"You do wish to marry me?" Her voice was uncertain, plaintive.

"With all my heart." Whether that was the absolute truth or not, Ulysses wasn't sure. He did know there wasn't a chance in hell of the don agreeing. Still, he wanted to reassure her. "The time's not right for me to ask your father. We must wait until I've proven myself to him."

And just how did he mean to accomplish that? Ulysses wondered.

Esperanza didn't ask him. Accepting his words, she allowed him to ease her down to the ground, blew him a kiss and hurried toward the casa.

Ulysses sat on the branch a long time after she'd disappeared. Though he couldn't ask for a more beautiful bride, the mention of marriage had shaken him and the more he considered the problems, the more impossible a marriage between him and Esperanza seemed. He was not only a nobody, he had no past. He didn't even know how old he was.

Was he eighteen? That was surely too young to have left a wife behind somewhere, wasn't it? Though it was possible the someone he'd shared the night sky with at another time and in another land had been a wife. He had no way to be certain. He eyed the waning moon through the oak branches and sighed. Damn, but he wanted Esperanza, wanted her at any and all costs.

On Wednesday of the following week, the don rode out with his vaqueros on his carved leather saddle ornamented with silver. When they split off to go their separate ways, Don Alfonso joined Don Rafael. On Thursday, he rode with Juan. On Friday, Don Alfonso's black stallion trotted alongside Palo as he and Ulysses checked cattle together. "Every week we're missing two or three head," the don said. "I suspected Americanos of stealing them until I saw the beast's work. Now I'm not sure. But it must stop or soon I'll have no cattle left."

"We haven't seen any more animal tracks like those by the kill," Ulysses pointed out.

"And those tracks led only to the creek." The don shrugged. "Like a sly fox, he waded in the stream to throw off pursuit--he's a smart one. But I'm still not convinced all my losses are the work of an animal, no matter how clever and fierce. The Americanos are much more subtle and dangerous than any beast, no es verdad?"

Ulysses nodded. From what he'd seen of them, he agreed Americanos were certainly dangerous.

They tallied cattle all day. When they rode back to the hacienda as the sun disappeared behind the low hills to the west, the don's count showed four head were missing.

"In my father's time," he said, "we possessed so many cattle they swarmed over the hills. It took fifteen vaqueros to round up the calves for branding in the spring and, in the summer and fall, the steers for slaughter. With more cattle than we could count, who cared if a hungry traveler--or a grizzly--occasionally killed a steer? Those were the true golden days, my young friend. Before the Americanos." Ulysses didn't have to ask how many cattle grazed on don Alfonso's land now. Just under two hundred--he'd helped tally them.

"Never did my father ride among the cattle, as I sometimes must," Don Alfonso continued. "Gentlemen had no need to work. And, ah, the fandangos and the meriendas-- dancing and food and drink and sport. The Californios came from miles around to celebrate with us. Now when do we gather together, those of us who are left? For a wedding, perhaps. Or worse--for a funeral." The don shook his head and fell silent.

Ulysses wondered what Don Alfonso would do if he asked for Esperanza's hand here and now. Kill him? Probably not. Ordering him off the property, never to return was nearer the truth.

The hacienda was in sight before the don spoke again. "We will set up a night watch, the four of us taking turns. The man on sentry duty will bring one of the dogs with him. Don
Rafael has volunteered for the first night, you will take the second, then Juan and last myself."

"Yes, sir."

"Next week the moon will be full again--Tia Dolores tells me this is when the beast is likely to appear. We must be on the alert."

A chill ran along Ulysses' spine at the don's words. He might have set aside the bruja's threat to him but he'd by no means forgotten it. If only he had some idea what she'd meant.

"You look as though you've swallowed vinegar," the don observed. "After your narrow escape, I can't blame you if you're afraid of that beast."

"It's not fear of the beast," Ulysses protested, stung. "I merely wondered how the bru--that is, Senora Dolores-- could foretell an animal's movements."

