Rio largo, p.5
Rio Largo, page 5
Mort’s innards churned. “You plan to come back?”
“We’re not leavin’. We’ll make camp off a ways, and from time to time we’ll stop by. When that happens, it doesn’t happen. Savvy?”
Apprehension coursed through Mort, and he asked without thinking, “What could possibly interest you down there?”
About to take another bite of steak, Saber’s features clouded. “I wouldn’t be too nosy, were I you.”
“It’s just that there’s nothin’ down there but a couple of ranches—” Mort stopped. The hapless Hank had said something about “ranch business” right before he was shot.
Saber sighed and lowered his fork to his plate. “You see?” he said to Creed. “You try to do right by some folks and they throw it in your face.”
“What?” Mort said, aghast at the magnitude of his blunder. “I never did any such thing.”
“You certainly did. You’ve met them, haven’t you? The Toveys and the Pierce clan?”
“I’ve seen them in San Pedro,” Mort admitted. “Some of their punchers stop here every blue moon, usually when they’re up in the mountains huntin’, but that’s about it.” Mort was desperate to get back in Saber’s good graces, so he added, “But I’ve never spoken to Kent Tovey or his missus, or the Pierces, neither.”
“What about the cowboys and the vaqueros?”
“I’ve swapped pleasantries when they stop in for a drink, sure.” Mort was so nervous, his knees began to tremble. He stilled them by sheer force of will. “Is it important? It’s not like any of them are friends.”
Saber drummed his fingers again, then looked at Creed. “What do you say? Should we be generous, or turn him into worm food?”
“Worm food,” the black said.
“How about you?” Saber shifted toward Twtich.
“You’re givin’ us a say? Will wonders never cease. But since you asked,” Twitch paused and smirked at Mort. “Look at this jasper. He’s so scared, he’s ready to wet himself. He wouldn’t dare cross us.”
“How about it, barkeep?” Saber asked. “Can I count on you to keep your mouth shut?”
“As God is my witness,” Mort declared.
Saber grinned. His right hand came up from under the table holding his Colt. He fired once. Mort’s body and the chair crashed to the floor, and Saber placed the revolver on the table and picked up his fork. “Never trust anyone with religion, boys. They’re liable to turn on you no matter how much you pay them.”
“What do we do with the body?” Twitch asked.
“The same thing you did with Hank’s. The coyotes and buzzards hereabouts will be fat and sassy come tomorrow.”
Twitch motioned. “And the saloon? Do we burn it to the ground when we’re done eatin’?”
“You do not. I’ve always wanted to have me my own waterin’ hole. We’ll stick around until Dunn and Hijino have stirred up a hornet’s nest. Then we’ll crush the hornets just like this.” Saber slammed his fist down on the fly that had landed next to his plate.
Chapter 6
It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. The tracks were plain. A cow and her calf had strayed across the Rio Largo. In the summer the river was at its lowest and narrowest ebb, and there were spots where cattle could wade to the other side without getting their bellies wet.
Julio Pierce sat astride his grulla on the DP side of the river and stared across at the sprawling range of the Circle T.
“Why do you hesitate, patrón?” Hijino asked. “Are we not permitted to go on the gringos’ side of the river?”
“Don’t call them that,” Julio said. It was only natural that he go after the errant cow and her offspring, but his father had certain rules, and one of them was that no one crossed onto the Circle T without first letting his father know. It had always seemed a silly rule to Julio. His father and Kent Tovey were good friends. The DP vaqueros got along well with the Circle T punchers. There was no reason not to go after the cow and her calf while their tracks were fresh and they could be quickly overtaken.
“I am sorry, patrón,” Hijino said, the silver on his clothes and his saddle gleaming bright in the sun. “Old habits are hard to break. I am used to norteamericanos looking down their noses at our kind and calling us greasers.”
“It is not like that here,” Julio informed him, although there had been a few times when Julio thought the Circle T hands put on airs.
“Of course it isn’t,” Hijino said, and lifted the reins of his fine white horse. “Do we forget the cow and go?”
