Rio Largo

Chapter 30

“That’s not a good sign,” Timmy Loring said.

Buzzards circled in the azure sky. The Rio Largo was a glistening blue-green ribbon visible through gaps in the vegetation that fringed its banks.

John Jesco rose in the stirrups. He smelled smoke. Wisps rose from among the trees. He was about to gig his mount when he spied a long row of bodies laid shoulder to shoulder. Bodies of cowboys and vaqureos, both.

“Look at all of them!” Timmy exclaimed.

A puncher named Johnson appeared, his leg bandaged, a shovel in hand. He shouted something over his shoulder, and as they brought their horses to a stop, Walt Clayburn strode tiredly out to meet them.

“Thank God. I was beginnin’ to think the two of you had met your Maker. Most everyone else has.”

“Is that Shonsey?” Timmy asked, pointing at the old cook, aghast at the hole in Shonsey’s forehead. “And next to him, Jack Demp?”

“Only five of us are left,” Clayburn said. “We’ve been diggin’ graves all mornin’, and we’re not half done. It will take a month of Sundays for the blisters to heal.”

Jesco swung down. “Mr. Tovey?”

“Wrapped in a blanket in the shade. He asked to be planted next to his wife. We’ll take him back tomorrow.” Clayburn removed his hat, and wiped his sleeve across his heavily perspiring face. “You should have been here. We needed you.”

“I had problems of my own.” Jesco briefly recounted his clash with the would-be rustlers.

“Damn, you were lucky,” Clayburn declared.

The next body to be buried was that of a vaquero, a handsome man, shot multiple times. His hands were on his chest. So were a pair of pearl-handled, short-barreled Colts.

“How many did Roman take with him?” Jesco asked.

“Six, damn him. He was hell on wheels. We put bullet after bullet into him, but he wouldn’t go down until he was shot to ribbons, and when he did go down, he didn’t stop shooting until he took enough lead to sink a sternwheeler. I never saw anything like it.”

“Any get away?”

“The two sisters left early on with that one they call Hijino. Another vaquero lit out after the scrape. He was hurt, but he made it to a horse, and I didn’t have it in me to shoot him in the back.” Clayburn stared glumly at the row of bodies. “I never want to shoot another person as long as I live.”

Jesco climbed back on the bay.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“To finish it.”

Timmy Loring turned to his mount, saying, “Wait for me!”

“No, you don’t.” Walt Clayburn snagged the younger man’s arm, and shook his head. “You’re stayin’, sir.”

“Let go, you big ox,” Timmy said. “And since when do my betters address me as sir?”

“Since you became the new owner of the Circle T.” Clayburn produced a folded sheet of paper. “Read this. It will explain.” To Jesco, Clayburn said, “He’s Tovey’s nephew. Kept it a secret so we wouldn’t treat him special.”

“This is Kent’s last will and testament!” Timmy marveled. “My God. He’s left everything to me. How could he do that? He never mentioned anything to me.”

“Kin is kin,” Clayburn said.

“Wait a minute.” A gleam came into Timmy’s eyes. “If I’m the new rod, then I give the orders. So I can go with Jesco if I want.”

“No, you can’t,” Clayburn responded. “Mr. Tovey didn’t write it down, but he told me to look after you, to point out when you’re makin’ mistakes, and keep you out of trouble. Well, it would be a mistake for you to tag along. You’re liable to get yourself shot, and then the Circle T won’t have any owner at all.”

Timmy’s features betrayed the inner struggle between his immaturity and his new responsibilities. “Very well,” he reluctantly relented. “My first order as the new big sugar is for Jesco to hunt down the last son of a bitch to blame for all of this and kill him dead as dead can be.”

“I reckon I’ll like havin’ you as the new boss,” Jesco said. He meant it. Loring was green as grass, but he was sincere and eager to learn. There was also the fact that it hammered the final nail into the coffin of Timmy’s wish to become a leather slapper.

