Rio Largo

Chapter 24

Timmy Loring was scared witless. They had been caught in the open, framed in the square of light from a window. He was about to do as they had been commanded, when John Jesco exploded into motion. Before Timmy could quite comprehend what Jesco was up to, he had seized Dunn, hauled him off the horse, and pushed him toward Timmy, bellowing, “Into the house! Use him as a shield!”

Timmy’s Colt was in his hand, but he did not remember drawing it. Jamming it against Dunn’s spine, he backpedaled. Dunn started to twist away. “I’ll blow a hole in you as big as an apple! I swear!” Timmy warned.

Off in the dark, rifles spat flame and lead. Slugs whined to Timmy’s right and left. Several struck the porch, and sent slivers flying.

Jesco answered them. He drew his Colt and banged off three shots with incredible swiftness. Timmy thought Jesco was shooting wildly but then someone cried out, “I’m hit!” It dawned on him that Jesco had fired at the muzzle flashes, with remarkable effect.

Timmy nearly stumbled on the top step, but he gained the porch, and pulled Dunn after him. A rifle banged near the corral, and he fired back. Then he was at the door. Reaching behind him, he opened it and kicked with his boot. The door slammed wide. Another instant, and he was inside, still hauling Dunn after him.

Jesco backed inside, squeezing off another shot as he cleared the threshold. Pressing his back to the wall, he reloaded, his fingers flying.

Timmy had never seen anyone reload so fast. He was glad Jesco was there. No one else could have done what Jesco did, and hold the seven cutthroats at bay long enough to make it indoors.

“You’re only delayin’ things,” Dunn snarled. “Both of you are as good as dead.”

“Shut your mouth.” Jesco spun the cylinder, then twirled the Colt, cocking it as he did, and trained it on the outlaw. “Or you can die here and now.”

If looks of raw hate could slay, Dunn’s would have reduced Jesco to bleached bones.

More lead peppered the front of the house. A slug drilled the window to the left of the door, and a vase on a table crashed to the floor.

“Stop firin’, damn it!” came a roar from outside. “We don’t want to hit Lafe by mistake!”

“Is that Saber?” Jesco asked.

Dunn nodded.

In the sudden silence, Timmy could hear his ears ringing. “What now?” he whispered. Were it up to him, they would slip out the back. So what if they were on foot. The important thing was to go on breathing.

Jesco sidled to the window, but did not show himself. “Saber? Can you hear me?”

“Of course,” came the gruff reply.

“Leave, now. One at a time, at a gallop. Or I shoot Dunn.”

Timmy felt Dunn move, and tensed, then realized Dunn was indulging in quiet mirth.

“Do you really expect him to do what you want, cowboy? You don’t know him like I do. The only person he cares about is himself.”

Saber’s answer proved Dunn right. “Go ahead and curl him up if you want. But me and my pards ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Told you,” Dunn said.

Jesco cupped his left hand to his mouth. “Mr. Tovey and the rest will be back soon. You don’t want to be here when they do.”

Cold laughter wafted on the breeze. “I wasn’t raised in a turnip patch. Your boss is likely off across the river, swappin’ lead with the Pierces. The boy and you are on your own, and that’s an awful big house.”

“What does he mean by that?” Timmy wondered.

Dunn responded instead of Jesco. “You can’t cover all the windows and doors. Sooner or later my friends will find a way in, and that will be that.”

Jesco glided toward the stairs. As he went past Dunn, his right arm streaked out. “I told you to shut up.”

Like a tree felled in a forest, Dunn pitched to the floor and did not move. His other temple was bleeding from a gash wider and longer than the first.

“That should keep him out of our hair for a while,” Jesco said. “Go check the back door. Be sure the bolt is thrown. I’ll be upstairs but I won’t be long.”

Timmy shriveled inside. The rear of the house was dark, not a lamp lit anywhere. He moved slowly down the hall, groping with his left hand. He vaguely recollected a small table somewhere past the parlor. Suddenly his boot made contact. He drew back, skirted it, and continued to the inky rectangle in the kitchen.

