Rio Largo

Chapter 5

Mort Decker was engaged in a battle of wits with a fly, and the ornery fly was winning. Five times Mort tried to swat it with his broom, and five times he missed. Now it was at the window, buzzing noisily as if to mock him.

“The same to you, you bug-eyed bastard,” Mort growled, and advanced with the broom held high. He hated flies. He had always hated flies. Their fondness for everything from rancid food to manure disgusted him. Flies were foul creatures, as senseless in the scheme of things as mosquitos and ticks. Mort hated them, too.

“No one can convince me the Almighty wasn’t drunk when he whipped up creation,” Mort declared for the fly’s benefit. He had given it a lot of thought over the years, and it was the only thing that explained all the pain and suffering in the world. Either that, or the Lord didn’t give a tinker’s damn.

Mort swung, and missed yet again. The fly taunted him by flying past his face and over to the bar. Mort wagged his broom. “You’re dead! Do you hear me? Just you wait!”

The fly alighted on the glass of ale Mort had been sipping. Incensed, he was about to rush headlong into the fray when hooves clattered noisily in Wolf Pass. His first thought, as always, was of Indians. Rushing behind the bar, he grabbed his scattergun and hurried to the front door. He had propped the door open earlier, which was how the fly got in. About to step outside, he stopped cold as a line of riders swept out of the forest and crossed the clearing.

Mort almost slammed and bolted the door. But some of them had seen him. Quickly backpedaling, he replaced the shotgun. It would not do to have them think he did not want them there. His heart raced, and he broke out in a cold sweat. It took every iota of self-control he possessed to smile and say calmly, “Howdy, gents,” as the first of the eight riders tramped inside.

Their leader did not return the greeting. He wore grimy clothes that matched his grimy looks. A perpetual grimace twisted his ferret face. From his right eyebrow to his chin zigzagged a bright scar. Rumor had it a settler took exception to the ferret-faced man raping the settler’s wife, so the settler, who had served in the Union cavalry during the war, took a saber to him. That was the day Rufus Jenks acquired the nickname by which he was widely known throughout New Mexico Territory and several adjoining states: Saber.

Next to enter was a vicious killer called Creed. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat and a pair of pearl-handled Remingtons, the pale hue of the grips contrasting sharply with the dusky hue of his skin. He also wore a belt knife. Creed never smiled. His eyes were as flat and inhuman as a snake’s.

After the black came Twitch, a sinewy back-shooter supposedly related somehow to Saber. He did not wear a gun belt, but had a pair of Colts tucked under a wide leather belt on the outside of a buckskin jacket. His handle stemmed from the constant nervous twitching of his mouth.

The rest were unfamiliar, but stamped in the same cruel mold. One look was enough to impress on Mort that they were not the kind any sane man trifled with. “What would you gentlemen like?”

Saber placed his hands on the counter, and snickered. “I don’t see any gentlemen around here. Do you see any gentlemen, Creed?”

“Sure don’t.” Creed was not much of a talker. He stood with his hands loose at his sides, close to his Remingtons.

“If there was a gentleman here, I’d shoot him,” Twitch said, his mouth doing its odd tic. “How about you, barkeep? Are you a gentleman?”

“Not me.” Mort was dismayed at how his voice squeaked. Coughing, he steadied his nerves and smiled. “Same as the last time?”

“Last time?” Saber repeated.

“You and a couple of others stopped here about a year ago,” Mort said. “It was late, pretty near midnight. You had a whiskey and asked if I could fix you somethin’ to eat. I rustled up eggs and ham.”

“By God, that’s right,” Saber said. “How is it you remember all that?”

Mort prided himself on his memory. He never forgot a face, or a drink that face ordered. “I have a knack.”

“You don’t say.” Saber drummed his fingers on the counter, then glanced at Creed and nodded.

What was that about? Mort wondered. If only he had the gumption to announce he was closing for the day. He would take his rifle and go off into the mountains and not come back for a week or two. By then, they would be long gone.

“Set us up,” Saber commanded. “Coffin varnish all around.”

“Yes, sir.” Mort had learned it was smart to be courteous to curly wolves. They were less apt to become riled over imagined slights. He set out glasses and filled each to the brim, making it a point to fill Saber’s first. “Is that all?”

Saber asked a strange question. “I don’t suppose you remember what I was wearin’ that night, do you?”

Mort had to think about it. “The same hat as now, a flannel shirt, and brown pants. I didn’t pay much attention to your boots.”

“Amazin’.”

“Thank you,” Mort said, and did not understand why Creed and Twitch laughed. “Are you hungry? I shot a deer yesterday and have plenty of fresh meat. Potatoes, too, if you’re partial.”

“You’re a regular marvel,” Saber said. “Venison steak would please me considerable.” He nodded at Creed and Twitch, and headed for a table. “Bring the bottle, boys. I’m fixin’ to stay a while.”

“Is that wise?” The question came from the oldest of the eight outlaws, a grizzled slab of bone and gristle with a crooked nose and a cleft chin.

Everyone except Saber stood stock-still. He cocked his head and said, “What was that, Hank?”

“With what we’re up to and all,” Hank responded. “Is it wise for us to come out into the open like this?”

“Why, Hank,” Saber said, as mildly as could be, “whatever do you mean?”

“The ranch business.”

“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Saber remarked, still as sugary as molasses. He grinned as he said it, and he was still grinning as he drew his Colt and shot Hank through the forehead. The slug blew out the back of Hank’s skull, spraying hair, bone, and blood.

Mort nearly jumped out of his boots. He had witnessed shootings before, but never one so unexpected, so sudden. Usually it was between drunks who argued and shouted and worked themselves into a rage before resorting to their hardware. He held his breath, in the fear he would be next.

