Rio Largo, page 19
“You are jumping to conclusions.” Steve stepped into the stirrups. “Now out of our way.”
Armando strode to his horse and mounted, the saddle creaking under him. He smiled down at Dolores and Trella. “Have confidence in us. We are not idiots. We will not let anything happen.” He palmed his revolver and handed it to Paco.
Steve gave his Colt to Roman. “Remember, no one is to shoot unless I do this.” He made a chopping motion with his arm.
“Sí, patrón.”
Trella stamped a small foot. “Don’t go! You never listen to me because I am the youngest, but this time you should.”
“You are adorable when you are angry, sister,” Steve said, and gigged his mount toward the cowboys.
Armando flicked his reins and caught up with Steve.
Tingling with expectation, Hijino followed. He loved a good challenge more than anything, and this promised to bury him unless he did it just right.
“I did not say anything back there,” Armando remarked to Steve, “but I hope you are right. I do not share your respect for Tovey.”
“We will make this quick,” Steve said uneasily, as if he were having second thoughts. “It’s getting dark.”
Three riders came to meet them. One was Kent Tovey. The second was Clayburn, the Circle T’s foreman. Both were unarmed. The third rider, Hijino was delighted to see, was Jack Demp. He suppressed a laugh. The stupid gringos were playing right into his hands.
Midway between the two forces, they reined up. Hijino contrived to knee Blanco slightly past Steve and Armando, and near Demp. He rested his right hand on his silver saddle horn, and smiled.
Clayburn started right in. “It took you long enough. What kept you? This was your idea, remember?”
“Now, now, Walt,” Kent Tovey said. “The important thing is that they want to talk. Maybe we can settle this without more bloodshed.” He paused. “But first I need to know something. I saw your vaqueros moving bodies. Was one of them Timmy Loring?”
“Who?” Armando said.
“It was Julio and some of our vaqureos,” Steve said. “Now I want to know something, Kent. I want to know how you could turn on us after so many years of being our friend?”
“I’m still your friend,” Kent Tovey declared. “May God strike me dead if I am lying.”
Armando flushed with anger. “You can sit there and say that? With our father and mother and our brother dead?”
“I had nothing to do with their deaths,” Kent said. “Nor am I entirely convinced you had anything to do with my wife’s.”
Hijino grinned at Jack Demp. Beads of sweat peppered the cowboy’s brow below his hat brim. Demp was nervous, and kept placing his hand on his hip and lowering it again. A man should not be so high-strung , Hijino thought. Tricking Demp would be child’s play.
“We liked your wife, señor,” Armando assured Tovey.
“Nancy was our mother’s best friend,” Steve added. “We would never harm her.”
Clayburn glared from one brother to the other. “Well, someone sure as hell did, and if it wasn’t you or your vaqueros, then who?”
“I can not answer that,” Steve admitted. “But if we agree to end hostilities, we can sit down together and try to piece things out.”
The moment for Hijino to act had come. Suddenly straightening, he raised his hand toward his hip, and exclaimed loud enough for those at the river to hear, “Do not touch that pistola, gringo!”
Jack Demp, startled, blurted, “What?”
“I will warn you only once!” Hijino cried.
Blinking in confusion, Demp unwittingly did exactly as Hijino was hoping he would do; he reached for his Colt.
“No!” Hijino shouted. He drew and fired, just as Demp’s fingers closed on the revolver. Hijino shot him in the head. The cowboy never stood a chance. “Watch out! It is a trick!” he yelled at Steve and Armando. Then he sent a slug into Kent Tovey’s chest.
“No!” Steve Pierce bawled.
Hijino swiveled to shoot Clayburn, but Kent Tovey’s horse shied and came between them. Before he could apply his spurs, the cowboys and the vaqueros began firing, each side seeking to protect their own. Rifles blasted in a ragged volley. A slug creased a furrow in Hijino’s shoulder. Swinging onto Blanco’s side, he reined around and raced for the river. He looked back and saw Steve Pierce and Armando trying to flee. Both were hit, repeatedly. Armando fell. Steve succeeded in turning his mount, only to have a slug rip through his throat.