Timmy froze. Was it his imagination, or was a cool breeze fanning his cheeks? He envisioned the back door open, a killer lurking just inside, ready to blast him into eternity when he came close enough. Then a curtain rustled, and he saw that the window over the counter had been cracked a couple of inches to admit fresh air.

Grinning at his silliness, Timmy entered. He had only taken a few tentative steps when he froze a second time. He had heard movement! There could be no mistake. The sound came from over by the back door.

Crouching, Timmy licked his suddenly dry lips. He strained and strained, but could not spot whoever was waiting to do him in.

Timmy yearned to shout for Jesco, but it would give him away. His skin crawling, he crept forward. First one foot, then the other, careful not to scrape his soles or otherwise betray where he was.

There it was again! This time, Timmy glimpsed a shadowy shape low down to the floor. Lying flat, he figured, to be harder to hit. He tried to swallow, but now his entire mouth was dry. Never in his whole life had he been so afraid.

The shadow moved toward him.

Timmy’s hand began to shake. He grasped the Colt in both hands, but he still could not hold it steady. To add to his shame, his teeth began to chatter. He had to grit them to make them stop.

In the gloom, the outline of a pale face appeared. Timmy saw the eyes and the chin, but he could not make out much else. He did not need to. All the servants were gone, all the punchers, too. It had to be one of Saber’s bunch.

Taking a deep breath, Timmy prayed to the Almighty to guide his aim, and stroked the trigger. In the confines of the kitchen, the blast was unnaturally loud. So was the screech that punctuated the shot.

The shadow leaped high into the air, did a somersault, and came down hard. It tried to rise, and collapsed.

Timmy cocked the hammer as boots drummed. Jesco called his name, but Timmy did not reply. He must make sure. Easing closer, he listened for breathing, but heard none. He was about to shoot again, when he saw that the sprawled shape was smaller than a person would be. Much, much smaller.

Jesco burst into the kitchen, a lamp held over his head, filling the room with its glow. “I’ll be damned!” He stopped short. “What did you go and do that for?”

Timmy rose to his knees, his chin on his chest, ashamed of himself. “It was dark. I thought it was one of Dunn’s friends.”

“With whiskers and a tail?” Jesco stood over the body and felt for signs of life. “As dead as Mrs. Tovey. It’s a good thing she’s gone to her Maker, or she would be mighty upset. She was right fond of this cat.”

Luck once again favored Hijino.

The sun was almost gone. Steve and Armando had delayed going to meet Tovey, thanks to an argument with their sisters. Little did Dolores and Trella realize, but they had sealed their doom.

“Enough is enough. We must go, or Kent Tovey will think we are up to something,” Armando said.

Trella stepped in front of him, her hand on his chest. “Please! One last time I beg you to reconsider. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“As do I,” Dolores said.

Steve moved past them to his horse. “We are taking Hijino. The rest of the vaqueros will have us covered.”

Roman nodded. “That we will, patrón. At the first sign of treachery, we will shoot them from the saddle.”

Trella would not relent. “What will talking to them accomplish? How can you trust them, when they have killed Mother and Father and Julio?”

“And Berto,” Paco said. “Do not forget Berto.”

“I must learn why,” Steve said. “I must hear it from Kent Tovey’s own lips.”

“You are a fool,” Trella said.

Dolores clasped Armando’s hand. “We do not want to lose the two of you, too. Take us with you.”

Hijino stiffened. If the women went along, he could not carry out his plan. “It is too dangerous, señorita,” he made bold to interject.

“Don’t worry,” Steve Pierce assured his sisters. “Kent will respect a flag of truce. He will grant us that much.”

“You speak of him as if he were the man we once believed him to be,” Dolores said. “A man of honor and decency. But he has proven he is not.”

“You are jumping to conclusions.” Steve stepped into the stirrups. “Now out of our way.”

Armando strode to his horse and mounted, the saddle creaking under him. He smiled down at Dolores and Trella. “Have confidence in us. We are not idiots. We will not let anything happen.” He palmed his revolver and handed it to Paco.

