waning years, and the sense of accomplishment that came from a man making a success of his life.
Kent had always been proud of his own success. The Circle T was no small thing. It had taken near superhuman perseverance to wrest a working ranch from the forces of nature and the financial pitfalls that conspired to destroy his dreams. Disease, poor markets, bad winters, all had brought him to the brink of ruin at one time or another. Always, he stuck it out, and in the end he had a ranch that was the envy of the territory.
Now the Circle T teetered on the brink again. This time, the forces arrayed against him were his former friends. The hands he once shook so warmly had stabbed him in the back.
Kent could forgive most any affront. He would have been willing to overlook harsh words spoken in the heat of anger. He would even have excused a few shooting affrays, if worse came to worst. But he could never forgive them for Nance. She had been everything to him. As the Rio Largo was the valley’s heart, so was Nance his. To lose her was worse than losing an arm or a leg. It was like having his heart cut out. Hers had been the pulse that beat for both of them, and with her gone, he felt lifeless and drained.
“Sweet Nance,” Kent said softly as he led his punchers toward the glistening ribbon that was the Rio Largo.
“Did you say somethin’, Mr. Tovey?” Clayburn asked.
Embarrassed, Kent shook his head. He must get over his grief. He needed all his wits about him when he confronted the Pierces. He already had worked out what he would say. They must hand over Julio. That was first and foremost, a condition on which he would not relent. Then they must give their word that all hostilities would cease, and from that day on, never cross north of the Rio Largo without informing him of their intent beforehand.
Kent had explained his terms to Clayburn earlier, and his foreman had looked at him askance, and commented that in his estimation the Pierces were getting off too easy.
“What else would you have me do?” Kent had responded. “Wipe them from the face of the earth?”
“I reckon that wouldn’t do, either,” Clayburn had said. “I’m just glad it’s your decision and not mine.”
Life was all about decisions. About making the right one at the right time, because the wrong one invariably resulted in regrets. Kent did not have many regrets. At the top of his list was being unable to have children. He had no heir. He’d always assumed he would die before his wife, since women generally lived longer than men, and leave the ranch to her. Now she was gone. There was really only one other person he could leave it to. Only one person with a blood tie who was worthy to take over the Circle T.
Kent gave a toss of his head. He would handle that after he settled with the Pierces.
“Look yonder, Mr. Tovey,” Clayburn said.
Kent spied movement at the middle crossing, men milling about on the Circle T’s side of the river. A lot of riders, nearly all wearing wide-brimmed sombreros, and others on foot.
“Do you reckon it’s the DP outfit?”
At the question, grim murmurings spread. The punchers were eager to avenge Nancy.
“It must be,” Kent said. His eyes narrowed. They appeared to be moving bodies. The logical conclusion was that the bodies were his own men, caught by surprise and gunned down. “Who did you send to guard that crossing?”
“Timmy Loring.”
Kent’s breath caught in his throat. Surely fate could not be so cruel, he told himself. But then, fate, being fate, had no regard for humankind. “Only Timmy?”
“One man for each crossing, exactly as you told me,” Clayburn said.
Kent glanced over his shoulder at the punchers strung out in his wake. Only two were missing. Allowing that one of the bodies was Timmy’s, where did the rest of the bodies come from? Had Timmy given a good account of himself before the vaqueros filled him with lead? Timmy wasn’t Jesco, but when a man’s life was in the balance, he liked to take as many of his enemies with him as he could.
One of the vaquero’s yelled and pointed at them.
Kent slowed. The Circle T outnumbered the DP, but he would not throw away the lives of his hands needlessly if he could help it.
“My God! Are those women?”
At Clayburn’s exclamation, Kent looked again. He recognized Steve Pierce by Steve’s clothes. Armando was next to him. Nearby sat two hourglass figures in riding habits, holding quirts. “Dolores and Trella, the sisters.”
“What in hell are Steve and his brothers thinkin’?” Clayburn said. “Females shouldn’t be involved in this. It’s not right.”
“They always stick together,” Kent reminded him.
“Range wars should be left to the menfolk. It’s bad enough without women dyin’.” Clayburn caught himself, and said sheepishly, “Sorry, Mr. Tovey.”
“That’s all right,” Kent lied. The remark had seared him like a sword.
“How do we handle this?”
They were almost within rifle range. The Pierces and their vaqueros were scattering in among the trees.
Kent raised an arm, and brought his small army to a halt. He reached back for his saddlebags, and then remembered he did not have his telescope. Which reminded him. “Where is Jesco when we need him?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Clayburn admitted. “Shonsey saw him run from the stable to the corral and light a shuck west. Shonsey hollered, askin’ where he was headin’, but Jesco didn’t answer. By the time Shonsey fetched me, Jesco was out of sight.”
“Damned peculiar,” Kent said. Jesco was usually as dependable as the seasons. He shrugged. “Oh well. He’ll show when he shows. We can get by without him.” He said that for the benefit of the men behind him, waiting expectantly for their orders. “Have everyone dismount.”
Jack Demp was fidgeting like he had ants in his britches. “We could charge them, Mr. Tovey. Like the cavalry.”
“Across open ground, and right into their gun sights?” Kent shook his head. “We would be slaughtered. No, we’ll stay out of range and wait to see what they do.” He slid down and stretched, glad for the reprieve from riding. He was not as spry as he used to be. These days, an hour in the saddle, and he ached in places he did not normally hurt.
Clayburn was issuing instructions. “Floyd, you and Charley take care of the horses. The saddles stay on, in case we need them in a hurry. Shonsey, get a fire goin’ and put coffee on. Somethin’ tells me we’ll be here a while.” Clayburn pointed at three punchers, one after the other. “Mel, Carver, and Tilden. I want you to take your rifles and crawl fifty yards closer to the river, to keep an eye on things. Stay down, so they don’t spot you. Mel, you go to the right. Carver, to the west. If they try to sneak up on us, give a holler.”
The cowboys hustled to obey.
Kent began to pace, to relieve the stiffness in his legs. It was a good thing they had come along when they did. If he were still back in the parlor, moaning over his loss, the Pierces could have surrounded the buildings under the cover of darkness, and in the morning, when his hands filed from the bunkhouse to the cookhouse for breakfast, picked them off as easily as clay targets.
Kent shuddered. He must not make that mistake again, not let his grief affect his judgement. His men depended on him, and he must not let them down.
“Poor Timmy must be dead,” Clayburn commented. “Odds are they caught him nappin’.”
“Another life they must answer for,” Kent said. The last one, if he had anything to do with it.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” Clayburn said. “Steve Pierce is a good friend. Or was. Armando and me got along well, too. Maybe my grandpa was right.”
“Your grandpa?”
“”He was a cantankerous old cuss. Soured on life from the day he was born. Nothin’ was ever good enough. No one ever measured up.” Clayburn paused. “Anyway, he never had any friends, never seemed to want any, so one day when I was about ten, I asked him why. He laughed and said that they weren’t worth the bother. That friendship was only skin deep, and given half an excuse, so-called friends would turn into enemies. I never believed him.”
Kent refused to believe it, too. He hunkered down, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck the stem between his teeth. The sun was about to set. Once it did, he would give the order to close in.