Hanging from his saddle, his shoulder throbbing from his wound, slugs whizzing all around, Hijino chortled with glee.
Everything had worked out exactly as he wanted.
Chapter 25
As soon as Jesco was sure the doors and the windows were secure and no one else was in the house, he blew out the lamps.
“I’d rather have the light,” Timmy said.
“Would you rather be shot?” Jesco countered. They were in the hall. Bending, Jesco grabbed hold of Dunn by the leg, and dragged him into the parlor. “Mrs. Tovey always kept a butcher knife in the top drawer under the kitchen counter. Run and fetch it for me.”
“You’re not fixin’ to cut him up, are you?”
“He deserves to be, but no,” Jesco said. “In the hall closet you’ll find some blankets. Cut one into strips, so we can tie this hombre to a chair.” The young cowboy jangled off, and Jesco glided to the parlor window. Glass crunched under his boots. It had been shot out, and wind rustled the curtains.
Removing his hat, Jesco risked a peek. Something was going on over at the stable. The double doors were open, and several outlaws were moving about. The rest were well hidden. He did not see them anywhere.
Backing away, Jesco replaced his hat. He turned just as a broad shoulder slammed into his gut. A human battering ram lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the wall.
In the dark, Dunn’s features were demonic. He unleashed a punch, snarling, “Now I’ve got you, you son of a bitch!”
Jesco jerked his head aside, and Dunn’s knuckles cracked against the wall instead of his jaw. Dunn howled, and recoiled, enabling Jesco to plant a boot in the other man’s gut. He kicked with such force, Dunn catapulted backward as if he had been fired from a cannon. He crashed into a chair, and both went down. Dunn scrambled to his knees, only to meet a right cross that caught him on the chin.
Jesco could have shot him. Lord knew, Jesco wanted to. But he owed it to Kent Tovey to try and keep Dunn alive. Dunn must answer for Nancy. Jesco swung again, but the killer threw himself back. Jesco immediately closed in, and had his legs swept out from under him.
Jesco came down hard on his back. A hand clawed for his throat, another at his Colt. Jesco swung and connected, but only a glancing blow. He lunged onto his knees.
Dunn sprang, and they grappled. Desperation lent Dunn extra ferocity. His fingers closed like a vise on Jesco’s throat. His knee drove at Jesco’s midsection. Jesco twisted aside to avoid the knee and sought to pry the hand off his neck, but Dunn’s fingers were like railroad spikes, digging deep, choking off his windpipe.
Jesco pushed, but could not throw Dunn off. He rolled to the right, then to the left. Dunn growled, and bunched his shoulders to apply more pressure. He was denied the chance. A revolver thudded against his head, once, twice, three times, and Dunn collapsed on top of Jesco.
“Did I do good?” Timmy Loring asked. He held his Colt aloft, ready to strike again if need be.
“Took you long enough,” Jesco joshed. Pushing the limp weight off, he slowly rose. “That is one tough hombre.”
Together they lifted Dunn into a chair. Jesco let Timmy wrap the strips binding Dunn’s arms and legs, but he tied the knots himself.
“What do we do now?”
“Nothin’ at all,” Jesco answered. “We sit tight, and wait for Saber to make the next move.”
Timmy anxiously glanced at the window. “Shouldn’t we try to pick a few of them off?”
“In the dark?” Jesco shook his head. “All we have to do is stay alive until Mr. Tovey gets back.”
“Is that all?” Timmy asked dryly.
“Think, Tim, think. They won’t go after the rest of the outfit if we keep them busy here. With Dunn our prisoner, we hold the high card.” Jesco touched a sore spot on his neck. He was painting a rosier picture than the situation called for. The part he left unspoken was that Saber’s pack of curly wolves were not about to wait out there twiddling their thumbs.
“Want me to make some coffee?” Timmy asked.
“Sure, and while you’re at it, bake a pie and go out on the porch and dance a jig.”
“That’s a no, I take it?”
A noise outside drew Jesco to the window. Something was moving toward the house from the stable. At first he thought it might be men on horseback, but then the shape acquired detail and substance. It was the buckboard, the tongue up, the bed piled high with hay. Saber and his men were pushing.