Steve gave his Colt to Roman. “Remember, no one is to shoot unless I do this.” He made a chopping motion with his arm.

“Sí, patrón.”

Trella stamped a small foot. “Don’t go! You never listen to me because I am the youngest, but this time you should.”

“You are adorable when you are angry, sister,” Steve said, and gigged his mount toward the cowboys.

Armando flicked his reins and caught up with Steve.

Tingling with expectation, Hijino followed. He loved a good challenge more than anything, and this promised to bury him unless he did it just right.

“I did not say anything back there,” Armando remarked to Steve, “but I hope you are right. I do not share your respect for Tovey.”

“We will make this quick,” Steve said uneasily, as if he were having second thoughts. “It’s getting dark.”

Three riders came to meet them. One was Kent Tovey. The second was Clayburn, the Circle T’s foreman. Both were unarmed. The third rider, Hijino was delighted to see, was Jack Demp. He suppressed a laugh. The stupid gringos were playing right into his hands.

Midway between the two forces, they reined up. Hijino contrived to knee Blanco slightly past Steve and Armando, and near Demp. He rested his right hand on his silver saddle horn, and smiled.

Clayburn started right in. “It took you long enough. What kept you? This was your idea, remember?”

“Now, now, Walt,” Kent Tovey said. “The important thing is that they want to talk. Maybe we can settle this without more bloodshed.” He paused. “But first I need to know something. I saw your vaqueros moving bodies. Was one of them Timmy Loring?”

“Who?” Armando said.

“It was Julio and some of our vaqureos,” Steve said. “Now I want to know something, Kent. I want to know how you could turn on us after so many years of being our friend?”

“I’m still your friend,” Kent Tovey declared. “May God strike me dead if I am lying.”

Armando flushed with anger. “You can sit there and say that? With our father and mother and our brother dead?”

“I had nothing to do with their deaths,” Kent said. “Nor am I entirely convinced you had anything to do with my wife’s.”

Hijino grinned at Jack Demp. Beads of sweat peppered the cowboy’s brow below his hat brim. Demp was nervous, and kept placing his hand on his hip and lowering it again. A man should not be so high-strung , Hijino thought. Tricking Demp would be child’s play.

“We liked your wife, señor,” Armando assured Tovey.

“Nancy was our mother’s best friend,” Steve added. “We would never harm her.”

Clayburn glared from one brother to the other. “Well, someone sure as hell did, and if it wasn’t you or your vaqueros, then who?”

“I can not answer that,” Steve admitted. “But if we agree to end hostilities, we can sit down together and try to piece things out.”

The moment for Hijino to act had come. Suddenly straightening, he raised his hand toward his hip, and exclaimed loud enough for those at the river to hear, “Do not touch that pistola, gringo!”

Jack Demp, startled, blurted, “What?”

“I will warn you only once!” Hijino cried.

Blinking in confusion, Demp unwittingly did exactly as Hijino was hoping he would do; he reached for his Colt.

“No!” Hijino shouted. He drew and fired, just as Demp’s fingers closed on the revolver. Hijino shot him in the head. The cowboy never stood a chance. “Watch out! It is a trick!” he yelled at Steve and Armando. Then he sent a slug into Kent Tovey’s chest.

“No!” Steve Pierce bawled.

Hijino swiveled to shoot Clayburn, but Kent Tovey’s horse shied and came between them. Before he could apply his spurs, the cowboys and the vaqueros began firing, each side seeking to protect their own. Rifles blasted in a ragged volley. A slug creased a furrow in Hijino’s shoulder. Swinging onto Blanco’s side, he reined around and raced for the river. He looked back and saw Steve Pierce and Armando trying to flee. Both were hit, repeatedly. Armando fell. Steve succeeded in turning his mount, only to have a slug rip through his throat.

Hanging from his saddle, his shoulder throbbing from his wound, slugs whizzing all around, Hijino chortled with glee.

Everything had worked out exactly as he wanted.