Rio Largo

regretfully at his youngest. When they got back to the DP, Dar would sit Julio down. He had to make Julio see past his fury to a troubling possibility: If the Circle T cowboys were telling the truth and Jack Demp could not have murdered Berto, then clearly someone had plotted to put the blame on their shoulders. Who? And why? Dar could think of only one motive, namely, to cause trouble between the two ranches. To drive a wedge between the Toveys and himself. To what end, though? The ultimate goal eluded him.

“Are you all right?” Nance asked.

“I fear we have a sidewinder in our midst, and they’ve drawn first blood,” Dar sought to enlighten her.

“If that’s the case, working together we’ll settle their hash for them,” Nancy vowed. “As for your son, don’t fret. He’ll simmer down eventually.”

Dar hoped so.

Over by the stable, Julio dismounted and paced back and forth. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he snarled, “My own padre, duped by these gringos! He is blinded by his own goodness.”

“I warned you,” Hijino mentioned. “I told you the gringos would deny it.”

“And you were right,” Julio said in disgust. He stopped and smacked his hand against his leg. “But I swear to you, to all of you, that Berto’s death will not go unavenged.”

“What can you do?” Paco asked. “What can any of us do? To go against the Toveys is to go against your father.”

“Perhaps . . .” Hijino said, and stopped without finishing his statement.

“Perhaps what?” Julio goaded.

“There is a saying the gringos have,” Hijino said. “Fight fire with fire. We must do to the guilty one as he has done to Berto.”

Paco recoiled at the suggestion. “Kill Jack Demp? The other cowboys would seek our blood.”

“Let them!” Julio spat in disdain. “I am not afraid of the Circle T. I would welcome an excuse to crush them.”

“You are talking about a range war,” Paco pointed out.

“So? Maybe it is long overdue. My father should never have permitted the Toveys to settle here. He gave up half the valley without a fight. I hate to say it, but he has always been timid.”

Roman, who had remained quiet until now, stirred. “How do you propose to go about it, patron?”

“You will find a way to challenge Demp,” Julio said. “He is no match for you with a pistola.”

“I must be clear,” Roman said. “You command me to kill him? To goad him into going for his gun?”

“I would never force you to do anything against your will,” Julio said. “It must be your decision.”

“Your father would fire me.”

“Not if we do it right. Not if we arrange things so the gringo appears to be to blame,” Julio proposed.

Paco whistled softly. “I say again, we risk a range war. Rancho against rancho. It is not to be taken lightly.”

Hijino sleeved dust from his silver saddle horn. “I agree. But either that, or we swallow our pride and our manhood and let Berto’s killer go unpunished. I, for one, can not stand for that.”

“Nor I!” Julio declared. “But we will let the gringos think they have tricked us. We will bide our time until the rodeo, and then Roman will uphold the honor of the DP.”

“I hope we know what we are doing,” Paco said.

Julio glared at the white house. “The more I think about it, the more I realize there is room in this valley for only one rancho, and that rancho is the DP.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Are you with me?”

“Need you ask?” Hijino smiled. “You can count on me to back you in anything you do.”

“I wish all the vaqueros were like you,” Julio said.

Chapter 12

Saber was having a grand old time. He’d always thought that running a saloon would be the perfect job if he ever decided to give up riding the high lines and become respectable. Not that he ever would. For as fond as he was of whiskey and cards, he was fonder of danger.

Straitlaced churchgoers would find it hard to comprehend, but Saber relished the outlaw life. Stealing, killing, mayhem, they were nectar to his jaded senses, intoxicating in their sweetness—addicting, too, in that once he had started down the bloody and violent path he craved, he couldn’t stop. To always do as he pleased, to satisfy his every whim and craving, that was real living. To do as the common herd of humanity, to abide by laws and rules made by others, was to live in a prison bounded by invisible bars.

On this bright and sunny afternoon, with the surrounding peaks of the Nacimiento Mountains towering high in the sky, Saber stood behind the bar of the Wolf Pass Saloon sipping the best coffin varnish in the place, and gazed out the open door. Some of his men were asleep in the back. Others lounged at the tables, playing cards and drinking.

“Yes, sir, boys,” Saber declared. “This here is the life.”

The comment caused Creed and Twitch to stand and come over. Both were in sour moods, and Saber could guess why.

“What will it be, gents?”

“Enough of this playactin’,” Twitch said. “How much longer do we have to sit around twiddlin’ our thumbs?”

Saber bristled. The merest hint of disagreement always angered him. Only by force of will did he keep his wild bunch in line. They must never suspect weakness, or they would turn on him like a pack of starving wolves. That was how it was done. “How many times must we go over the same damn thing?” he snapped.

“I am bored,” Creed said. “I don’t like doin’ nothin’.”

“Is that what you call this?” Saber gestured. “A roof over our heads. All the booze we can drink. Enough food in the pantry to last us a good long while. And what do you two do? Complain.”

“That’s not fair,” Twitch groused. “It’s not you we’re gripin’ about. It’s the waitin’.”

“We can’t move until the time is right,” Saber said with rare patience, “and the time won’t be right until Hijino and Dunn have the Circle T and the DP at each other’s throats.”

Twitch smirked. “I’ve got to hand it to you, cousin. This is your best brainstorm ever. We’ll make more money than we ever dreamed, once we sell off all those cows and help ourselves to whatever else is worth havin’.”

“I am still bored,” Creed said.

Were it any other member of his gang, Saber would browbeat them into submission. But he had to handle the black with care. They were all killers, but Creed was the worst. He would kill anyone, anything, anywhere, anytime. Creed was the only one of them Saber secretly feared might turn on him if pushed too far.

“Why don’t you go practice with your six-shooters? That always makes you happy.”

“I did that yesterday.”

“Well then—” Saber began, but stopped when Creed shifted and tilted his head as if listening to something in the distance. The black’s senses were uncanny. Creed heard things long before any of them, saw objects too far off for anyone else to see. “What is it?”

“Someone comes.”

Saber smiled in anticipation. Two days ago a rotund drummer had shown up on his way north. An old acquaintance of Mort’s, he had been surprised when Saber told him the former owner sold the saloon and lit out for Denver.

“I thought Mort loved this place,” the drummer had said. “He told me he would live out the rest of his days here.”

Saber had shrugged. “I made him an offer he couldn’t rightly say no to.” He then changed the subject by offering the drummer a free drink, and listened to the fool babble about how hard it was to sell ladies’ corsets for a living.