“They’re not thinkin’ what I think they’re thinkin’,” Timmy said at his eblow. “How can we stop them?”
“We can’t,” Jesco said. “But we can up the ante. Follow me.” In the next room was a gun cabinet. Lined up on a rack were two shotguns and four rifles. Jesco handed a double-barreled shotgun to Timmy, and claimed one for himself. Boxes of ammunition were stacked at the bottom. “Ever fired one of these?”
“Can’t say as I have, no.” Timmy was fiddling with the release to break the shotgun open.
Jesco held up a shell. “These are buckshot. Both barrels at close range can pretty near blow a man in half.”
“I heard someone say once that a shotgun is the next best thing to a cannon,” Timmy mentioned.
“They have a kick,” Jesco warned. “Keep the stock tucked to your shoulder and a firm grip on the fore end or the recoil will knock you on your backside.” He crammed shells into his pockets and gave the rest to Timmy. “Hurry. We don’t want them to start the frolic without us.”
They reached the window in time. The buckboard had stopped twenty yards out.
“Where are they?” Timmy whispered.
“Behind it.”
In confirmation, a torch flared to life, then a second, and a third. Each was tossed onto the hay. The buckboard promptly began moving again, gaining speed, as flames rapidly climbed the mound in the bed.
“Stay put,” Jesco commanded. He ran to the front door, wrenched it open, and darted out. Thumbing back the shotgun’s twin hammers, he skipped to one side. Out in the dark to the left, a rifle blasted, and a slug bit into the wall. Jesco crouched next to a post. He ignored the shooter and concentrated on three pairs of legs visible under the end of the buckboard.
The front of the house was lit up as bright as day. Another rifle boomed, from the other side, and the post shook with the impact. The crackle of flames and the rattle of the buckboard nearly drowned out a third shot that struck the porch at Jesco’s feet.
By now, the buckboard was less than twenty feet away. Jesco leveled the shotgun at two of the legs, and let loose with one of the barrels. At that range, the shotgun could shred flesh like a grater shredding cheese. A man shrieked and fell, flopping about like a fish out of water.
The buckboard lost momentum. Someone beyond the ring of flickering light roared, “Keep pushin’, damn your hides, or I’ll shoot you myself!”
The other two men behind the buckboard put their shoulders to the tailgate. Jesco could see the crowns of their hats. Rising, he aimed below the top of the nearest hat, and fired.
Wood and hay burst outward and upward. A hole the size of a cantaloupe appeared about where the man’s head must have been. The outlaw was flung to the earth, and did not move. That left one man to push, and he lost his nerve. Breaking away, he sprinted to the man Jesco had shot in the legs, and, bending, sought to drag him out of the light.
Jesco switched the shotgun to his left hand, and swooped his right hand to his Colt. He had no compunction about shooting them in the back. But their friends awakened to their peril. Rifles and revolvers banged, forcing Jesco to fling himself flat. When the firing stopped and he looked up, the pair had melted into the night.
The burning hay had ignited the buckboard, but the buckboard was not close enough to do the same to the house.
“You’ll have to try somethin’ else!” Jesco shouted, hoping Saber would answer and give his position away, but the wily killer was too smart to fall for the ploy.
Jesco crawled to the door. Once inside, he rose and kicked it shut. He found Timmy over by the parlor window.
“I reckon you taught them!”
Jesco set him straight. “I was lucky. If they’d had men at both ends of the porch, they’d have caught me in a crossfire.” He began reloading the shotgun. It had repelled them once, it might do so again.
“Will they give it up?”
“Not likely,” Jesco said. “We know too much.” Saber must kill them, no matter what it takes. “Go take a peep out back. I wouldn’t put it past them to try somethin’, thinkin’ we’ll be watchin’ the wagon burn.”
The man Jesco had shot in the head lay where he had fallen. Dead, Jesco figured, which whittled the odds a little. He heard a groan behind him, and said without turning, “Have a nice nap?”
“Bastard,” Dunn spat. “How long have I been out?”
