Rio Largo

Chapter 8

John Jesco trusted his instincts. Bitter experience had taught him that to deny them was a surefire invitation to trouble. Now, as Lafe Dunn came strolling down the arroyo, his instincts flared, warning him as the day he first met Dunn that here was an extremely dangerous individual. A natural-born killer.

Timmy Loring did not have Jesco’s experience. He did not have Jesco’s instincts. Smiling warmly, he greeted the new puncher with, “Dunn! Come join us. You’ll get to see Jesco shoot.”

“Is that worth seein’?” was Dunn’s dry reply.

“Haven’t you heard?” Timmy indulged in the hero worship Jesco found so disquieting. “Jesco is the best gun hand on the spread. It’s a treat to watch him practice.”

“You don’t say.” Dunn stopped and regarded Jesco with what Jesco swore was a degree of disdain, then Dunn bestowed his attention on the slope littered with bits and pieces. “I was passin’ by and heard shootin’.”

Jesco’s instincts flared again. The man was lying. He had followed them from the ranch.

“How are you with that hogleg of yours?” Timmy jerked a thumb at the black-handled Colt on Dunn’s right hip.

“I’ve shot a few coyotes and such.” Dunn’s big hands were easy at his side. Suddenly he erupted into motion, and the black-handled Colt was out and level. A single crash, and a bottle dissolved into shards. He shoved the Colt into the holster and patted both. “That’s about the best I can do.”

It was better than most, Jesco noted. That in itself was revealing. The plain truth was that most men were no shakes at all with a six-gun. Back east many went their whole lives without touching one. West of the Mississippi was another story. Guns were essential, another tool in the taming of the land. But few practiced with any regularity. The punchers at the Circle T were typical; they all owned six-shooters, but hardly any could consistently hit a can at ten paces.

Like everything else in life, to be a skilled shootist took talent. Hours and hours of practice helped, but without talent, the best a man could rise to was average. Jesco’s razor reflexes were a gift of birth. He was quick on the shoot, but he never bragged about it or gloried in it, as some were wont to do.

“Your turn,” Dunn said to him.

Anger rippled through Jesco. He never liked being played for a fool. Ordinarily, he would not let himself be goaded, but now an urge came over him to show the new hand exactly what he was dealing with. His hand was lightning, the blast instantaneous, the Colt back in the holster in less than the blink of an eye.

“That was damn fine,” Dunn said with genuine admiration. “So the stories they tell are true.”

“I told you!” Timmy glowed.

“Well, I have work to do.” Dunn looked at Jesco. “Thanks for showin’ your fangs. I’ll be sure not to get bit.” Pivoting on his boot heels, he strode off.

Timmy scratched his head. “Strange, him mentionin’ fangs after we just saw that rattler. What did he mean by that?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” Jesco was annoyed. Not with the boy or with Lafe Dunn, but with himself. He had shown a man he did not trust exactly what that man was up against. No wonder Dunn had thanked him.

“You’re fixin’ to practice some more, aren’t you?” Timmy eagerly asked.

“I might as well.”

“What’s the matter? Why are you so down at the mouth?”

Jesco had to remember the boy was sensitive to his moods. Brightening, he fibbed, “I’m fine, mother hen.”

Timmy laughed. “Quit teasin’. We’re pards, aren’t we?” He gazed along the arroyo. “There goes Dunn. Looks like he’s headin’ back. I like him. He doesn’t say a lot, but he’s nice enough.”

“So was that rattlesnake until it coils,” Jesco observed.

“Dunn is no snake. Your trouble is that you’re too suspicious. You think everyone is out to shoot you in the back.”

“It only takes one.” Yet another reason Jesco hated the tales spread about his prowess. A reputation was a beacon. It drew every sidewinder hankering after fame from near and far.

The boy pulled his hat brim low to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. “You don’t need to worry about Dunn. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.”

Unknown to Timmy Loring, at that exact moment Lafe Dunn was thinking that when it came time to kill John Jesco, it would best be done by shooting Jesco in the back. From the front was certain suicide.