Something in his tone spawned resentment in Julio. He had grown to like the new vaquero. Unlike most of them, Hijino loved to talk, and Julio could listen for hours to his tales of life south of the border. Julio had always been partial to his mother’s side of the Pierce family tree, but he was careful to keep it to himself in order not to hurt his father’s feelings.
“Patrón?”
On an impulse, Julio spurred the grulla into the river. “They crossed only a few hours ago. We might as well go after them.”
Halfway across, Hijino looked down at the sluggish current and commented, “Strange, is it not, how we let this river divide a valley that by rights should belong to one rancho?”
“We have been all through that,” Julio said. Hijino had brought it up just the other day. “My father is content with the half he has.”
“A good man, your padre,” Hijino said. “A better man than me. Had I been the owner of the DP, I would not have let Kent Tovey or any gringo take what was rightfully mine.”
Julio would put up with a lot, but not implied criticism of his father. “My padre always does what is best for everyone. You would do well to keep that in mind.”
“I meant no disrespect,” Hijino said mildly.
They rode in silence for a while. Julio was upset with himself for going against his father’s wishes, but gradually the feeling faded. He had every right to reclaim DP stock.
The sea of rippling grass lent the illusion that they were alone in the world, just them and their horses and the sun and grass unending. Moments like these were special to Julio. They filled him with a feeling of closeness to the earth, and to life itself.
Presently, specks appeared to the northwest. Julio angled toward them. The cow was bound to join her kind, and where she went, the calf would go.
“May I ask a question, patrón?”
Absorbed in his musing, Julio said absently, “Of course. You may ask anything. You do not need to get my permission.”
“I was just wondering,” Hijino said, “whether you will let me work for you when the rancho is divided up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The DP, patrón. Your hermano, Steve, told me that when your padre dies and the rancho is divided between the brothers and sisters, he will still run things.”
This was news to Julio. “Why is it Steve has never mentioned this to me? Do Armando and my sisters know?”
“Steve did not say if they do,” Hijino said. “Perhaps it is an idea he came up with on his own.”
“My brother would never do a thing like that without talking it over with the rest of us,” Julio said. But in truth he was not so sure. Steve was the oldest, and at times seemed to think that gave him the right to tell the rest of them what to do.
The specks grew larger. Julio estimated fifty head, spread over five to ten acres, grazing contentedly. The cow should be easy to spot, since she would be one of the few with a calf.
“We are not alone,” Hijino announced.
Four riders were approaching at a trot. Julio drew rein to await them, saying, “Let me do the talking.”
“Sí, patrón.”
Julio had met many of the Circle T hands at the annual rodeo and in San Pedro. He knew a dozen or so by name. But none of the four were familiar. As they came to a stop, he smiled and said, “Hola. I am Julio Pierce.”
“I recognize you,” said one who was bronzed from all his time outdoors. “I’m Jeb Wheeler. What can we do for you, Mr. Pierce?”
The name was not one Julio knew, but encouraged by the man’s friendliness, he explained about the missing cow and her calf.
“I haven’t seen any with the DP brand, but you’re welcome to look for them,” Wheeler offered. “We’ll help.”
“Muchas gracias, Señor Wheeler,” Julio said. He swung the grulla toward the cattle, and Hijino made to follow.
“Land sakes!” a lanky cowboy exclaimed. “That there saddle is liable to blind me! Where did you find all that silver, bean-eater?”
“Do not call me that,” Hijino said.
“What? A bean-eater? Why not? You sure as hell ain’t no Chinaman.” The cowboy chuckled. “I meant no insult.”
“It is the way you say it,” Hijino said. “You do not think highly of those of us with Mexican blood.”
“Where in hell did you get a foolish notion like that?” the cowboy demanded. “I’ve been to Mexico and liked it there. The people were friendly as could be.”
“My mistake, señor,” Hijino responded, but he said it in such a way that he gave the impression it was not a mistake at all.
“You’re an uppity cuss,” the cowboy said.