“Long enough for your friends to try to burn us out, and for one of them to learn the hard way that buckshot means buryin’.”
“Crow while you can. We have a powerful hankerin’ to be rich, and you’re all that’s standin’ in our way.”
“I wouldn’t count the rest of the Circle T hands and the DP out just yet,” Jesco said. “Kent Tovey is no tree stump. He’ll figure it out, and when he does, there will be hell to pay.”
“He won’t figure it out in time. In a day or two, this whole valley will be ripe for the pluckin’.”
Jesco looked at him. “If you put half as much effort into makin’ money honestly as you do makin’ it dishonestly, you’d have more than enough to get by.”
“I don’t see you with your own spread and money galore in the bank,” Dunn retorted. “The problem with livin’ honestly is that it leads to the poorhouse.”
“Why, you’re a philosopher.”
“Go to hell.”
“But there are worse things than bein’ poor,” Jesco said. “Like losin’ your honor and self-respect.”
“God. You should be a parson. Where’s the honor in nursemaidin’ cows? Where’s the self-respect in forty a month and found?”
“If you don’t know by now, you never will.”
Timmy cat-footed into the parlor, saying, “No sign of anyone out back. I bet we could sneak off without them noticin’.”
“You would lose the bet,” Jesco said. “There’s bound to be at least one waitin’ for us to try. Step foot out the back door, and you’re worm food.”
Dunn’s teeth showed bright in the dark. “Don’t listen to him, boy. You go ahead and do as you please.”
From somewhere between the house and the stable came a harsh bellow, “Are you awake in there?”
“We’re playin’ checkers!” Jesco replied.
Saber was not amused. “You’ve killed a pard of mine and about near crippled another. This is your last chance to come out with your hands over your heads. You have one minute.”
“It must be the bull,” Jesco shouted back.
Silence lasted for all of ten seconds, then Saber yelled, “What bull, you damned nuisance?”
“The one that kicked you in the head when you were little and addled your brains. Why else would you think we’d give up?”
Timmy chortled and slapped his leg. “That’s tellin’ him!”
Through the shattered window came the ratchet of rifle levers being worked. Whirling, Jesco threw himself at Timmy and tackled him, bearing him down as the night exploded in gunfire. It sounded like five or six firing at once. Slugs ripped through the wall, through the front door, through what was left of the glass pane. Slivers flew every which way. A lamp disintegrated with a loud crash. A pillow on the settee spewed feathers. A portrait of Nancy Tovey’s mother fell off the wall.
Forty or fifty rounds were expended before the firing ceased.
Jesco raised his head and nudged Timmy, who had his arms over his. “Are you all right?”
“No.” Grimacing, Timmy groped low down on his left leg. “I’ve been hit. I can feel blood.”
“Let me have a look-see.”
Enough light spilled inside from the still burning buckboard to reveal a half-inch-deep furrow above the young cowboy’s ankle. The lead had missed the bone, and even as Jesco examined the wound, the bleeding slowed to a few drops.
“You’ll live.”
Timmy pointed. “It doesn’t look like he will.”
Dunn was slumped in the chair. His chest rose and fell erratically, as if he were having difficulty breathing. A pair of spreading stains on his shirt explained why.
“Well, this is fittin’.” Jesco poked the killer in the shoulder, and Dunn slowly lifted his head.
“I hate you.”
“You’re the one chose the life of a lobo,” Jesco said. “Us honest folks don’t generally get shot to pieces by our friends.”
“I can’t tell you how much I hate you.” Dunn let out a long breath. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I was goin’ to have more money than I knew what to do with.” He coughed, and swore, and coughed some more, ending with a gasp that abruptly choked off.
Jesco felt for a pulse. “And then there were six.”
“What do we do with him? Just leave him there?”
Scratching his chin, Jesco glanced at the window. “I hate to see a good body go to waste.”
Chapter 26
Hijino always had luck. He was lucky at cards, lucky with the ladies, and particularly lucky when he was in situations where it was shoot quick or die. He counted it luck bordering on a miracle that he reached the strip of woods along the Rio Largo alive. A hailstorm of slugs sought his life, yet he and Blanco made it.
