Rio Largo

Chapter 3

“The socializing will be fun.”

Kent Tovey gave rise to mild exasperation. “It’s called a rodeo, dear,” he responded across the breakfast table. “The men take it quite seriously.” Of average height and build, there was nothing remarkable about him except his chin, which jutted like an anvil. He hated his chin as he hated few other things.

In the act of buttering a muffin, Nancy Tovey paused. “Too seriously, if you ask me. One of these years, the competition will end in violence. Mark my words.”

“Don’t I always listen to you?” Kent knew it was a mistake the moment he uttered the words.

“Don’t patronize me. You know how I detest being patronized. Just because I was born and raised in New York does not make me ignorant. And need I remind you that you were born there, too?”

Kent sighed and sat back. His wife of three decades taxed his self-control at times. No, he did not need to be reminded. He remembered his upbringing vividly; the pleasant years of growing up in New York City, the decision to follow in his father’s footsteps and go into business, the mercantile he ran until a chance encounter filled his head with visions of the fabulous opportunities awaiting the intrepid on the frontier. His move to Texas, and then, years later, uprooted to New Mexico Territory. Now here he was, in his forties and the owner of one of the largest and most profitable ranches in the Southwest. A success by any measure.

There were those who had warned Kent he would fail. His father, for instance, labeled leaving New York foolhardy. “What do you know about cows? You were reared in the city, not on a farm.”

Kent had a pat answer. “What I don’t know, I will learn. I will do as I have done with the mercantile, and only hire the best men for the job. Their experience will compensate for mine until mine matches theirs.”

His wife had objected, too. Nancy came from a wealthy family. She had been reared in the lap of luxury. That she fell in love with him and elected to marry him was a constant source of wonderment to Kent. She did not seem to understand that his decision to strike out west and make his fortune was in part motivated by his desire to give her the many things he could not give her as mercantile manager. “Bold dreams call for bold risks,” he had told her.

She had clucked in the annoying way she had, and replied, “I took you for better or worse, so where you go, I go. But if I end up in a boardinghouse ridden with lice and rodents, I will never let you hear the end of it.”

That was his Nance, as she liked to be called, always speaking her mind, and tact be damned. Kent loved her, sincerely and truly loved her, but there were moments when he sincerely and truly longed to throttle her. Now, forking scrambled eggs into his mouth and chewing, he gave thought to the preparations for the rodeo. “I must consult with Clayburn and Jesco today.”

“He scares me,” Nance said.

“Who?” Kent asked in surprise.

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be Walt Clayburn.” Nance fluffed her light brown hair. For her age she was remarkably attractive. She had an oval face, full lips, and green eyes—the loveliest eyes Kent had ever looked into. Her dress came all the way from Denver, her shoes from Saint Louis. She insisted on wearing the latest fashions. Queen of the Circle T, people called her, and the title fit. “Walt is the nicest man who ever drew breath. He always treats me with the utmost respect.”

Kent agreed. But then, his foreman was wise to the wiles of men and women, and treated females with the same regard he treated cattle. “You’re afraid of John Jesco?”

“Don’t make it sound so preposterous. He is an enigma, that one. He hardly ever speaks to me. And he’s killed. Shot others in cold blood.”

Exasperation blossomed into anger, and Kent set down his fork. “I will thank you never to talk like that about him again. Jesco is quiet by nature, and shy around women. As for the shootings, he had no choice. I’ve had all the details from Clayburn.”

“Suppose you share them.”

“Really, now,” Kent said. “Breakfast is hardly the time to discuss bloodletting.”

“You’re the one who claims it was justified,” Nance said. “Prove it.”

When she took that tone, what choice did Kent have? “Jesco has shot four men that I know of. There are rumors of several more, but he never talks about them and no one would presume to delve into his past. That’s just not done.”

Nance sniffed in distaste. “Yes, more of that crude Western etiquette I am forced to live by.”

“Honestly,” Kent said. After all this time, he thought she would have adjusted.

“Go on.”

“All of Jesco’s shootings were done in self-defense. The first time, a saloon girl was involved. She fancied him, and the other man took exception.”