Wheeler twisted in his saddle. “Let it drop, Demp. All of you spread out and look for the DP cow.”
Julio held his tongue until the cowboys were out of earshot. Then he turned to Hijino. “Our rancho and the Circle T are on good terms and my father wants to keep it that way.”
“As you wish, patrón.”
“When you have been here longer, you will see that those who work for Señor Tovey are not like gringos elsewhere. They treat us with respect.”
“Or do they only pretend to?” Hijino motioned at Demp. “But you are right. I will apologize if you want me to.”
Julio thought it a great idea. “I want you to.” It would please his father, should he learn of the incident. Julio concentrated on the cows and had examined six or seven when he heard a sharp oath, and then harsh words he could not quite catch.
Demp was glaring and gesturing angrily at Hijino. Hijino smiled that ever-present smile of his, which evidently made Demp angrier, for he grew red in the face and dropped his hand to his pistol.
Wheeler reached them a few seconds before Julio, and slapped the cowboy’s arm from the revolver. “Leave that hogleg right where it is! What in hell do you think you’re doin’?”
“It’s him you should be hittin’!” Demp protested.
Julio was aware of the other punchers trotting up. “What happened?” he asked the vaquero. “What did you do?”
“Me, patrón?” Hijino rejoined. “All I did was ask him if other DP cows ever stray across the river.”
Demp rose in his stirrups and pointed an accusing finger. “That’s not all you said, you scalawag.” He glanced at Wheeler. “The Mex claimed we help ourselves to DP stock!”
Wheeler’s weather-seamed countenance became as hard as flint. He faced Hijino. “You accused us of bein’ rustlers?”
Julio was appalled. There was no worse insult. In cow country, rustling was the worst thing a man could do, a crime considered more heinous than murder. “Is this true?”
Hijino spread his hands in innocence. “Before God and the Virgin, I swear to you it is not.”
“Now you just called me a liar!” Demp was shaking with fury. “Name the time and place, and we’ll settle this. Or better yet, let’s settle it now.” He poised his hand above his six-gun.
“I told you to leave it be!” Wheeler reined his mount between them. “There will be no gunplay, you hear me? Keep this up and I’ll report you to Clayburn.”
Demp deflated, but he was still mad. “No man can abide what this greaser did and still look himself in the mirror.”
Wheeler glanced at Julio. “Maybe it’s best if you go, Mr. Pierce. When we find your cow and calf, we’ll return them.”
Julio deemed it best, as well. The countenances of the other two cowboys left no doubt how they felt. It would not take much to provoke them. “Come along,” he directed Hijino, and applied his spurs. He refused to look at the vaquero until they came to the Rio Largo. “When my father hears of this, you will be fired.”
“Must you tell him? It was not me, patrón. The gringo bent my words.”
Julio shook his head in disgust. Nothing like this had ever happened in the long history of the two ranches.
“You do not believe me?” Hijino sounded hurt.
“Whether he bent them or not, you should not have said whatever you did.” Julio gigged the grulla into the water. “Now there will be hard feelings. We do not need that with the rodeo coming up.”
“If the two ranchos are as friendly as everyone says, surely the gringos will not hold a grudge.”
“I hope for your sake they do not.” Julio debated whether to go to Berto. The DP foreman might be able to smooth things over without involving his father.
“Did you hear what that one called me?”
“Sí,” Julio said, the memory smarting like the sting of a bee. “But he did not mean anything by it.”
“If you say so, patrón.”
Julio did not accept the explanation himself. It was obvious that some of the Circle T punchers regarded the DP vaqueros the same way many whites regarded all Mexicans. All these years, Julio had accepted his father’s word that Kent Tovey would not hire such men, yet his own ears had heard the proof that it was otherwise.
“When we get back, I will pack my things and go, patrón,” Hijino said. “I do not want to cause trouble for the DP.”
The offer took Julio by surprise. It might be for the best if Hijino left, but Julio found himself saying, “You are not going anywhere. Have we fired you? Until we do, you are still one of us. And we stand by our own.”
“You are most kind, patrón.”