Jesco forded the river, and rode south at a measured pace. He had a lot of miles to cover, and it wouldn’t do to arrive at the Pierce spread with the bay exhausted. He thought about the sisters. He never knew them that well. He had swapped pleasantries with the older girl once at a rodeo. Dolores was always friendly, but the younger girl, Trella, tended to put on airs. Not that he resented her for that. People were entitled to their delusions.

When the adobe buildings finally hove into sight, Jesco drew rein, and verified he had six pills in the wheel. He spun the Colt forward and back, flipped it and caught it by the grips, and spun it some more. Satisfied that his hand was limber, he twirled the Colt into its holster, and rode past the outbuildings and the stable to the grand house.

No one came to greet him. No shouts rang out. A lathered horse stood near the portico. To the southeast were tendrils of dust.

Jesco dismounted, and started for the door. In the shadows lay the body of a vaquero. The man had been shot twice in the chest, older wounds rimmed by dry blood—wounds from the river battle, Jesco suspected. A third wound was fresher. Someone had put a pistol to the man’s forehead and blown his brains out.

Out of habit, Jesco went to the door and knocked. There was no response. Surely not, he told himself. Not the sisters, too. But then he realized Hijino had no way of knowing about Saber and the others. No way of knowing that killing Dolores and Trella would be pointless.

Jesco opened the door, and pushed. The hall was narrow and cool. His spurs jingled, but he did not take them off. The parlor was the first room he came to. He blinked, and blinked again, his stomach churning. Trella had put on airs, but she hadn’t deserved this. Steeling himself, he went over and pulled her dress down around her ankles.

He went from room to room. The slaughter sickened him. Out of respect, he covered each body with a blanket. He hesitated before covering the cook. Her insides seemed to cover half the floor. Careful not to step on her innards, he swung a blanket so it covered her face and chest. The smell got to him. The sweetly sickening reek of fluids that were supposed to be in a human body, not out of them. Jesco went out the back door and leaned on the post, breathing deep.

Jesco repeated Timmy’s orders. “Hunt down the last son of a bitch to blame for all of this and kill him as dead as dead can be.” Squaring his shoulders, he went around the house to the bay and climbed on. There might be other bodies, but they could wait. The important thing was that Hijino not get away.

The dust to the southeast had been a clue. The killer was bound for San Pedro. Maybe it was where Hijino was to meet with Saber.

Jesco felt drained of emotion. The ordeal of the past twenty-four hours was like an avalanche waiting for a crack in his self-control to bring the full horror crashing down on him. He understood Walt’s loathing. There was only so much killing a person could take. A normal person, anyway. Those like Hijino were not normal. They were monsters in human form. Outwardly, they were just like everyone else, but inside they were twisted into something unnatural.

Or were they? The notion startled him. Could it be, Jesco wondered, that the violent side of human nature was as normal as the peaceful side? He shook his head in annoyance. Such pondering was better left for those who enjoyed wrestling with questions no one could ever answer. The truth of it was, normal or not, there must be an accounting. Hijino must not get away.

Usually, the lights of San Pedro brought a smile to Jesco’s lips. He always looked forward to a few drinks, and the company of friendly doves. Not tonight. He rode into town as somber as a tombstone.

Only a few people were out and about. At that hour, the general store and most of the other businesses were closed. A notable exception was the Lucky Star. Laughter and voices mingled with the tinny music of the piano and the clink of poker chips.

Jesco reined up at the hitch rail, next to a white horse with a saddle that gleamed with silver. The white horse and saddle were caked with dust. Dismounting, he wrapped the reins around the rail, then went through his ritual with his Colt.

At the batwing doors, Jesco paused. For a weekday night, the place was crowded. The bar was to his right, the tables to his left. All the tables were occupied. At most, card games were under way.

Jesco pushed on through. Something in his manner, or his face, caused those near him to take one look and back away, or whisper to those next to them. He walked past the poker tables to a table in the far corner. The sounds around him faded.

