Rio Largo

Chapter 19

Timmy Loring was keeping watch at the middle crossing when he heard riders in the distance. He sat with his back to a tree, a blade of grass between his teeth, daydreaming about a certain dove in San Pedro who had caught his fancy. Her name was Betsy. She had been at the saloon eight months now, and he still had not mustered the courage to speak to her.

Betsy was short, not much over five feet, but exquisitely shaped. Timmy particularly liked how her legs swished against her dress. He could sit and stare at those legs for hours, and usually did, from a corner table where no one would notice.

Jesco had noticed, though. Jesco noticed everything. He had not teased Timmy about it, as some of the other punchers would. He had merely asked if Timmy was in love with the girl.

That gave Timmy pause. He was not quite sure if he was in love or in lust. Lust he savvied. It was a powerful hankering to have a female under the sheets. Something Timmy had never done, although he’d had the hankering many a time. As for love, now there was a mystery. Maybe Timmy was in love and didn’t know it, having never known what it was to actually be in love. Love or lust, either way, Timmy could not stop daydreaming about sweet little Betsy and those wonderful legs of hers that swished so exquisitely.

At the rumble of hooves, Timmy sprang to his feet, his hand dropping to his revolver. It took a few seconds for him to realize the riders were not approaching the Rio Largo from the DP side, but were coming from the Circle T.

Timmy stepped from the trees to see who it was, and promptly stepped back under cover again. Jesco had warned him not to take chances. “Never take anything for granted,” were Jesco’s exact words. So Timmy figured he better stay hidden until he was sure it was safe.

Timmy would never admit it, but the business with the DP had him spooked. He had never killed anyone. Hell, he had never even shot anyone. Nor, he was surprised to discover, did he really want to. All this time, he had been dogging Jesco like Jesco’s shadow, thinking that he wanted to be just like him, thinking it would be the greatest thing in the world to have a reputation like his. But now, with the talk in the bunkhouse of more violence on the horizon, Timmy found that he was not as keen on killing as he thought. It was one thing to imagine gunning down hordes of outlaws, it was another to squeeze the trigger and slay another human being.

Timmy hoped it would not come to that. The latest word, though, was that Dar Pierce had been shot, and that the DP’s vaqueros were blaming the Circle T. Dunn had heard the news from a friendly vaquero, and told everyone. Timmy had been there, and happened to be looking at Jesco when Dunn broke the news. Jesco had the strangest expression. Only for a few seconds, and only Timmy noticed. He had intended to ask Jesco about it, but forgot.

The riders appeared. Two, hell-bent for the crossing. Timmy could not tell who they were yet; they were too far off.

The smooth grips of his six-gun reassured Timmy. He glanced down. He had been practicing for months now. Jesco had taught him to how draw, taught him how he should empty his mind and let his body take over, and cock the hammer as he cleared leather. Jesco warned him not to try to be fancy and shoot from the hip like Jesco did, because he did not have Jesco’s years of practice.

“Bring your arm straight up, take quick aim, and shoot. It will take you an extra split second,” Jesco had said, “but that split second can mean the difference between breathin’ air and breathin’ dirt.”

Jesco sure had a pretty way of putting things.

Timmy looked up, and relaxed. The two riders were Jeb Wheeler and Ray Ornley. Older, dependable hands. Ray occasionally teased Timmy about his age, but the teasing was generally harmless. Wheeler never teased anyone. Wheeler was always serious about everything. They drew rein in a flurry of dust motes.

Timmy walked into the open again, and grinned. “Where are you gents off to? San Pedro?”

“No, you infant,” Ray said. “We’re here to fetch you.”

“But I’m supposed to keep watch until tonight,” Timmy said. “Clayburn himself told me.”

“The big sugar is callin’ everyone in,” Wheeler said, and grew even more somber than was usual. “Brace yourself, boy. We bring bad news.”

Timmy tried to think of what could be worse than Dar Pierce being shot. He had always liked Mr. Pierce. “How bad can it be?”

“Nancy Tovey is dead.”

Stunned, Timmy could only gape.

“She was beat to death,” Wheeler related. “Had her face caved in. The son of a bitch took her right out of the house in the middle of the night.”

