Rio Largo, page 9
Much to Dar’s amazement, Juanita came to love him as much as he loved her. Her family had insisted they must wait a year before becoming man and wife, but neither of them minded. They knew, as surely as they lived and breathed, that they were meant for each other. One year or ten, they could be patient.
So it was that Dar found himself with the woman of his dreams, and no means to support her. He was working as a clerk at the time, and clerks barely made enough to feed a rabbit, let alone a family. So he had cast about for something else to do. Cattle interested him. Buyers in the States were eager for beef. Since Dar had been raised on a farm, he figured ranching would not be that much different, and took the plunge. He was wrong. Ranching imposed demands farmers never faced. It was hard, wearying work, that required him to be in the saddle from sunup to sundown, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. But it paid off handsomely.
Dar carved the DP out of the New Mexico wilderness. His rancho was one of the first established there by a white man. It prospered beyond his highest hopes. His family never wanted for anything. He saw to that. But he did not spoil them. He raised his sons to follow in his footsteps, working them as tirelessly as he had worked.
Life was good.
Then along came the Toveys. Kent Tovey established the Circle T north of the Rio Largo. Dar didn’t mind. The land south of the river was extensive enough for him. He had all the cattle he needed.
Dar befriended Kent. Dar taught Kent the crucial aspects separating ranches that thrived from ranches that failed. He did all he could to help, and in the process, he and his wife became friends with Kent and Nance.
It was Dar who came up with the idea of the rodeo. For a week each year, the two ranches mixed and mingled. The vaqueros and cowboys took part in friendly competitions. Dances were held, and feasts for all. Ties that bind, Dar called them, and was pleased by the result of his cleverness.
Now this.
Berto had warned Dar that something was amiss. Someone—Berto had a suspicion who but he would not say without more proof—was spreading unrest among the vaqueros, and even among Dar’s own family.
Steady, dependable Berto. He had been more than a foreman. Berto had been Dar’s dear and close friend. His murder was a shock. The violence of the outside world had crept into Dar’s private sanctuary. Were it up to Dar, he might have buried Berto and left it at that. But his vaqueros, and his sons, demanded justice. They insisted he ride to the Circle T and hold the guilty to account.
Dar gave in, but he was troubled. The folding knife found by the body was too convenient. The initials on the grip were too freshly carved. He suspected a ruse, until Hijino stepped forward and said he saw a Circle T cowboy on the DP about the time Berto was slain.
A witness changed everything. Dar’s vaqueros were for riding to the Circle T in force and demanding at gunpoint that the killer be handed over to them. Dar refused. The potential for bloodshed was too great. He’d had enough of conflict in the war. So he compromised. He brought his sons and six vaqueros. Enough that they could defend themselves if need be, but not so many that he could not control the flow of events. Or so he believed.
Now Dar was confronted by his worst nightmare. His own son was about to commit the ultimate folly. Julio and Jack Demp were a whisker’s width away from drawing when Dar intervened. “Enough! There will be no shooting! Do you hear me, Julio?”
Kent Tovey sprang to Dar’s aid. “The same goes for you, Demp! We must get to the bottom of this without violence.”
The tableau froze. Tension crackled like invisible lightning. The vaqueros were ready to back up Julio. The cowboys were prepared to defend Demp. All it would take was a tiny spark, and the ground would run red.
That was when Nancy Tovey came calmly off the porch and joined her husband and Dar. She did not say anything. She did not need to. No man there would risk harming a woman. Any woman. As surely as if she had punctured them with a needle, their hatreds deflated, and Julio and Demp reluctantly restrained themselves.
Kent turned to Dar. “Feel free to question Demp as you see fit. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“I have nothin’ to hide,” Demp said.
Dar got to the crux of the matter. “A vaquero saw Berto shortly before ten o’clock last night, so he was alive then. His body was found about midnight when one of the dogs caught the scent of blood, and took to howling its fool head off. It wouldn’t stop, so Paco had some of my men look around. They found Berto.”
