Rio Largo Page 2

  The rider should know. He had been a cowpoke, once.

  “I aim to repay the favor by buyin’ Maggie a fancy gift,” the broomstick was saying. “A new shawl, maybe. Or one of those pretty new bonnets with the bows and frills the females cotton to. It can’t be a mirror. Ugly women hate mirrors, and she sure is powerful ugly.”

  As silently as a stalking Comanche, the rider crept toward the puncher. He placed each foot with care. The broomstick had a Remington on his hip, and while it was doubtful he used it for anything more than shooting snakes, the rider preferred not to tempt fate by giving the cowboy time to draw.

  “Listen to me!” the thin cowpoke marveled. “You would think I was booze-blind, but I’m sober as a parson.” He laughed at his own antics. “Maybe it’s true what old Shonsey says. Maybe there comes a time when every man is more than willin’ to step into a woman’s loop if it means a warm bed the rest of his nights.”

  One of the horses nickered.

  The rider froze. The animal had seen him. But the cowboy did not look around. The rider continued his cautious advance.

  “I laughed at the notion when I was younger,” the puncher rambled on. “But life has a way of sweatin’ the fat out of a man’s brain.” Sloshing water over the rim, he raised the bucket out of the spring. “Of course, if I’d had any sense to begin with, I wouldn’t be nursemaidin’ cows for a livin’, would I?” He began to rise.

  By then the rider was close enough. A single bound brought him to the rocks. He had already selected the one he wanted. As large as a melon, with a jagged edge, it was perfect. He had it in his hands and over his head before the broomstick awoke to his presence.

  “What in tarnation?” the cowboy blurted, his eyes widening. He clawed for his pistol, but it was much too late and he was much too slow.

  The rider brought the rock crashing down. It caught the cowboy across the forehead, caving in his skull and bursting his brain like overripe fruit. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

  Tossing the bloody rock into the spring, the rider hoisted the body and pushed it into the water, head-first. He deliberately left the puncher’s boots sticking out, so someone would spot them.

  Hurrying into the brush, the rider replaced his spurs and snatched up his Winchester. Retrieving the zebra dun took only a few moments. The bottle he had bought at the Wolf Pass Saloon was in one of his saddlebags. Taking it out, the rider returned to the spring, opened it, and laid it at the water’s edge. Satisfied with his handiwork, he swung onto the zebra dun. As he rode past the corral, the horses stared at him. He winked at them.

  “I hope the rest are as easy.”

  Chapter 2

  The second rider came from the south. He used the Old Spanish Trail, once part of a network of trails established by Spain’s intrepid explorers and colonizers to take them to remote mines and missions.

  The second rider was different from the first. Where the big man who stopped at Wolf Pass was dark and somber, the second rider was friendly and cheerful. Macario Hijino always smiled. He smiled every minute of every day. He smiled when he ate; he smiled when he talked; he smiled when he rode; he smiled when he walked. He smiled when he killed, too, and to Hijino, killing was the most enjoyable part of life. As a boy, he had liked to kill snakes and toads and scorpions and every other small creature he could catch, including, on several occasions, family cats. He saw it as only natural that once he grew into manhood he would continue to kill, and what did it matter if those he slew walked on two legs and called themselves human?

  Hijino dressed to match his disposition. His sombrero was the best he could afford, worn tilted at the back to lend a certain dash to his appearance. His Spanish-style saddle and bridle were decorated with silver, as was his hatband, his belt, and his chaparreras. An amigo once joked that Hijino was a living silver mine, and Hijino had to admit he did love his silver. He flashed in the sun with brilliant gleams of light, and made a striking impression on all he met. Hijino liked it that way.

  Next to killing and silver, Hijino’s other passions in life were his white caballo, Blanco, his pearl-handled Colt, and money. Hijino spent money like he was the richest man in all of Mexico. Only he was not rich, and in order to go on spending, he had to obtain money by any and all means he could. Some of those means were illegal, which was why the Mexican authorities were so eager to stand him in front of a firing squad.