Saber holstered his Colt and continued to the table. “Some of you boys drag that jackass into the woods for the wild critters to feed on.”

The bloodshed had no effect on the others. To them, the killing was a matter of course, as ordinary as swatting the fly that had eluded Mort.

“Barkeep, quit standin’ there with your mouth hangin’ open and rustle us up those steaks,” Saber directed.

“Right away.” Mort scampered to the kitchen. The back door beckoned, but if he ran they might burn his place to the ground to spite him. He kindled the embers in the stove, retrieved his butcher knife from a drawer, and went into the pantry to cut thick slabs from the haunch hanging in a corner. When he came out, he was startled to see Twitch over by the cupboard. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”

Twitch chortled. “No. My cousin just wants me to keep you company. He figured you might get lonesome.”

Mort did not like that, he did not like that at all, but he did not let on as he went about cooking their meal. He sliced potatoes, heaped them in a frying pan, and smothered them in butter. He put coffee on to brew. He also made toast.

“You do that real nice,” Twitch said as Mort was spreading the jam. “If you were a woman, I’d marry you.”

“Would you mind carryin’ one of the trays?”

“Not so long as you go ahead of me.”

A poker game was under way. At the other table, Saber and Creed were talking in hushed tones. They stopped when Mort set their tray down, and Saber sniffed several times.

“If it tastes as good as it smells, barkeep, you should be in Saint Louis runnin’ a fancy restaurant.”

“I don’t like bein’ around people that much,” Mort admitted, and blanched, worried they would take it as some sort of insult.

“That makes two of us,” Saber said. “I was knee-high to a yearlin’ when I learned that most folks are as worthless as teats on a stallion.”

With a loud crunch, Creed bit into a slice of toast. Whether he liked it or not was impossible to tell; the man never changed his expression.

“Why don’t you join us?” Saber kicked out a chair. “You and me have some things to talk about.”

“We do?” Mort noticed that Twitch had not sat down, but was a few yards away, his hands on his Colts. Icy fear stabbed through him.

Forking a piece of steak into his mouth, Saber chewed lustily, with his mouth open. “What do you want most in this world, barkeep?”

Bewilderment seized Mort. How did he answer something like that? What was Saber getting at? “The thing I want most is to go on breathin’.”

Saber burst into hearty laughter. As if it were the most hilarious comment he’d ever heard, he smacked the table and howled. “Did you hear him, Creed? He’s not as dumb as he looks.”

Mort resented the insult, but sat awaiting developments. Twitch had come closer and now had only one hand on a Colt.

“Most people say that what they want most in this world is money,” Saber said. His pale blue eyes bored into Mort. “How much do you have? Got it squirreled away, do you?”

The truth was, Mort had slightly over three hundred hidden in a jar under a floorboard behind the bar. But he answered, “I never make enough to set any aside. It’s hand to mouth, day in, day out.”

“I figured as much,” Saber said. He speared a potato slice and popped it into his mouth. “How would you like to make a hundred dollars right here and now?”

“Who do I have to shoot?”

Again Saber cackled, and glanced at Creed. “I like this one. He tickles my funny bone.” To Mort he said, “Leave the shootin’ to us, friend. The hundred dollars is yours to forget we were ever here. Forget you ever saw us, should anyone come askin’.”

“That’s all?” Mort speculated that maybe lawmen were after them.

“To tell you the truth, I was considerin’ whether to buck you out in gore,” Saber revealed while chomping. “Your memory is too good for my comfort. But then I got to thinkin’ how it must be, tryin’ to make ends meet in this dump. You’re miles from anywhere, and customers must be few and far between.”

“That they are,” Mort conceded.

“A man like you could always use spendin’ money,” Saber said. “Say, the hundred dollars now and more later.”

Mort’s innards churned. “You plan to come back?”

“We’re not leavin’. We’ll make camp off a ways, and from time to time we’ll stop by. When that happens, it doesn’t happen. Savvy?”

Apprehension coursed through Mort, and he asked without thinking, “What could possibly interest you down there?”

About to take another bite of steak, Saber’s features clouded. “I wouldn’t be too nosy, were I you.”

“It’s just that there’s nothin’ down there but a couple of ranches—” Mort stopped. The hapless Hank had said something about “ranch business” right before he was shot.

Saber sighed and lowered his fork to his plate. “You see?” he said to Creed. “You try to do right by some folks and they throw it in your face.”

“What?” Mort said, aghast at the magnitude of his blunder. “I never did any such thing.”

“You certainly did. You’ve met them, haven’t you? The Toveys and the Pierce clan?”

“I’ve seen them in San Pedro,” Mort admitted. “Some of their punchers stop here every blue moon, usually when they’re up in the mountains huntin’, but that’s about it.” Mort was desperate to get back in Saber’s good graces, so he added, “But I’ve never spoken to Kent Tovey or his missus, or the Pierces, neither.”

“What about the cowboys and the vaqueros?”

“I’ve swapped pleasantries when they stop in for a drink, sure.” Mort was so nervous, his knees began to tremble. He stilled them by sheer force of will. “Is it important? It’s not like any of them are friends.”

Saber drummed his fingers again, then looked at Creed. “What do you say? Should we be generous, or turn him into worm food?”

“Worm food,” the black said.

“How about you?” Saber shifted toward Twtich.

“You’re givin’ us a say? Will wonders never cease. But since you asked,” Twitch paused and smirked at Mort. “Look at this jasper. He’s so scared, he’s ready to wet himself. He wouldn’t dare cross us.”

“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 me 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.