Rio largo, p.4
Rio Largo, page 4
“Buenos días, señorita.”
“Buenos días, Hijino,” Trella said. Her hands clasped behind her back so her bosom, such as it was, jutted against her blouse, Trella leaned against the rails.
“How do you do it?” Hijino asked.
“Do what?”
“Always look so pretty. In Mexico City you would have caballeros groveling at your feet to win your favor.”
“I would not,” Trella said, secretly pleased by the flattery. She did not want him to know that, though, so she said, “Shouldn’t you be off tending cattle?”
“Why, señorita, you stab me in the heart. Can it be you do not enjoy my company? I enjoy yours.”
Trella could not get over how handsome he was. That he showed an interest in her seemed too good to be true. “If my father heard you say that, he would be cross with you.”
“Your father has not said two words to me since the day I was hired,” Hijino said. “He has forgotten I exist.”
“That’s what you think,” Trella remarked. “You were brought up at breakfast today.”
Hijino’s arms froze in midswing. “I was?”
“Sí. Armando says you talk too much,” Trella teased. “And Steve thinks you are too critical of norteamericanos. You had better learn to hold your tongue, or you will find yourself out of a job.”
“Thank you for telling me. I will be more careful from now on. I will walk on eggs with my mouth.”
Trella laughed. “What a strange way to put it. Just don’t talk about how much better Mexico is than the United States.”
“So that was it.” With a deft flick, Hijino tossed his rope over the post. “I can not help it if I love the country I am from. Have you ever been there?” He did not wait for her to answer. “If you have, then you must feel as I do. Mexico is special. Its people are special. They are more of the earth. More natural. They are not like these norteamericanos who are only interested in hoarding pesos, and who treat the land like it is their personal possession to scar as they wish.”
His passion stirred Trella. “Perhaps that is true of some norteamericanos, but not my father.”
“No, señorita, not your padre. And why is that, do you think? I think it is because in his great love for your madre, he has become more like us. More like you and me. More mejicano than norteamericano.”
Trella had never thought of it like that. “He has always told me to embrace both ways of life.”
“Yet he lives more like a Mexican than that gringo across the river,” Hijino pointed out.
Straightening, Trella glanced nervously about. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that ever again. They might think you do not like gringos.” It worried her that he might be fired.
“I have nothing against most gringos,” Hijino said. “Only the ones who call us greasers, whether to our face or behind our backs.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I have heard that some of the gringo cowboys do just that.”
“I do not believe it.”
Hijino sighed. “You do not want to believe it. If you will forgive my bluntness, you are as blind as your padre and madre.”
“How dare you,” Trella said. She would not stand for having her parents insulted. Ever.
“Hear me out,” Hijino requested. “If I am wrong, I apologize. But did your father not settle here first? Was not this whole valley his by right? Yet Kent Tovey came and took half of it away without paying your father a cent, I hear. Tovey brought in his cattle and his cowboys, and now his ranch is bigger than your father’s. He has more cows, more men. He is richer, and grows richer every year. At your father’s expense.”
“You mistake his motives,” Trella said. “Kent Tovey is a good friend.”
“Is he really? What if your father had refused to let him settle here? Do you think this Tovey would have turned around and gone back to Texas?” Hijino shook his head. “A rattlesnake is nice enough until you step on it, but I would still not want to have one for a neighbor.”
“Enough,” Trella said sharply.
“As you wish.” Hijino gave a courteous bow. “But I warn you, señorita. If this Tovey is ever crossed, he will show his true nature, and your father will regret being so kind.”
Trella stamped her foot. “Stop it, I say! You fill my head with ideas that should not be there. The Toveys would never turn on us.” She had more to say, but a stocky figure had appeared at the corner of the stable. Alarm spiked through her. She wondered how much he had overheard.
“Is everything all right, señorita?” Berto asked.
“Everything is fine,” Trella answered.
