try and grab the handle, but could not. “I do not understand,” were his last words. He fell on his stomach, the handle jutting into the air.
Whistling to himself, Hijino dragged the body into an empty stall. Not that he expected anyone to come looking. But better safe than prematurely dead. He closed the stable door and strolled up the path to the house. Instead of going in the front, he walked around to the rear door. Through it, he saw the cook at the stove. She gave a start when he entered.
“Senor! You scared me half to death! Next time you should knock, eh?”
Hijino played the gallant. “I am most sorry.” A counter was midway between the stove and table. Walking over, he leaned against it. “You are afraid?”
“Who would not be? Those awful cowboys could show up at any moment.” She was a stout woman with wisps of gray at the temples, and always wore an apron over her dress.
On the counter lay a butcher knife. Hijino placed his right hand beside it, and remarked, “You must have faith in the vaqueros.”
The cook came toward the table. She had already set out plates and glasses and silverware. “I have faith in God, senor. The Lord is the only one who can truly protect us from harm.”
“Then he must be asleep,” Hijino said, and thrust the butcher knife into her abdomen. She was as shocked as the old man had been, and opened her mouth to cry out. “No, you don’t,” Hijino said, clamping his other hand over her fat lips even as he slit her open from hip to hip. She died on her feet, with her intestines oozing out. He lowered her under the table and left the knife buried in her belly. Before moving on, he wiped his hands on a towel.
Hijino was halfway down the hall when a maid appeared at the other end. He stopped and leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “What is your hurry?” he asked, as she came hurriedly toward him.
“I am to bring the coffee for Trella.” She was a young thing, still in her teens, the granddaughter of the old man in the stable. Her name was Carona, Hijino remembered. “Excuse me, senor.” She shifted to slip past him.
“And if I don’t?” Hijino’s hands were on her throat, and he was forcing her to the floor before her brain accepted the reality. She frantically clawed at his arms and tried to gouge his eyes, but he drew his head back. When it was over, the impressions of his thumbs and fingers were buried deep in her flesh. He dragged her into a room, closing the door as he went back out.
The second maid was with Dolores. Hijino heard their voices before he came to the bedroom. Dolores was in a chair, the maid fussing over her hair. They did not notice him.
“Hurry, Rosalita. I told them twenty minutes, and it has been more than that. I am worried about my sister. In her state, she might do anything.”
A small table was near the doorway. Hijino leaned against it and folded his arms across his chest. “Do not worry, senorita,” he said. “I would not let sweet Trella harm herself.”
The two women glanced over, and Dolores said sharply, “What are you doing here? You should be with Trella, watching over her.”
On the table were knitting needles and a roll of yarn. Hijino lowered his arms, saying, “It is important we talk, you and I, senorita. It is about your sister, and for your ears alone.”
“You may go, Rosalita,” Dolores told the maid. “Help Jimena in the kitchen.”
“
Several vaqueros were fond of Rosalita, but she was much too plump for Hijino’s tastes. She had big thighs and big buttocks, big arms and big eyes. Those eyes were fixed on him as she smiled, and went to walk past. Whether she saw his hand move, he would never know. He drove the needle into her left eye as far as it would go, curious how she would react, since he had never stabbed anyone with a knitting needle before. All she did was say, “Oh!” and collapse.
Dolores was glued to her chair. Hijino reached her in one bound and lanced another needle into her throat. His knee on her chest, he covered her mouth and nose so she could not breathe. She bucked upward, and when she could not dislodge him, she seized his wrist, but could not pry his hand off. Gradually, her struggles weakened, and as life faded from her features, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Give my regards to the rest of your family.”
Trella was still in the parlor, still slumped in the chair. “There you are, Hijino. What took you so long? And where is everyone else?”
“Here and there,” Hijino said.
She had another question. “What is that in your hand?”
“A ball of yarn.”
“I can see that, silly. But what are you doing with it? Have you taken up knitting?” For the first time that day, Trella smiled.
Hijino halted in front of her and gently placed his other hand on her chin. “Open wide.”
Chapter 30
“That’s not a good sign,” Timmy Loring said.
Buzzards circled in the azure sky. The Rio Largo was a glistening blue-green ribbon visible through gaps in the vegetation that fringed its banks.
John Jesco rose in the stirrups. He smelled smoke. Wisps rose from among the trees. He was about to gig his mount when he spied a long row of bodies laid shoulder to shoulder. Bodies of cowboys and vaqureos, both.
“Look at all of them!” Timmy exclaimed.
A puncher named Johnson appeared, his leg bandaged, a shovel in hand. He shouted something over his shoulder, and as they brought their horses to a stop, Walt Clayburn strode tiredly out to meet them.
“Thank God. I was beginnin’ to think the two of you had met your Maker. Most everyone else has.”
“Is that Shonsey?” Timmy asked, pointing at the old cook, aghast at the hole in Shonsey’s forehead. “And next to him, Jack Demp?”
“Only five of us are left,” Clayburn said. “We’ve been diggin’ graves all mornin’, and we’re not half done. It will take a month of Sundays for the blisters to heal.”
Jesco swung down. “Mr. Tovey?”
“Wrapped in a blanket in the shade. He asked to be planted next to his wife. We’ll take him back tomorrow.” Clayburn removed his hat, and wiped his sleeve across his heavily perspiring face. “You should have been here. We needed you.”
“I had problems of my own.” Jesco briefly recounted his clash with the would-be rustlers.
“Damn, you were lucky,” Clayburn declared.
The next body to be buried was that of a vaquero, a handsome man, shot multiple times. His hands were on his chest. So were a pair of pearl-handled, short-barreled Colts.
“How many did Roman take with him?” Jesco asked.
“Six, damn him. He was hell on wheels. We put bullet after bullet into him, but he wouldn’t go down until he was shot to ribbons, and when he did go down, he didn’t stop shooting until he took enough lead to sink a sternwheeler. I never saw anything like it.”
“Any get away?”
“The two sisters left early on with that one they call Hijino. Another vaquero lit out after the scrape. He was hurt, but he made it to a horse, and I didn’t have it in me to shoot him in the back.” Clayburn stared glumly at the row of bodies. “I never want to shoot another person as long as I live.”
Jesco climbed back on the bay.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?”
“To finish it.”
Timmy Loring turned to his mount, saying, “Wait for me!”
“No, you don’t.” Walt Clayburn snagged the younger man’s arm, and shook his head. “You’re stayin’, sir.”
“Let go, you big ox,” Timmy said. “And since when do my betters address me as sir?”
“Since you became the new owner of the Circle T.” Clayburn produced a folded sheet of paper. “Read this. It