It was a few seconds before the spreading quiet made the man at the table look up from his meal. A sombrero hung down his back by the chinstrap, and he had been bent over a plate of beans, wolfing them with a spoon. He wore as much silver as the white horse. Smiling, he waited for Jesco to say something, and when Jesco didn’t, he asked, “Do you want something, señor?”

“You.”

His eyebrows knitting, the man lowered the spoon. “Do I know you, señor?”

“I know you, Hijino. Timmy Loring described you to me. He saw you kill Julio Pierce and those vaqueros.”

“Is that so?” Still smiling, Hijino placed the spoon on the table, and sat back in the chair.

“I’ve been to the Pierce ranch. I saw Dolores. I saw Trella. I saw what you did to the cook and the others.”

Complete silence gripped the saloon, save for the tick of the brass clock above the bar.

Hijino folded his arms across his chest. “You saw all that, yet you came after me? You heard about Julio, yet still you came?” His smile widened. “Either you are loco, or you have a death wish.”

“Whenever you are ready.”

Puzzlement etched Hijino’s face. Suddenly he straightened. “Ah! I have it now. You are the one they call Jesco. You have saved me the trouble of finding you when my friends and I—”

“They’re dead.”

“Who is?”

“Saber. Dunn. All the rest. I killed them, just as I’m about to kill you.” Jesco watched Hijino’s right hand. The eyes did not always give a man away. The hands, though, did.

“All of them, señor? I find that hard to believe. They are not as fast as me, but it would take more than one hombre to slay them.”

“The pleasure was mine, and no one else’s,” Jesco reiterated.

“The best lawmen in several states and territories have tried to do what you claim to have done, and could not. How do you expect me to believe you?”

“I don’t care whether you do or you don’t,” Jesco said. “The important thing is that it’s just you now. You and me.”

“Saber? A man with a scar here?” Hijino touched his cheek.

“Dead.”

“Twitch? He wears a buckskin jacket, and his mouth is never still.”

“Dead.”

“Creed?”

“Was he the black, or one of the others?”

Hijino had it, then. He finally believed. He did not swear. He did not indulge in insults. Incredibly, all he did was lean back and laugh. “This is wonderful. Most wonderful.”

“You’re the one who is loco,” Jesco said.

“You do not understand, señor. I live for moments like this. For the challenge. There is no challenge in killing old men with pitchforks or women with knitting needles. I did that for amusement.”

“Stand up.”

“Hear me out, señor. Por favor. You see, real challenges have been few. I have yet to meet my equal. They say you are quick, like me, and that delights me, because maybe, just maybe, you will prove them right. Too many times I have met hombres who were supposed to be quick, and they were turtles.”

Jesco suspected the pistolero was stalling. Hijino knew Jesco had walked into the saloon primed to draw. By talking, by dragging it out, Hijino hoped to blunt his mental edge.

“Nothing to say, eh?”

“Let’s do it,” Jesco said.

“Very well.” Smiling, always smiling, Hijino slowly rose, and just as slowly pushed the chair back with his foot. He lowered his hands to his sides and wriggled his fingers, then stood stock-still. “I am ready when you are, señor. How should we do this?

Have someone count to three? Or perhaps have someone drop a glass, and when the glass hits the floor, we draw?”

“Just you and me.”

Their eyes met and locked.

Jesco emptied his mind of everything, save that moment. When Hijino’s hand flashed down and out, his own was a mirror image. It was his Colt that boomed first, a fraction of a heartbeat before Hijino’s. He felt a searing pain even as Hijino rose onto the tips of his toes, and the taunting smile was replaced by astonishment. Then Hijino crashed onto the table, upending it, and both smashed onto the floor.

Jesco gingerly probed his shirt. The slug had taken a chunk of flesh above his hip. He was bleeding, but he would live. He walked to the bar, the onlookers scrambling out of his way. The bartender slid a bottle across, and Jesco treated himself to a long swig. “I’m obliged,” he said, and walked out. It wasn’t until he went to unwrap the reins that he realized he was still holding his Colt. He slid it into its holster, forked leather, and rode out of San Pedro without looking back.