Rio Largo

and the bottoms of his Levi’s were soaked. His first step on dry land resulted in a squish that was much too loud for his liking. But once again, whoever was in the trees failed to hear him.

Gliding from cover to cover, Jesco had not gone far when muted voices fell on his ears. He did not recognize them, nor could he tell what they were saying. One of the men, though, had the distinct accent of someone born south of the border.

Jesco crept toward them. A pair of silhouettes materialized, darker than the night. One wore a sombrero. That much was obvious. The other was a big man with broad shoulders. A few more yards and Jesco would be close enough to demand they throw down their hardware. It would be easier to shoot them, to say nothing of safer, but Jesco wanted them alive.

Then the one in the sombrero cried out, “Look there, amigo! We have been discovered!”

Muzzle flashes stabbed the dark. Jesco answered, but there were so many trees, the brush so thick, he undoubtedly missed.

A second pistol boomed.

Jesco dived flat. Dirt kicked up by slugs sprayed his face. Hs arm straight, he took deliberate aim. He had the man in the sombrero in his sights when both silhouettes abruptly melted into the undergrowth. They had split up, the one in the sombrero going right, the other left.

Jesco hesitated for a split second, then went right. Damn, but the man is fast! he thought, gaining speed. But he forgot he was in his stockinged feet. Down came his foot, and up coursed agony. Whether he had stepped on another rock or something else was irrelevant; it slowed him down. Limping, he snapped off a shot more out of frustration than anything else.

The man in the sombrero did not respond in kind.

The next moment, Jesco lost sight of him. Hooves pounded, and Jesco glimpsed a pale horse, racing south. He snapped the Colt up, but too many trees intervened.

From the vicinity of the river came a loud nicker. Whirling, Jesco ran flat out. He stepped on a downed branch, but he didn’t care. He had lost one, and he would be boiled in tar if he would lose the other. But when he burst into the open, the second rider had reached the north bank. Again Jesco went to shoot, only to have his quarry vanish into the night.

“Damn,” Jesco said. By the time he crossed and put on his boots and reached his horse, the man would be long gone. But he had learned something important. Someone at the Circle T was in cahoots with someone at the DP. Now all he had to do was figure out who.

Chapter 16

In the lonely hours between midnight and dawn, Juanita Pierce buried her face in her pillow and gave vent to more tears. She missed Dar, missed him so much. A great ache tore at her core, threatening to topple her into the pit of despair.

Juanita could not believe he was dead. They were together thirty years. He had become as much a part of her as her arms or legs. His was the first face she saw every morning; his was the warm body she held close every night. For three decades, she had loved him with a deep and abiding passion. He was more than her husband; he was friend, lover, confidant. Their souls were mutual mirrors. “Kindred spirits,” Dar had called it, and she could think of no better way to describe the entwining of their hearts.

Now Dar was gone. Tomorrow, his mortal remains were to be lowered into the ground, and the most vital man she ever met would be gone from her life for good and forever.

Juanita told herself she must be strong. She must not show weakness in front of the children. But it was hard, so unbearably hard, to act as if all was right with the world, when in truth her world had crumbled in emotional ruin and would never be the same.

Lying there, her cheeks slick with tears, Juanita remembered the day Dar came into her life, so tall and handsome and courteous. From the start, she was smitten. Some women from south of the border would never think to take a man from north of the border for a husband. In fact, some in her own family tried to talk her out of it. Scandalous, an aunt informed her, for her to succumb to one of them. Her cousin, until then the dearest of friends, flatly stated she was appalled that Juanita would stoop to living with a gringo.

The color of Dar’s skin never mattered to Juanita. When she gazed at him, she did not see a white man; she saw only a man, the man she loved. His race was not a factor. To all the naysayers she had replied, “I do what I have to.” She could no more deny her heart than she could stop breathing.

Dar was a devoted husband. His sole purpose in life, he once told her, was to make her happy, and to that end, he laid claim to the fertile grassland to the south of the Rio Largo and built the DP into a prosperous ranch.

“My sweet beloved,” Juanita breathed into her pillow. She yearned to have him beside her, to take him in her arms and smother him with kisses. If only it were all a bad dream. If only Dar and Berto were still alive.

Sniffling, Juanita rolled onto her side. She would unravel the mystery of their deaths if it was the last thing she did. She did not believe for a minute that the Circle T was responsible. The Toveys were too decent, too honorable. To what end? was the question she always brought up when they were accused. The notion that the Toveys wanted to take over the entire valley was laughable.

But if not them, then who? Juanita had asked herself that a thousand times. Clearly, someone was out to inflame not only her family, but the vaqueros, as well. Seeds of hatred had been planted, and unless something was done, those seeds would result in more violence and more bloodshed.

Juanita suspected an outside influence. Someone was trying to set the two ranches against one another. It was the only possible explanation for the knife found near Berto’s body. She saw through the deception, even if some of her own children did not.

Her children. Juanita feared for their safety. Her sons in particular. Logically, they were next on the killer’s list. She had asked them to be careful and not go anywhere alone, and although they assured her they would not take unnecessary risks, they had their pride, and would not be coddled.

A sudden gust of wind on Juanita’s damp cheek brought her up onto her elbows. The door to the small patio outside her bedroom was open. Many a night, she and Dar had sat out there, she with her head on his chest, sharing their dreams and their love.

Juanita was fairly sure she had closed the door before retiring. Then again, caught up in her grief, she might well have forgotten, and only imagined she had. She slid off the bed, gathered her nightgown about her, and crossed the room to remedy her oversight. One of the heavy curtains rustled.

Juanita wondered if a storm was brewing. She opened the door wider, and peered skyward. Not a cloud to be seen. She started to draw back, and pull the door closed after her.

Belatedly, Juanita saw an arm reach from behind the curtain. She twisted away, but she was too slow. A calloused hand clamped onto her mouth, and she was dragged roughly to the floor. Before she could cry out, metal glinted. Pain exploded in her head. The world faded to gray, and then black.

It was like falling into a bottomless well.

Motion roused her.

Juanita was aware of a swaying movement. She was on her belly, over a horse. Her head hurt abominably, so much so, she could barely think. She was still in her nightclothes, and she was cold. Her wrists pained her. When she tried to move her arms, she discovered they were bound. So were her ankles.

“Do not struggle, por favor.”

The voice pricked her. Juanita knew that voice, but she had to think before she had a face to go with it. “Hijino,” she said.

“Si, Senora Pierce,” came the reply. “Your humble servant.”

“A humble pig,” Juanita rejoined. She turned her head. He was on his white horse, leading the animal that bore her.

Hijino laughed gaily. “Your tongue is as sharp as my knife. But I never take offense at a lady’s insults as I would a man’s. Women deserve special consideration.”