Timmy found his voice. “God in heaven!” It simply could not be. No one ever killed a woman. Ever.

“The boss cried for hours,” Ray said. “We all heard him, clear over to the bunkhouse. But we don’t blame him. We’d have done the same, I reckon.”

Wheeler took up the account. “Then he came out and hollered for Clayburn, and damn, Mr. Tovey was mad. He knows who did it. He found a clue in the kitchen.”

“A clue?” Timmy bleated.

Wheeler nodded. “Mrs. Tovey had time to write the name of her killer on a sheet of paper. Maybe she saw him through a window. Or maybe she was at the table when he came in through the door.”

“However it was,” Ray said, “we know who to string up.”

“Who?”

Wheeler and Ray looked at one another, and Wheeler said through clenched teeth, “Julio Pierce.”

Timmy’s blood chilled. That cut it. There would be hell to pay. Gallons and gallons of hell, and all the gallons were red.

“The boss is gatherin’ everyone up,” Wheeler said. “Every last puncher. They should all be in by tonight.”

“Tomorrow we ride for the DP,” Ray said. “Heaven help them if they try to stop us.”

Wheeler nodded. “He’ll demand they turn Julio over. If they don’t, well, that’s just too bad. There are more of us than there are of them, and Mr. Tovey isn’t about to take no for an answer.”

“Fetch your horse,” Ray said.

Timmy hurried into the trees. He had the reins in hand and was about to lead his mount from the shadows when Jeb Wheeler hissed, “Stay under cover, boy! Don’t say or do anything, you hear me?”

More riders were approaching. Only this time they were coming from across the river.

Timmy’s mouth went dry. He counted six. They came to the crossing and splashed across the Rio Largo. He did not understand why Wheeler and Ray just sat there. The three of them should ride to the ranch for help.

Jeb Wheeler held up a hand and announced, “That’s far enough.”

Shock spiked through Timmy. One of the six was Julio Pierce. He almost drew and squeezed off a shot, but Wheeler had instructed him not to do anything. He did not know any of the vaqueros. One gleamed with silver everywhere.

“Let us pass,” Julio said. He and the others had spread out, the one with the silver on the right, nearest the trees.

“Like hell,” Ray Ornley spat.

“You have your nerve, comin’ here like this,” Jeb Wheeler said. “She was as fine a woman as ever lived.”

Julio acted perplexed. “If you are talking about my mother, si she was. She is the reason I am here.”

Now it was Wheeler who was confused. “Your mother? What does she have to do with anything? We’re talkin’ about Nancy Tovey.”

“You murderin’ bastard,” Ray snarled.

“What?” Julio’s surprise seemed genuine. “Are you saying Nancy Tovey has been killed?”

Timmy was as confounded as everyone else. He was amazed none of the vaqueros had spotted him but they were focused on Jeb and Ray.

“Out of our way, gringos.” The man with all the silver was leaning on his saddle horn. A pearl-handled Colt glistened in his holster. “We are after those responsible for the death of Juanita Pierce.”

“She’s dead, too?” Wheeler exclaimed.

Ray Ornley pointed at Julio. “First things first. We know you beat Mrs. Tovey to death, you son of a bitch.”

“Me?” Julio blurted.

“Don’t listen to them, patron,” the one with the silver said. “They seek to confuse you. Think only of your mother and your father. Kent Tovey and the Circle T have much to answer for.”

Wheeler’s hand was on his revolver. “Are you accusin’ Mr. Tovey of murderin’ Juanita Pierce? Why, that’s plumb crazy.”

Julio snapped out of his befuddlement. “That is exactly what I am doing. First Berto, then my father, now my mother. Your intent is plain.”

“Mister, we don’t know what in hell you’re jabberin’ about,” Ray Ornley said. “We had nothin’ to do with your ma and pa dyin’.”

The vaquero wearing the silver smiled. “You lie.”

“We’ll let Mr. Tovey get to the bottom of this,” Jeb Wheeler said. “Shed your hardware. We’re takin’ you to the Circle T.”

