Rio Largo

Chapter 15

“Dar Pierce is the best friend we ever had,” Nancy Tovey declared.

“No argument there,” Kent responded, and refilled his glass. When he thought about how close the two ranches had come to spilling blood, it scared him.

“Isn’t that your third Scotch?” Nance asked, with a hint of disapproval. “You’re being awfully generous to yourself.”

“It’s only my second.” Kent set her straight. “And for your information, I am celebrating. Our head was in the lion’s mouth today, and the lion didn’t bite.” He sank back into his easy chair and raised the glass in a toast. “To the DP and the Circle T. May they last a thousand years.”

“Oh, my,” Nancy said. “That will definitely be your last. When you start waxing poetic, I know you have had more than enough.”

Kent sighed and took a sip. When it came to liquor, he always bought the most expensive brands. He savored his indulgence, wishing he could do it every night. But Nance had her rules.

“Are you sober enough to focus?”

“Oh, please.” Kent disliked it when she nagged, and she nagged often. Little nags and big nags. He supposed there were middling nags, but the distinction was too fine to matter. Nagging was nagging and that was that, and as natural to women as breathing. The thought made him grin.

“What is so humorous?”

“Nothing, dear,” Kent said. “Please continue.” The subdued light from the parlor lamp cast her features in a softly romantic glow. Or maybe it was the Scotch.

“The question still remains. If Jack Demp did not murder poor Berto, then who did? And why? More to the point, why was a knife exactly like Demp’s found near Berto’s body?”

“I don’t have the answers,” Kent admitted. But another possibility occurred to him, one he had not considered until this moment. “What if,” he began, and had another sip, “what if someone is out to pit the two ranches against one another?”

“How’s that?”

“Put the pieces together. Demp’s knife disappears. Berto is killed by a knife exactly like it, with Demp’s initials carved into the grips. But Demp swears he didn’t carve his initials in his. Where does that lead us?”

Nancy had always been quick-witted. “Whoever killed Berto stole Demp’s knife and added the initials as extra insurance that the blame would fall on Demp’s shoulders.”

“So it appears.”

“Oh, my,” Nance said, her forehead furrowing. “That’s quite ominous, indeed. It means someone is out to destroy us.”

“Us and the Pierces, both,” Kent said. “They want us at each other’s throats.”

“To what end? And who could be so unspeakably vile?”

Kent lowered his glass to his knee, and absently ran a finger around the rim. “As to the purpose, I can only speculate. With us and the Pierces dead, the valley would be ripe for taking. As to who, your guess is as good as mine.”

“We have no enemies,” Nance noted. “And Dar is one of the most well-respected men in the territory.”

“That’s true,” Kent conceded. To one and all, Dar Pierce was the consummate cattleman. Everyone in San Pedro admired him highly, which was understandable, given that Dar helped build the town. “But someone sure as blazes is out to cause us misery.”

“I have faith that Dar will figure it out. He promised to get to the bottom of it, and he’s a man of his word.”

There were times, Kent mused, when his wife seemed to regard Dar Pierce almost as highly as she did, say, Moses. “I am not without resources of my own. I have already instructed someone to find answers, and I have complete confidence he will.”

“Who?”

“John Jesco.”

Nance did not exactly frown, but her reaction was close to it. “Why him? Why not Clayburn? Walt is our foreman, after all.”

“He’s also indispensable to the running of our ranch. What’s wrong with Jesco? It was Walt who suggested I use him.”

“I don’t care for Jesco much. He’s a killer as much as a cowboy. The stories they tell cast doubt on his reliability.”

“To the contrary, my dear,” Kent said. “Walt says that Jesco is the most valuable hand we have. All our men are loyal to the brand, but Jesco has extra worth precisely because of his reputation.”

“Your logic eludes me.”

“Every outfit needs someone like Jesco. Someone with the bark on, as the cowboys like to put it. Someone who will give those who might do the Circle T harm second thoughts.”

“That’s hardly worth the lives he has taken,” Nance stated flatly.

