Rio Largo

Chapter 29

Dolores was a talker when she was mad, and Madre de Dios, was she mad now! Hijino listened to her go on and on, while secretly yearning for the moment when he could shut her up forever.

“We need more vaqueros! Lots of them!” Dolores was saying to Trella. “An army of vaqueros to crush the Circle T. To kill all the cowboys and burn all their buildings to the ground.”

The three of them were riding abreast under the star-sprinkled heavens. The Rio Largo was miles behind them—the rancho less than a mile ahead. A stiff breeze from off the mountains fanned the long hair of the two women, and the manes of their horses.

Trella was deep in the grip of sorrow. She had barely uttered three words since leaving the river. Hijino had made bold to lean over and touch her arm a few times, playing his part of the devoted protector, but she did not respond. Now, to Dolores’s proposal, she merely nodded.

“You must snap out of it, mi hermana. The fate of our rancho depends on us. Everything father and mother worked for, all their years of sweat and toil, will be for nothing if we do not keep our heads and do what must be done.”

In acute misery, Trella softly asked, “How could it come to this? How could our happiness be so quickly crushed?”

“You dwell on the past,” Dolores criticized. “On what we have lost, not the steps we must take to ensure our future.”

Trella looked at her. “How can you? Do you not have emotions? Our parents are dead. Our brothers, dead. The loss is almost more than I can bear.”

“Snap out of it, I tell you,” Dolores said harshly. “We will be dead, too, if you do not. We must plan, and plan carefully. We must foresee every contingency. Such as the one I fear the most.”

“What can be worse than what has already happened?”

“More proof you are not thinking clearly. For as terrible as things are, for all our loss and our sorrow, things can get worse.” Dolores paused. “They can get very bad indeed, if Paco and Roman and the rest of our men at the river are wiped out by the cowboys.”

“Paco will not let that happen.”

“A fantasy, sister. Do you think Father let himself be shot? Do you think our brothers let themselves be murdered? No. Bad things happen whether we want them to or not. We must be realistic. The cowboys outnumber our vaqueros. Unless Paco is very clever, the cowboys will win.”

The starlight bathed the tears glistening in Trella’s eyes. “We should not have left them there.”

“On the contrary. The cowboys would have given chase, and you and I would be caught in the fight.” Dolores swiped at a stray lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes. “The best we can do is pray for Paco and the others. By now they have either driven the cowboys off, or met their end.”

“They were safe enough in the trees,” Trella mentioned. “The cowboys could not get at them.”

“Paco was not going to wait for them to try. He planned to attack them as soon as we were safely away. Paco felt it better to strike first, with surprise on his side, than to wait for the cowboys to move against him. Paco is a good man. I have faith in his judgment, but I had faith in our father and our brothers, too.”

Hijino smiled at her comment. He had met a lot of people with faith. They were always surprised to find out that faith did not stop bullets. His only faith was in his pistola, and the speed with which he could draw it.

“I don’t know if I can go on without our loved ones,” Trella was saying.

“Quit being silly,” Dolores snapped. “We must go on. Our father saw to it that we know as much about ranching as any man. We can run the DP, the two of us. We will take over the valley, and not let a single gringo set foot in it without our permission. We will not make the same mistake our father did.”

“Do not speak ill of him.”

Dolores sighed. “I loved him as much as you. But it was unwise to let Kent Tovey move in.”

“How could Father have foreseen that Tovey would betray him? None of us can predict the future.”

“Sí. But we mold the future by the decisions we make in the present. The decisions you and I make over the next several days will determine our futures twenty years from now.”

Hijino shut out their prattle. It was all for nothing, only they did not realize it. He glanced from one lovely woman to the other, supremely delighted at the capricious whim of circumstance that had delivered them into his hands. He did not know which one to kill first. Or how. The how was important. He had time on his hands, so there was no need to rush. He could indulge himself. It would be great fun.

All the vaqueros were at the river, but there were the servants to deal with. Hijino ticked them off in his head: the cook, the two maids, the old man whose name Hijino could not remember, and who did the gardening and other odd jobs and slept out in the woodshed because he liked being by himself. That made four.

Ordinarily, at that time of night, the casa would be dark, but every window was lit when they arrived. The servants were too overwrought to sleep and came out to greet them. The old man took their horses to the stable. The cook scurried to the kitchen for food and drink for Trella and Dolores. The maids hovered over them like anxious hummingbirds.

Trella invited Hijino in. He stayed in the background, savoring the sweet nectar of anticipation. Where to begin? he asked himself. Or, rather, with whom? So many possibilities presented themselves.

Dolores excused herself to freshen up, saying, “We will meet in the kitchen in twenty minutes, sister.” She ignored Hijino as she went out.

Trella slumped in a chair, a portrait of despair. “I am tired. So very tired. But I could not sleep if I wanted to.”

“Me either,” Hijino lied. “Con permiso, señorita, but I left my rifle with my saddle. I should get it in case, as your sister says, the worst comes to pass.”

“Whatever is best,” Trella said wearily. “But hurry. I want you by my side, tonight and ever after.”

The sweet look she gave him would melt most any man. Hijino smiled and said, “You flatter me, señorita. I am but a humble vaquero.” Then he got out of there before he laughed in her face.

The stable doors were open. The old man was stripping the saddle blanket from Trella’s mare, and grunted in greeting when Hijino entered. “A terrible time, eh? I feel sorry for those poor girls.”

“I, as well,” Hijino said, standing under the hayloft.

“Would that I were younger!” the old man said with great passion. “I would teach those gringos. In my day, I was an hombre to be feared.”

“I bet you were.” To Hijino’s left was the ladder that led to the loft. He casually moved toward it.