Jack Demp brightened. “Between ten and midnight? Then it definitely wasn’t me! I was in the bunkhouse playin’ checkers with Shonsey. Everyone saw me.” He glanced at Walt Clayburn. “Tell them.”
The Circle T’s foreman nodded. “It’s God’s own truth. I was there the whole time and so was he.”
Julio refused to give up. “You lie to protect him! All you gringos stick together. But he dropped his knife. It had to be him.”
Bristling, Demp coiled as if to leap from his saddle. “I keep tellin’ you. I never carved my initials in my knife. If you ask me, you did it.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” Julio declared. “I killed a man who was like an uncle to me, so I could blame you?”
Dar put a hand on his youngest’s boot. “Don’t start up again. If he was where they say he was, then we have made a terrible mistake.”
“You take them at their word?” Julio was incredulous.
“They are our friends. They wouldn’t lie.” Dar wanted to believe that with every fiber of his being. He needed to believe it.
“Oh, Father,” Julio said.
His tone seared Dar like a red-hot poker. His own son, the fruit of his loins, one of the six people he loved most in the world, had lost faith in him. It crushed him almost as much as Berto’s death.
“Come inside,” Nance was saying. “All of you. We can talk this over like civilized folk.”
“My father can talk if he wants, but I will not be made a fool of.” Julio reined his mount toward the stable. “I will wait, and go back with him.”
The vaqueros went along.
“Please forgive my son,” Dar said to Kent. “Julio has always been wilful. When he gets like this, only his mother can talk any sense into him.”
“If only he knew how highly we value your friendship,” Kent Tovey said.
Nance was ushering Steve and Armando into the house. Dar climbed the steps, and paused to gaze regretfully at his youngest. When they got back to the DP, Dar would sit Julio down. He had to make Julio see past his fury to a troubling possibility: If the Circle T cowboys were telling the truth and Jack Demp could not have murdered Berto, then clearly someone had plotted to put the blame on their shoulders. Who? And why? Dar could think of only one motive, namely, to cause trouble between the two ranches. To drive a wedge between the Toveys and himself. To what end, though? The ultimate goal eluded him.
“Are you all right?” Nance asked.
“I fear we have a sidewinder in our midst, and they’ve drawn first blood,” Dar sought to enlighten her.
“If that’s the case, working together we’ll settle their hash for them,” Nancy vowed. “As for your son, don’t fret. He’ll simmer down eventually.”
Dar hoped so.
Over by the stable, Julio dismounted and paced back and forth. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he snarled, “My own padre, duped by these gringos! He is blinded by his own goodness.”
“I warned you,” Hijino mentioned. “I told you the gringos would deny it.”
“And you were right,” Julio said in disgust. He stopped and smacked his hand against his leg. “But I swear to you, to all of you, that Berto’s death will not go unavenged.”
“What can you do?” Paco asked. “What can any of us do? To go against the Toveys is to go against your father.”
“Perhaps . . .” Hijino said, and stopped without finishing his statement.
“Perhaps what?” Julio goaded.
“There is a saying the gringos have,” Hijino said. “Fight fire with fire. We must do to the guilty one as he has done to Berto.”
Paco recoiled at the suggestion. “Kill Jack Demp? The other cowboys would seek our blood.”
“Let them!” Julio spat in disdain. “I am not afraid of the Circle T. I would welcome an excuse to crush them.”
“You are talking about a range war,” Paco pointed out.
“So? Maybe it is long overdue. My father should never have permitted the Toveys to settle here. He gave up half the valley without a fight. I hate to say it, but he has always been timid.”
Roman, who had remained quiet until now, stirred. “How do you propose to go about it, patrón?”
“You will find a way to challenge Demp,” Julio said. “He is no match for you with a pistola.”
“I must be clear,” Roman said. “You command me to kill him? To goad him into going for his gun?”
