Rio Largo

Chapter 17

Nancy Tovey could not sleep. She tossed and turned and turned and tossed, and finally, afraid she would wake Kent, she got up, donned her robe, and padded to the kitchen in her bare feet to make coffee.

Nance was troubled. Dar had assured them he did not hold the Circle T responsible for Berto’s death. But after her talk with Kent earlier, she was not certain that was enough. Someone had tried to point the finger of blame at their ranch by leaving that knife near the body. The question she could not answer, the question that caused her to toss and turn, was simply: Who?

To Nance’s knowledge, they did not have any enemies. Kent was always fair in his business dealings. He never cheated anyone, never inflated a tally when he sold cattle. He had never clashed with other ranchers over water or land. Dar and he got along wonderfully.

Nance put a coffeepot on to brew. On the counter was a sheet of paper on which she listed items they needed the next time she visited San Pedro. Now she took the sheet and a pencil to the kitchen table, and sat in her usual chair. Tapping the pencil against her chin, she mulled the question that burned in her brain. As she saw it, there were two possibilities. The culprit was someone they knew, or an outsider. Since she could not think of anything an outsider stood to gain, she concentrated on the former.

Is there anyone, Nance asked herself, who has ever shown the least little hostility toward Kent and me, or the Circle T in general? She thought and thought and tapped and tapped, and was stumped. Years ago, Kent had fired a cowboy for being lazy, but that was hardly an excuse for the cowboy to come back and kill Berto. There was no one else.

Could it be someone with a grudge against one of their hands? Nance had not considered that before, and it intrigued her. The men went into San Pedro regularly to drink and carouse. But they were never in any fights of which she was aware, and with one exception, they had not been in any shooting affrays.

That exception was Jesco.

Nance’s dislike of the man brought a flush of anger. Were it up to her, she would boot him off the Circle T. But Kent would never stand for it. He was too fond of the man. That nonsense about Jesco’s reputation somehow helping to safeguard the Circle T was preposterous. It hadn’t scared off whoever slew Berto.

Nance was about to write Jesco’s name on the paper, but hesitated. Surely, anyone out for revenge on him would not slay the foreman of the DP instead. And why frame Jack Demp and not Jesco himself?

Nance shook her head in exasperation. All this thinking was getting her nowhere. She was stumped. She had never heard a single soul speak ill of the Circle T, never witnessed anyone express the least little resentment toward—

Suddenly Nance sat straighter, her entire body pulsing. There was someone! Someone she had overlooked because she always considered him a friend. But now she recalled the savage spite on his face when he spat out, “All you gringos stick together!”

Julio. Nancy wrote his name at the top of the sheet. Yes, now that she thought about it, Julio had always been the least friendly of the Pierces. At the rodeo last year, he got into a heated argument with two Circle T punchers over a trifle—something to do with a dispute over who should have won the calf-roping event.

Going back further, Nance remembered comments Julio had dropped. There was the time Dar and Juanita invited Kent and her to spend a weekend at their rancho. During supper, after Dar asked Kent how things were going at the Circle T, Julio remarked how fortunate it was that his father had allowed Kent to lay claim to the north half of the valley. “Had it been me,” Julio said, “I would want the whole valley for myself.”

Nance had not thought much of it at the time. Julio was young and brash, and those his age did not always keep a lid on their tongues. Now, in hindsight, his resentment of the Circle T was much more apparent.

Nance circled the name, and after it wrote, Why did I not see it sooner? Pleased to be making some progress, she underlined the question three times. Then her bubble burst. Julio would never kill Berto. They were the best of friends. With her own eyes, she had seen that Berto was more like an affectionate uncle than a foreman.

About to cross off Julio’s name, Nance smelled the coffee, and put the pencil down and stood. Cups and saucers were in a cupboard next to the pantry. She was reaching for one when something scratched lightly at the kitchen door.