The old man draped the saddle blanket over a stall. “You would not think it to look at me, but I was formidable. I fought Apaches. I fought the Navajos. They were everywhere then.”

Propped against the ladder was a pitchfork. Hijino stood next to it, and folded his arms across his chest.

“I rode with Señor Pierce before he started the DP,” the old man said, as he led the mare into a stall. “He was young, but I knew he would make something of himself. You can always tell with the good ones.”

“How about the bad ones? The killers?”

The old man patted the mare, then moved toward Dolores’s mount. “Killers are not always bad. Roman has killed, but he is a man of honor. The truly evil ones are those who snuff out life as you or I would snuff out a candle.”

Hijino took hold of the pitchfork’s long hardwood handle. “Maybe they do not see themselves as evil. Maybe they only do what they like to do, and to them that is good.”

“Bad can not be good,” the old man said as he undid the cinch. “A deed is either one or the other.”

“So Roman has shot men down, but he is good? Does that mean I am good, too, if I have done the same?”

“It depends on why you did it,” the old man asserted. “Roman has only killed in self-defense.”

“If I were to bury this pitchfork in your back for no other reason than to watch you die, would that be bad, then?”

“What a strange question. Most assuredly, it would be bad.”

By then, Hijino was close enough. “In that case, I am perhaps the most evil person you have ever met.” The metal tines met with no resistance as he drove them into the old man’s back, between the shoulder blades.

With a loud gasp, the old man stiffened and tried to turn, but was held in place by the pitchfork. “In heaven’s name, why?” he bleated.

“Were you not paying attention?” Hijino asked. Grinning savagely, he twisted.

The old man cried out. Blood spurted from his nose and the corners of his mouth. He reached behind him to try and grab the handle, but could not. “I do not understand,” were his last words. He fell on his stomach, the handle jutting into the air.

Whistling to himself, Hijino dragged the body into an empty stall. Not that he expected anyone to come looking. But better safe than prematurely dead. He closed the stable door and strolled up the path to the house. Instead of going in the front, he walked around to the rear door. Through it, he saw the cook at the stove. She gave a start when he entered.

“Señor! You scared me half to death! Next time you should knock, eh?”

Hijino played the gallant. “I am most sorry.” A counter was midway between the stove and table. Walking over, he leaned against it. “You are afraid?”

“Who would not be? Those awful cowboys could show up at any moment.” She was a stout woman with wisps of gray at the temples, and always wore an apron over her dress.

On the counter lay a butcher knife. Hijino placed his right hand beside it, and remarked, “You must have faith in the vaqueros.”

The cook came toward the table. She had already set out plates and glasses and silverware. “I have faith in God, señor. The Lord is the only one who can truly protect us from harm.”

“Then he must be asleep,” Hijino said, and thrust the butcher knife into her abdomen. She was as shocked as the old man had been, and opened her mouth to cry out. “No, you don’t,” Hijino said, clamping his other hand over her fat lips even as he slit her open from hip to hip. She died on her feet, with her intestines oozing out. He lowered her under the table and left the knife buried in her belly. Before moving on, he wiped his hands on a towel.

Hijino was halfway down the hall when a maid appeared at the other end. He stopped and leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “What is your hurry?” he asked, as she came hurriedly toward him.

“I am to bring the coffee for Trella.” She was a young thing, still in her teens, the granddaughter of the old man in the stable. Her name was Carona, Hijino remembered. “Excuse me, senor.” She shifted to slip past him.

“And if I don’t?” Hijino’s hands were on her throat, and he was forcing her to the floor before her brain accepted the reality. She frantically clawed at his arms and tried to gouge his eyes, but he drew his head back. When it was over, the impressions of his thumbs and fingers were buried deep in her flesh. He dragged her into a room, closing the door as he went back out.

The second maid was with Dolores. Hijino heard their voices before he came to the bedroom. Dolores was in a chair, the maid fussing over her hair. They did not notice him.

“Hurry, Rosalita. I told them twenty minutes, and it has been more than that. I am worried about my sister. In her state, she might do anything.”

A small table was near the doorway. Hijino leaned against it and folded his arms across his chest. “Do not worry, señorita,” he said. “I would not let sweet Trella harm herself.”

The two women glanced over, and Dolores said sharply, “What are you doing here? You should be with Trella, watching over her.”

On the table were knitting needles and a roll of yarn. Hijino lowered his arms, saying, “It is important we talk, you and I, señorita. It is about your sister, and for your ears alone.”

“You may go, Rosalita,” Dolores told the maid. “Help Jimena in the kitchen.”

“Sí, senorita.”

Several vaqueros were fond of Rosalita, but she was much too plump for Hijino’s tastes. She had big thighs and big buttocks, big arms and big eyes. Those eyes were fixed on him as she smiled, and went to walk past. Whether she saw his hand move, he would never know. He drove the needle into her left eye as far as it would go, curious how she would react, since he had never stabbed anyone with a knitting needle before. All she did was say, “Oh!” and collapse.

Dolores was glued to her chair. Hijino reached her in one bound and lanced another needle into her throat. His knee on her chest, he covered her mouth and nose so she could not breathe. She bucked upward, and when she could not dislodge him, she seized his wrist, but could not pry his hand off. Gradually, her struggles weakened, and as life faded from her features, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Give my regards to the rest of your family.”

Trella was still in the parlor, still slumped in the chair. “There you are, Hijino. What took you so long? And where is everyone else?”

“Here and there,” Hijino said.

She had another question. “What is that in your hand?”

“A ball of yarn.”

“I can see that, silly. But what are you doing with it? Have you taken up knitting?” For the first time that day, Trella smiled.

Hijino halted in front of her and gently placed his other hand on her chin. “Open wide.”