Rio Largo

yelled at him not to, but he would not listen. Then the rest of the gringos started shooting.”

“Steve and Armando!” Trella wailed. “My brothers are dead!”

“I am sorry,” Hijino said. “I could not save them.” “Mi hermana,” Dolores said, enfolding Trella. “It was not his fault. There was nothing he could do.”

Trella wailed louder, and tried to push loose.

Paco was furious. Ordinarily the mildest-mannered of men, he swore luridly, and jabbed a finger at the gun smoke wafting over the grass. “We will kill them for this! Every last one! They made fools of us! They honored our white flag so they could kill Armando and Steve.”

Roman did not say anything. His eyes were hidden by the wide brim of his sombrero, but he appeared to be staring at Hijino.

“Tell me what you would have me do, and I will do it,” Hijino said to Paco, playing his part.

“Help the others. Shoot as many as you can before it is too dark to see.”

“Si.” Filled with secret delight at how he had tricked them, Hijino threaded through the trees in a crouch. Slugs whistled and buzzed among the branches and boles, clipping leaves and bark and branches. Flattening, he snaked to a trunk wide enough to offer some protection.

A vaquero to his left raged nonstop with every shot. “Damned stinking gringos! Damned rotten bastardos!”

Inwardly smiling, Hijino sighted at the center of a gray mushroom, and fired. “Shoot at their smoke!” he hollered. Someone came through the woods and joined in. He knew it would be Roman. A glance confirmed it. “We will give them hell!” he declared.

Roman merely nodded.

Does he suspect? The hairs at the nape of Hijino’s neck prickled. But Roman would not act unless he was sure. That was the great difference between Hijino and men of honor. They always needed a reason to squeeze the trigger; Hijino did not. They always had to justify killing; Hijino killed for killing’s sake. They were good men, decent through and through; there was not a shred of decency anywhere in Hijino’s being.

So Hijino was wary, but not overly worried. He would deal with Roman when the time came. Until then, he did as the rest of the vaqueros were doing, and emptied his rifle at the cowboys, twice in succession. He had to pretend to be as outraged as everyone else.

The twilight darkened into the black of night, and Paco shouted for the shooting to stop.

“I wonder how many of them we got?” a vaquero said.

“I saw one fall for sure,” another mentioned.

“I hit one in the head when he popped up to shoot!” a third exclaimed. “I saw his hat go flying.”

Boots crunched, and Paco materialized out of the gloom. “Roman, the senoritas would like to talk with you. You, too, Hijino.”

More cause for Hijino to be delighted. He was more than a simple vaquero now. He was part of the inner circle. Trella’s doing, he suspected. She had succumbed to his charms with all her heart.

The sisters were with the horses. Dolores was pacing, her arms across her bosom. Trella sniffled and gazed glumly into the water. When she saw Hijino, she rushed over and embraced him.

“I am sorry for hitting you. It was wrong.”

Hijino graciously excused her. “You had good cause. It is I who am sorry for not saving your brothers.”

Paco cleared his throat. “The important thing is to decide what to do next. I think the senoritas should return to the rancho.”

“I am in charge now,” Dolores said. “My place is here with the vaqueros, as it would be if I were Steve or Armando or Julio.”

“With all due respect, Senorita Pierce,” Paco said, “you are a woman, and they were not. You hamper us by your presence.”

“How?” Dolores demanded.

“If the cowboys attack, the men will think of you first, and their own lives second. They will not be as careful as they should.”

“That is silly,” Dolores said, but not unkindly.

Paco shrugged. “It is the nature of things, senorita. They hold you and your sister in the highest esteem, and would gladly throw their own lives away to save yours.”

“I do not like it. I do not like it one bit. Women should not be treated differently than men.” But Dolores sighed, and said resignedly, “Still, I would not be the cause of more men dying than must. My sister and I will go back and await word.”

“Gracias. It is for the best.”

Dolores put her hand on Paco’s arm. “I appoint you the new caporal. You take Berto’s place. Roman and Hijino are witnesses, and will spread the word. The men are to listen to you as they would listen to Trella or me.”

Flushed with pride, Paco said, “I am grateful beyond words.”

“You have earned it.”

“Then my first order is this.” Paco turned to Hijino. “You will accompany the senoritas to safeguard them. Stand guard at the house. If the cowboys slip past us, their lives will be in your hands.”

“I will protect them with my dying breath,” Hijino glibly lied. Once again, his luck served him well.

“You need Hijino here,” Dolores said. “You need his skill with pistols.”

Paco disagreed, much to Hijino’s amusement. “His skill is best served protecting you. Should we fall, he must take Trella and you to San Pedro. From there, you can take the stage south. The Chavez rancho is only ten days’ travel. They will look after you.”

“What you say makes sense, but I do not like it.” Dolores glanced at her sister. “How about you?”

“Hijino is fine with me,” Trella said. “He has my utmost confidence. He will keep us alive if anyone can.”

Roman broke his silence to say, “He had better.”

Paco clapped Hijino on the back. “Then it is settled. Off you go. Watch over the senoritas every minute.”

“Never fear,” Hijino said. “They are in good hands.”

“Sons of bitches!” Shonsey the cook pounded the ground, then shook his fist at the vegetation lining the river. “Those yellow scum! Shootin’ unarmed men!”

“Simmer down,” Walt Clayburn urged the fighting-mad cook. “They won’t get away with what they’ve done. Don’t you worry.”

Kent Tovey heard them as from a distance, even though they were on either side of him. He was on his back on a blanket. They had removed his blood-drenched shirt and bandaged him as best they could, but it would not delay the inevitable.

Strangely enough, Kent felt no pain. None whatsoever. He always thought people who were shot were in agony. All he felt was weak, so weak he could barely keep his eyes open. But he must. He could not die yet. There were things to say. “How bad off are you, Walt?”

“They winged me, is all,” Clayburn responded. “I managed to get you out of there. I just wish I had done it sooner.”

Kent sought to soothe his guilt. “You did all you could. How many others besides Jack Demp have we lost?”

“Two,” Clayburn said. “Kyle and Vintnor. Kyle got too close to the trees, and Vintnor tried to help him.”

“Lousy greasers,” Shonsey spat.

“Don’t talk like that,” Kent said. “Until a few days ago, they were our friends. I can’t understand how it all went so wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.”

“They only pretended to be friendly,” Shonsey said. “Deep down, they always hated us. They resented you for claimin’ half the valley, and they resented the rest of us because we’re not Mex.”

“Dar Pierce was not bigoted,” Kent said.

“It’s not him I’m talkin’ about,” the irascible Shonsey growled. He started to say more, but Walt Clayburn cut him off.

“That’s enough. Go see that the wounded have been tended to.”