Rio Largo

Chapter 1

The first rider came from the north. He appeared at Wolf Pass from out of the vastness of the wild and rugged Nacimiento Mountains.

Mort Decker was emptying a spittoon in the dawn light when he glanced up and spied the man and horse in deep shadow at the edge of the clearing. Instantly, Mort stiffened. He was not wearing his revolver, and his scattergun was under the bar. He relaxed when he saw it wasn’t an Indian but he was upset with himself. Carelessness could get a man killed.

The rider just sat there.

Mustering a friendly smile, Mort raised a hand in greeting.

The rider did not respond.

Mort tensed up again. The newspapers and the politicians liked to crow that much of the West was settled and civilized, but that did not apply to New Mexico Territory. Wolves of the human variety were all too common; hostiles and outlaws were as thick as fleas on a bluetick hound. Kit Carson had whipped the Navajos, but small war parties of young hotheads acted up on occasion. The Apaches were still to be feared, too, especially with Geronimo on the loose. Then there were the white bad men, killers, and cutthroats of every stripe.

It was no wonder, then, that some folks said it was crazy of Mort to build his saloon so far off the safe and beaten path. But Mort never had cottoned to towns and cities, never had liked being up to his armpits in people and having to abide by a host of laws. His saloon enabled him to make a living, yet sometimes entire weeks went by when he did not see another soul. He liked it like that.

Now, lowering his arm, Mort turned and went back inside. His saloon was the only one in the Nacimientos. It granted him a certain immunity from the high-line riders, an immunity Mort did not take for granted. He set the spittoon down and went around the bar. Placing his hand on the scattergun, he waited.

The clomp of hooves announced the rider’s arrival. Mort envisioned the man wrapping his reins around the hitch rail. Spurs jangled, and a silhouette filled the doorway. Really filled it. Mort had not realized how big the man was: shoulders as broad as a bull’s, a chest a grizzly would envy.

The big man strode to the bar and leaned on an elbow. He wore typical cowboy garb: a high-crowned hat, a brown shirt, Levi’s, and batwing chaps. Strapped around his waist was a black-handled Colt. Nothing unusual in any respect, yet Mort could not shake the feeling that this cowboy was more than he seemed.

“Mornin’, mister. You spooked me out there. I don’t often get customers this early.”

“Whiskey,” the man said.

Mort reached for a bottle.

“I hate watered-down bug juice,” the man casually commented. “The last barkeep who pulled that on me lost all his front teeth and an ear, besides.”

“Oh?” Mort reached for a different bottle. He opened it and filled a glass, all the while thinking furiously. Yes, it was common practice for saloons to water their drinks. Most folks accepted it and did not raise a fuss. He placed the glass in front of the big man and held out his palm. “That will be two bits.”

The rider fished in a shirt pocket and slapped a coin into Mort’s palm. In a smooth motion he upended the glass, gulped the contents in a single swallow, then wriggled the empty glass under Mort’s nose. “Bring the bottle and leave it.”

His ears burning with annoyance, Mort did as he was told. He recognized the signs. The flinty eyes. The hard features. The whipcord steel that lurked under the surface, waiting to spring at the least little provocation. He had encountered lobos like this rider before.

To cover his nervousness, Mort busied himself cleaning glasses. The rag he used needed washing, but his customers were generally not finicky.

“How long have you been here?”

Mort looked up. The rider was regarding him with an intensity Mort found disturbing. He hoped to God the man didn’t intend to rob him. Mort always dreaded that happening, and liked to imagine himself defending his property and his life with his guns blazing. But he did not make a try for his scattergun. A tiny voice at the back of his mind warned that if he did, he would be dead before he touched it. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Since five o’clock.”

“No, I meant your place here,” the man said, gesturing at the ceiling and walls.

“Oh. Pretty near four years now, I reckon,” Mort responded, and stressed the fact that if he were to be bucked out in gore, it would anger some people, by saying, “I have the only whiskey mill in these mountains.” Maybe anger them enough to treat the culprit to a hemp social.

The rider chugged whiskey and let out a contented sigh. “You must know all there is to know about these parts.”

Some of Mort’s confidence returned. “That I do, friend. I daresay there isn’t a gent for a hundred miles around that I haven’t met, or a place I haven’t been.” He was exaggerating, but what was the harm?

