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
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.
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.
