Rio Largo, page 12
“I have faith that Dar will figure it out. He promised to get to the bottom of it, and he’s a man of his word.”
There were times, Kent mused, when his wife seemed to regard Dar Pierce almost as highly as she did, say, Moses. “I am not without resources of my own. I have already instructed someone to find answers, and I have complete confidence he will.”
“Who?”
“John Jesco.”
Nance did not exactly frown, but her reaction was close to it. “Why him? Why not Clayburn? Walt is our foreman, after all.”
“He’s also indispensable to the running of our ranch. What’s wrong with Jesco? It was Walt who suggested I use him.”
“I don’t care for Jesco much. He’s a killer as much as a cowboy. The stories they tell cast doubt on his reliability.”
“To the contrary, my dear,” Kent said. “Walt says that Jesco is the most valuable hand we have. All our men are loyal to the brand, but Jesco has extra worth precisely because of his reputation.”
“Your logic eludes me.”
“Every outfit needs someone like Jesco. Someone with the bark on, as the cowboys like to put it. Someone who will give those who might do the Circle T harm second thoughts.”
“That’s hardly worth the lives he has taken,” Nance stated flatly.
Kent resented her attitude. She regarded the taking of human life, any human life, as evil. He could never make her understand that there existed the human equivalent of rabid wolves, and those wolves must be dealt with as any rabid animal would be, with the finality of death. “Whoever murdered Berto won’t hesitate to kill again. Would you have me give the job to Timmy? Or Shonsey?”
“Set a killer to catch a killer, is that it?” Nance gazed out the window. “Do as you want. But don’t expect my approval. Were it up to me, we would not have someone like Jesco in our employ.”
“Dar Pierce has Roman,” Kent said, taking pleasure in pricking her conceit.
“Implying that if Dar has a pistolero on his payroll, it’s all right for us to do the same? Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“Right and wrong don’t enter into it. Survival is the issue. The stronger the Circle T is, the fewer coyotes will nip at our flanks.”
“I hear Walt in that remark. Be that as it may, shooting a man dead is heinous, whether done in self-defense or not. Were it up to me, all the guns in the world would be melted down and used to make railroad ties.”
Kent could not contain himself. “That has to be the silliest thing you have ever said. Were it not for guns, we wouldn’t be here. The Navajos and Apaches would have driven all the whites out. Hell, the Comanches would still own Texas.”
“Don’t swear. And don’t patronize me. We have discussed this before, and nothing you say will change my mind.”
That was the devil of it, Kent sourly reflected. Once his wife made up her mind, neither reason nor the Almighty could persuade her to change it. To say she was pigheaded was an understatement. To say it to her face was marital suicide. He prudently changed the subject. “I’ve asked Walt to call in all our hands from the range. I will inform them what has happened, and require that they be on their best behavior around the men from the DP. With the rodeo coming up, we must take every precaution not to inflame hotheads like Julio.”
“That boy has a temper,” Nance agreed. “Thank goodness Dar keeps him in line.”
“There’s more,” Kent said. “I’ve instructed Clayburn to post men at the crossings. Julio might take it into his head to sneak across the river some night and do God knows what.” He paused. “I’ve also given instructions that the men are to go everywhere armed.”
“ Is that really necessary?” Nance asked, in a tone that implied it was not.
“The murderer is still on the loose. I would be remiss if I did not urge the men to be on their guard.”
“I suppose,” Nance said.
“They must be able to protect themselves if need be. There are times, whether you will admit it or not, when guns serve a purpose.”
“Don’t be petty. It ill becomes you.”
Kent Tovey reached for the bottle.
Judging by the Big Dipper, it was well past midnight. John Jesco was in a stand of trees at one of the four river crossings Clayburn wanted watched. Wheeler would relieve him at dawn. His back to a cottonwood, a blanket over his shoulders to keep him warm, Jesco sat with his Winchester in his lap, fighting drowsiness. Again and again, he snapped his head up and shook himself to stay awake, only to have his eyelids grow leaden and his chin dip to his chest.
