Rio Largo

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.

“I’m ready.”

Jesco snapped out of his reverie. “Took you long enough,” he grumbled, and swung onto the bay’s hurricane deck.

“Shucks, if there was a saddlin’ contest at the rodeo, I’d win hands down,” Timmy retorted.

Jesco rode northeast. The sun was high in a bright sky, and a vagrant breeze stirred his long hair.

“The arroyo again?” Timmy asked.

“Where else?” It was where Jesco usually went. Close to the ranch buildings, but not so close that Mrs. Tovey would hear. She was a good woman, but she had an unreasonable dislike for firearms. More than once she had commented on how if it were up to her, she would make the world a better place by causing all the guns to disappear. Which had to be the silliest notion Jesco ever heard. Nance liked to say that guns had no useful purpose, but tell that to a man cornered by Apaches, or to the poor soul a grizzly wanted to dine on.

“The rest will be jealous,” Timmy said. “Only Walt has ever seen you do it. Everyone else would love to watch you practice.”

“Would they, now?” Jesco said sourly.

It was lost on the stripling. “You can’t blame them for bein’ curious. Folks are still talkin’ about that no-account you bucked out in gore a couple of years ago. Demp says he saw it, and he says you pulled your hogleg so fast, he never saw you draw.”

“If the truth was coal, Demp would never need to wash his hands,” Jesco remarked. “He wasn’t in the saloon that night.” Nor any other puncher that Jesco could recollect. It was just as well. They would only talk about it more, otherwise.

“Dunn was askin’ about it the other night in the bunkhouse,” Timmy offhandedly mentioned.

“Oh?”

“That, and your other shootin’ affrays. He’s naturally curious, as most any gent would be.”

Jesco did not respond. But Lafe Dunn was part of the reason he was practicing today. He had seen the look in Dunn’s eyes, that look that always warned him. Dunn tried to hide it, but it was plain to Jesco.

“I like him,” Timmy chattered on. “He never pokes fun at me like some of the others. And he sure can work cows. Clayburn says Dunn is one of the best cutters he’s ever seen.”

“That’s nice,” Jesco said.

“He won’t talk about his past much, though. He’s like you, I reckon, in that regard,” Timmy complained. “I swear that pryin’ details out of you is like pryin’ out a tooth.”

“The words you don’t say can’t come back to haunt you.”

“What in tarnation does that mean? I say a lot of words, and they never do me any harm. How can it hurt to talk about the lead-chuckin’ you’ve done?”

Jesco sought to enlighten him. “Brags always lead to more bullets, and I’ve no hankerin’ after an early grave.”

“Don’t even pretend you’re scared of dyin’,” Timmy said. “You’ve got more sand than everyone in the outfit put together.”

“You’re layin’ it on a mite thick,” Jesco scolded. “Every puncher at the Circle T would do to ride the river with.”

“Maybe so. But you’re the only one who’s put windows in the skulls of half a dozen hombres.” Timmy sighed wistfully. “That sure would be somethin’ to see.”

Jesco did not mince his reaction. “You’re a damned fool, boy. Killin’ is no cause for crowin’. It leaves a bitter taste deep down. You can’t shake it, and you can’t ever forget.”

“Do you think Dunn has ever made wolf meat of anyone?”

“Why do you ask?” Jesco was willing to bet a year’s wages that Dunn had killed. He had run into Dunn’s type before.

Timmy shrugged. “Just a feelin’ I have. Ever notice his Colt has black pearl grips? They’re expensive, aren’t they?”

“Very.”

“How come you never fancy yours up like that? Pearl or ivory grips, maybe some etching on the barrel or the cylinder?”

Jesco tried yet again. “A pretty pistol doesn’t make takin’ a life any prettier.” He had to get through to the boy, had to make him see that throwing lead was an invitation to Boot Hill. But the boy had the trigger itch, and had it bad.

“You say the strangest things,” Timmy said. “I only hope to God I’m there to see it the next time you slap leather on someone.”

Jesco came close to cuffing him. “I hope to God you’re not. No more talk about killin’ now, or back you go.”

“No need to get mad.”

Yes, there was. Jesco would not stand for having his past glorified. He took no delight in what he had done. On the contrary. “We chop our own wood, Tim. Just you remember that.”

“There you go again. I swear, half the time you talk in riddles.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

The valley floor was so flat, the grass so high, that unless someone knew exactly where the arroyo was, they could pass within fifty feet of it and not realize it was there. As was his custom, Jesco reined up on the south rim. He dismounted, rummaged in his saddlebags for a picket pin, and picketed the bay. “You would do well to do the same.”

“I don’t have a pin.” Timmy let the sorrel’s reins dangle. “Never much saw the need.”