  On this bright, gorgeous morning, Hijino rode with the easy air of someone at home in the saddle. Hijino and his white horse moved as one, in fluid synchrony, as superb an example of a caballero and his caballo as could be found south or north of the border.

  Presently Hijino came to a high ridge, and drew rein. The Rio Largo Valley unfolded before him like a flower unfolding to embrace the warmth of a new day. Hijino’s smile widened. Somewhere over the horizon was the river that gave the valley its name. Between the mountains and the river were herds of cattle, looking like so many ants from Hijino’s altitude.

  Lightly tapping his Spanish spurs against his mount, Hijino followed the Old Spanish Trail down to his destination. He adjusted his sombrero, flicked a few specks of dust from his jacket, and rode out across the valley, smiling the whole while. Soon he came upon cattle—cows so plump, Hijino imagined that if he squeezed them, they would pop like pimples.

  Soon, riders spotted him. Three broke from a herd and galloped to intercept him. Hijino reined up and waited, smiling his perpetual smile, his hands casually folded over his silver saddle horn.

  The three slowed and spread out. Their Spanish heritage was evident in their features and their attire. They were dressed much like Hijino, only their clothes were plainer, as befitted men more interested in their work than in how they looked in a mirror. They came to a stop twenty feet out, and regarded him with wary interest.

  Hijino did not feel threatened. He knew he could draw and shoot all three before they cleared their pistolas from their holsters. He was lightning with his Colt, and proud of it.

  At last the man in the middle spoke. Young and handsome, he had an air of authority. “Do you speak English?” he asked in Spanish.

  Puzzled by the question, Hijino gave the young one closer scrutiny. He had been mistaken. This one was not entirely Mexican by birth. Traces of gringo were apparent in the eyes, the hair, the face. “Sí. I speak several languages,” Hijino amiably answered. “English is but one of them.”

  The young man pushed his sombrero back on his head. “Why are you on the DP?”

  Hijino did not like the other’s tone, but he did not show his resentment. He feigned ignorance. “What is that?”

  “The best rancho in all of New Mexico,” the young man said. “It is run by my father, Dar Pierce. I am Julio, his youngest son.”

  “Ah.” Hijino continued his act. “In Mexico we do not name our ranchos after the letters of the alphabet.”

  “You are a vaquero, then?”

  “Sí, patrón. A vaquero in need of work if any is to be had.”

  “The last I heard there is no shortage of ranchos in Mexico,” Julio said with a wry grin.

  Hijino was not deceived. The young one was fishing. Many men came north a step ahead of prison, or worse. “I am not a bandido, patrón,” he said with as much sincerity as he could fake. “I am a simple worker of cows.”

  One of the other men, a moon-faced pumpkin whose fondness for food was all too apparent, chuckled good-naturedly and commented, “Madre de Dios. You must have blinded half the cows in Mexico, wearing all that silver.”

  All of them chuckled, and Hijino mentally patted himself on the back. “That is why I seek employment here in the north. All those blind cows had to be put out of their misery, and there is not enough work for an honest vaquero between the border and Mexico City.”

  The one who had spoken laughed. “An hombre after my own heart. I am Paco.” He jerked a thumb at the third man. “This other one is Roman. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  “Should I?”

  “Roman has more than a small reputation as a pistolero ,” Paco revealed. “When Señor Pierce needs cow thieves and outlaws disposed of, he always calls on Roman.”

  Hijino’s interest perked. All the more so because Roman was not wearing a gun belt. Slight bulges under Roman’s black jacket explained the mystery. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Maybe you will honor me some time by showing me how good you are. I am only a fair shot, myself,” he lied.

  Roman’s right hand blurred, and a short-barreled, ivory-handled Colt appeared as if out of thin air.

  “Is that good enough for you?” Paco chortled.

  Hijino was impressed, but not overly so. It had been so long since he met anyone who could rival him that it was too much to expect he had met one now. He shammed mock amazement. “You must be the fastest pistolero in New Mexico.”