Again it was the one with the silver who responded. “You expect us to hand over our pistolas? Now who is crazy?”

“We’re not talkin’ to you, whoever you are,” Wheeler said.

“I am called Hijino,” the fancy vaquero revealed. “Remember that name when you are both in hell.”

Julio Pierce motioned. “No, Hijino. Something is not right here. How can both my mother and Nancy Tovey be dead?”

For a few seconds Timmy thought bloodshed would be averted. Julio was not angry anymore; he was baffled more than anything.

“Hand over your artillery,” Wheeler insisted.

Hijino uttered that mocking laugh of his. “Si. We will hand over our pistolas so you can shoot us in the back. We are not stupid, gringos.”

“We will not hand them over,” Julio said. “But we will go with you peacefully. I very much want to talk to Kent Tovey.”

“Not wearin’ your pistols, you’re not,” Ray informed him. “For the last time, you’re on the Circle T, and you don’t go a step further unless you hand over your revolvers and rifles.”

“I promise no harm will come to you,” Wheeler said.

“Oh, no,” Hijino scoffed. “Not until they get us to their rancho, patron. You heard them. The Tovey woman is dead, and they blame you. You will not leave their ranch alive.”

“I did not kill Nancy Tovey,” Julio insisted.

“Then why did she write your name right before she had her head bashed in?” Wheeler demanded.

Julio jerked as if pricked with a knife. “She did what?”

“See, patron?” Hijino said. “They make up lies so they can hang you. Gringos are fond of hanging. With your permission, I will dispose of these two, then you can have your revenge on Kent Tovey.”

Fury turned Ray Ornley red. “I’d like to see you try to dispose of us, you stinkin’ greaser.” And with that, he drew.

So did Hijino. Timmy saw it, and marveled. The pearl-handled Colt was out so fast, it was almost like magic. It boomed, and Ray Ornley twisted and went limp and oozed from his saddle.

Jeb Wheeler sat frozen a few seconds. Then, growling deep in his throat, he clawed at his six-gun.

Hijino shot him. Once, through the chest, smack through the heart. Hijino laughed as Wheeler fell. Wheeler’s mount bolted.

“You should not have done that,” Julio Pierce said.

“It was them or us, patron.” Hijino casually began to replace the spent cartridges. “I was only protecting you.”

“What do we do now?” another vaquero asked.

“Do we push on to their rancho?” a third wanted to know.

“I must think.” Julio ran a hand across his brow. He was staring at the bodies, at the spreading pools of blood. “Can it be true? What they said about Nancy Tovey?”

Timmy stared at the bodies, too. Jeb and Ray were friends of his. Part of him boiled with rage, with the desire to draw and start shooting. But another part warned that he was outnumbered six to one, and if he gave in to his rage, he would surely end up like Jeb and Ray.

“Does it matter?” Hijino had asked.

“Of course it matters!” Julio declared. “Don’t you see? Both my mother and Nancy Tovey. I must talk to Steve and Armando. There is more to this than we thought.”

Hijino finished reloading. He gigged his white horse closer to the bodies, then reined around so he faced his companions. Wagging his Colt, he said, “This holds six shots.”

Julio’s eyebrows pinched together. “Most pistolas do. What is your point? We must get back.”

“My point,” Hijino said, “is that there are only five of you.” With blinding speed, he straightened and fired, five shots one after the other. Julio and the other vaqueros were taken completely off guard. Julio’s forehead exploded, and he toppled. The faces of the next two vaqueros erupted in scarlet. Only the last two had split seconds in which to smother their astonishment and stab for their revolvers, but neither cleared leather. All of them were dead and on the ground before the sound of the shots faded.

Timmy was rooted with horror and fear. He had never seen anyone draw and shoot so fast. Not even Jesco.

Hijino reloaded again. He spun the pearl-handled Colt into his holster, then clucked to his white horse. As he went past Julio Pierce, he grinned and said, “They make it too easy.”

Timmy had a clear shot at the killer’s back. He did not draw. His fingers curled and his hand twitched, but he did not move until Hijino was across the Rio Largo and a speck in the haze. Then, and only then, did he swing onto his horse and race like a madman for the Circle T.