Jesco had jerked upright for the umpteenth time, when a sound to the east pricked his ears. The faint drum of hooves, of someone riding toward the Rio Largo from the south. From the DP. Instantly, Jesco was on his feet. There was no earthly reason for someone to be abroad at that time of night. He moved to a grassy bank, where he could hear better. Whoever it was reached the south side to the left of Jesco’s position, and the hoofbeats stopped.
Without being aware he was doing it, Jesco held his breath, waiting for the rider to ford. But the night stayed quiet. He peered intently into the darkness, but could not spot anyone. So long as the rider stayed on the other side, there was nothing Jesco could do. Clayburn had been quite specific. Under no circumstances was he to cross over onto the DP.
“Those orders come straight from Mr. Tovey,” Clayburn had stressed. “We’re not to do anything that might incite them.”
Jesco debated whether to cross anyway. He had about decided it was best to do as his boss wanted, when hooves once again thudded. Only this time they were behind him, not in front.
A second rider was coming from the north, from the Circle T. Whoever it was, they were not making for the crossing. They were heading for a spot directly across from where the rider on the south side had stopped.
Jesco threw off his blanket, hastily rolled it up, and tied the roll on his saddle. Quickly forking leather, he reined in the same direction. He held to a walk. They would hear him otherwise.
In his mind’s eye, Jesco imagined the two riders meeting secretly. To what end was impossible to say, but simple common sense told him they had to be up to no good.
To Jesco’s recollection, the Rio Largo ran fairly straight for the next half mile or so. Up ahead a ways, a spur jutted into the river from the south. The water was shallow, but the spot was not used as a regular crossing because the spur was too narrow and too thickly wooded to funnel cattle through. It was perfect, though, for anyone who wanted to meet secretly.
Jesco had his hand on his Colt. Landmarks were difficult to judge, but presently he was near enough. Drawing rein, he dismounted and cautiously advanced along the water’s edge.
Jesco was abreast of the spur, when something moved in the vegetation. Crouching, he braced for the blast of a shot but none came. The source of the movement stepped into view: a riderless horse, its reins dangling, cropping the grass. Whoever had ridden him was in among the trees.
Jesco tried to remember exactly how deep the river was at that point. In the winter and early spring, fed by runoff from the mountains, the depth averaged five feet. The rest of the year, it was barely three.
Sitting, Jesco removed his boots. He left them on the shore and eased into the river. A chill, clammy sensation spread from his feet to his knees as the water level rose. He was halfway across, when the horse raised its head, spotted him, and whinnied.
Jesco drew his revolver. He thought for sure the rider would come running, but no one appeared. He moved faster. Unexpectedly, his left foot came down on a jagged rock lodged in the bottom. Pain seared the sole. Reflexively, he jerked his leg up, and nearly fell. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on.
The horse had turned, and was disappearing into the cottonwoods.
Jesco was careful not to splash. Gradually, the water dropped to his knees, and then his ankles. His socks and the bottoms of his Levi’s were soaked. His first step on dry land resulted in a squish that was much too loud for his liking. But once again, whoever was in the trees failed to hear him.
Gliding from cover to cover, Jesco had not gone far when muted voices fell on his ears. He did not recognize them, nor could he tell what they were saying. One of the men, though, had the distinct accent of someone born south of the border.
Jesco crept toward them. A pair of silhouettes materialized, darker than the night. One wore a sombrero. That much was obvious. The other was a big man with broad shoulders. A few more yards and Jesco would be close enough to demand they throw down their hardware. It would be easier to shoot them, to say nothing of safer, but Jesco wanted them alive.
Then the one in the sombrero cried out, “Look there, amigo! We have been discovered!”
Muzzle flashes stabbed the dark. Jesco answered, but there were so many trees, the brush so thick, he undoubtedly missed.
A second pistol boomed.
Jesco dived flat. Dirt kicked up by slugs sprayed his face. Hs arm straight, he took deliberate aim. He had the man in the sombrero in his sights when both silhouettes abruptly melted into the undergrowth. They had split up, the one in the sombrero going right, the other left.
Jesco hesitated for a split second, then went right. Damn, but the man is fast! he thought, gaining speed. But he forgot he was in his stockinged feet. Down came his foot, and up coursed agony. Whether he had stepped on another rock or something else was irrelevant; it slowed him down. Limping, he snapped off a shot more out of frustration than anything else.
The man in the sombrero did not respond in kind.
The next moment, Jesco lost sight of him. Hooves pounded, and Jesco glimpsed a pale horse, racing south. He snapped the Colt up, but too many trees intervened.
From the vicinity of the river came a loud nicker. Whirling, Jesco ran flat out. He stepped on a downed branch, but he didn’t care. He had lost one, and he would be boiled in tar if he would lose the other. But when he burst into the open, the second rider had reached the north bank. Again Jesco went to shoot, only to have his quarry vanish into the night.
“Damn,” Jesco said. By the time he crossed and put on his boots and reached his horse, the man would be long gone. But he had learned something important. Someone at the Circle T was in cahoots with someone at the DP. Now all he had to do was figure out who.
Chapter 16
In the lonely hours between midnight and dawn, Juanita Pierce buried her face in her pillow and gave vent to more tears. She missed Dar, missed him so much. A great ache tore at her core, threatening to topple her into the pit of despair.
Juanita could not believe he was dead. They were together thirty years. He had become as much a part of her as her arms or legs. His was the first face she saw every morning; his was the warm body she held close every night. For three decades, she had loved him with a deep and abiding passion. He was more than her husband; he was friend, lover, confidant. Their souls were mutual mirrors. “Kindred spirits,” Dar had called it, and she could think of no better way to describe the entwining of their hearts.
Now Dar was gone. Tomorrow, his mortal remains were to be lowered into the ground, and the most vital man she ever met would be gone from her life for good and forever.
Juanita told herself she must be strong. She must not show weakness in front of the children. But it was hard, so unbearably hard, to act as if all was right with the world, when in truth her world had crumbled in emotional ruin and would never be the same.
Lying there, her cheeks slick with tears, Juanita remembered the day Dar came into her life, so tall and handsome and courteous. From the start, she was smitten. Some women from south of the border would never think to take a man from north of the border for a husband. In fact, some in her own family tried to talk her out of it. Scandalous, an aunt informed her, for her to succumb to one of them. Her cousin, until then the dearest of friends, flatly stated she was appalled that Juanita would stoop to living with a gringo.