Jesco had jerked upright for the umpteenth time, when a sound to the east pricked his ears. The faint drum of hooves, of someone riding toward the Rio Largo from the south. From the DP. Instantly, Jesco was on his feet. There was no earthly reason for someone to be abroad at that time of night. He moved to a grassy bank, where he could hear better. Whoever it was reached the south side to the left of Jesco’s position, and the hoofbeats stopped.
Without being aware he was doing it, Jesco held his breath, waiting for the rider to ford. But the night stayed quiet. He peered intently into the darkness, but could not spot anyone. So long as the rider stayed on the other side, there was nothing Jesco could do. Clayburn had been quite specific. Under no circumstances was he to cross over onto the DP.
“Those orders come straight from Mr. Tovey,” Clayburn had stressed. “We’re not to do anything that might incite them.”
Jesco debated whether to cross anyway. He had about decided it was best to do as his boss wanted, when hooves once again thudded. Only this time they were behind him, not in front.
A second rider was coming from the north, from the Circle T. Whoever it was, they were not making for the crossing. They were heading for a spot directly across from where the rider on the south side had stopped.
Jesco threw off his blanket, hastily rolled it up, and tied the roll on his saddle. Quickly forking leather, he reined in the same direction. He held to a walk. They would hear him otherwise.
In his mind’s eye, Jesco imagined the two riders meeting secretly. To what end was impossible to say, but simple common sense told him they had to be up to no good.
To Jesco’s recollection, the Rio Largo ran fairly straight for the next half mile or so. Up ahead a ways, a spur jutted into the river from the south. The water was shallow, but the spot was not used as a regular crossing because the spur was too narrow and too thickly wooded to funnel cattle through. It was perfect, though, for anyone who wanted to meet secretly.
Jesco had his hand on his Colt. Landmarks were difficult to judge, but presently he was near enough. Drawing rein, he dismounted and cautiously advanced along the water’s edge.
Jesco was abreast of the spur, when something moved in the vegetation. Crouching, he braced for the blast of a shot but none came. The source of the movement stepped into view: a riderless horse, its reins dangling, cropping the grass. Whoever had ridden him was in among the trees.
Jesco tried to remember exactly how deep the river was at that point. In the winter and early spring, fed by runoff from the mountains, the depth averaged five feet. The rest of the year, it was barely three.
Sitting, Jesco removed his boots. He left them on the shore and eased into the river. A chill, clammy sensation spread from his feet to his knees as the water level rose. He was halfway across, when the horse raised its head, spotted him, and whinnied.
Jesco drew his revolver. He thought for sure the rider would come running, but no one appeared. He moved faster. Unexpectedly, his left foot came down on a jagged rock lodged in the bottom. Pain seared the sole. Reflexively, he jerked his leg up, and nearly fell. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on.
The horse had turned, and was disappearing into the cottonwoods.
Jesco was careful not to splash. Gradually, the water dropped to his knees, and then his ankles. His socks and the bottoms of his Levi’s were soaked. His first step on dry land resulted in a squish that was much too loud for his liking. But once again, whoever was in the trees failed to hear him.
Gliding from cover to cover, Jesco had not gone far when muted voices fell on his ears. He did not recognize them, nor could he tell what they were saying. One of the men, though, had the distinct accent of someone born south of the border.
Jesco crept toward them. A pair of silhouettes materialized, darker than the night. One wore a sombrero. That much was obvious. The other was a big man with broad shoulders. A few more yards and Jesco would be close enough to demand they throw down their hardware. It would be easier to shoot them, to say nothing of safer, but Jesco wanted them alive.
Then the one in the sombrero cried out, “Look there, amigo! We have been discovered!”
Muzzle flashes stabbed the dark. Jesco answered, but there were so many trees, the brush so thick, he undoubtedly missed.
A second pistol boomed.
Jesco dived flat. Dirt kicked up by slugs sprayed his face. Hs arm straight, he took deliberate aim. He had the man in the sombrero in his sights when both silhouettes abruptly melted into the undergrowth. They had split up, the one in the sombrero going right, the other left.