Kent resented her attitude. She regarded the taking of human life, any human life, as evil. He could never make her understand that there existed the human equivalent of rabid wolves, and those wolves must be dealt with as any rabid animal would be, with the finality of death. “Whoever murdered Berto won’t hesitate to kill again. Would you have me give the job to Timmy? Or Shonsey?”

“Set a killer to catch a killer, is that it?” Nance gazed out the window. “Do as you want. But don’t expect my approval. Were it up to me, we would not have someone like Jesco in our employ.”

“Dar Pierce has Roman,” Kent said, taking pleasure in pricking her conceit.

“Implying that if Dar has a pistolero on his payroll, it’s all right for us to do the same? Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Right and wrong don’t enter into it. Survival is the issue. The stronger the Circle T is, the fewer coyotes will nip at our flanks.”

“I hear Walt in that remark. Be that as it may, shooting a man dead is heinous, whether done in self-defense or not. Were it up to me, all the guns in the world would be melted down and used to make railroad ties.”

Kent could not contain himself. “That has to be the silliest thing you have ever said. Were it not for guns, we wouldn’t be here. The Navajos and Apaches would have driven all the whites out. Hell, the Comanches would still own Texas.”

“Don’t swear. And don’t patronize me. We have discussed this before, and nothing you say will change my mind.”

That was the devil of it, Kent sourly reflected. Once his wife made up her mind, neither reason nor the Almighty could persuade her to change it. To say she was pigheaded was an understatement. To say it to her face was marital suicide. He prudently changed the subject. “I’ve asked Walt to call in all our hands from the range. I will inform them what has happened, and require that they be on their best behavior around the men from the DP. With the rodeo coming up, we must take every precaution not to inflame hotheads like Julio.”

“That boy has a temper,” Nance agreed. “Thank goodness Dar keeps him in line.”

“There’s more,” Kent said. “I’ve instructed Clayburn to post men at the crossings. Julio might take it into his head to sneak across the river some night and do God knows what.” He paused. “I’ve also given instructions that the men are to go everywhere armed.”

“ Is that really necessary?” Nance asked, in a tone that implied it was not.

“The murderer is still on the loose. I would be remiss if I did not urge the men to be on their guard.”

“I suppose,” Nance said.

“They must be able to protect themselves if need be. There are times, whether you will admit it or not, when guns serve a purpose.”

“Don’t be petty. It ill becomes you.”

Kent Tovey reached for the bottle.

Judging by the Big Dipper, it was well past midnight. John Jesco was in a stand of trees at one of the four river crossings Clayburn wanted watched. Wheeler would relieve him at dawn. His back to a cottonwood, a blanket over his shoulders to keep him warm, Jesco sat with his Winchester in his lap, fighting drowsiness. Again and again, he snapped his head up and shook himself to stay awake, only to have his eyelids grow leaden and his chin dip to his chest.

Jesco had jerked upright for the umpteenth time, when a sound to the east pricked his ears. The faint drum of hooves, of someone riding toward the Rio Largo from the south. From the DP. Instantly, Jesco was on his feet. There was no earthly reason for someone to be abroad at that time of night. He moved to a grassy bank, where he could hear better. Whoever it was reached the south side to the left of Jesco’s position, and the hoofbeats stopped.

Without being aware he was doing it, Jesco held his breath, waiting for the rider to ford. But the night stayed quiet. He peered intently into the darkness, but could not spot anyone. So long as the rider stayed on the other side, there was nothing Jesco could do. Clayburn had been quite specific. Under no circumstances was he to cross over onto the DP.

“Those orders come straight from Mr. Tovey,” Clayburn had stressed. “We’re not to do anything that might incite them.”

Jesco debated whether to cross anyway. He had about decided it was best to do as his boss wanted, when hooves once again thudded. Only this time they were behind him, not in front.

A second rider was coming from the north, from the Circle T. Whoever it was, they were not making for the crossing. They were heading for a spot directly across from where the rider on the south side had stopped.