"She has strange talents. I'm inclined to believe her."

"I volunteer to take the night of the full moon," Ulysses said, still smarting at the don's assumption he feared the beast.

"If the full moon arrives on your turn, certainly you shall." The don's tone brooked no argument.

By Ulysses' reckoning, Don Alfonso himself would be standing guard that night. He brooded about it for a week, finding no way to convince the don to change with him. If he followed the don, intent on protecting him, Juan was sure to know and to tell. Californios were touchy--the don would be furious, believing it a slur on his manhood that Ulysses should think he needed protection. He might well order Ulysses to leave the rancho.

Two days before what he'd come to think of as The Beast's, fog settled over the rancho, a damp gray blanket between earth and sky, a shroud that refused to lift. Ulysses' restlessness kept him from sleeping well, even after his all-night sentry duty. On the morning of The Beast's Day, he was already awake when Juan came in from his turn at sentry duty.

"Looks like rain," Juan said, yawning. "Fortune favors me--I'll sleep, you'll get wet. You can bet I didn't ride far last night in that fog. No man in his right mind would be out in it. Nor beast, either. Not even a devil-beast."

Ulysses had thought much the same the previous night. No doubt the don had decided they must take their regular sentry turns in case the fog lifted, as it sometimes did, shortly after midnight.

The rain held off until noon, then a thin drizzle began. By the time Ulysses rode home in the late afternoon, it was more mist than rain. Before he ate, he opened the window, ignoring Juan's grumbling. Esperanza's possible summons was more important than a bit of dampness.

He and Juan were digging into refried beans and enchiladas when Gayo flapped through the window and came to perch on his shoulder. As he fed the parrot, he surreptitiously felt along the tailfeathers as he did every time Gayo visited. He'd been disappointed until now.

This evening his fingers found the tube of paper with Encina printed on it.
Excitement gripped him and he fought his impulse to leap up and shout. Where would he find the patience to pass the hours until they could meet? What patience he mustered was worn as thin as the sole on a beggar's boot when Juan, refreshed by a day's rest, lifted down his old guitar and sang plaintive ballads slightly off-key for what seemed an eternity. He dared not leave until Juan slept.

Esperanza was already waiting by the oak when Ulysses finally scaled the wall. Eager to hold her, he dropped to the ground inside the courtyard, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

"Ah," she sighed after a long, satisfying moment, "how I wish you would kiss me forever."

"I'm willing." He started to prove it but she pulled back, covering his lips with her fingers.

"I asked you to meet me because Tia Dolores says the beast will appear tonight," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm afraid for papa, afraid he'll be killed. Please, you must save him."

It was too late to stop Don Alfonso--he'd ridden off more than an hour ago. But go after him he would. He'd wanted to all along. Now he had the excuse. Esperanza's plea would go far to soften the don's wrath if he discovered Ulysses was on his trail,

"I'll do my best," Ulysses promised and kissed her once more, quickly, before pulling himself up and over the wall. As he coaxed Palo from the corral, he told himself it was easy to say he'd go after her father but how was he to find the don on a night when the mist hid the moon? He couldn't sense the Don's presence at any great distance and the rancho sprawled over more than a hundred acres. How was he to know which direction Don Alfonso and his dog had chosen?

His dog. Ulysses smiled. Retrieving a battered old hat the don kept hanging from a corral post and the curry brush the don used on his stallion, he saddled Palo and led him to where the dogs were tied. As he'd expected, the don had taken his favorite, Chico, with him.
Ulysses untied the rangy brown and white bitch he favored--Grulla, they called her because of her long crane's neck. After she followed him away from the others, he thrust the hat under her nose, coaxing her to sniff it, then offered the horse brush.