  Roman’s hand blurred a second time, and the Colt disappeared under his black jacket. “Would that it were true.”

  “There is someone faster?”

  It was Paco who replied. “Sí. His name is Jesco. He rides for the Circle T. Each year they finish first and second in the pistol competition.”

  “I am always second,” Roman said.

  “The what?” Hijino could not wait to meet this Jesco. He almost wished he had been sent to the Circle T.

  “Each year the two ranches hold a rodeo,” Paco explained. “There are roping and riding contests. Shooting matches, too. Jesco always wins the pistol match. He is not human, that one.”

  Julio Pierce stirred, and said in Spanish, “Enough about pistols and shooting. We are cowmen, and cows are what matter.” He switched to English. “You are welcome to come with us to the ranch house, if you like. My father does the hiring, and he is always on the lookout for good men.”

  “I would be most grateful,” Hijino assured him in Spanish. Something in Julio’s expression compelled him to repeat it in English. He sensed he was being tested, although why it should be so important for their vaqueros to speak English, he could not begin to guess.

  “Let us go, then.” Julio reined to the north.

  Gigging Blanco, Hijino came up next to the sorrel and paced it, saying offhandedly, “It seems to me that you have a most marvelous rancho, senor.”

  “It is my father’s ranch, not mine,” Julio said, and went on to proudly extol the DP’s virtues.

  Hijino was already familiar with them. Approximately ten thousand head of cattle, and all the water the ranch could need, thanks to the Rio Largo. The valley was an oasis of plenty in the midst of the semiarid mountains. Every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold, or, to be more exact, worth its weight in beef. Julio finished, and Hijino commented, “But surely you are part owner, being the son?”

  For an instant a frown curled the young man’s mouth. “I am but one of three sons. When my father dies, he will undoubtedly divide the ranch between us and our sisters.”

  Without thinking, Hijino blundered. He said, “Three brothers and two sisters. But one-fifth of something is better than nothing, eh?”

  Julio shot him a sharp glance. “How did you know?”

  “Senor?”

  “That I have two sisters. I did not mention how many.”

  Hijino became conscious that Paco and Roman were staring at him. Suppressing a stab of nerves, he shrugged and said, “The name Pierce. I have heard it before. Your ranch is well spoken of on both sides of the border.”

  “Rightly so!” Paco unwittingly came to Hijino’s rescue. “The DP turns out the finest cattle anywhere.”

  “I suppose my family is well known,” Julio said, but he did not sound happy about it. “My brothers Steve and Armando have made many cattle drives into Mexico to sell our beef.”

  “Steve?” Hijino said.

  “He takes more after our father than our mother,” Julio said. “My father named him after his father. Armando is named after my mother’s grandfather.”

  “Who are you named after?”

  “I was a coin toss.” Julio laughed lightly. “My father wanted to name me John, and my mother wanted to name me Julio. Since they could not agree, they had Berto toss a coin, and my mother won.”

  “Berto?”

  “Our caporal. Our foreman. He has been with my father from the beginning. He is most capable.”

  So Hijino had heard. But he would jump that hurdle when he came to it. Now that he had actually seen the valley with his own eyes, he was fully committed to his part in the plot, come what may.

  Cattle were everywhere. Fat, contented cattle worth a fortune in themselves. All of the cowhands were of Hispanic extraction, an expected advantage for Hijino. It was easier to turn people against one another when race was the issue.

  Bathed in sunshine, the hacienda could be seen from a long way off. Small wonder, since the valley floor was essentially a broad, flat plain, broken only by the Rio Largo, which slashed the valley from the northwest to the southeast.

  The buildings were adobe, except for the stable. They reminded Hijino of the ranchos he had worked south of the border before he took to living outside the law. Vaqueros and others bustled about at various tasks. A heavyset blacksmith was fixing a wagon wheel. Two other men were winching bales of hay into the hayloft.

  The casa grande was everything Hijino expected—a magnificent house, as stately as it was imposing. Julio rode straight to the portico and dismounted. Almost immediately, an old servant came out to take Julio’s reins.

