Rio Largo

Chapter 23

The Rio Largo had always divided the ranches, a natural barrier that conveniently defined their common border.

Kent Tovey sometimes thought that the only reason the Circle T ended up with more land than the DP was because there was more land north of the river than south of it. Kent would not have minded if it were the other way around. The land did not matter as much as the river.

Without the Rio Largo, neither ranch would exist. It not only ran through the heart of the valley, it was the valley’s heart, its very sustenance. Without the life-giving nourishment of the ever-flowing water, the lush green grass would brown and wither. Without the Rio Largo, there would not be enough graze to feed a herd of goats, let alone huge herds of cattle.

So Kent always thought fondly of the Rio Largo, and looked forward to those occasions when he had an excuse to ride along its banks or cross over to visit the DP.

But not today.

Kent dreaded the crossing. Once on the other side, the Circle T hands would be in what had become enemy territory. The friendship, the good graces of the Pierce family, had been replaced by implacable hatred. How else to explain Nance’s murder? Julio was to blame, but Julio would never act without the knowledge and consent of his brothers. The Pierces were as tight-knit as a hill clan. Dar had seen to that; he raised them to depend on one another, to be loyal to the family as well as the brand.

Kent missed Dar. Almost as much as he missed Nance. Many an evening, he and Dar had sat sipping brandy or whiskey and sharing stories of their early years and their dreams for the future.

Dar had entertained the hope that his sons would take over the DP, once Dar was ready to hang up his spurs and spend his days in the rocking chair in front of the hearth. Dar had been getting on in years, but it would have been a decade or more before he was ready to put himself out to pasture. Now he would never get to enjoy those waning years, and the sense of accomplishment that came from a man making a success of his life.

Kent had always been proud of his own success. The Circle T was no small thing. It had taken near superhuman perseverance to wrest a working ranch from the forces of nature and the financial pitfalls that conspired to destroy his dreams. Disease, poor markets, bad winters, all had brought him to the brink of ruin at one time or another. Always, he stuck it out, and in the end he had a ranch that was the envy of the territory.

Now the Circle T teetered on the brink again. This time, the forces arrayed against him were his former friends. The hands he once shook so warmly had stabbed him in the back.

Kent could forgive most any affront. He would have been willing to overlook harsh words spoken in the heat of anger. He would even have excused a few shooting affrays, if worse came to worst. But he could never forgive them for Nance. She had been everything to him. As the Rio Largo was the valley’s heart, so was Nance his. To lose her was worse than losing an arm or a leg. It was like having his heart cut out. Hers had been the pulse that beat for both of them, and with her gone, he felt lifeless and drained.

“Sweet Nance,” Kent said softly as he led his punchers toward the glistening ribbon that was the Rio Largo.

“Did you say somethin’, Mr. Tovey?” Clayburn asked.

Embarrassed, Kent shook his head. He must get over his grief. He needed all his wits about him when he confronted the Pierces. He already had worked out what he would say. They must hand over Julio. That was first and foremost, a condition on which he would not relent. Then they must give their word that all hostilities would cease, and from that day on, never cross north of the Rio Largo without informing him of their intent beforehand.

Kent had explained his terms to Clayburn earlier, and his foreman had looked at him askance, and commented that in his estimation the Pierces were getting off too easy.

“What else would you have me do?” Kent had responded. “Wipe them from the face of the earth?”

“I reckon that wouldn’t do, either,” Clayburn had said. “I’m just glad it’s your decision and not mine.”

Life was all about decisions. About making the right one at the right time, because the wrong one invariably resulted in regrets. Kent did not have many regrets. At the top of his list was being unable to have children. He had no heir. He’d always assumed he would die before his wife, since women generally lived longer than men, and leave the ranch to her. Now she was gone. There was really only one other person he could leave it to. Only one person with a blood tie who was worthy to take over the Circle T.

Kent gave a toss of his head. He would handle that after he settled with the Pierces.

“Look yonder, Mr. Tovey,” Clayburn said.

Kent spied movement at the middle crossing, men milling about on the Circle T’s side of the river. A lot of riders, nearly all wearing wide-brimmed sombreros, and others on foot.