"Find Don Alfonso and his horse, Grulla," he ordered. Her wagging tail thumped against him. None of the dogs had been trained to follow scents but he'd spotted her as the brightest and hoped she might get the idea. Shoving the old hat and the brush into a saddle bag, he mounted Palo and rode away, Grulla running beside the horse. When they were well away from the hacienda, he reined in, dismounted, and, when the dog came up to him, let her smell the hat and brush again. "Go find the don," he said and waited.

Grulla didn't budge from his side. He shoved the hat under her nose again and finally Grulla bounded away. He swung himself hurriedly onto Palo and, using his sense of the dog's presence because he quickly lost sight of her in the misty night, he set the horse to following Grulla, hoping she was on the stallion's trail and not tracking a rabbit.

After a time, even though it was too dark to be certain, he had an uneasy feeling she was heading for the stream where the beast had slaughtered the steer and the horse. And the man. If the don had reasoned as Ulysses would, he'd believe the beast would appear in or near the same place. The odds were Grulla was on the don's trail. He touched the stock of the dead man's pistol. A Colt revolving pistol, Don Alfonso had called it when he gave the gun to Ulysses on the first night of his assigned sentry duty. He liked the heft of the gun, it fit into his hand as though made for him alone and he greatly appreciated its ability to shoot six bullets before reloading. Yet the Godawful sight of the gun's dead owner shot into his mind every time he touched it.

Somewhere ahead in the darkness a dog barked furiously. Not Grulla, she was closer. Chico? Ulysses caught the faint sense of more than one man. Two? Three? He tensed, urging Palo into a lope. He couldn't feel the presence of any animal except Palo and Grulla but animals were harder to sense from a distance than humans. Small animals, even close by, were all but impossible. Except for Sombrita--the cat crackled blue like the bruja.

It stood to reason the men rode horses. What were they doing on Don Alfonso's land in the dark of night? Where was the don? At this distance, friend couldn't be distinguished from enemy. Grulla began to bark, adding her warning to Chico's.

A pistol cracked. A dog yelped and fell silent. Another shot. Two more. Then silence. Who was shooting? Damn this darkness! Ulysses restrained his impulse to gallop directly toward the shots. Stealth, not speed, was essential. He knew the men were there but they knew nothing of him. A dog--Grulla, he thought-- continued to bark sporadically.

When he could clearly sense the men--three in all--he slowed Palo and veered slightly to the left, no longer following Grulla. A faint flicker of light beckoned him through the trees and underbrush beside the stream. A lantern? The don's? He dare not go near it to find out. Any trespassers would be armed and, like as not, waiting in the darkness for anyone foolish enough to ride into the lantern glow.

Two of the men were close together, the other some fifteen or twenty paces away from them, none of the three near the light. At that distance the lone man would be invisible to the other two and he'd also be unable to see them. Ulysses thought there might be something amiss with the lone man for his sense of him wavered and flickered like the lantern light.

Weeks before, he'd not been able to sense the dead man, he'd had no warning of him until he saw the mauled body. Thinking about it later, he'd decided what he sensed must be a life force that fled with death. Did a wavering life force mean injury? He feared it did. Was the lone man Don Alfonso and had he been shot? Because of the flickering, Ulysses couldn't identify the man, though he was now certain neither of the other two were the don.

Since none of the three men was mounted, Ulysses slid off Palo's back and tethered him to a sapling. Despite the mist, his night vision was good enough to avoid stumbling head-on into trees and he preferred being afoot.

Grulla quieted abruptly and Ulysses noted she was beside the lone man. Certain now he must be Don Alfonso, Ulysses focused his full attention on the other two. They were moving. Not toward the injured man but toward two horses, their movements slow and cautious. Ulysses circled again, hurrying as fast he could without crashing loudly through the bushes, to reach the horses before they did.

One of the animals snorted as he approached but he laid a hand on its neck and the horse quieted. When he was certain neither was the don's black stallion, he untied them both and led them free of the trees where he slapped one, then the other, hard on the rump. Both horses trotted away from the stream. Ulysses slipped back among the trees, intent on stalking his prey.

