hear. Tovey brought in his cattle and his cowboys, and now his ranch is bigger than your father’s. He has more cows, more men. He is richer, and grows richer every year. At your father’s expense.”
“You mistake his motives,” Trella said. “Kent Tovey is a good friend.”
“Is he really? What if your father had refused to let him settle here? Do you think this Tovey would have turned around and gone back to Texas?” Hijino shook his head. “A rattlesnake is nice enough until you step on it, but I would still not want to have one for a neighbor.”
“Enough,” Trella said sharply.
“As you wish.” Hijino gave a courteous bow. “But I warn you, senorita. If this Tovey is ever crossed, he will show his true nature, and your father will regret being so kind.”
Trella stamped her foot. “Stop it, I say! You fill my head with ideas that should not be there. The Toveys would never turn on us.” She had more to say, but a stocky figure had appeared at the corner of the stable. Alarm spiked through her. She wondered how much he had overheard.
“Is everything all right, senorita?” Berto asked.
“Everything is fine,” Trella answered.
Hijino acted as if he did not have a care in the world. He smiled at the foreman and tossed his loop again. “I have been showing her how to rope a cow.”
“How considerate of you,” Berto said dryly. “But you were hired to work with
“I will be ready in five minutes.” Hijino doffed his sombrero to Trella and jingled off.
Berto turned to Trella. “Forgive my lack of manners, but what did he say to you, senorita?”
“We talked about the rodeo and other things. Nothing of any importance.” Trella could not bring herself to reveal the truth and get Hijino into trouble. “Why do you ask?”
“I am growing not to like that one, senorita. Hiring him might have been a mistake, but it is a mistake easily remedied.”
“You will not fire him on my account,” Trella said. “He always behaves as a caballero should.”
“Is that so, senorita?”
Trella divined that Berto did not believe her, but he thought too highly of her father and was too polite to say so to her face. “I must go in.” She started to leave, but Berto shocked her by placing a hand on her arm. He had never touched her before, not in all the years she knew him.
“Forgive me, senorita, but I feel it is my duty to warn you.”
Berto nodded in the direction Hijino had gone. “He is young and handsome. It is no mystery why you like his company.” She went to respond, but Berto held up his hand. “Do not deny it. I have seen you talking to him before. That is your right. But for your sake, and your father’s, do not become too attached. He is a drifter. We know nothing about him. You invite unhappiness by being so friendly.”
“And you presume too much.”
“Oh, please,” Trella angrily countered. “What harm could he do? The idea is preposterous.” Simmering with indignation, she marched stiffly toward the house. She had half a mind to complain to her father. But he would want to know why she was spending so much time with Hijino, and might forbid her to see him. She couldn’t have that. Because Berto was right. She liked Hijino, liked him a lot, liked him more than she had ever liked any other man. So what if he said things he shouldn’t? He was so handsome!
Trella remembered her dream.
Trella was glad she had warned Hijino to be careful. She would do all in her power to see that he stayed on at the DP. The prospect made her tingle.
Chapter 5
Mort Decker was engaged in a battle of wits with a fly, and the ornery fly was winning. Five times Mort tried to swat it with his broom, and five times he missed. Now it was at the window, buzzing noisily as if to mock him.
“The same to you, you bug-eyed bastard,” Mort growled, and advanced with the broom held high. He hated flies. He had always hated flies. Their fondness for everything from rancid food to manure disgusted him. Flies were foul creatures, as senseless in the scheme of things as mosquitos and ticks. Mort hated them, too.
“No one can convince me the Almighty wasn’t drunk when he whipped up creation,” Mort declared for the fly’s benefit. He had given it a lot of thought over the years, and it was the only thing that explained all the pain and suffering in the world. Either that, or the Lord didn’t give a tinker’s damn.
Mort swung, and missed yet again. The fly taunted him by flying past his face and over to the bar. Mort wagged his broom. “You’re dead! Do you hear me? Just you wait!”
The fly alighted on the glass of ale Mort had been sipping. Incensed, he was about to rush headlong into the fray when hooves clattered noisily in Wolf Pass. His first thought, as always, was of Indians. Rushing behind the bar, he grabbed his scattergun and hurried to the front door. He had propped the door open earlier, which was how the fly got in. About to step outside, he stopped cold as a line of riders swept out of the forest and crossed the clearing.
Mort almost slammed and bolted the door. But some of them had seen him. Quickly backpedaling, he replaced the shotgun. It would not do to have them think he did not want them there. His heart raced, and he broke out in a cold sweat. It took every iota of self-control he possessed to smile and say calmly, “Howdy, gents,” as the first of the eight riders tramped inside.
Their leader did not return the greeting. He wore grimy clothes that matched his grimy looks. A perpetual grimace twisted his ferret face. From his right eyebrow to his chin zigzagged a bright scar. Rumor had it a settler took exception to the ferret-faced man raping the settler’s wife, so the settler, who had served in the Union cavalry during the war, took a saber to him. That was the day Rufus Jenks acquired the nickname by which he was widely known throughout New Mexico Territory and several adjoining states: Saber.
Next to enter was a vicious killer called Creed. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat and a pair of pearl-handled Remingtons, the pale hue of the grips contrasting sharply with the dusky hue of his skin. He also wore a belt knife. Creed never smiled. His eyes were as flat and inhuman as a snake’s.
After the black came Twitch, a sinewy back-shooter supposedly related somehow to Saber. He did not wear a gun belt, but had a pair of Colts tucked under a wide leather belt on the outside of a buckskin jacket. His handle stemmed from the constant nervous twitching of his mouth.
The rest were unfamiliar, but stamped in the same cruel mold. One look was enough to impress on Mort that they were not the kind any sane man trifled with. “What would you gentlemen like?”
Saber placed his hands on the counter, and snickered. “I don’t see any gentlemen around here. Do you see any gentlemen, Creed?”
“Sure don’t.” Creed was not much of a talker. He stood with his hands loose at his sides, close to his Remingtons.
“If there was a gentleman here, I’d shoot him,” Twitch said, his mouth doing its odd tic. “How about you, barkeep? Are you a gentleman?”
“Not me.” Mort was dismayed at how his voice squeaked. Coughing, he steadied his nerves and smiled. “Same as the last time?”
“Last time?” Saber repeated.
“You and a couple of others stopped here about a year ago,” Mort said. “It was late, pretty near midnight. You had a whiskey and asked if I could fix you somethin’ to eat. I rustled up eggs and ham.”
“By God, that’s right,” Saber said. “How is it you remember all that?”
Mort prided himself on his memory. He never forgot a face, or a drink that face ordered. “I have a
