Rio Largo Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  HIVE OF VILLAINY

  “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 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.

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,

  Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09824-0

  First Printing, September 2006

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2006

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

  This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy. His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

  True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

  In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska,

  Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

  It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

  It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

  —Ralph Compton

  Chapter 1

  The first rider came from the north. He appeared at Wolf Pass from out of the vastness of the wild and rugged Nacimiento Mountains.

  Mort Decker was emptying a spittoon in the dawn light when he glanced up and spied the man and horse in deep shadow at the edge of the clearing. Instantly, Mort stiffened. He was not wearing his revolver, and his scattergun was under the bar. He relaxed when he saw it wasn’t an Indian but he was upset with himself. Carelessness could get a man killed.

  The rider just sat there.

  Mustering a friendly smile, Mort raised a hand in greeting.

  The rider did not respond.

  Mort tensed up again. The newspapers and the politicians liked to crow that much of the West was settled and civilized, but that did not apply to New Mexico Territory. Wolves of the human variety were all too common; hostiles and outlaws were as thick as fleas on a bluetick hound. Kit Carson had whipped the Navajos, but small war parties of young hotheads acted up on occasion. The Apaches were still to be feared, too, especially with Geronimo on the loose. Then there were the white bad men, killers, and cutthroats of every stripe.

  It was no wonder, then, that some folks said it was crazy of Mort to build his saloon so far off the safe and beaten path. But Mort never had cottoned to towns and cities, never had liked being up to his armpits in people and having to abide by a host of laws. His saloon enabled him to make a living, yet sometimes entire weeks went by when he did not see another soul. He liked it like that.

  Now, lowering his arm, Mort turned and went back inside. His saloon was the only one in the Nacimientos. It granted him a certain immunity from the high-line riders, an immunity Mort did not take for granted. He set the spittoon down an
d went around the bar. Placing his hand on the scattergun, he waited.

  The clomp of hooves announced the rider’s arrival. Mort envisioned the man wrapping his reins around the hitch rail. Spurs jangled, and a silhouette filled the doorway. Really filled it. Mort had not realized how big the man was: shoulders as broad as a bull’s, a chest a grizzly would envy.

  The big man strode to the bar and leaned on an elbow. He wore typical cowboy garb: a high-crowned hat, a brown shirt, Levi’s, and batwing chaps. Strapped around his waist was a black-handled Colt. Nothing unusual in any respect, yet Mort could not shake the feeling that this cowboy was more than he seemed.

  “Mornin’, mister. You spooked me out there. I don’t often get customers this early.”

  “Whiskey,” the man said.

  Mort reached for a bottle.

  “I hate watered-down bug juice,” the man casually commented. “The last barkeep who pulled that on me lost all his front teeth and an ear, besides.”

  “Oh?” Mort reached for a different bottle. He opened it and filled a glass, all the while thinking furiously. Yes, it was common practice for saloons to water their drinks. Most folks accepted it and did not raise a fuss. He placed the glass in front of the big man and held out his palm. “That will be two bits.”

  The rider fished in a shirt pocket and slapped a coin into Mort’s palm. In a smooth motion he upended the glass, gulped the contents in a single swallow, then wriggled the empty glass under Mort’s nose. “Bring the bottle and leave it.”

  His ears burning with annoyance, Mort did as he was told. He recognized the signs. The flinty eyes. The hard features. The whipcord steel that lurked under the surface, waiting to spring at the least little provocation. He had encountered lobos like this rider before.

  To cover his nervousness, Mort busied himself cleaning glasses. The rag he used needed washing, but his customers were generally not finicky.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Mort looked up. The rider was regarding him with an intensity Mort found disturbing. He hoped to God the man didn’t intend to rob him. Mort always dreaded that happening, and liked to imagine himself defending his property and his life with his guns blazing. But he did not make a try for his scattergun. A tiny voice at the back of his mind warned that if he did, he would be dead before he touched it. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Since five o’clock.”

  “No, I meant your place here,” the man said, gesturing at the ceiling and walls.

  “Oh. Pretty near four years now, I reckon,” Mort responded, and stressed the fact that if he were to be bucked out in gore, it would anger some people, by saying, “I have the only whiskey mill in these mountains.” Maybe anger them enough to treat the culprit to a hemp social.

  The rider chugged whiskey and let out a contented sigh. “You must know all there is to know about these parts.”

  Some of Mort’s confidence returned. “That I do, friend. I daresay there isn’t a gent for a hundred miles around that I haven’t met, or a place I haven’t been.” He was exaggerating, but what was the harm?

  Those flinty eyes fixed on him like the piercing eyes of a hawk on prey. “I’m new hereabouts. Maybe you wouldn’t mind givin’ me the lay of the land.”

  Encouraged, Mort moved closer. “There’s not much to it. Follow the trail ten miles to the southeast and you’ll come to the Sweet Grass Valley. The old Spanish called it the Rio Largo Valley, after the Rio Largo river, but a lot of the Spanish names aren’t used anymore.”

  “I hear tell it’s prime grazin’ land,” the rider remarked.

  “Is it ever,” Mort confirmed. “Between the Circle T and the DP, there must be thirty thousand head or more.”

  “Those would be the two ranches I’ve heard about,” the rider said. “Are there any others?”

  Mort chuckled. “I’d like to see someone else try to horn in. Kent Tovey and Dar Pierce would fix their hash, pronto.”