Jesco hesitated for a split second, then went right. Damn, but the man is fast! he thought, gaining speed. But he forgot he was in his stockinged feet. Down came his foot, and up coursed agony. Whether he had stepped on another rock or something else was irrelevant; it slowed him down. Limping, he snapped off a shot more out of frustration than anything else.
The man in the sombrero did not respond in kind.
The next moment, Jesco lost sight of him. Hooves pounded, and Jesco glimpsed a pale horse, racing south. He snapped the Colt up, but too many trees intervened.
From the vicinity of the river came a loud nicker. Whirling, Jesco ran flat out. He stepped on a downed branch, but he didn’t care. He had lost one, and he would be boiled in tar if he would lose the other. But when he burst into the open, the second rider had reached the north bank. Again Jesco went to shoot, only to have his quarry vanish into the night.
“Damn,” Jesco said. By the time he crossed and put on his boots and reached his horse, the man would be long gone. But he had learned something important. Someone at the Circle T was in cahoots with someone at the DP. Now all he had to do was figure out who.
Chapter 16
In the lonely hours between midnight and dawn, Juanita Pierce buried her face in her pillow and gave vent to more tears. She missed Dar, missed him so much. A great ache tore at her core, threatening to topple her into the pit of despair.
Juanita could not believe he was dead. They were together thirty years. He had become as much a part of her as her arms or legs. His was the first face she saw every morning; his was the warm body she held close every night. For three decades, she had loved him with a deep and abiding passion. He was more than her husband; he was friend, lover, confidant. Their souls were mutual mirrors. “Kindred spirits,” Dar had called it, and she could think of no better way to describe the entwining of their hearts.
Now Dar was gone. Tomorrow, his mortal remains were to be lowered into the ground, and the most vital man she ever met would be gone from her life for good and forever.
Juanita told herself she must be strong. She must not show weakness in front of the children. But it was hard, so unbearably hard, to act as if all was right with the world, when in truth her world had crumbled in emotional ruin and would never be the same.
Lying there, her cheeks slick with tears, Juanita remembered the day Dar came into her life, so tall and handsome and courteous. From the start, she was smitten. Some women from south of the border would never think to take a man from north of the border for a husband. In fact, some in her own family tried to talk her out of it. Scandalous, an aunt informed her, for her to succumb to one of them. Her cousin, until then the dearest of friends, flatly stated she was appalled that Juanita would stoop to living with a gringo.
The color of Dar’s skin never mattered to Juanita. When she gazed at him, she did not see a white man; she saw only a man, the man she loved. His race was not a factor. To all the naysayers she had replied, “I do what I have to.” She could no more deny her heart than she could stop breathing.
Dar was a devoted husband. His sole purpose in life, he once told her, was to make her happy, and to that end, he laid claim to the fertile grassland to the south of the Rio Largo and built the DP into a prosperous ranch.
“My sweet beloved,” Juanita breathed into her pillow. She yearned to have him beside her, to take him in her arms and smother him with kisses. If only it were all a bad dream. If only Dar and Berto were still alive.
Sniffling, Juanita rolled onto her side. She would unravel the mystery of their deaths if it was the last thing she did. She did not believe for a minute that the Circle T was responsible. The Toveys were too decent, too honorable. To what end? was the question she always brought up when they were accused. The notion that the Toveys wanted to take over the entire valley was laughable.
But if not them, then who? Juanita had asked herself that a thousand times. Clearly, someone was out to inflame not only her family, but the vaqueros, as well. Seeds of hatred had been planted, and unless something was done, those seeds would result in more violence and more bloodshed.
Juanita suspected an outside influence. Someone was trying to set the two ranches against one another. It was the only possible explanation for the knife found near Berto’s body. She saw through the deception, even if some of her own children did not.
Her children. Juanita feared for their safety. Her sons in particular. Logically, they were next on the killer’s list. She had asked them to be careful and not go anywhere alone, and although they assured her they would not take unnecessary risks, they had their pride, and would not be coddled.