Jesco threw off his blanket, hastily rolled it up, and tied the roll on his saddle. Quickly forking leather, he reined in the same direction. He held to a walk. They would hear him otherwise.

In his mind’s eye, Jesco imagined the two riders meeting secretly. To what end was impossible to say, but simple common sense told him they had to be up to no good.

To Jesco’s recollection, the Rio Largo ran fairly straight for the next half mile or so. Up ahead a ways, a spur jutted into the river from the south. The water was shallow, but the spot was not used as a regular crossing because the spur was too narrow and too thickly wooded to funnel cattle through. It was perfect, though, for anyone who wanted to meet secretly.

Jesco had his hand on his Colt. Landmarks were difficult to judge, but presently he was near enough. Drawing rein, he dismounted and cautiously advanced along the water’s edge.

Jesco was abreast of the spur, when something moved in the vegetation. Crouching, he braced for the blast of a shot but none came. The source of the movement stepped into view: a riderless horse, its reins dangling, cropping the grass. Whoever had ridden him was in among the trees.

Jesco tried to remember exactly how deep the river was at that point. In the winter and early spring, fed by runoff from the mountains, the depth averaged five feet. The rest of the year, it was barely three.

Sitting, Jesco removed his boots. He left them on the shore and eased into the river. A chill, clammy sensation spread from his feet to his knees as the water level rose. He was halfway across, when the horse raised its head, spotted him, and whinnied.

Jesco drew his revolver. He thought for sure the rider would come running, but no one appeared. He moved faster. Unexpectedly, his left foot came down on a jagged rock lodged in the bottom. Pain seared the sole. Reflexively, he jerked his leg up, and nearly fell. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on.

The horse had turned, and was disappearing into the cottonwoods.

Jesco was careful not to splash. Gradually, the water dropped to his knees, and then his ankles. His socks and the bottoms of his Levi’s were soaked. His first step on dry land resulted in a squish that was much too loud for his liking. But once again, whoever was in the trees failed to hear him.

Gliding from cover to cover, Jesco had not gone far when muted voices fell on his ears. He did not recognize them, nor could he tell what they were saying. One of the men, though, had the distinct accent of someone born south of the border.

Jesco crept toward them. A pair of silhouettes materialized, darker than the night. One wore a sombrero. That much was obvious. The other was a big man with broad shoulders. A few more yards and Jesco would be close enough to demand they throw down their hardware. It would be easier to shoot them, to say nothing of safer, but Jesco wanted them alive.

Then the one in the sombrero cried out, “Look there, amigo! We have been discovered!”

Muzzle flashes stabbed the dark. Jesco answered, but there were so many trees, the brush so thick, he undoubtedly missed.

A second pistol boomed.

Jesco dived flat. Dirt kicked up by slugs sprayed his face. Hs arm straight, he took deliberate aim. He had the man in the sombrero in his sights when both silhouettes abruptly melted into the undergrowth. They had split up, the one in the sombrero going right, the other left.

Jesco hesitated for a split second, then went right. Damn, but the man is fast! he thought, gaining speed. But he forgot he was in his stockinged feet. Down came his foot, and up coursed agony. Whether he had stepped on another rock or something else was irrelevant; it slowed him down. Limping, he snapped off a shot more out of frustration than anything else.

The man in the sombrero did not respond in kind.

The next moment, Jesco lost sight of him. Hooves pounded, and Jesco glimpsed a pale horse, racing south. He snapped the Colt up, but too many trees intervened.

From the vicinity of the river came a loud nicker. Whirling, Jesco ran flat out. He stepped on a downed branch, but he didn’t care. He had lost one, and he would be boiled in tar if he would lose the other. But when he burst into the open, the second rider had reached the north bank. Again Jesco went to shoot, only to have his quarry vanish into the night.

“Damn,” Jesco said. By the time he crossed and put on his boots and reached his horse, the man would be long gone. But he had learned something important. Someone at the Circle T was in cahoots with someone at the DP. Now all he had to do was figure out who.