“I would never force you to do anything against your will,” Julio said. “It must be your decision.”
“Your father would fire me.”
“Not if we do it right. Not if we arrange things so the gringo appears to be to blame,” Julio proposed.
Paco whistled softly. “I say again, we risk a range war. Rancho against rancho. It is not to be taken lightly.”
Hijino sleeved dust from his silver saddle horn. “I agree. But either that, or we swallow our pride and our manhood and let Berto’s killer go unpunished. I, for one, can not stand for that.”
“Nor I!” Julio declared. “But we will let the gringos think they have tricked us. We will bide our time until the rodeo, and then Roman will uphold the honor of the DP.”
“I hope we know what we are doing,” Paco said.
Julio glared at the white house. “The more I think about it, the more I realize there is room in this valley for only one rancho, and that rancho is the DP.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Are you with me?”
“Need you ask?” Hijino smiled. “You can count on me to back you in anything you do.”
“I wish all the vaqueros were like you,” Julio said.
Chapter 12
Saber was having a grand old time. He’d always thought that running a saloon would be the perfect job if he ever decided to give up riding the high lines and become respectable. Not that he ever would. For as fond as he was of whiskey and cards, he was fonder of danger.
Straitlaced churchgoers would find it hard to comprehend, but Saber relished the outlaw life. Stealing, killing, mayhem, they were nectar to his jaded senses, intoxicating in their sweetness—addicting, too, in that once he had started down the bloody and violent path he craved, he couldn’t stop. To always do as he pleased, to satisfy his every whim and craving, that was real living. To do as the common herd of humanity, to abide by laws and rules made by others, was to live in a prison bounded by invisible bars.
On this bright and sunny afternoon, with the surrounding peaks of the Nacimiento Mountains towering high in the sky, Saber stood behind the bar of the Wolf Pass Saloon sipping the best coffin varnish in the place, and gazed out the open door. Some of his men were asleep in the back. Others lounged at the tables, playing cards and drinking.
“Yes, sir, boys,” Saber declared. “This here is the life.”
The comment caused Creed and Twitch to stand and come over. Both were in sour moods, and Saber could guess why.
“What will it be, gents?”
“Enough of this playactin’,” Twitch said. “How much longer do we have to sit around twiddlin’ our thumbs?”
Saber bristled. The merest hint of disagreement always angered him. Only by force of will did he keep his wild bunch in line. They must never suspect weakness, or they would turn on him like a pack of starving wolves. That was how it was done. “How many times must we go over the same damn thing?” he snapped.
“I am bored,” Creed said. “I don’t like doin’ nothin’.”
“Is that what you call this?” Saber gestured. “A roof over our heads. All the booze we can drink. Enough food in the pantry to last us a good long while. And what do you two do? Complain.”
“That’s not fair,” Twitch groused. “It’s not you we’re gripin’ about. It’s the waitin’.”
“We can’t move until the time is right,” Saber said with rare patience, “and the time won’t be right until Hijino and Dunn have the Circle T and the DP at each other’s throats.”
Twitch smirked. “I’ve got to hand it to you, cousin. This is your best brainstorm ever. We’ll make more money than we ever dreamed, once we sell off all those cows and help ourselves to whatever else is worth havin’.”
“I am still bored,” Creed said.
Were it any other member of his gang, Saber would browbeat them into submission. But he had to handle the black with care. They were all killers, but Creed was the worst. He would kill anyone, anything, anywhere, anytime. Creed was the only one of them Saber secretly feared might turn on him if pushed too far.
“Why don’t you go practice with your six-shooters? That always makes you happy.”
“I did that yesterday.”
“Well then—” Saber began, but stopped when Creed shifted and tilted his head as if listening to something in the distance. The black’s senses were uncanny. Creed heard things long before any of them, saw objects too far off for anyone else to see. “What is it?”
“Someone comes.”