A sudden gust of wind on Juanita’s damp cheek brought her up onto her elbows. The door to the small patio outside her bedroom was open. Many a night, she and Dar had sat out there, she with her head on his chest, sharing their dreams and their love.
Juanita was fairly sure she had closed the door before retiring. Then again, caught up in her grief, she might well have forgotten, and only imagined she had. She slid off the bed, gathered her nightgown about her, and crossed the room to remedy her oversight. One of the heavy curtains rustled.
Juanita wondered if a storm was brewing. She opened the door wider, and peered skyward. Not a cloud to be seen. She started to draw back, and pull the door closed after her.
Belatedly, Juanita saw an arm reach from behind the curtain. She twisted away, but she was too slow. A calloused hand clamped onto her mouth, and she was dragged roughly to the floor. Before she could cry out, metal glinted. Pain exploded in her head. The world faded to gray, and then black.
It was like falling into a bottomless well.
Motion roused her.
Juanita was aware of a swaying movement. She was on her belly, over a horse. Her head hurt abominably, so much so, she could barely think. She was still in her nightclothes, and she was cold. Her wrists pained her. When she tried to move her arms, she discovered they were bound. So were her ankles.
“Do not struggle, por favor.”
The voice pricked her. Juanita knew that voice, but she had to think before she had a face to go with it. “Hijino,” she said.
“Si, Senora Pierce,” came the reply. “Your humble servant.”
“A humble pig,” Juanita rejoined. She turned her head. He was on his white horse, leading the animal that bore her.
Hijino laughed gaily. “Your tongue is as sharp as my knife. But I never take offense at a lady’s insults as I would a man’s. Women deserve special consideration.”
“Is that what you call this? Special consideration? What do you think you are doing? Kidnaping me?”
Again Hijino laughed. “You will figure it out soon enough. When you do, do not blame me. Blame yourself.”
“You talk in riddles. Was it you who killed my Dar?”
“No. Berto, yes. But not your husband.”
Juanita believed him. She tested her wrists and ankles again. The rope was so tight it dug into her flesh.
“I told you not to struggle,” Hijino reminded her. “No one has ever slipped a knot of mine.”
“You said I was to blame?”
“Si, senora. When you told your son to ask around in San Pedro about strangers, I knew you suspected the truth. You had to be dealt with, I am afraid.”
Fear stirred within her, but Juanita smothered it by force of will. “You would not dare. Murdering men is one thing. Murdering a woman is another.”
“Not to the murderer. Killing a woman is no different than killing a man. But you have a point. Others see it differently. To them, killing a woman is the worst offense of all.”
“Second worst. The worst is killing a child.”
“I have done that, too, senora. But I always make it quick. They do not suffer. Nor will you suffer. Much.”
Juanita’s mouth went dry.
“Out of respect for your daughter, I will grant you that boon.”
“My daughter? Dolores?”
“Oh, please. She would not permit a vaquero to touch her. No, it is sweet, young Trella. Last night she gave herself to me. Completely. Of her own free will.” Hijino smacked his lips. “She is a delight. So innocent, yet so wild. Does she take after you in that regard?”
Juanita cursed him. She used words she had heard, but never used. When she paused for breath, he fed her anger by laughing.
“You sound like my mother. She had a mouth. She could swear better than anyone in our village. Outdrink anyone, too.”
Clutching at a straw, Juanita asked, “What would she say if she knew what you plan to do with me?”
“She can not say anything. I killed her long ago.”
Juanita had heard of men like him. They plagued the frontier. South of the border they were called bandidos. North of the border they were called outlaws. Whatever they were called, they had certain traits in common: no respect whatsoever for human life, or for another’s property. They lived as they pleased, accountable to no one. Most lived short, violent lives that ended at the end of the rope, or by a bullet through a vital organ. The wild ones. The reckless ones. The ones Dar has shielded her from. She missed him now more than ever.