Hijino acted as if he did not have a care in the world. He smiled at the foreman and tossed his loop again. “I have been showing her how to rope a cow.”
“How considerate of you,” Berto said dryly. “But you were hired to work with real cows. Saddle your horse and join Paco and Roman. They leave in fifteen minutes to search the foothills to the east for strays.”
“I will be ready in five minutes.” Hijino doffed his sombrero to Trella and jingled off.
Berto turned to Trella. “Forgive my lack of manners, but what did he say to you, senorita?”
“We talked about the rodeo and other things. Nothing of any importance.” Trella could not bring herself to reveal the truth and get Hijino into trouble. “Why do you ask?”
“I am growing not to like that one, señorita. Hiring him might have been a mistake, but it is a mistake easily remedied.”
“You will not fire him on my account,” Trella said. “He always behaves as a caballero should.”
“Is that so, señorita?”
Trella divined that Berto did not believe her, but he thought too highly of her father and was too polite to say so to her face. “I must go in.” She started to leave, but Berto shocked her by placing a hand on her arm. He had never touched her before, not in all the years she knew him.
“Forgive me, señorita, but I feel it is my duty to warn you.”
It is a day for warnings, Trella thought. “Warn me about what?” As if she could not guess.
Berto nodded in the direction Hijino had gone. “He is young and handsome. It is no mystery why you like his company.” She went to respond, but Berto held up his hand. “Do not deny it. I have seen you talking to him before. That is your right. But for your sake, and your father’s, do not become too attached. He is a drifter. We know nothing about him. You invite unhappiness by being so friendly.”
“And you presume too much.”
“Sí. I do. But only because of the great affection I bear you and your family. I do not want you to come to harm.”
“Oh, please,” Trella angrily countered. “What harm could he do? The idea is preposterous.” Simmering with indignation, she marched stiffly toward the house. She had half a mind to complain to her father. But he would want to know why she was spending so much time with Hijino, and might forbid her to see him. She couldn’t have that. Because Berto was right. She liked Hijino, liked him a lot, liked him more than she had ever liked any other man. So what if he said things he shouldn’t? He was so handsome!
Trella remembered her dream. What if it was an omen? she asked herself. Was it possible he could grow to care for her as she cared for him? She wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
Trella was glad she had warned Hijino to be careful. She would do all in her power to see that he stayed on at the DP. The prospect made her tingle.
Chapter 5
Mort Decker was engaged in a battle of wits with a fly, and the ornery fly was winning. Five times Mort tried to swat it with his broom, and five times he missed. Now it was at the window, buzzing noisily as if to mock him.
“The same to you, you bug-eyed bastard,” Mort growled, and advanced with the broom held high. He hated flies. He had always hated flies. Their fondness for everything from rancid food to manure disgusted him. Flies were foul creatures, as senseless in the scheme of things as mosquitos and ticks. Mort hated them, too.
“No one can convince me the Almighty wasn’t drunk when he whipped up creation,” Mort declared for the fly’s benefit. He had given it a lot of thought over the years, and it was the only thing that explained all the pain and suffering in the world. Either that, or the Lord didn’t give a tinker’s damn.
Mort swung, and missed yet again. The fly taunted him by flying past his face and over to the bar. Mort wagged his broom. “You’re dead! Do you hear me? Just you wait!”
The fly alighted on the glass of ale Mort had been sipping. Incensed, he was about to rush headlong into the fray when hooves clattered noisily in Wolf Pass. His first thought, as always, was of Indians. Rushing behind the bar, he grabbed his scattergun and hurried to the front door. He had propped the door open earlier, which was how the fly got in. About to step outside, he stopped cold as a line of riders swept out of the forest and crossed the clearing.
Mort almost slammed and bolted the door. But some of them had seen him. Quickly backpedaling, he replaced the shotgun. It would not do to have them think he did not want them there. His heart raced, and he broke out in a cold sweat. It took every iota of self-control he possessed to smile and say calmly, “Howdy, gents,” as the first of the eight riders tramped inside.
