maze of right decisions and wrong decisions and decisions that seemed right at the time, but turned out to be wrong later. The best a person could do was pick a course and stick with it, the rest of the world be hanged.
Jesco had picked his course. He was a cowboy. He would always be a cowboy. A cowboy’s life was not as grand, say, as being president. Riding night herd could not begin to compare to riding herd in the country. Nor was their much money to be had. The few cowmen who became rich were the exceptions, not the rule. But cows were what Jesco liked, and cows would do him until his turn came to be planted. Which he hoped was later rather than sooner.
A sound snapped Jesco to the here and now. He stopped and listened, and presently the sound was repeated—a stealthy scrape and soft rustle, as if someone was crawling through the grass . . . in his direction. Lowering his chin to the ground, he waited. Soon, heavy breathing testified to the other’s exertions. Whoever it was, he was making enough noise for two or three men.
Jesco thought it had to be a ruse. No one would deliberately be so loud. Then it hit him, who the crawler must be. Silently setting the Winchester at his side, he drew his Colt, his thumb on the hammer.
The seconds passed on tortoise feet. Then the grass parted, framing a thin face. In the man’s left hand was a rifle, which he was holding by the barrel. He crawled another foot or so, and stopped in surprise. “Fritz, is that you?” he whispered.
“No, it isn’t,” Jesco said, and cocked the Colt.
“You!” the man let go of his rifle and thrust his hand out in fear. “Don’t shoot, mister! For God’s sake, haven’t you done enough to me? I may be crippled for life.”
It was the outlaw Jesco had shot in the legs with the shotgun. “If you’re lookin’ for sympathy, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. You were tryin’ to burn the house down, and me along with it.”
The man defended the deed. “I was only doin’ what I was told. Besides, you stopped us. No harm done, except to me and Lutt.” He licked his lips. “Everyone calls me Harvey.”
Jesco scoured their vicinity, but did not spot anyone else. “You can try with the rifle or a six-shooter if you have one.”
“Please, mister. I’m hurtin’, hurtin’ powerful bad.” Harvey’s fear was thick enough to cut with a blunt table knife.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“God Almighty.” Harvey rose on his elbows and looked about him. “All I want is to leave this place alive.” And just like that, he threw back his head and bawled, “Saber! Over here!” Simultaneously, he grabbed his rifle and swung the muzzle up. He almost made it.
Jesco cored him through the forehead. The blast had not yet faded when Jesco sprang into motion. Holstering his Colt, he rolled to his feet, snagged the rifle on the move, and flew toward the house. It occurred to him that he should check on Timmy. Something had gone wrong with their plan; the rustlers had never opened fire on Dunn’s body.
A shape hove up out of nowhere and a rifle boomed. Jesco returned the favor, emptying the Winchester, and it was the shape that crumpled, not him. He ran on, to the same side window he had slipped out of. It was open a few inches, and he was sure he had closed it. Worry lanced through him. He opened it high enough to hook his leg over the sill.
“Timmy?” Jesco whispered in the stillness of the room. The Colt firmly in hand, his elbow molded to his side, Jesco crept down the hall to the parlor. By then his eyes had adjusted. The first thing he saw was the overturned chair, and what appeared to be two bodies intertwined beside it. He took a bound, and was brought up short by the abrupt blaze of a lamp.
From behind the settee rose a lanky man in a buckskin jacket. He was holding the lamp. In his other hand was a Colt, pointed not at Jesco, but at one of the two sprawled figures on the floor.
Another man came out of the shadows near the front curtains. He had feral features and a vivid scar down the right side of his face. His Colt, too, was trained on one of the figures. “Do anything hasty, cowboy, and we give your young friend a new set of ear holes.”
Timmy was pinned under Dunn, his arms outspread, completely helpless. “Sorry,” he said.
“How in the world?” Jesco exclaimed, relieved to find him alive. Then, to the man with the scar, “Let me guess. You’re Saber.”
“What gave you the clue?” The outlaw leader nodded at the window. “I heard a lot of shootin’ out there. My other lunkheads?”
“Won’t be stealin’ any cows.”
“Damn.”
“Your scheme has failed,” Jesco told him. “There’s only the two of you left.”
The man holding the lamp snickered. “That’s what you think, mister. There’s still Hijino. By now he’s probably wiped out the Pierces.”
Saber glowered hotly. “Shut your mouth, damn it, Twitch. You talk too much. You always have.”
“Two or three, it doesn’t matter,” Jesco said. “There’s not enough of you to steal the herds.”
“Not now, no,” Saber said. “But those critters aren’t goin’ anywhere. I can send out word and in two or three weeks have enough men to replace those you’ve turned into maggot bait, plus extra.” A smug smile curled his scar. “All you’ve done is delay things a mite.”
Twitch raised the lamp higher. “We have you over a barrel,” he gloated. “Drop that smoke wagon, or else.”
Jesco looked at Timmy. If he set the Colt down, they were as good as goners. So long as he held onto it, they had a prayer. “No.”
“We’ll plug him,” Twitch threatened. “Me or Saber, one or the other. So help me.”
“Go ahead,” Jesco said, sidling to the left so he could watch both of them without having to turn his head.
“What?” Both Twitch and Timmy declared in disbelief, with Twitch going on, “You don’t care if we bed him down permanent?”
Saber swore luridly. “Of course he cares. But he’s got more grit than I gave him credit for.”
“I’ll shoot the first one of you who fires,” Jesco vowed. He was tense from head to toe with apprehension over what he had to do.
“We have us a standoff,” Saber said. “It’s what I get for thinkin’ this cowboy was no different from any other.”
“I’m just a puncher,” Jesco said to keep them talking. He was staring at them, but he was seeing the arroyo, and the scores of broken bottles. All that practice was about to pay off, or get him and Timmy killed.
“No cowpoke could do what you’ve done,” Saber said. “I always figured my boys were a match for fifty of your kind.”
“You figured wrong,” Jesco said, and shot him in the chest. Quick as thought, he shifted and fanned off two shots at Twitch’s face. Twitch’s right eye exploded, and his nose spouted crimson. In the same split second, another shot banged, and a slug dug across Jesco’s ribs.
Saber was still on his feet. “You’re mine!” he roared.
They fired simultaneously. It was Jesco who went on firing, fanning his Colt until it was empty.
Tendrils of gun smoke hung thick in the air. The thrashing and mewing ended, and as Jesco reloaded, he walked over to the bodies and nudged them to be certain.
“What about me?” Timmy impatiently asked.
Jesco twirled the Colt into his holster, and grinned. “I should leave you there. The boys can use a good laugh when they get back.”
Timmy Loring had learned a lot of cuss words at the Circle T.
Chapter 29
Dolores was a talker when she was mad, and
“We need more vaqueros! Lots of them!” Dolores was saying to Trella. “An army of vaqueros to crush the