Julio shrugged the compliment away. He was not doing it so much for Hijino as for the DP. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the Circle T cowboys were as much at fault, if not more so. Especially that hothead, Demp. Why should Hijino be punished for Demp’s fit of temper?
As if Hijino were entertaining similar thoughts, he remarked, “Life is most unfair. I suppose now I will not be able to take part in the rodeo.”
“Do you want to?” Julio came to the south bank and clucked to the grulla.
“Sí. Very much so.”
“Which contest? The steer roping? The bronc riding? The calf throwing?” Julio always entered the latter. Last year he had claimed top honors.
“The pistol match.”
Julio slowed so the white horse could come alongside. “Didn’t you hear Paco the day we met? Jesco always wins the pistol match. Roman is always second. You would be lucky to finish third.”
“I would still like to try to win for the DP,” Hijino said. “To repay you for hiring me.”
Nodding at the pearl-handled Colt, Julio asked, “Are you any good?”
Hijino’s hand was a blur. The Colt leaped up and out and boomed, and twenty feet away a clod of dirt exploded. Almost in the same motion, Hijino twirled the Colt into his holster.
“Madre de Dios!” Julio breathed.
“Do you still think I do not have a chance?”
“You are better than most,” Julio said in praise. “But Roman and Jesco are the best I have ever seen.”
“Do all the vaqueros attend the rodeo?”
“We always leave a handful to watch over the house and the cattle,” Julio disclosed. “The men draw straws to see who stays.”
Hijino took out his Colt. For a few seconds, the barrel pointed at Julio. Then he tilted it and began replacing the spent cartridge. “Will you want me to draw a straw, too?”
Just once, Julio would love to win the pistol shoot. “No. I will inform Berto that you are to accompany us.”
“The gringos might not be happy to see me.”
“Who cares?” Julio said, and laughed.
Chapter 7
It was rare for John Jesco to have an hour to himself in the middle of the day. When he did, he always spent his spare time the same way. No sooner did Clayburn tell him that he was on his own than Jesco bent his boots toward the bunkhouse and took a box of ammunition from his war bag. His next stop was the corral. He was saddling a bay when hurried footsteps sounded behind him. Without turning, he asked, “A little bird tell you?”
“A big bird named Walt,” Timmy Loring replied excitedly. “Please, can I? You know how much I like to watch you practice.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Walt gave me a little time off,” Timmy said. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”
Jesco frowned. No, he did not think it particularly fine. Clayburn did not understand that he was dangling a dangerous carrot in front of someone who did not recognize the carrot for what it was. He gave the cinch a last tug and turned. “I’d rather be by myself.”
“Please,” Timmy Loring pleaded. The youngest hand at the Circle T, he had turned seventeen a week ago. Curly blond hair poked from under the high-peaked hat that crowned his round, earnest face. He had blue eyes and big teeth. Peach fuzz dappled his chin. “I won’t get on your nerves. I promise. All I want to do is watch.”
Jesco sighed, and came close to saying no. But the kid was so sincere, so like a puppy in his anxiousness to please, that he reluctantly relented. “Saddle up, but be quick about it.”
“Yippee!” Timmy dashed to the gate. “I’ll have it done in three shakes of a calf’s tail!”
Jesco happened to be next to the watering trough, and as he went to mount, he caught sight of his reflection on the still surface. It gave no indication of his height, but it showed nearly everything else: his Texas hat, his vest, the shirt Mary had made for him, his Levi’s, his gun belt. His wolfish features, bare of mustache or beard, stared back at him, his dark eyes—smoldering pools, as Mary once described them. He imagined her bustling about the general store, and wished he was in San Pedro. It had been two weeks since he saw her last, and he missed her dearly. He had never felt for a woman the way he felt for Mary Turner. Maybe Walt was right. Maybe he had stepped into her loop, and now it was too late. If so, he didn’t care. He wanted her, plain and simple. Wanted to spend the rest of his nights with her warm body at his side, and the rest of his days savoring her companionship as he used to savor the best whiskey in his wild and reckless days.