Those flinty eyes fixed on him like the piercing eyes of a hawk on prey. “I’m new hereabouts. Maybe you wouldn’t mind givin’ me the lay of the land.”

Encouraged, Mort moved closer. “There’s not much to it. Follow the trail ten miles to the southeast and you’ll come to the Sweet Grass Valley. The old Spanish called it the Rio Largo Valley, after the Rio Largo river, but a lot of the Spanish names aren’t used anymore.”

“I hear tell it’s prime grazin’ land,” the rider remarked.

“Is it ever,” Mort confirmed. “Between the Circle T and the DP, there must be thirty thousand head or more.”

“Those would be the two ranches I’ve heard about,” the rider said. “Are there any others?”

Mort chuckled. “I’d like to see someone else try to horn in. Kent Tovey and Dar Pierce would fix their hash, pronto.”

“Tell me about the outfits,” the rider goaded. “I’m lookin’ to hire on.”

Warming to the topic, Mort leaned back. “The Rio Largo sort of divides the valley in half. The Circle T owns all the land north of the river; the DP has all the land south of it.”

“Sort of? Are they about the same size?”

“The Circle T is bigger.”

“Which ranch was here first?”

“The DP. Dar Pierce was with General Taylor during the Mexican War. When the troops pulled out, he stayed on and got himself hitched to a pretty Mexican gal by the name of Juanita.”

The rider was about to take another swig. “You wouldn’t catch me marryin’ no greaser.”

Mort smothered a flash of anger. “Juanita Pierce is a genuine lady. And I wouldn’t go sayin’ that about greasers between here and San Pedro, or the DP boys might get wind of it and come callin’.”

“They don’t worry me none,” the rider said flatly.

“They should. They’re a salty bunch. Insult their boss at your own risk.”

The rider changed the subject. “What about the other spread? The Circle T? The owner’s name is Tovey, did you say?”

Mort nodded. “He comes from a well-to-do family back east. Brought in a few thousand head from Texas to start his herd years back, and now has one of the best spreads in the whole territory.”

“But wasn’t Pierce already here when Tovey came? Didn’t Pierce mind a greenhorn waltzin’ in and takin’ over half the valley?”

“Dar Pierce isn’t land hungry like some cattle barons. He’s content with what he has. But don’t let that fool you. He’s one tough hombre.”

The rider treated himself to another swallow and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the Circle T is hirin’ hands?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Mort said. “It’s late in the season, and there’s never a shortage of punchers who want to sign on. Tovey pays really well and has a first-rate cook.”

“Food’s not important,” the rider said.

Mort blinked in surprise. Never in his life had he heard a saddle stiff utter such bald-faced blasphemy. To the cow crowd, food was everything. There was a saying to the effect that cowboys lived by their stomachs. The outfits with the best cooks always attracted the best cowpokes.

The man patted the bottle. “How much? I need to be moseyin’ on. Daylight’s a wastin’.”

“Four dollars,” Mort said.

“That’s a mite steep.”

“Rotgut doesn’t grow on trees,” Mort said. “The cost of shippin’ it out here is twice what the saloons in San Pedro pay, and I need to make a profit same as any other business.”

The man paid and touched his hat brim. “I’m obliged for the information.” He wheeled on his high heels and strode away.

Mort was struck by a strange insight: The man hardly had any dust on his clothes.

Given the time of year—the middle of the summer—and given how dry it was, any rider who traveled any distance was bound to be covered with the stuff. Curious, Mort walked outside.

The big man had unwrapped the reins to a zebra dun, and was reaching for the saddle horn. A lithe swing, and the saddle creaked under him.

Neither the zebra dun nor the saddle, Mort noticed, were the least bit dusty. The rider had lied about how far he’d come. An interesting tidbit that in and of itself meant nothing. The world was full of liars. Good riddance, Mort thought. Aloud, he said, “If you’re ever again in this neck of the woods, feel free to stop in.”

The rider looked back. He was supposed to act friendly to dilute suspicion, so he smiled and touched his hat brim, feeling the fool as he did. Once beyond the clearing, he applied his spurs. The trail was well defined. He made good time. It was not yet noon when he reined up on the crest of the last of the foothills.