When Dunn had spied Jesco and the kid preparing to leave the ranch, he had guessed their purpose. Clayburn had mentioned that Jesco went off to practice now and then.

Thinking of the foreman reminded Dunn of his purpose for coming to the Circle T. So far all he had done was take stock of the opposition. Now it was time to start stirring the stew.

Dunn held to a canter. He was counting on most of the punchers being gone, and he was not disappointed. The buildings stood quiet under the hot sun. He rode straight to the bunkhouse and dismounted. Familiar odors assailed him as he entered, a mix of tobacco, sweat, rawhide, and smoke.

Most bunkhouses were a study in shambles, but not the bunkhouse at the Circle T. Kent Tovey insisted it be neat and tidy. The hands were required to make up their beds each morning, and must not leave clothes lying around.

Dunn stood just inside, letting his eyes adjust. No one was there. He shut the door and quickly moved down the aisle to the third from the last bunk on the right. It was Jack Demp’s. Squatting, he groped about underneath the bed. He had watched the young cowhand closely, and hoped the particular item he was after was still stashed in Demp’s war bag.

Dunn’s mouth curled in a rare smile. The folding knife lay amid an assortment of personal effects: a mirror, a tin cup, a plug of tobacco, a harmonica, a tin of boot wax, and more. He palmed the knife, slid it into his pocket, and replaced the war bag exactly where it had been. As he straightened, the door opened, spilling a rectangle of light along the floor.

“I thought I saw you come in here,” Walt Clayburn said. “When I give a man a job, I expect him to do it.”

Dunn indulged in another smile. “I was just on my way to check for strays along the river, like you wanted.”

The foreman scanned the bunks. “Some hands like to sneak naps when they can. Lazy is as lazy does.”

“I’m not an infant.” Dunn patted the pocket into which he had slid the folding knife. “I wanted a chaw and came back for a plug.”

“Next time, go without. You’ve wasted an hour. At the Circle T we take our work seriously.”

“Yes, sir.” It grated on Dunn to be so civil when what he really wanted was to whip out his pistol and crack Clayburn over the skull. The foreman stepped aside, and Dunn went out and climbed on his buttermilk.

“Keep an eye peeled for DP stock. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Julio Pierce.”

“I will.” Dunn rode south. He was confident Clayburn had bought his lie, but to be safe, when he reached the Rio Largo, he pretended to search for cattle for a while, until he was confident no one had followed him. Then he set about his real business.

On a spur of land that jutted into the Rio Largo like an accusing finger, on the south side of the river, grew a stand of cottonwoods. Riders were in view of the trees from a long way off, and anyone hidden in the trees could spot them, which made it ideal. Dunn crossed from the north, and no sooner had the vegetation closed around him than the acrid odor of cigarette smoke tingled his nose. “Those Mex quirlies of yours stink to high heaven.”

“To each his own, eh, amigo?” Marcario Hijino had one leg looped over his silver saddle horn and the other dangling down Blanco. “You are late, and I do not like to be kept waiting.”

“It couldn’t be helped.” Dunn mentioned his chance brush with the Circle T foreman.

“But he does not suspect you, this Clayburn?”

“No. They’re sheep, the whole passel.” Dunn paused. “I take that back. There’s one curly wolf. His name is Jesco.”

Hijino sat straighter. “I have heard of him, usually in tones of awe. Is he really the pistolero they say he is?”

“I wouldn’t try him except in the back,” Dunn admitted.

“Really? You have seen him shoot with your own eyes?”

“Just today,” Dunn said. “I wanted to see for myself. Glad I did. If anyone can give us trouble, it’s him.”

“I will get word to Saber. He should know.” Hijino dragged on his cigarette and exhaled smoke out his nostrils. “Did you bring it?”

Dunn produced the folding knife. “It’s not much. The blade is only about four inches long.”