Their leader did not return the greeting. He wore grimy clothes that matched his grimy looks. A perpetual grimace twisted his ferret face. From his right eyebrow to his chin zigzagged a bright scar. Rumor had it a settler took exception to the ferret-faced man raping the settler’s wife, so the settler, who had served in the Union cavalry during the war, took a saber to him. That was the day Rufus Jenks acquired the nickname by which he was widely known throughout New Mexico Territory and several adjoining states: Saber.
Next to enter was a vicious killer called Creed. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat and a pair of pearl-handled Remingtons, the pale hue of the grips contrasting sharply with the dusky hue of his skin. He also wore a belt knife. Creed never smiled. His eyes were as flat and inhuman as a snake’s.
After the black came Twitch, a sinewy back-shooter supposedly related somehow to Saber. He did not wear a gun belt, but had a pair of Colts tucked under a wide leather belt on the outside of a buckskin jacket. His handle stemmed from the constant nervous twitching of his mouth.
The rest were unfamiliar, but stamped in the same cruel mold. One look was enough to impress on Mort that they were not the kind any sane man trifled with. “What would you gentlemen like?”
Saber placed his hands on the counter, and snickered. “I don’t see any gentlemen around here. Do you see any gentlemen, Creed?”
“Sure don’t.” Creed was not much of a talker. He stood with his hands loose at his sides, close to his Remingtons.
“If there was a gentleman here, I’d shoot him,” Twitch said, his mouth doing its odd tic. “How about you, barkeep? Are you a gentleman?”
“Not me.” Mort was dismayed at how his voice squeaked. Coughing, he steadied his nerves and smiled. “Same as the last time?”
“Last time?” Saber repeated.
“You and a couple of others stopped here about a year ago,” Mort said. “It was late, pretty near midnight. You had a whiskey and asked if I could fix you somethin’ to eat. I rustled up eggs and ham.”
“By God, that’s right,” Saber said. “How is it you remember all that?”
Mort prided himself on his memory. He never forgot a face, or a drink that face ordered. “I have a knack.”
“You don’t say.” Saber drummed his fingers on the counter, then glanced at Creed and nodded.
What was that about? Mort wondered. If only he had the gumption to announce he was closing for the day. He would take his rifle and go off into the mountains and not come back for a week or two. By then, they would be long gone.
“Set us up,” Saber commanded. “Coffin varnish all around.”
“Yes, sir.” Mort had learned it was smart to be courteous to curly wolves. They were less apt to become riled over imagined slights. He set out glasses and filled each to the brim, making it a point to fill Saber’s first. “Is that all?”
Saber asked a strange question. “I don’t suppose you remember what I was wearin’ that night, do you?”
Mort had to think about it. “The same hat as now, a flannel shirt, and brown pants. I didn’t pay much attention to your boots.”
“Amazin’.”
“Thank you,” Mort said, and did not understand why Creed and Twitch laughed. “Are you hungry? I shot a deer yesterday and have plenty of fresh meat. Potatoes, too, if you’re partial.”
“You’re a regular marvel,” Saber said. “Venison steak would please me considerable.” He nodded at Creed and Twitch, and headed for a table. “Bring the bottle, boys. I’m fixin’ to stay a while.”
“Is that wise?” The question came from the oldest of the eight outlaws, a grizzled slab of bone and gristle with a crooked nose and a cleft chin.
Everyone except Saber stood stock-still. He cocked his head and said, “What was that, Hank?”
“With what we’re up to and all,” Hank responded. “Is it wise for us to come out into the open like this?”
“Why, Hank,” Saber said, as mildly as could be, “whatever do you mean?”
“The ranch business.”
“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Saber remarked, still as sugary as molasses. He grinned as he said it, and he was still grinning as he drew his Colt and shot Hank through the forehead. The slug blew out the back of Hank’s skull, spraying hair, bone, and blood.