“You will the first time a horse runs off on you,” Jesco predicted. Again he rummaged in his saddlebags until he found the box of ammunition. Then he ambled into the arroyo and hiked east several hundred feet to where it widened. Bits and shards of broken glass and a dozen or so rusted cans pock-marked with bullet holes littered the north bank. In a burlap bag lying at the bottom of the south slope were bottles and cans he brought out last time but had not used.

“Want me to set them up for you?” Timmy offered.

Jesco bent and gripped the bag. As he started to lift it, an ominous rattling turned him to stone. From under the bag slid a blunt, triangular head. A forked tongue darted out.

“A rattler!” Timmy cried.

Brownish splotches rippling, the rattlesnake slowly slithered from underneath. It was a large one, big and thick around as Jesco’s forearm.

“Shoot it!”

Jesco admired the play of light on the scales. The snake moved with a sinuous grace that was marvelous to behold.

“Didn’t you hear me? Shoot it before it bites you!” Timmy clawed for his revolver, and in his excitement nearly dropped it. His forearm shaking, he pointed the six-shooter at the serpent. “Hold still.”

“No,” Jesco said.

“What?”

“Let it be. It hasn’t hurt us, and we won’t hurt it unless it coils.” Jesco firmed his hold on the burlap bag in order not to drop it. Two feet of rattler was visible, with more unwinding.

“It’s just a snake!” Timmy squawked in disbelief. “I can make a necklace of the rattles, like I saw an Indian wear once.”

“No. The snake has as much right to live as you or me.”

Severely disappointed, Timmy jerked his arm down, and shoved his Colt into his holster. “If this don’t beat all. Do you spare scorpions and wasps, too? I hope I’m not as squeamish when I’m your age.”

“Nine years can make a lot of difference in a person’s outlook,” Jesco said. They had made a huge difference in his.

“I could live to be fifty, and I’d still shoot every damn rattler I came across,” Timmy declared. “What if that one bites a cow or a horse? It will be on your shoulders.”

“When was the last time we had a snakebit cow?”

Timmy pondered a bit before he irritably responded. “Never, that I can recollect, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Rattlers bite animals and people all the time.”

Jesco could only think of two instances his whole life. The first had been a childhood friend who poked a stick into a snake den. The second had been a horse that stepped on a diamondback sunning itself. “Careless people and critters, mostly,” he observed.

The snake had stopped rattling, and was crawling off into the grass.

Timmy pushed his hat back. “For your sake, I won’t tell anyone about this. It’s downright embarrassin’.”

Jesco opened the burlap bag and carefully upended it. Bottles and cans tumbled and tinkled at his feet. He shook the bag to verify it was empty, then tossed it aside and began setting up targets. Timmy helped.

“How old were you when you shot your first man?”

“You know better,” Jesco said. He had been the same age as Timmy. If he had that day to live over again, he would light a shuck for parts unknown rather than take that drunk’s life.

“I can’t help bein’ curious. But if you still don’t want to tell me, fine. It’s not as if I plan to go to San Pedro and gun down the citizenry.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Jesco stepped back and willed his body to relax. Tension slowed the reflexes and spoiled a man’s aim.

Timmy had moved to one side, and was waiting in rigid expectancy.

Jesco focused on a tin can. He did not think about what he was going to do, he just did it. He drew and fired from the hip, and the can catapulted skyward. At the apex of its arc he fired again, and the can clattered down the slope and rolled to a stop.

“Woo-eee!,” Timmy whooped. “That was some shootin’!” He scooted to the can and held it up. “Dead center, both shots! How do you do it?”

“Practice.” Jesco commenced replacing the cartridges.

Timmy stuck the tip of a finger into one of the holes. “I could practice from now until forever and still not be as good as you.”

“Why would you want to be? There are more important things to be good at. Look at the big sugar. His own ranch. A fine herd. A fine woman. Do somethin’ worthwhile with your life. Be a rancher or a doctor or own a business. Don’t live by the gun.”

“You must rate me stupid,” Timmy said. “I’m not Billy the Kid. I like bein’ a cowboy. Sure, I wouldn’t mind bein’ slick with a hogleg, but not to kill folks. It’d just be so I could do as you’re doin’ now.”

“Don’t ever change,” Jesco said. To some, the lure of the gun was irresistible. He had been fortunate in that his ma raised him to do to others as he would have them do to him. As a result, his conscience had plagued him terribly after that first shooting, and every shooting since.

“I’d be obliged for another lesson,” Timmy said.

“You’ve had enough.”

“Not when I miss more than I hit what I’m aiming at,” Timmy protested. “Not when molasses moves faster.”

Jesco had him stand facing a bottle with his arms limp at his sides. “Thumb back the hammer as you draw, so when you clear leather all you have to do is squeeze the trigger.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Timmy said. His gaze roved to where they had left their horses. “Say, looks like we’ve got company. Where did he come from?”

Jesco turned.

Strolling toward them was Lafe Dunn.