  “Tell me about the outfits,” the rider goaded. “I’m lookin’ to hire on.”

  Warming to the topic, Mort leaned back. “The Rio Largo sort of divides the valley in half. The Circle T owns all the land north of the river; the DP has all the land south of it.”

  “Sort of? Are they about the same size?”

  “The Circle T is bigger.”

  “Which ranch was here first?”

  “The DP. Dar Pierce was with General Taylor during the Mexican War. When the troops pulled out, he stayed on and got himself hitched to a pretty Mexican gal by the name of Juanita.”

  The rider was about to take another swig. “You wouldn’t catch me marryin’ no greaser.”

  Mort smothered a flash of anger. “Juanita Pierce is a genuine lady. And I wouldn’t go sayin’ that about greasers between here and San Pedro, or the DP boys might get wind of it and come callin’.”

  “They don’t worry me none,” the rider said flatly.

  “They should. They’re a salty bunch. Insult their boss at your own risk.”

  The rider changed the subject. “What about the other spread? The Circle T? The owner’s name is Tovey, did you say?”

  Mort nodded. “He comes from a well-to-do family back east. Brought in a few thousand head from Texas to start his herd years back, and now has one of the best spreads in the whole territory.”

  “But wasn’t Pierce already here when Tovey came? Didn’t Pierce mind a greenhorn waltzin’ in and takin’ over half the valley?”

  “Dar Pierce isn’t land hungry like some cattle barons. He’s content with what he has. But don’t let that fool you. He’s one tough hombre.”

  The rider treated himself to another swallow and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the Circle T is hirin’ hands?”

  “Not that I’m aware,” Mort said. “It’s late in the season, and there’s never a shortage of punchers who want to sign on. Tovey pays really well and has a first-rate cook.”

  “Food’s not important,” the rider said.

  Mort blinked in surprise. Never in his life had he heard a saddle stiff utter such bald-faced blasphemy. To the cow crowd, food was everything. There was a saying to the effect that cowboys lived by their stomachs. The outfits with the best cooks always attracted the best cowpokes.

  The man patted the bottle. “How much? I need to be moseyin’ on. Daylight’s a wastin’.”

  “Four dollars,” Mort said.

  “That’s a mite steep.”

  “Rotgut doesn’t grow on trees,” Mort said. “The cost of shippin’ it out here is twice what the saloons in San Pedro pay, and I need to make a profit same as any other business.”

  The man paid and touched his hat brim. “I’m obliged for the information.” He wheeled on his high heels and strode away.

  Mort was struck by a strange insight: The man hardly had any dust on his clothes.

  Given the time of year—the middle of the summer—and given how dry it was, any rider who traveled any distance was bound to be covered with the stuff. Curious, Mort walked outside.

  The big man had unwrapped the reins to a zebra dun, and was reaching for the saddle horn. A lithe swing, and the saddle creaked under him.

  Neither the zebra dun nor the saddle, Mort noticed, were the least bit dusty. The rider had lied about how far he’d come. An interesting tidbit that in and of itself meant nothing. The world was full of liars. Good riddance, Mort thought. Aloud, he said, “If you’re ever again in this neck of the woods, feel free to stop in.”

  The rider looked back. He was supposed to act friendly to dilute suspicion, so he smiled and touched his hat brim, feeling the fool as he did. Once beyond the clearing, he applied his spurs. The trail was well defined. He made good time. It was not yet noon when he reined up on the crest of the last of the foothills.

  Sweet Grass Valley was everything he had been told: lush with the rich greenery that lent the valley its name, prime grazing land any rancher worthy of the title would give anything to own.

 
The rider slid a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. The hand-drawn map was crude, but the landmarks were plain. He reined north, and for the next hour and a half followed the edge of the hills. Careful to stick to cover, he came to a trail that saw less use. It wound around a low hill, and presently brought him within sight of a shack.

  Gigging the zebra dun into some scrub oak, the rider dismounted and shucked his Winchester from the saddle scabbard. He levered a round into the chamber, then crouched and cat-footed in among pockets of dry brush to within a stone’s throw of the shack. Two horses were in a small corral attached to the side. Inside, someone was whistling.

  The rider squatted and tucked the Winchester to his shoulder. Patient by nature, it did not bother him that over half an hour passed before the door opened and out came a human broomstick carrying a bucket. Shirtless and hatless, the string bean walked past the corral and over near a stand of cottonwoods.

  Only then did the rider spot the spring.

  “Yes, sir,” the thin man said over his shoulder to the horses in the corral. “Ten more days and I’ll be shed of line duty. I can’t wait. Not that I mind your company, but you are a poor substitute for the gals at the Lucky Star.”

  Keeping low, the rider circled toward his quarry. There was no breeze, so he did not need to worry about his scent giving him away to the horses.

  The broomstick knelt and dipped the wooden bucket into the water. “That Maggie sure treats me nice. Last time I was there, she did me for half price. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  A break in the brush gave the rider a clear shot. He sighted down the barrel, then lowered the Winchester without firing. Rocks lined the spring—large rocks that would serve as well as a bullet, if not better. Quickly bending, he removed his spurs and set them beside his rifle.

  The thin man was a chatterbox, which was to be expected. The job of the line rider was lonely work, and cowhands often developed the habit of talking to themselves.