Mort nearly jumped out of his boots. He had witnessed shootings before, but never one so unexpected, so sudden. Usually it was between drunks who argued and shouted and worked themselves into a rage before resorting to their hardware. He held his breath, in the fear he would be next.
Saber holstered his Colt and continued to the table. “Some of you boys drag that jackass into the woods for the wild critters to feed on.”
The bloodshed had no effect on the others. To them, the killing was a matter of course, as ordinary as swatting the fly that had eluded Mort.
“Barkeep, quit standin’ there with your mouth hangin’ open and rustle us up those steaks,” Saber directed.
“Right away.” Mort scampered to the kitchen. The back door beckoned, but if he ran they might burn his place to the ground to spite him. He kindled the embers in the stove, retrieved his butcher knife from a drawer, and went into the pantry to cut thick slabs from the haunch hanging in a corner. When he came out, he was startled to see Twitch over by the cupboard. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”
Twitch chortled. “No. My cousin just wants me to keep you company. He figured you might get lonesome.”
Mort did not like that, he did not like that at all, but he did not let on as he went about cooking their meal. He sliced potatoes, heaped them in a frying pan, and smothered them in butter. He put coffee on to brew. He also made toast.
“You do that real nice,” Twitch said as Mort was spreading the jam. “If you were a woman, I’d marry you.”
“Would you mind carryin’ one of the trays?”
“Not so long as you go ahead of me.”
A poker game was under way. At the other table, Saber and Creed were talking in hushed tones. They stopped when Mort set their tray down, and Saber sniffed several times.
“If it tastes as good as it smells, barkeep, you should be in Saint Louis runnin’ a fancy restaurant.”
“I don’t like bein’ around people that much,” Mort admitted, and blanched, worried they would take it as some sort of insult.
“That makes two of us,” Saber said. “I was knee-high to a yearlin’ when I learned that most folks are as worthless as teats on a stallion.”
With a loud crunch, Creed bit into a slice of toast. Whether he liked it or not was impossible to tell; the man never changed his expression.
“Why don’t you join us?” Saber kicked out a chair. “You and me have some things to talk about.”
“We do?” Mort noticed that Twitch had not sat down, but was a few yards away, his hands on his Colts. Icy fear stabbed through him.
Forking a piece of steak into his mouth, Saber chewed lustily, with his mouth open. “What do you want most in this world, barkeep?”
Bewilderment seized Mort. How did he answer something like that? What was Saber getting at? “The thing I want most is to go on breathin’.”
Saber burst into hearty laughter. As if it were the most hilarious comment he’d ever heard, he smacked the table and howled. “Did you hear him, Creed? He’s not as dumb as he looks.”
Mort resented the insult, but sat awaiting developments. Twitch had come closer and now had only one hand on a Colt.
“Most people say that what they want most in this world is money,” Saber said. His pale blue eyes bored into Mort. “How much do you have? Got it squirreled away, do you?”
The truth was, Mort had slightly over three hundred hidden in a jar under a floorboard behind the bar. But he answered, “I never make enough to set any aside. It’s hand to mouth, day in, day out.”
“I figured as much,” Saber said. He speared a potato slice and popped it into his mouth. “How would you like to make a hundred dollars right here and now?”
“Who do I have to shoot?”
Again Saber cackled, and glanced at Creed. “I like this one. He tickles my funny bone.” To Mort he said, “Leave the shootin’ to us, friend. The hundred dollars is yours to forget we were ever here. Forget you ever saw us, should anyone come askin’.”
“That’s all?” Mort speculated that maybe lawmen were after them.
“To tell you the truth, I was considerin’ whether to buck you out in gore,” Saber revealed while chomping. “Your memory is too good for my comfort. But then I got to thinkin’ how it must be, tryin’ to make ends meet in this dump. You’re miles from anywhere, and customers must be few and far between.”
“That they are,” Mort conceded.
“A man like you could always use spendin’ money,” Saber said. “Say, the hundred dollars now and more later.”