Sweet Grass Valley was everything he had been told: lush with the rich greenery that lent the valley its name, prime grazing land any rancher worthy of the title would give anything to own.

The rider slid a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. The hand-drawn map was crude, but the landmarks were plain. He reined north, and for the next hour and a half followed the edge of the hills. Careful to stick to cover, he came to a trail that saw less use. It wound around a low hill, and presently brought him within sight of a shack.

Gigging the zebra dun into some scrub oak, the rider dismounted and shucked his Winchester from the saddle scabbard. He levered a round into the chamber, then crouched and cat-footed in among pockets of dry brush to within a stone’s throw of the shack. Two horses were in a small corral attached to the side. Inside, someone was whistling.

The rider squatted and tucked the Winchester to his shoulder. Patient by nature, it did not bother him that over half an hour passed before the door opened and out came a human broomstick carrying a bucket. Shirtless and hatless, the string bean walked past the corral and over near a stand of cottonwoods.

Only then did the rider spot the spring.

“Yes, sir,” the thin man said over his shoulder to the horses in the corral. “Ten more days and I’ll be shed of line duty. I can’t wait. Not that I mind your company, but you are a poor substitute for the gals at the Lucky Star.”

Keeping low, the rider circled toward his quarry. There was no breeze, so he did not need to worry about his scent giving him away to the horses.

The broomstick knelt and dipped the wooden bucket into the water. “That Maggie sure treats me nice. Last time I was there, she did me for half price. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

A break in the brush gave the rider a clear shot. He sighted down the barrel, then lowered the Winchester without firing. Rocks lined the spring—large rocks that would serve as well as a bullet, if not better. Quickly bending, he removed his spurs and set them beside his rifle.

The thin man was a chatterbox, which was to be expected. The job of the line rider was lonely work, and cowhands often developed the habit of talking to themselves.

The rider should know. He had been a cowpoke, once.

“I aim to repay the favor by buyin’ Maggie a fancy gift,” the broomstick was saying. “A new shawl, maybe. Or one of those pretty new bonnets with the bows and frills the females cotton to. It can’t be a mirror. Ugly women hate mirrors, and she sure is powerful ugly.”

As silently as a stalking Comanche, the rider crept toward the puncher. He placed each foot with care. The broomstick had a Remington on his hip, and while it was doubtful he used it for anything more than shooting snakes, the rider preferred not to tempt fate by giving the cowboy time to draw.

“Listen to me!” the thin cowpoke marveled. “You would think I was booze-blind, but I’m sober as a parson.” He laughed at his own antics. “Maybe it’s true what old Shonsey says. Maybe there comes a time when every man is more than willin’ to step into a woman’s loop if it means a warm bed the rest of his nights.”

One of the horses nickered.

The rider froze. The animal had seen him. But the cowboy did not look around. The rider continued his cautious advance.

“I laughed at the notion when I was younger,” the puncher rambled on. “But life has a way of sweatin’ the fat out of a man’s brain.” Sloshing water over the rim, he raised the bucket out of the spring. “Of course, if I’d had any sense to begin with, I wouldn’t be nursemaidin’ cows for a livin’, would I?” He began to rise.

By then the rider was close enough. A single bound brought him to the rocks. He had already selected the one he wanted. As large as a melon, with a jagged edge, it was perfect. He had it in his hands and over his head before the broomstick awoke to his presence.

“What in tarnation?” the cowboy blurted, his eyes widening. He clawed for his pistol, but it was much too late and he was much too slow.

The rider brought the rock crashing down. It caught the cowboy across the forehead, caving in his skull and bursting his brain like overripe fruit. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Tossing the bloody rock into the spring, the rider hoisted the body and pushed it into the water, head-first. He deliberately left the puncher’s boots sticking out, so someone would spot them.

Hurrying into the brush, the rider replaced his spurs and snatched up his Winchester. Retrieving the zebra dun took only a few moments. The bottle he had bought at the Wolf Pass Saloon was in one of his saddlebags. Taking it out, the rider returned to the spring, opened it, and laid it at the water’s edge. Satisfied with his handiwork, he swung onto the zebra dun. As he rode past the corral, the horses stared at him. He winked at them.

“I hope the rest are as easy.”