Nance turned. It had to be Crackers, her cat. With all that had happened, she had forgotten about him. Crackers was a yellow tabby she raised from a kitten, pampering it so much, Kent liked to joke that Crackers was the child they never had. It amused him more than it amused her. She had always wanted children. They’d tried and tried, and ultimately went to a doctor. But the doctor could find nothing wrong with either of them. “Sometimes it’s not meant to be,” was his less-than-encouraging opinion.

The scratching came again.

Smiling, Nancy went to the door and opened it. “Crackers, you scamp. Where have you been?” She blinked in surprise. The cat was not there. “Crackers?” She looked right, then left, then took several steps, the chill night air on her feet bringing goose-bumps to her skin. “Crackers? Where are you?”

The cat had an independent streak, and would sometimes stay away for days at a time, haunting the stable and other buildings in search of mice. The punchers treated it to milk, and even grumpy old Shonsey was always feeding it scraps.

“Crackers?” Nance took another step. She sensed rather than heard swift movement behind her, and was startled out of her wits when an iron arm encircled her waist, and a firm hand clamped over her mouth. The next instant, she was being carried away from the house.

I’m being abducted! Nance began to struggle, but whoever had hold of her shook her, hard, and hissed in her ear.

“Be still, or I’ll slit your throat!”

Raw fright froze the blood in Nancy’s veins. The man who murdered Berto now had her. It had to be him.

Every instinct Nance possessed screamed at her to resist, to claw and bite and kick until the hand came loose and she could scream. A couple of screams would do it. Kent was bound to hear. Their bedroom window was cracked open. The punchers would hear, too, and come on the run. They liked her. They would not let anything happen to her. But as if the man were privy to her thoughts, he shook her again.

“I mean it! Let out a peep and you’re dead!”

Nance believed him. She did not resist. He was practically running now, her weight no more hindrance than an empty flour sack. Large shapes hove out of the dark. Two horses were waiting.

The man roughly lowered her to the ground, and growled, “Put your hands behind you.”

Nance did as he instructed. Within seconds, he’d bound her. He pulled on her hair, lifting her face. Something brushed her nose, then wrapped around her mouth. His bandana, she guessed. He tied it at the back. Gripping her shoulders, he rolled her over. She recognized him: It was the new hand, Dunn. He seemed gigantic looming above her. “Try to escape, and you die.”

Nance winced as he hauled her erect. His fingers were spikes in her arms. He heaved her onto one of the horses, and she straddled it. He took the reins, and climbed on the other horse.

They started off. Nance glanced toward the house. If only Kent would wake up! If only he would wonder where she got to, and look for her. She glanced toward the bunkhouse. Maybe one of the cowboys would wake up and need to use the outhouse. But no one did, and soon the house and the bunkhouse and the rest of the buildings were swallowed by the murk.

Nance wrestled with fear. She must not lose control. Her hands were bound, but her legs were free. That was something.

She considered working the bandana loose and screaming. But they were already far enough from the house that no one would hear her, and Dunn would be furious. No, she would rely on her legs, not her lungs.

Dunn brought the animals to a canter. He was in a hurry to get away, but not in so much of one that he would risk exhausting the horses. He had not looked back since they started out.

The tall grass swished to their passage. Nance was glad for the grass. It would cushion her. She might break an arm or a shoulder, but that hardly mattered compared to what Dunn had in store.

Nance leaned to the right, as low as she could go without losing her balance. The grass was so close she could smell it. Please, God! she prayed, and pushing clear, she dropped. The horse cantered on. She hit, but not as hard as she expected. Her shoulder absorbed the brunt, the pain fleeting. Then she was up in a crouch.

Her unwitting captor had not slowed.

Whirling, Nance ran back the way they came. She was not young anymore, but she was in good shape for her age. Several times a week, she took long walks. Walking wasn’t as strenuous as running, but she could move swiftly when she needed to. She fairly flew, her long legs flashing.