“Yes, I can see where a backward waif might be smitten by those exceptional good looks of his.”

A thought struck Kent. The thought that maybe his wife’s unease did not stem from fear so much as another emotion. Apparently, she did not realize how much her comment revealed. “Anyway, the other fellow drew on Jesco, and would have shot him down if Jesco had not been so quick.”

“You say that with a degree of pride.”

“Why shouldn’t I? Out here a man’s worth is not always judged by how much money he has or how much land he owns. Jesco does us a service by staying with the Circle T. His reputation serves to discourage troublemakers.”

“As if anyone in their right mind would dare try to do us harm,” Nance scoffed. “You have nearly thirty hands riding for you. A small army. You don’t need a man like John Jesco.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong, dear,” Kent took delight in pointing out. “Most of our hands are plain and simple cowboys. They’ve never shot anyone in their life. Oh, they wear six-shooters, but those are tools of their trade, like their ropes and their spurs, useful for disposing of rattlesnakes and coyotes. Jesco is different. He is gun-savvy, as they say, and he is loyal to the brand, which makes him an important asset.”

“I still don’t see where it is anything to be proud of. Killing is killing. The day we start to place killers on pedestals is the day this country teeters on the precipice.”

Kent did not say anything. She was judging Western ways by Eastern standards, a failing of hers. He was to blame. He sheltered her from the harsher realities of life. Her view of the West had been limited to the view out the window of their house in Dallas when they lived in Texas, and now by her standing as co-owner of the Circle T. She never actually had to live among the common folk and see the world through their eyes.

“All that silliness aside, I look forward to seeing Juanita again. It has been over a month, and I do so miss her.” Nance’s brow furrowed. “Odd, isn’t it, that we should be so close? I mean, she comes from a poor family in a small village somewhere in Mexico, and I was raised in a mansion on the banks of the Hudson.”

“Juanita Pierce is a walking, breathing bouquet of roses,” Kent said.

Nance’s furrows deepened. “I had no idea you felt so highly about her. But for once we agree. She is a saint, if ever there was one. I often wonder how hard it must be for her, married to a man like Pierce.”

Kent did not hide his indignation. “What in the world are you talking about? He dotes over her. They get along marvelously, like two peas in a pod.”

“Well, she is considerably younger.”

“So? Dar gives her everything she wants. He even modeled his ranch after the Mexican variety because she misses Mexico so much. How much more must he do to prove his love for her?”

“Sometimes love is not enough,” was Nance’s reply.

Kent had endured enough foolishness for one meal. He finished and excused himself. The maid would clear his dishes.

Morning was Kent’s favorite time of the day. After breakfast, he liked to sit in a rocking chair on the porch and gaze out over his domain while puffing on his beloved pipe.

The timber for the buildings had been hauled from the Nacimiento Mountains. Everything was painted white: the ranch house, the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, the stable, the blacksmith shop, the chicken coop, the sheds, the outbuildings, everything. The hands liked to joke about how neat and tidy Kent insisted the ranch be, but Kent did not relent. He managed the ranch as he had managed the mercantile, as a model of efficiency. That was the secret to reaping profits year after year, and Kent was not in the cattle business to lose money.

Shonsey, the cook, once made a comment within Kent’s hearing about how the Almighty was riled because Kent ran the Circle T better than the Almighty ran heaven. “Any day now St. Peter will show up askin’ for work.”

Hardly had the remembrance entered his head than Kent saw his foreman and another man approach.

Walt Clayburn lived, breathed, and ate cows. He got his start as a puncher working outfits in Texas. By the time Kent met him in Dallas, Clayburn was foreman of a small ranch. Clayburn leaped at the offer to join Kent’s drive to New Mexico and become foreman of the Circle T.

Clayburn never gave Kent a single occasion to regret the decision. The Circle T operated as smoothly as a well-oiled steam engine, and that was largely due to Walt. Kent trusted him implicitly.

