Rio Largo

Nance wrestled with fear. She must not lose control. Her hands were bound, but her legs were free. That was something.

She considered working the bandana loose and screaming. But they were already far enough from the house that no one would hear her, and Dunn would be furious. No, she would rely on her legs, not her lungs.

Dunn brought the animals to a canter. He was in a hurry to get away, but not in so much of one that he would risk exhausting the horses. He had not looked back since they started out.

The tall grass swished to their passage. Nance was glad for the grass. It would cushion her. She might break an arm or a shoulder, but that hardly mattered compared to what Dunn had in store.

Nance leaned to the right, as low as she could go without losing her balance. The grass was so close she could smell it. Please, God! she prayed, and pushing clear, she dropped. The horse cantered on. She hit, but not as hard as she expected. Her shoulder absorbed the brunt, the pain fleeting. Then she was up in a crouch.

Her unwitting captor had not slowed.

Whirling, Nance ran back the way they came. She was not young anymore, but she was in good shape for her age. Several times a week, she took long walks. Walking wasn’t as strenuous as running, but she could move swiftly when she needed to. She fairly flew, her long legs flashing.

Nance would start shouting the instant she saw the buildings. The punchers always left the bunkhouse windows open. They would rush to her rescue. As for Dunn, she would have Kent send men to track him down and bring him back. Alive if they could. He had the answers they needed. Dunn might refuse to talk, but there were ways. Jesco would make him. Nance grinned at her hypocrisy.

The thud of hooves rekindled her fear.

Angling left, Nance sprinted a short way, and dived prone. She was none too soon. The hoofbeats grew louder. Out of the night swept Dunn, the spare horse in tow, but he was thirty or forty feet away, and did not spot her.

Nance was thankful for the moonless vault of sky. The dark and the grass were her allies. They hid her. She waited until the hoofbeats faded, then she was up and running. She remembered that rattlesnakes did most of their hunting at night. Or she might step into a hole or a rut. Each stride became an exercise in anxiety. She kept her gaze on the ground. Because of that, she did not see the horses blocking her way until she nearly collided with them.

“Bitch.”

A boot caught Nance across the temple. She staggered, but would have stayed on her feet had Dunn not kicked her again. She fell hard, dazed and distraught.

“I should kill you here and now,” Dunn snarled. “But Saber wants it done a certain way.”

Nance barely heard him over the roaring in her head. She pushed to her knees, but was overcome by weakness, and her forehead sank to the ground.

“Get up, damn you,” Dunn commanded.

Nance stayed where she was.

“I won’t tell you again, Mrs. Tovey. Rile me and you’ll regret it. Do as I say, and it will be a little easier.”

“If you intend to kill me, shoot me and be done with it.” Nance was praying her head would clear.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t,” Dunn said. “But gunshots carry a long way at night. And as I just told you, Saber is particular about how I’m to do it.”

That name again. “Who?” Nance asked, buying precious seconds. The pain was still too much to cope with.

“Never mind. On your feet.”

“I feel sick. You about kicked my head in.”

“You’ll feel a lot worse if you don’t do exactly the hell what I tell you to do. Now get up, damn you.”

Nance rose partway. She wanted to cradle her head in her hands, but couldn’t. “I tell you, I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re still breathin’,” Dunn said. He jabbed a thumb at the spare horse. “Climb on.”

“With my hands tied?” Nance snapped. “Be sensible, will you?” She had an idea. “Give me a boost.”

Dunn swore. His saddle creaked as he dismounted and let the reins drop. “Women are next to worthless.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.

Nance deliberately sagged against him so she could mentally mark the spot on his pants. She must not make a mistake.

“Stand up,” Dunn commanded, and hauled on her arm. “I don’t have all night for this.”

“That’s too bad,” Nance said, and drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over, gurgling and grunting, and Nance once again sought the sanctuary of the encompassing darkness. Dunn clutched at her nightclothes, but could not hold on. She forgot about the rattlers and the holes and sped like an antelope for her life.

Nance figured she had a minute, maybe two, before he was after her. Since he expected her to make straight for the ranch buildings, she veered to the west. She listened for hoofbeats but did not hear any.

Nance smiled. She had done it.

Then the staccato smack of churning boots burst her bubble of hope.

Incredulous, Nance glanced back.

Dunn was ten yards behind her. His high-heeled boots were not made for running, and he looked for all the world like a drunk weaving from too much alcohol. But he was gaining, and he had his Colt in his hand.

“No!” The cry was torn unbidden from Nance’s throat. She tried to go faster, but her body was at its limit. She changed direction, toward the house and her husband. In doing so, she inadvertently enabled Dunn to overtake her. All he had to do was cut off the angle.

Nance cried out as fingers locked in her hair. She was wrenched into the air and slammed onto her back. “All right!” she breathlessly declared. “I give up.”

Dunn reared over her. He arced the Colt on high. “Too late,” he snarled. “You had two chances. You don’t get a third.”

The Colt descended. Nancy Tovey attempted to twist aside, but the hand in her hair held her fast. He struck again and again and again. The crunch crunch crunch of metal on bone rang in her ears. But it was not the last sound she heard. The last was her whimper.

Chapter 18

Steve Pierce had lived what he liked to think of as an ordinary life. He had been born and raised on a ranch, so it was only natural that he lived, breathed, and ate ranching. He loved everything about being a rancher. The work agreed with him. Up at the crack of dawn, a hearty breakfast with his family, then busy, busy, busy all day, until sunset or beyond, when he would ride wearily home to supper. Then an hour or two of talk with his parents and siblings, and then early to bed in order to be early to rise. That had been his routine for as long as he could remember.

Then everything was shot to hell. Berto, dead. His father, dead. By rights, as the oldest, the running of the ranch should fall on his shoulders. He had been groomed for it since childhood, and should have no qualms about taking over. But he did. Secretly, he worried he was not up to handling the crisis they faced. So he was tremendously happy when his mother assumed the mantle. Her calm self-possession was reassuring to the rest of them, but especially to him.

But now the worst that could happen, had happened. Steve could still not quite believe it, hours after they