“Do you reckon it’s the DP outfit?”

At the question, grim murmurings spread. The punchers were eager to avenge Nancy.

“It must be,” Kent said. His eyes narrowed. They appeared to be moving bodies. The logical conclusion was that the bodies were his own men, caught by surprise and gunned down. “Who did you send to guard that crossing?”

“Timmy Loring.”

Kent’s breath caught in his throat. Surely fate could not be so cruel, he told himself. But then, fate, being fate, had no regard for humankind. “Only Timmy?”

“One man for each crossing, exactly as you told me,” Clayburn said.

Kent glanced over his shoulder at the punchers strung out in his wake. Only two were missing. Allowing that one of the bodies was Timmy’s, where did the rest of the bodies come from? Had Timmy given a good account of himself before the vaqueros filled him with lead? Timmy wasn’t Jesco, but when a man’s life was in the balance, he liked to take as many of his enemies with him as he could.

One of the vaquero’s yelled and pointed at them.

Kent slowed. The Circle T outnumbered the DP, but he would not throw away the lives of his hands needlessly if he could help it.

“My God! Are those women?”

At Clayburn’s exclamation, Kent looked again. He recognized Steve Pierce by Steve’s clothes. Armando was next to him. Nearby sat two hourglass figures in riding habits, holding quirts. “Dolores and Trella, the sisters.”

“What in hell are Steve and his brothers thinkin’?” Clayburn said. “Females shouldn’t be involved in this. It’s not right.”

“They always stick together,” Kent reminded him.

“Range wars should be left to the menfolk. It’s bad enough without women dyin’.” Clayburn caught himself, and said sheepishly, “Sorry, Mr. Tovey.”

“That’s all right,” Kent lied. The remark had seared him like a sword. Nance. Oh, Nance.

“How do we handle this?”

They were almost within rifle range. The Pierces and their vaqueros were scattering in among the trees.

Kent raised an arm, and brought his small army to a halt. He reached back for his saddlebags, and then remembered he did not have his telescope. Which reminded him. “Where is Jesco when we need him?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Clayburn admitted. “Shonsey saw him run from the stable to the corral and light a shuck west. Shonsey hollered, askin’ where he was headin’, but Jesco didn’t answer. By the time Shonsey fetched me, Jesco was out of sight.”

“Damned peculiar,” Kent said. Jesco was usually as dependable as the seasons. He shrugged. “Oh well. He’ll show when he shows. We can get by without him.” He said that for the benefit of the men behind him, waiting expectantly for their orders. “Have everyone dismount.”

Jack Demp was fidgeting like he had ants in his britches. “We could charge them, Mr. Tovey. Like the cavalry.”

“Across open ground, and right into their gun sights?” Kent shook his head. “We would be slaughtered. No, we’ll stay out of range and wait to see what they do.” He slid down and stretched, glad for the reprieve from riding. He was not as spry as he used to be. These days, an hour in the saddle, and he ached in places he did not normally hurt.

Clayburn was issuing instructions. “Floyd, you and Charley take care of the horses. The saddles stay on, in case we need them in a hurry. Shonsey, get a fire goin’ and put coffee on. Somethin’ tells me we’ll be here a while.” Clayburn pointed at three punchers, one after the other. “Mel, Carver, and Tilden. I want you to take your rifles and crawl fifty yards closer to the river, to keep an eye on things. Stay down, so they don’t spot you. Mel, you go to the right. Carver, to the west. If they try to sneak up on us, give a holler.”

The cowboys hustled to obey.

Kent began to pace, to relieve the stiffness in his legs. It was a good thing they had come along when they did. If he were still back in the parlor, moaning over his loss, the Pierces could have surrounded the buildings under the cover of darkness, and in the morning, when his hands filed from the bunkhouse to the cookhouse for breakfast, picked them off as easily as clay targets.

Kent shuddered. He must not make that mistake again, not let his grief affect his judgement. His men depended on him, and he must not let them down.

“Poor Timmy must be dead,” Clayburn commented. “Odds are they caught him nappin’.”

