This very morning when Pilar woke, she could not imagine spending another day in her beloved village she had risked her neck for, let alone the rest of her life.
But her friends were gone.
And she was here.
Worst, the man she loved was not at her side. She missed Tucker terribly, a constant ache in her heart. Pilar prayed he would return but knew he never would.
Make the best of it, Pilar.
Forget about them.
Until today, when Pedro rode into town shouting about the werewolves he had seen, she almost had.
Pilar heard the galloping hooves and swung her head to see the fast-approaching rider charging out of the desert into the village—it was Pedro. The boy hurtled down off the ridge in a cloud of dust and rode hard through the streets into the center of town, scattering villagers as he reined his horse by the fountain in the town square. Farmers who had been knocked aside shouted at the agitated youth who urgently jumped out of the saddle, too upset to bother tethering his horse. The animal wasted no time abandoning him for a watering troth where it began to drink. Pedro looked very pale and shaken from up where Pilar stood on the hill. Out of earshot from her, the boy was babbling and gesticulating with his hands to the nearby villagers beginning to gather around him. The faces of the people became alarmed as they listened. Some women put their hands to their mouths.
Watching at a distance, Pilar felt a hard little knot of fear tightening itself in her stomach. What could Pedro be saying that alarms them so? Figuring she better find out, the young woman hurried down the hill of the church into the square, joining the growing crowd surrounding the young farm boy. There, she caught snatches of what he was saying. Soon Pilar had heard enough. In slow disbelief, she pushed through the crowd, shoving people aside shouldering her way through them to stand face to face with Pedro. The boy looked up at her with mortal terror in his gaze.
Only one thing on earth brought that particular look of fear to her peoples’ eyes, Pilar knew with dark certainty.
“Apártate, Pedro,” Pilar hushed. “Get ahold of yourself.” Her voice was firm but quiet for she never needed to raise it. Since recruiting the gallant shootists who saved their town and taking up arms beside them, Pilar was the unspoken leader of her people, her authority recognized by all. “Cálmate y dime exactamente lo que viste”: “Calm yourself and tell me exactly what you saw.”
Doffing his hat, the lad’s scruffy face and hair were covered with sweat, his eyes liquid with fear.
“Han regresado,” was all he said. “They are back.”
Gasps and choked whispers rose from the crowd behind Pilar but her gaze remained locked on Pedro as she stood with him amid the circle of villagers. It took a conscious effort to keep the fear out of her voice as she asked: “More werewolves?”
He nodded and the crowd shuddered.
“They are coming here to our village?” she asked very softly.
“No.” Pedro shook his head adamantly. “I don’t think so. It is our pistoleros they are after. The leader of these werewolves is the sister of the jefe of the monstros who took over our town. She is one of the lobos and is very angry our pistoleros killed her brother. De veras, she wants revenge. Por favor, Señora Pilar, if we do not warn Señors Tucker, Fix and Bodie then the she-wolf and her monstruos will catch them soon and kill them very, very badly, I think.”
Pilar listened, steeling herself with resolve.
She knew what she had to do.
Had made preparations in case this day ever came. It had.
Grabbing Pedro by the shoulders, she looked sharply in his face. “Where are the werewolves now?”
“They rode off after The Guns of Santa Sangre the last I saw them.”
“Which way?”
“Norte.”
With a nod, Pilar’s face whipped around as she swung her gaze to her small hut in the center of the village. Turning her back on Pedro, she rose, pushed through the crowd and strode across the square to her house with single-minded purpose, feeling all eyes were on her.
Her home was a small adobe hutch with two windows and a blanket over the doorway, like all the huts in the village. Ducking inside, Pilar drew the blanket shut behind her and stood in the small empty living area. Two bedrooms led off the main room and she checked those first.
“Mama? Bonita?” Pilar called but knew her mother and little sister were in the fields at this early hour of the workday. The peasant woman sighed heavily. Her familia were in no danger but Pilar regretted she had not a minute to spare to find them and say her goodbyes. What if ...? Pushing any thoughts of not seeing her mother and sister again out of her mind, she simply vowed to herself she would return, and that was that.
Alone inside her humble casa, Pilar took a deep breath and walked to the boards on the dirt floor covering the small pit she had dug a month before. There she knelt reverently.
She knew this day would come.
Lifting off the boards one by one with great purpose, Pilar saw her hands were shaking removing the wood covering the hole in the ground she had dug.
Inside the hole were two rifles and three pistols ... a Sharps bolt-action rifle, a Winchester repeater rifle, a Colt Navy revolver, a Colt Single Action Army revolver and a two-shot Derringer pistol.
And fifty-seven silver bullets.
The silver cartridges were of different calibers: .22, .45, 36, .476. The rounds filled the two bandoleers and gun belt stacked beside the guns. The firearms and leather ammo belts were covered with copious amounts of dried blood, for the boraccho who had owned them and brought them to the village had died very badly. A month ago, Pilar had watched from the hill as the drunk old man had ridden into the village to kill the werewolves occupying the church only to be reduced to a pile of meat. The following night The Guns of Santa Sangre had annihilated the werewolves in a furious battle, and the next day Pilar had secretly gathered the old man’s balas de plata y armas de fuego from his mutilated corpse and buried them in the hole she knelt over now.
When The Guns of Santa Sangre rode away after killing the wolfmen she kept the silver bullets, even though she knew she they deserved them as payment, thinking one day she might need them.
Today was that day.
Pilar picked the gun belt with the silver bullets out of the hole and buckled it around her waist.
She slung each of the ammo belts crossways across her shoulders and bosom.
Checking the rifles and pistols were loaded, she holstered two of the handguns and shoved the third in her dress then slung the two rifles over her shoulder.
Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Pilar walked to the mirror and watched her reflection, soberly regarding the strong fearless woman who stared back at her. It was no longer the young girl she used to see in the looking glass.
She was ready.
Crossing