“So long as it is sharp.” Hijino took the knife and opened it. He tested the blade by lightly running his thumb along the edge. A thin line of blood appeared. “Sí. It will do nicely.”

“When?” Dunn asked.

“Tonight, I think,” Hijino said. “It will stir them up. I will help without being obvious. As you say, they are witless sheep.” He chortled merrily. “This is fun, is it not?”

“Any special problems that need to be dealt with on your end?”

“There is Berto. He trusts no one, and is fiercely loyal to the Pierces. But we expected that of him.” Hijino dragged on his cigarette again. “The Pierces themselves are of no consequence. They handle ropes better than they do pistolas.”

“Not one gun-shark in the whole outfit?”

“There is one. A small shark called Roman. I will deal with him when the time comes.”

“Go easy,” Dunn said, and lifted his reins to depart. He would continue his search for strays, and return to the Circle T by sunset. But Hijino’s next comment stopped him.

“I talked with Twitch last night.”

“You did? Why didn’t you say so sooner? What did he have to say?”

“Only that Saber is pleased at how well you and I have done. Oh. And that if we need to get word to them, we must go to the Wolf Pass Saloon.”

“What in hell are they doin’ there?”

Hijino shook with silent mirth. “You will not believe it. But it seems Saber is the new owner.”

Dunn was flabbergasted. The last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves. Finding his voice, he growled, “Has he gone loco?”

“According to Twitch, Saber shot the hombre who was running it. Now he is telling everyone who stops that he bought the place. Serves them drinks and everything. Is that not just like him?”

“Damned idiot,” Dunn fumed. “After all the trouble we’ve gone to, he pulls a stunt like this.”

“It is a good thing he is not here to hear you say that,” Hijino cautioned. “Or do you think you can fill his boots?”

“No one bucks Saber and lives,” Dunn said, and was struck by a notion. “But you could take him, though. You’re ten times quicker on the draw.”

Hijino puffed a few times, then responded. “There is more to killing than being quick, amigo. A person must have other qualities. They must be willing. They must be tough. They must be like steel inside. No mercy, no feelings for others, ever. And that is why I am content to follow Saber’s lead.”

“You’ve lost me,” Dunn confessed.

“I am faster than him, sí. But I am not as empty inside. Saber is more vicious than any of us, except maybe Creed, and we each know, deep inside, that if we go against him, we are done for. Even if we are faster, he will kill us. Even though we might be stronger, he will spit on our graves. Do you agree?”

Dunn had never heard it expressed quite so eloquently, but he felt exactly the same way. There was something about Saber, a deadliness that went beyond rhyme or reason. “I reckon so. But it’s still damned stupid of him to take over that saloon. What if someone recognizes him?”

“He will kill them,” Hijino predicted. “In the meantime, he acts the part of a respectable citizen. He is right under their noses, and they do not see it. You must admit he is clever.”

“Too clever by half.” Dunn did not care to talk about it anymore. He rode from the stand and crossed to the north side. Paralleling the river, he poked among the thickets and breaks, and flushed a few cows with the Circle T brand.

Dunn timed it so that he arrived at the cookhouse just as the hands were sitting down to supper.

Shonsey was in his usual irascible mood. “You’re the new one, aren’t you?” he said when it came Dunn’s turn to be served.

The cook had asked the same question every day since Dunn was hired, and Dunn was tempted to tell the old fool that his mind was going, and he should be put out to pasture. But all Dunn did was nod.

A sly grin lit Shonsey’s wrinkled features. “You’re smart. You know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“I like to eat.”

Tittering, Shonsey added an extra slice of corn pone to Dunn’s plate. “That’s why I like bein’ a cook. It’s the next best thing to bein’ God Almighty.”

Dunn took a seat and gazed down the long table. Clayburn was there, and Jesco and his shadow, young Timmy Loring. So were Demp and Wheeler and Metz and many others, smiling and joking and laughing, enjoying what was the highlight of their day.

It amused Dunn to think that before another month was out, they would all be dead.