“Another life they must answer for,” Kent said. The last one, if he had anything to do with it.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” Clayburn said. “Steve Pierce is a good friend. Or was. Armando and me got along well, too. Maybe my grandpa was right.”

“Your grandpa?”

“”He was a cantankerous old cuss. Soured on life from the day he was born. Nothin’ was ever good enough. No one ever measured up.” Clayburn paused. “Anyway, he never had any friends, never seemed to want any, so one day when I was about ten, I asked him why. He laughed and said that they weren’t worth the bother. That friendship was only skin deep, and given half an excuse, so-called friends would turn into enemies. I never believed him.”

Kent refused to believe it, too. He hunkered down, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck the stem between his teeth. The sun was about to set. Once it did, he would give the order to close in.

“I’ve heard of feuds like this,” Clayburn went on, “but never taken part in one. Always figured all the killin’ was senseless. But after what they did to Mrs. Tovey—” He glanced down. “There I go again, shootin’ off my blamed mouth. Maybe I should sew it shut until this is over.”

“I can’t stop thinking about her, either,” Kent admitted. But he had to, for all their sakes. He stood back up. The three sentries were well out in the grass, wriggling on their stomachs like oversized lizards.

“Do you reckon maybe Steve and his brothers planned this all along?” Clayburn asked. “To take over the entire valley, I mean? Julio never was too happy about you layin’ claim to the other half.”

The possibility stunned Kent. He had taken it for granted that Dar’s sons shared Dar’s outlook, and that there were no hard feelings. But now that Clayburn mentioned it, he recalled a few comments the brothers had made. Little things, like Steve saying how the DP could triple its income if they owned the north half as well as the south. Or Armando, commenting that if it had been up to him, he would have fenced off the entire valley long before Kent came. Or Julio, always so touchy about the Mexican half of his heritage, always so critical of everything and anything from north of the border. Had their true feelings been there in front of him the whole time, and he had been too blind to see it? Kent took the blade of grass from his mouth and crushed it. His stupidity had cost Nancy her life.

“They didn’t keep us waitin’ long,” Clayburn said.

Kent glanced toward the Rio Largo. A vaquero on horseback was heading their way, holding a trimmed branch with a strip of white cloth tied to the end. “No one is to shoot. Spread the word.”

“Yes, sir.”

The vaquero was smiling. The fading sunlight gleamed off silver conchas on the man’s belt, hat, saddle, and bridle, and his saddle horn and stirrups looked to be part silver.

“That’s the one they call Hijino,” Clayburn said. “I don’t know much about him. He’s new.”

Bristling with weapons, Demp and Shonsey and other hands formed a semicircle around Kent and the foreman. “I’d like to see him try somethin’,” Demp said. “We’ll send him back belly down.”

“No shooting,” Kent stressed.

Hijino had his arms out from his sides. He passed Tilden, who rose on his knees and covered him. As casually as if he were enjoying a Sunday ride, Hijino came on until he was ten yards out, then drew rein. “Buenas tardes, Senor Tovey.”

“What I can do for you?” Kent demanded.

“The patrón sent me. Steve Pierce. He would like to parley, as you gringos say. He will ride out halfway to meet you. Him, Armando, and one vaquero. They will be unarmed, but the vaquero will not. Señor Pierce says that you may bring two men with you, but only one may be armed. All they want is to talk.”

“Don’t trust them, boss,” Jack Demp urged.

“Steve Pierce gives his word, señor,” Hijino said. “Julio’s death has shaken him. He loved his brother very much.”

Kent was incredulous. “Julio is dead?” He glanced at Clayburn. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it, Mr. Tovey.”

Leaning on his saddle horn, Hijino said, “What do I tell the patron? Will you meet with them under a flag of truce?”

“Don’t do it,” Shonsey said. “I don’t trust them.”

All eyes were on Kent. He sensed that he was about to make a decision that could decide the outcome. Would it be more bloodshed, or peace? “I have no choice. Fetch my horse.”

Hijino’s smile widened. “You will not regret it, senor.”