  Since Paco and Roman stayed on their horses, Hijino did the same. He must be careful not to overstep himself.

  Two more men came out of the house. One was a tall gringo with a bony face, his hair gray at the temples. He had a casual manner about him. He wore common work clothes and a sombrero rather than a typical gringo hat. He did not wear a revolver. “Hola, son,” he said softly, and warmly embraced Julio.

  Hijino was amused. This was the famous and feared Dar Pierce? The gringo who had braved countless hardships to build the DP from empty grassland? Hijino almost laughed. Then he noticed the second man studying him, and his instincts warned him that the hurdle was upon him sooner than he had imagined it would be.

  The second man was a short, stocky Mexican, with a body as square as an adobe brick and a face that made Hijino think of a fox. Intelligence glistened in the man’s dark eyes. To be under his gaze was like being under a magnifying glass. Hijino inwardly shook off the feeling that the man could see right through him.

  Julio and Dar Pierce had exchanged words, and now Dar stepped to the end of the porch. “My son tells me you are looking for work.”

  “Sí, patrón,” Hijino said with the utmost civility.

  “He also tells me you speak English.”

  “Yes, I do. Quite well, señor. Is that important?” Hijino used the most perfect English of which he was capable.

  “At most ranches, no,” Dar said. “But at the DP all the hands speak both. It has to do with my wife and I being from two different cultures. I speak both and so does she.”

  “I see,” Hijino said, although he did not really see at all.

  “I happen to be in need of an experienced hand,” Dar said. “But I never hire anyone without putting them to the test. You have a month to show your worth—at full pay, of course—and if you pass muster, you can stay on as long as you like.”

  “Gracias, señor. I mean, thank you, sir.”

  Dar motioned. “Save your gratitude. It won’t be easy. My men earn their pay the hard way. They work for it.” He nodded at the fox beside him. “My foreman, Berto, has the final say. It’s him you must impress.”

  “I will try my best, señor,” Hijino promised. He looked at Berto and resorted to his most charming smile, but it had no effect.

  “The rules are simple,” Berto said. “Do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. No drinking at the rancho unless it is a special occasion. No cursing, either, in the presence of the señora and the señoritas. Behave yourself and we will get along.”

  “I rarely drink,” Hijino said, “and I never swear, senor.”

  “Never?” Berto repeated skeptically.

  “I have my mother to thank. My father died when I was young and she raised me by herself. She was very religious. She went to church twice a day, and three times on Sunday.” Hijino did not add that he grew so tired of her constant nagging to get him to go with her that one night he slit her throat and fed her to the hogs.

  Chapter 3

  “The socializing will be fun.”

  Kent Tovey gave rise to mild exasperation. “It’s called a rodeo, dear,” he responded across the breakfast table. “The men take it quite seriously.” Of average height and build, there was nothing remarkable about him except his chin, which jutted like an anvil. He hated his chin as he hated few other things.

  In the act of buttering a muffin, Nancy Tovey paused. “Too seriously, if you ask me. One of these years, the competition will end in violence. Mark my words.”

  “Don’t I always listen to you?” Kent knew it was a mistake the moment he uttered the words.

  “Don’t patronize me. You know how I detest being patronized. Just because I was born and raised in New York does not make me ignorant. And need I remind you that you were born there, too?”

  Kent sighed and sat back. His wife of three decades taxed his self-control at times. No, he did not need to be reminded. He remembered his upbringing vividly; the pleasant years of growing up in New York City, the decision to follow in his father’s footsteps and go into business, the mercantile he ran until a chance encounter filled his head with visions of the fabulous opportunities awaiting the intrepid on the frontier. His move to Texas, and then, years later, uprooted to New Mexico Territory. Now here he was, in his forties and the owner of one of the largest and most profitable ranches in the Southwest. A success by any measure.

  There were those who had warned Kent he would fail. His father, for instance, labeled leaving New York foolhardy. “What do you know about cows? You were reared in the city, not on a farm.”