Today Clayburn was dressed as he nearly always was, in a dusty gray hat, a store-bought shirt, scuffed brown leather vest, Levi’s and boots. He seldom wore a pistol. His brown eyes were framed by black bangs. He had a big nose but a small mouth. “Mornin’, Mr. Tovey,” he said with a smile as he stopped at the bottom of the steps.

“Will I ever persuade you to stop being so formal?” Kent asked. “You can call me by my first name if you like. If I’ve mentioned that once, I must have told you a thousand times.”

“Sorry, Mr. Tovey, but old habits are hard to break, and I was bred to treat my employers with respect.” Clayburn nodded at the newcomer. “This here is Lafe Dunn. He’s lookin’ for work.”

Kent puffed on his pipe. He always let Clayburn handle the hiring, but Clayburn always insisted on getting his approval. “As always, I will rely on your judgment.”

“Thank you, sir. We are a hand short since Wilson went and busted his skull up at the line shack.” Clayburn sadly shook his head. “I never will understand what he was doin’ with that bottle. He wasn’t much of a drinker.”

Kent did not understand it, either. Ed Wilson had been at the Circle T for six years, as dependable a cowhand as any. For him to get drunk and fall on that rock in the spring had come as a shock.

“If Dunn works out,” Clayburn was saying, “he can take Wilson’s place.”

Kent had not paid much attention to the new cowboy, but he did so now. Dunn was as tall as Jesco, the tallest man in the outfit, but with a more muscular build. Dunn’s eyes were dark, virtually black, and had a predatory aspect that reminded Kent of a hawk one of the hands found with a broken wing and nursed back to health. “I take it you have done ranch work before?”

Dunn nodded.

“I pay top dollar, but I demand top work,” Kent went through the ritual. “I’m not as strict as my good friend Dar Pierce, in that I do not expect you to be a paragon of virtue.” Kent wagged the pipe at him. “But in my presence and that of Mrs. Tovey, my hands are required to show due respect. Is that understood?”

Again Dunn nodded.

“Have you lost your voice?” Clayburn asked.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Dunn finally spoke. He had a deep voice with a slight rasp. “I’m not much of a talker, is all.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Kent assured him. “It’s your roping and riding skills that count. You will be paid forty-five dollars a month, which I’m sure you’ll agree is more than fair. You are entitled to two Saturdays off a month, at the foreman’s discretion.”

“Any questions?” asked Clayburn.

“None that I can think of,” Dunn said.

Kent had one. “How do you feel about Mexicans, Mr. Dunn?”

“Sir?”

“Dar Pierce has a Mexican wife. They often pay us visits. His punchers are Mexican. They sometimes cross onto our side of the river after cattle that have strayed across the Rio Largo. You will also run into them in San Pedro. Are you comfortable with that?”

Dunn cocked his head. “Comfortable how, sir?”

“In being around them. We hold an annual rodeo. This year it is the Circle T’s turn to host the event, and many of them will be here.” Kent began to rock back and forth. “I do not hire bigots, Mr. Dunn. If you are one of those who regards anyone with Mexican blood as a ‘greaser’ or a ’chili-eater,’ say so now and you may leave with no hard feelings.”

“Not me, sir. I’ve been around them all my life. They’re no different than anyone else.”

“I am gratified to hear that.”

The screen door opened and out came Nance. “Good morning, Walt,” she said merrily. “Care to partake of some coffee? We have half a pot left from breakfast.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but no,” Clayburn replied. “I have too much work to do.” He glanced at their new man. “Go pick a bunk and store your war bag. I’ll be along shortly.”

Dunn touched his hat brim to Nancy, and departed.

“Fortuitous, him showing up when he did,” Kent commented. “Otherwise it might have taken us two or three weeks to find someone to take Wilson’s place.”

Nance gracefully sank into the other rocking chair. “I need someone to take me into San Pedro in a few days. There are things we need for the celebration.”

“I’ll have Jesco do it, ma’am,” Clayburn said.

“I wouldn’t want to tear him from his work.” Nance fluttered her lips. “Why not ask the new man? He seemed nice enough.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“It’s settled, then.” Nance smiled sweetly at Kent, and said with sugary delight, “See how agreeable I can be?”