Rio Largo

but this works out better, I think. Yes, much better.”

Juanita wished she could scratch out his eyes. Once again, the world faded to blackness, and her last thought, before the void swallowed her, was that soon she would see Dar again.

Chapter 17

Nancy Tovey could not sleep. She tossed and turned and turned and tossed, and finally, afraid she would wake Kent, she got up, donned her robe, and padded to the kitchen in her bare feet to make coffee.

Nance was troubled. Dar had assured them he did not hold the Circle T responsible for Berto’s death. But after her talk with Kent earlier, she was not certain that was enough. Someone had tried to point the finger of blame at their ranch by leaving that knife near the body. The question she could not answer, the question that caused her to toss and turn, was simply: Who?

To Nance’s knowledge, they did not have any enemies. Kent was always fair in his business dealings. He never cheated anyone, never inflated a tally when he sold cattle. He had never clashed with other ranchers over water or land. Dar and he got along wonderfully.

Nance put a coffeepot on to brew. On the counter was a sheet of paper on which she listed items they needed the next time she visited San Pedro. Now she took the sheet and a pencil to the kitchen table, and sat in her usual chair. Tapping the pencil against her chin, she mulled the question that burned in her brain. As she saw it, there were two possibilities. The culprit was someone they knew, or an outsider. Since she could not think of anything an outsider stood to gain, she concentrated on the former.

Is there anyone, Nance asked herself, who has ever shown the least little hostility toward Kent and me, or the Circle T in general? She thought and thought and tapped and tapped, and was stumped. Years ago, Kent had fired a cowboy for being lazy, but that was hardly an excuse for the cowboy to come back and kill Berto. There was no one else.

Could it be someone with a grudge against one of their hands? Nance had not considered that before, and it intrigued her. The men went into San Pedro regularly to drink and carouse. But they were never in any fights of which she was aware, and with one exception, they had not been in any shooting affrays.

That exception was Jesco.

Nance’s dislike of the man brought a flush of anger. Were it up to her, she would boot him off the Circle T. But Kent would never stand for it. He was too fond of the man. That nonsense about Jesco’s reputation somehow helping to safeguard the Circle T was preposterous. It hadn’t scared off whoever slew Berto.

Nance was about to write Jesco’s name on the paper, but hesitated. Surely, anyone out for revenge on him would not slay the foreman of the DP instead. And why frame Jack Demp and not Jesco himself?

Nance shook her head in exasperation. All this thinking was getting her nowhere. She was stumped. She had never heard a single soul speak ill of the Circle T, never witnessed anyone express the least little resentment toward—

Suddenly Nance sat straighter, her entire body pulsing. There was someone! Someone she had overlooked because she always considered him a friend. But now she recalled the savage spite on his face when he spat out, “All you gringos stick together!”

Julio. Nancy wrote his name at the top of the sheet. Yes, now that she thought about it, Julio had always been the least friendly of the Pierces. At the rodeo last year, he got into a heated argument with two Circle T punchers over a trifle—something to do with a dispute over who should have won the calf-roping event.

Going back further, Nance remembered comments Julio had dropped. There was the time Dar and Juanita invited Kent and her to spend a weekend at their rancho. During supper, after Dar asked Kent how things were going at the Circle T, Julio remarked how fortunate it was that his father had allowed Kent to lay claim to the north half of the valley. “Had it been me,” Julio said, “I would want the whole valley for myself.”

Nance had not thought much of it at the time. Julio was young and brash, and those his age did not always keep a lid on their tongues. Now, in hindsight, his resentment of the Circle T was much more apparent.

Nance circled the name, and after it wrote, Why did I not see it sooner? Pleased to be making some progress, she underlined the question three times. Then her bubble burst. Julio would never kill Berto. They were the best of friends. With her own eyes, she had seen that Berto was more like an affectionate uncle than a foreman.

About to cross off Julio’s name, Nance smelled the coffee, and put the pencil down and stood. Cups and saucers were in a cupboard next to the pantry. She was reaching for one when something scratched lightly at the kitchen door.

Nance turned. It had to be Crackers, her cat. With all that had happened, she had forgotten about him. Crackers was a yellow tabby she raised from a kitten, pampering it so much, Kent liked to joke that Crackers was the child they never had. It amused him more than it amused her. She had always wanted children. They’d tried and tried, and ultimately went to a doctor. But the doctor could find nothing wrong with either of them. “Sometimes it’s not meant to be,” was his less-than-encouraging opinion.

The scratching came again.

Smiling, Nancy went to the door and opened it. “Crackers, you scamp. Where have you been?” She blinked in surprise. The cat was not there. “Crackers?” She looked right, then left, then took several steps, the chill night air on her feet bringing goose-bumps to her skin. “Crackers? Where are you?”

The cat had an independent streak, and would sometimes stay away for days at a time, haunting the stable and other buildings in search of mice. The punchers treated it to milk, and even grumpy old Shonsey was always feeding it scraps.

“Crackers?” Nance took another step. She sensed rather than heard swift movement behind her, and was startled out of her wits when an iron arm encircled her waist, and a firm hand clamped over her mouth. The next instant, she was being carried away from the house.

I’m being abducted! Nance began to struggle, but whoever had hold of her shook her, hard, and hissed in her ear.

“Be still, or I’ll slit your throat!”

Raw fright froze the blood in Nancy’s veins. The man who murdered Berto now had her. It had to be him.

Every instinct Nance possessed screamed at her to resist, to claw and bite and kick until the hand came loose and she could scream. A couple of screams would do it. Kent was bound to hear. Their bedroom window was cracked open. The punchers would hear, too, and come on the run. They liked her. They would not let anything happen to her. But as if the man were privy to her thoughts, he shook her again.

“I mean it! Let out a peep and you’re dead!”

Nance believed him. She did not resist. He was practically running now, her weight no more hindrance than an empty flour sack. Large shapes hove out of the dark. Two horses were waiting.

The man roughly lowered her to the ground, and growled, “Put your hands behind you.”

Nance did as he instructed. Within seconds, he’d bound her. He pulled on her hair, lifting her face. Something brushed her nose, then wrapped around her mouth. His bandana, she guessed. He tied it at the back. Gripping her shoulders, he rolled her over. She recognized him: It was the new hand, Dunn. He seemed gigantic looming above her. “Try to escape, and you die.”

Nance winced as he hauled her erect. His fingers were spikes in her arms. He heaved her onto one of the horses, and she straddled it. He took the reins, and climbed on the other horse.

They started off. Nance glanced toward the house. If only Kent would wake up! If only he would wonder where she got to, and look for her. She glanced toward the bunkhouse. Maybe one of the cowboys would wake up and need to use the outhouse. But no one did, and soon the house and the bunkhouse and the rest of the buildings were swallowed by the murk.