Nance would start shouting the instant she saw the buildings. The punchers always left the bunkhouse windows open. They would rush to her rescue. As for Dunn, she would have Kent send men to track him down and bring him back. Alive if they could. He had the answers they needed. Dunn might refuse to talk, but there were ways. Jesco would make him. Nance grinned at her hypocrisy.

The thud of hooves rekindled her fear.

Angling left, Nance sprinted a short way, and dived prone. She was none too soon. The hoofbeats grew louder. Out of the night swept Dunn, the spare horse in tow, but he was thirty or forty feet away, and did not spot her.

Nance was thankful for the moonless vault of sky. The dark and the grass were her allies. They hid her. She waited until the hoofbeats faded, then she was up and running. She remembered that rattlesnakes did most of their hunting at night. Or she might step into a hole or a rut. Each stride became an exercise in anxiety. She kept her gaze on the ground. Because of that, she did not see the horses blocking her way until she nearly collided with them.

“Bitch.”

A boot caught Nance across the temple. She staggered, but would have stayed on her feet had Dunn not kicked her again. She fell hard, dazed and distraught.

“I should kill you here and now,” Dunn snarled. “But Saber wants it done a certain way.”

Nance barely heard him over the roaring in her head. She pushed to her knees, but was overcome by weakness, and her forehead sank to the ground.

“Get up, damn you,” Dunn commanded.

Nance stayed where she was.

“I won’t tell you again, Mrs. Tovey. Rile me and you’ll regret it. Do as I say, and it will be a little easier.”

“If you intend to kill me, shoot me and be done with it.” Nance was praying her head would clear.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t,” Dunn said. “But gunshots carry a long way at night. And as I just told you, Saber is particular about how I’m to do it.”

That name again. “Who?” Nance asked, buying precious seconds. The pain was still too much to cope with.

“Never mind. On your feet.”

“I feel sick. You about kicked my head in.”

“You’ll feel a lot worse if you don’t do exactly the hell what I tell you to do. Now get up, damn you.”

Nance rose partway. She wanted to cradle her head in her hands, but couldn’t. “I tell you, I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re still breathin’,” Dunn said. He jabbed a thumb at the spare horse. “Climb on.”

“With my hands tied?” Nance snapped. “Be sensible, will you?” She had an idea. “Give me a boost.”

Dunn swore. His saddle creaked as he dismounted and let the reins drop. “Women are next to worthless.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.

Nance deliberately sagged against him so she could mentally mark the spot on his pants. She must not make a mistake.

“Stand up,” Dunn commanded, and hauled on her arm. “I don’t have all night for this.”

“That’s too bad,” Nance said, and drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over, gurgling and grunting, and Nance once again sought the sanctuary of the encompassing darkness. Dunn clutched at her nightclothes, but could not hold on. She forgot about the rattlers and the holes and sped like an antelope for her life.

Nance figured she had a minute, maybe two, before he was after her. Since he expected her to make straight for the ranch buildings, she veered to the west. She listened for hoofbeats but did not hear any.

Nance smiled. She had done it.

Then the staccato smack of churning boots burst her bubble of hope.

Incredulous, Nance glanced back.

Dunn was ten yards behind her. His high-heeled boots were not made for running, and he looked for all the world like a drunk weaving from too much alcohol. But he was gaining, and he had his Colt in his hand.

“No!” The cry was torn unbidden from Nance’s throat. She tried to go faster, but her body was at its limit. She changed direction, toward the house and her husband. In doing so, she inadvertently enabled Dunn to overtake her. All he had to do was cut off the angle.

Nance cried out as fingers locked in her hair. She was wrenched into the air and slammed onto her back. “All right!” she breathlessly declared. “I give up.”

Dunn reared over her. He arced the Colt on high. “Too late,” he snarled. “You had two chances. You don’t get a third.”

The Colt descended. Nancy Tovey attempted to twist aside, but the hand in her hair held her fast. He struck again and again and again. The crunch crunch crunch of metal on bone rang in her ears. But it was not the last sound she heard. The last was her whimper.