Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

Despite himself, Carson felt a hot fury mounting inside. De Vaca had an unerring instinct for searching out his sensitive spots and homing in on them mercilessly. Somehow, he’d allowed himself to believe that the terrifying ordeal they had shared would change her. Now he wasn’t sure if he was more angry with de Vaca for remaining her sarcastic self, or at himself for his foolish self-delusion.

“ Tú eres una desagradecida hija de puta ,” he said, the anger giving his words a startling clarity.

A curious expression came over de Vaca’s face as the whites of her eyes grew large and distinct. Her casual pose in the sand grew rigid.

“So the cabrón knows more of the mother tongue than he’s let on,” she said in a low voice. “I’m an ingrate, am I? Typical.”

“You call me typical?” Carson retorted. “I saved your ass yesterday. Yet here you are again today, slinging the same shit.”

“ You saved my ass?” de Vaca snapped. “You’re a fool, cabrón . It was your Ute ancestor who saved us. And your great-uncle, who passed down his stories to you. Those fine people that you treat like blots on your pedigree. You’ve got a great heritage, something to be proud of. And what do you do? You hide it. Ignore it. Sweep it under the rug. As if you’re a better person without it.” Her voice was rising now, echoing crazily inside the cave. “And you know what, Carson? Without it, you’re nothing. You’re not a cowboy. You’re not a Harvard WASP. You’re just an empty redneck shell that can’t even reconcile its own past.”

As he listened, Carson’s fury turned cold. “Still playing the would-be analyst?” he said. “When I’m ready to confront my inner child, I’ll go to somebody with a diploma—not a snake-oil peddler who’s more comfortable in a poncho than a lab coat. Todavía tienes la mierda del barrio en tus zapatos .”

De Vaca drew in her breath with a sharp hiss, and her nostrils flared. Suddenly she drew back her hand and slapped him across the face with all her strength. Carson’s cheek burned and his ear began to buzz. He shook his head in surprise, noticed she had drawn back to hit him again, and caught her hand as it swung toward him a second time. Balling her other hand into a fist, de Vaca lashed out at him, but he ducked, tightening his grip on her imprisoned hand and thrusting it from him. Overextended, de Vaca fell backward into the pool and Carson, caught off guard, fell across her.

The slap and the sudden fall had driven the fury out of Carson. Now, as he lay across de Vaca—as he felt her hard lithe body struggle beneath his—an entirely different kind of hunger seized him. Before he could stop himself he leaned forward and kissed her, deliberately, on the lips.

“ Pendejo ,” de Vaca gasped, fighting for breath. “ Nobody kisses me.” With a violent wrench, she freed her arms, balling her dripping hands into fists. Carson watched her warily.

They stared at each other for a moment, motionless. Water dripped from de Vaca’s fists onto the dark, warm surface of the pool. The echoes died away until the only sounds that remained were those made by the droplets of water, falling between their labored breaths. Suddenly, she grabbed Carson by the hair with both hands and crushed her mouth to his.

In a moment her hands were everywhere, sliding up beneath his shirt, caressing his chest, teasing his nipples, tugging at his belt and worrying down his fly and easing him out and stroking him with long urgent movements. She sat up and raised her arms as he shrugged off her top, tossed it aside, and then pulled hungrily at her jeans, already soaked black with the warm spring water. An arm went around his neck as her lips brushed his bruised ear and her pink cat’s tongue darted in and she whispered words that brought a burning to the back of his scalp. He tore her panties away as she fell into the water, gasping or crying, he wasn’t sure which, her breasts and the small curve of her belly rising slick from the surface of the spring. Then he was in her and her legs were locked over the small of his back as they found their rhythm and the water rose and fell around them, crashing against the sand like the surf of the world’s dawn.

Later, de Vaca looked over at Carson, lying naked on the wet sand.

“I don’t know whether to stab you or fuck you,” she said, grinning.

Carson glanced up. Then he rolled toward her, ‘raising an arm to gently smooth a tangle of black hair that had fallen across her face.

“Let’s have another go at the latter,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”

The dawn turned to noon, and they slept.

Carson was flying, soaring above the desert, the twisted ribbons of lava mere specks beneath him. He struggled higher, lifting himself toward the hot sun. Ahead, a huge narrow spire of rock thrust itself up from the desert, ending in a sharp point miles above the sands. He tried to crest the point, but it seemed to grow as he climbed, taller and taller, reaching for the sun. ...

He awoke with a start, heart racing. Sitting up in the cool darkness, he looked out at the mouth of the cave, then back toward its dim interior, as the realization that had escaped him earlier burned its way into him like a firebrand.

He stood, put on his clothes, and stepped outside. It was almost two o’clock, the hottest time of the day. The horses had recovered well, but would need to be watered once more. They’d have to leave within the hour if they wanted to make Lava Gate by sunset. That would get them to Lava Camp by midnight, or perhaps a little later. They would still have thirty-six hours to get their information into the hands of the FDA before the scheduled release of PurBlood.

But they couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Turning to the horses, he tore two strips of leather from the saddle rigging. Then he gathered up an armful of mesquite sticks and dead creosotebush, which he arranged into two tight bundles. Lashing the bundles together with the leather strips, he turned and walked back toward the cave.

De Vaca was up and dressed. “Afternoon, cowboy,” she said as he entered the cave.

He grinned and approached her.

“Not again,” she said, poking him playfully in the stomach.

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “ Al despertar la hora el águila del sol se levanta en una aguja del fuego .”

“At dawn the eagle of the sun rises on a needle of fire,” she translated, a puzzled expression on her face. “That was the legend on Nye’s treasure map. I didn’t get it then, and I don’t get it today.”

She looked at him a moment, frowning perplexedly. Then her eyes widened. “We saw an eagle this morning,” she said. “Silhouetted against the rear of the cave by the dawn sun.”

Carson nodded.

“That means we’ve found the place—”

“—The place Nye has been searching for all these years,” Carson interrupted. “The location of Mondragón’s gold.”

“Only he was off by almost a hundred miles.” De Vaca glanced back into the darkness. Then she turned toward Carson. “What are we waiting for?”

Carson lighted the end of one of the bundles, and together they moved back into the recesses of the cave.

From the large pool where it emerged out of the earth, the spring flowed back into the cave in a narrow rivulet, sloping downward at a slight angle. Carson and de Vaca followed its course, peering into the ruddy gloom created by the torch. As they approached the rear wall of the cave, Carson realized it was not a wall after all, but a sudden drop in the level of the ceiling. The floor of the cave dropped as well, leaving a narrow tunnel through which they had to stoop. In the darkness ahead, Carson could hear the sound of splashing water.