He blinked as the word crept into his mind. Not prey. Where had that idea come from? They were strangers, trespassers, enemies but they were not prey, they were men. Yet he couldn't quite dislodge the word, it clung persistently to his thoughts, infusing his mind with a chilling lust to kill. He fought against it, appalled. Kill, yes, but to protect himself, to protect the don.

A man who killed for the sake of killing was no better than an animal. No, he was worse than an animal--animals killed to eat or because they feared an attacker or to protect their young or their mate. Not for the sake of killing--unless they were rogues. Outcasts.
He was no rogue. Or was he? What did he know of his past?

Ulysses shook himself. Never mind a past he couldn't remember. He'd come to rescue the don. Gritting his teeth as though grinding unwelcome thoughts between them, he directed his full attention to the men, determined now not to kill them. No, he'd beat the hell out of them. Don Alfonso could make the final life or death decision.

He took the first one from behind, hooking his arm around the man's neck to strangle his shout. When the man almost immediately went limp in his grasp, he realized he'd exerted too much pressure. Had he killed him? He couldn't take the time to find out.
Dropping him on his face, Ulysses leaped at the other man, who cursed and grappled with him, trying to knee him, to gouge his eyes. Parrying each attempt, Ulysses slammed his fists into the man's face and midsection until he, too, slumped to the ground, unconscious. He disarmed them both.

Somewhere in my past I learned how to fight, he thought absently as he hurried toward the flickering life force he believed was Don Alfonso. To his relief, he sensed him more strongly than before. When Grulla ran to meet him, whimpering in her pleasure to see him, he was all but positive he approached the Don. Still, it didn't do to take chances. He ducked behind a sycamore trunk and called softly, "It's Ulysses, Don Alfonso. I took care of the trespassers."

"Ulysses!" Definitely the don's voice. Ulysses hurried to his side.

"Took a bullet in my thigh," the don said, obviously in pain. "Not too bad, leg's not broken. My horse is somewhere around--he'd never leave me. I should be able to ride."

"I'll fetch the lantern and take a look at your leg first," Ulysses told him. Once he had the lantern in hand, Ulysses detoured to retrieve Palo and, with rope from the saddle bag, bound the two unmoving trespassers before returning to the don. He wasn't sure whether or not he was relieved to find them both alive.

He used Don Alfonso's neck scarf to bandage the oozing hole in his left thigh, recovered the black stallion grazing downstream and hoisted the Don into the saddle. The don swayed, grunting with pain, but stayed on the horse.

"You killed those damned Americanos?" he asked.

"No. Knocked them out."

"Bring the lantern. I want to see the bastards who killed my dog and put a bullet in me."

Grulla reached the men first and stood growling, hackles raised. Ulysses grabbed the rope and turned the first man, still limp, onto his back. He'd never seen him before. The second man was awake and cursed when Ulysses flipped him over. Blackbeard!

"This one I saw on your land a month ago," he told the don.

"Dirty greasers," Blackbeard snarled. "You killed Pete."

"He's not dead," Ulysses said, ignoring the insult.

"Hell he isn't. I been looking for his grave. Found it tonight."

Then Ulysses understood who he meant. It had been Shorty the beast mauled.

"Kill them both," the don said through his teeth. "Now."

Ulysses thought of protesting, knew it would be useless. Wondering if he could possibly shoot a helpless man in cold blood, he reluctantly drew the Colt.

"On second thought, revenge is my right and my duty, not yours." Don Alfonso held out his hand for the gun.

Ulysses tried to conceal his relief as he gave up the Colt but he couldn't prevent his involuntary flinch as the don fired once, twice.

Taking a deep breath, Ulysses gave thanks for the don's accuracy--the men had died instantly. He'd learned another lesson tonight. No matter how he hated a man, he'd never be able to do what the don had just done. Shoot a man who meant to kill him or a friend, yes. In cold blood, no.