Saber smiled in anticipation. Two days ago a rotund drummer had shown up on his way north. An old acquaintance of Mort’s, he had been surprised when Saber told him the former owner sold the saloon and lit out for Denver.
“I thought Mort loved this place,” the drummer had said. “He told me he would live out the rest of his days here.”
Saber had shrugged. “I made him an offer he couldn’t rightly say no to.” He then changed the subject by offering the drummer a free drink, and listened to the fool babble about how hard it was to sell ladies’ corsets for a living.
“Females are fussy creatures. They always want the best corset money can buy, but they always want it at half price.”
“That’s only natural,” Saber commented. He had as much interest in corsets as he did in the mating habits of toads.
“Easy for you to say, my good man. You don’t have to put up with their endless griping.”
“If the work bothers you so much, do something else.” Saber thought that a nice touch, since he had no intention of letting the idiot leave Wolf Pass alive.
“Ah. But there are compensations. I get to travel. I get to meet new people. And sometimes—not very often, but on occasion—a lady will let me help her try on a corset.” The drummer’s piglet eyes sparkled with lust. “Those are the moments I live for, as would any man with blood in his veins.”
Saber was of the opinion that if you had seen one naked female, you had seen them all. Oh, some were short and some were tall, some were skinny and some were heavyset, but they all had the same body parts, and one breast was as good as another under the sheets.
Saber had taken as much of the drummer’s prattle as he could stand, and when the drummer went to use the outhouse, he signaled to Creed. Shortly thereafter, Creed came back in with the forty-seven dollars the drummer had on him.
The coyotes feasted well that night.
Now Saber went to the door and gazed at the point where a rutted track merged into the clearing from the southeast. In under five minutes, a pair of riders appeared. Right away, Saber pegged them as prospectors. They were cut from the same coarse cloth: unkempt, weather-beaten clothes, bushy beards. Each man led a pack animal laden with the tools of their hardscrabble trade. Angling to the hitch rail, they stiffly climbed down.
Saber stepped outside, plastering a smile on his face. “How do, gents? Welcome to the Wolf Pass Saloon.”
The pair had rifles crooked in their elbows, and each wore a brace of pistols. “How do, yourself,” said the burliest. “I’m Zeb, and this here rascal is my pard, Roscoe.”
Saber indicated the pack horses. “Off into the mountains after gold or silver, I take it?”
“Either will do,” Zeb drawled. “We’re not particular about how we get rich.”
“Just so we do,” Roscoe amended with a chuckle.
Prospecting was difficult work, the rewards never certain. Saber had a much more practical way of meeting his needs. He regarded nugget hounds as greed-blinded yaks, but he kept that to himself and said, “Care to wet your throats? I’ve got red-eye that will curl your toes.”
“And put hair on our chests?” Zeb joked. He already had more hair than a bear. His wrists and the backs of his hands were covered.
“Heard about any strikes in these parts?” Roscoe asked.
“Afraid not,” Saber answered. “Most folks don’t go that far in, and those that do are more interested in keepin’ their scalps than rootin’ in the ground.” Actually, he had no idea how many used the pass each year.
“That’s fine by us,” Zeb said. “It means the ore is still there, waitin’ for us to find it.”
“We’re overdue for a strike,” Roscoe remarked.
Saber never could understand ore hounds. They were dreamers, chasing elusive wisps. Their chances of striking it rich were about the same as that of a cow sprouting wings. His way was better. He simply took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
“Never expected to find a saloon so far up in these mountains,” Zeb commented as he strolled in.
“I don’t suppose you have a dove or two workin’ for you?” Roscoe asked hopefully. “It’s been a spell since I fondled me a female.”
“The only doves hereabouts are squaws,” Saber said, “and they don’t cotton much to white folks.”
“I lived with an Injun gal once,” Zeb said. “Bought her from her pa for a couple of horses and a blanket. She wasn’t much of a talker, but she could cook. At night she was a regular wonderment.” He winked at Saber.
