Rio Largo

“Why so many?”

“I don’t follow you,” Saber said, although he understood perfectly.

“Split only two or three ways, it would be more money for those of us who live to split it.”

“You, me, and Twitch, you mean?” Saber studied the black with renewed interest. “What about Fritz, Caleb, Lutt, and Harvey? We need them to help drive the herd to market.” As it was, even with Hijino and Dunn helping, they might need a few more men.

“We won’t need them after.”

It always fascinated Saber how changeable people were. “True. But Fritz and Lutt have ridden with me for a coon’s age. It wouldn’t hardly be right.”

“Something for you to think about,” Creed said. “You don’t need to make up your mind right away.”

Saber had more than that to ponder over the next couple of hours. Until the Circle T and the DP killed each other off, he and his men must stay clear of them. He counted on the Pierce family getting the worst of it—helped along by Hijino—if only because of their fewer numbers. Dunn would do what he could at the Circle T, and by now should have taken care of Tovey’s wife. That was bound to incense the Circle T’s punchers into a feverish frenzy. They would finish off the last of the Pierce outfit, losing some of their own in the fight. That was when he and his men would swoop down and wipe out the survivors, leaving him in control of both ranches and a fortune in prime beef.

The sun was well on its westward arc. They came to a sparsely timbered ridge. Below were the foothills, brown footstools to the ramparts they were descending. Saber kneed his animal lower, and once again acquired a shadow.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“As I said, Fritz and Lutt have been with me almost as long as Twitch. I’d need a damn good reason.”

“All that money isn’t reason enough?”

Saber chuckled and winked. “It damn sure is.” He started to laugh, but abruptly fell silent at the crack of a shot from lower down, from about the spot where he was supposed to meet Lafe Dunn.

The parlor was dark. The curtains had been drawn, but that was not enough. Kent also hung a blanket over the window. Another blanket had been spread over the body on the settee, but now lay on the floor where he had thrown it.

Kent was on his knees, his hands on Nance’s arm, staring at the ruin that had once been, to him, the loveliest face in all existence. Now it was destroyed. A horrible, grotesque travesty. A pulped, distorted image of the woman he had adored.

She’s gone. Kent could not bring himself to accept the truth. It was why he had spent every waking moment, since the punchers brought her body to the house, here in the parlor. He could not bring himself to leave her.

Long since, Kent had run out of tears. He had cried and cried until he had cried himself dry. He doubted he would ever cry again. No loss could match this. No loss could rip his heart and soul to shreds as this loss had done.

Clayburn had been in an hour ago. Again. To suggest, ever so kindly, that they bury her. Kent knew Clayburn was right, that it was unnatural of him to keep her there, that the men were whispering, but Kent refused. “Not yet. I’m not quite ready.”

They understood. They had seen the depth of his love for her. They had witnessed the breadth of his devotion. They would not begrudge him until the body became rank, and he would not let it go that far.

“I miss you so much.” Kent stroked the arm, once so warm and soft and vital, now cold and unyielding. He took her hand in his, and squeezed. Once, those slender fingers would have squeezed back. Now they were lifeless sticks.

“Oh, Nance.” Kent bowed his head. Outside, a horse nickered. He had not looked out the window in a while, but he imagined they were still out there, every puncher on the spread, called in by Clayburn, ready to ride to the DP. Ready to wage war.

They would not leave without Kent. He must lead them. But he could not tear himself away. They were ready to do what must be done, but he was not. He had never killed, never given the command to kill, never seen a shooting, even. But that was not the real reason he kept them waiting.

“Oh, my sweet Nance.” Kent bent over her. Her nose had been beaten flat, her mouth was mangled, one eye terribly swollen, the other amazingly untouched and open. Clayburn had offered to shut it, but Kent had motioned him away. That eye was the one part of Nance’s face that still reminded him of her. He gazed into it. In life, her eyes had mirrored her love for him, and he had never tired of gazing into them. Now they were as empty as the awful emptiness inside him.

“I shouldn’t do this, I know. It’s childish. But I can’t help myself. I can’t cut the string.”

Kent slowly reached out and touched his fingertip to what was left of her lips. A crushed tooth protruded through the rent skin. Whoever did this had not been content with beating her to death. They had continued to beat her well after she was dead. The sheer viciousness of it sickened him. To do something like this to someone as sweet and kind as Nance was hideous.

“It’s my fault,” Kent whispered.

Clayburn had told him not to blame himself, but Kent could not help it. She was spirited away right under his nose. The torment she had undergone, the fear, and all the while, he was sound asleep in their bed, dreaming God knew what dreams, oblivious to her peril. He should have heard something. He should have sensed something. He had failed her, failed her utterly when she needed him most.

“It’s my fault,” Kent repeated, the constriction in his throat making it hard to breathe. He tenderly caressed her elbow, and noticed a dark droplet he had missed when he cleaned up the blood. Clayburn had offered to do it, but Kent did not want anyone else to touch her.

“Who could do this?” Kent asked the question he must have asked a hundred times. His punchers blamed the DP. They believed Nance had been murdered to get back at the Circle T for Juanita. One of his men had been in San Pedro, and heard about her death from the bartender. That serene, wonderful woman, Nance’s best friend. The vaquero who told the bartender made it plain the Pierce family held the Circle T responsible. As if Kent or any of his hands could ever do something like that.

“They’re idiots,” Kent said. But was he any better? He had no proof the DP had slain Nance in revenge.

That was not entirely true. The new puncher, Dunn, had seen a lone vaquero galloping south at first light the morning Kent woke up to find Nance missing.

Two and two still made four.

“They will turn over whoever did this to you, or I will burn the DP to the ground,” Kent vowed to the corpse. He entertained the hope, however slight, that the Pierces would not put up a fight.

A new thought left Kent breathless. What if, he asked himself, it had not been a vaquero? What if it had been one of the Pierces themselves? Both Armando and Julio wore sombreros, and could be mistaken for vaqueros in the tricky glow of predawn.

“If it was, they die,” Kent said, staring into the lifeless eye. He placed his forehead on her shoulder, and that close, smelled the odor. He shuddered, his stomach churning. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it and drew back. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Once, after hearing about a woman they knew who died of consumption, Nance had told him that if anything ever happened to her, he was to remarry. “Don’t spend your life alone,” she had said. “Nothing is worse than loneliness.”

Kent swallowed. She had been right. But it would be a snowy day in Hades before he took another woman for his wife. Nance had been everything to him. No woman could replace her, ever.

Reluctantly, Kent rose. He had put it off long enough. Time to bury her. Time to ride to the DP and settle accounts, one way or the other. He strode to the front door and opened it, recoiling as bright sunlight seared his eyes like twin daggers. Blinking, he shielded his face and called out, “Walt?”

In seconds, Clayburn was there. He did not say anything. He did not have to.

“Fetch the shovels and pick three men to help me dig. Advise the rest we leave in an hour. I won’t hold it