Juanita was desperate. “What if I offer to protect you?”
“You are too kind. And silly to think your vaqueros are a match for those I ride with.” Hijino shook his head. “No. We must see this through, you and I. Try to be brave. We will be at the river soon.” He gigged his horse.
Juanita realized she must have been unconscious longer than she thought. She began twisting her wrists as much as the rope allowed. For minutes on end she kept at it, not caring how much it hurt, or how much she bled. Her life was at stake. She must not give up.
Hijino began whistling. He glanced back only once to say, “I will take care of Trella myself when the time comes. She will not suffer. This I promise.”
“Bastard,” Juanita said. Her wrists throbbed with torment. She twisted and twisted and twisted some more, and now she could move her wrists half an inch. But it was not enough.
“They will wonder what became of you,” Hijino said. “Julio will blame the gringos from the Circle T. He will have no proof, but he will blame them anyway. With you gone, Steve and Armando will not be able to stop Julio from doing as he has wanted to do since Berto died. Julio will attack the Circle T. They will attack the DP. On and on it will go until there are few left on either side.”
“You have it all worked out.”
“Not me, señora. A man named Saber. Perhaps you have heard the stories they tell of him? Compared to Saber, I am a saint.”
The rope bit so deep into Juanita’s right wrist, she grit her teeth to keep from crying out. Her forearms were slick with blood. She wrenched her right wrist to one side, then back again, and was elated when the rope slackened enough for her to slide her hands out. Fearing he had noticed, she glanced at Hijino. He was gazing to the north, whistling again.
Now came the hard part. Juanita could not straddle the horse with her ankles tied. But she had ridden sidesaddle often enough. Could her horse outrun the white one? She was about to find out. Shifting, she slowly slid onto his hips and gripped her mount’s mane. Balancing carefully, she swung her legs over one side. The horse’s head came up, but thankfully he did not nicker.
Hijino was holding the reins loosely in his hand, his sombrero pushed back on his head.
Juanita tensed. She would have one chance and one chance only. Easing forward, she reached for the reins.
“I think I smell water, señora. It will not be long.”
Now! Juanita yanked with all her might. Simultaneously, she slapped her legs against her mount. The animal performed superbly. It bounded past the white horse, its momentum enough to tear the reins from Hijino’s grasp. Another second, and she raced away into the night.
“Stop!” Hijino cried.
Juanita bent low, in case he shot at her. She realized she was heading north, and immediately reined to the east to loop back toward the rancho. The horse was a swift one. Hijino’s doing, no doubt, in order to elude possible pursuit. She glanced over her shoulder. He was after her, lashing the white madly.
Juanita lashed her animal. Her hair was whipped by the wind, her nightclothes, too. The thunder of her mount’s hooves was music to her ears. The seconds became minutes. When next she looked back, the white had not gained.
I can do it! Juanita inwardly bubbled with glee. She covered fifty more yards. A hundred. Then, without warning, her mount stumbled and pitched toward the earth. She heard the crack of a leg bone as she went sailing over its neck. Too late, she flung out her arms. The ground rushed to meet her head. There was another crack, only louder. She came to rest on her back, the breath knocked out of her. Panic-stricken, she tried to jump up and run, but her body would not obey. The stars dimmed. A blurred moon hovered above her, and spoke.
“Can you hear me, senora? You have broken your neck. I was going to drown you, but this works out better, I think. Yes, much better.”
Juanita wished she could scratch out his eyes. Once again, the world faded to blackness, and her last thought, before the void swallowed her, was that soon she would see Dar again.
Chapter 17
Nancy Tovey could not sleep. She tossed and turned and turned and tossed, and finally, afraid she would wake Kent, she got up, donned her robe, and padded to the kitchen in her bare feet to make coffee.
Nance was troubled. Dar had assured them he did not hold the Circle T responsible for Berto’s death. But after her talk with Kent earlier, she was not certain that was enough. Someone had tried to point the finger of blame at their ranch by leaving that knife near the body. The question she could not answer, the question that caused her to toss and turn, was simply: Who?
To Nance’s knowledge, they did not have any enemies. Kent was always fair in his business dealings. He never cheated anyone, never inflated a tally when he sold cattle. He had never clashed with other ranchers over water or land. Dar and he got along wonderfully.
Nance put a coffeepot on to brew. On the counter was a sheet of paper on which she listed items they needed the next time she visited San Pedro. Now she took the sheet and a pencil to the kitchen table, and sat in her usual chair. Tapping the pencil against her chin, she mulled the question that burned in her brain. As she saw it, there were two possibilities. The culprit was someone they knew, or an outsider. Since she could not think of anything an outsider stood to gain, she concentrated on the former.
Is there anyone, Nance asked herself, who has ever shown the least little hostility toward Kent and me, or the Circle T in general? She thought and thought and tapped and tapped, and was stumped. Years ago, Kent had fired a cowboy for being lazy, but that was hardly an excuse for the cowboy to come back and kill Berto. There was no one else.
Could it be someone with a grudge against one of their hands? Nance had not considered that before, and it intrigued her. The men went into San Pedro regularly to drink and carouse. But they were never in any fights of which she was aware, and with one exception, they had not been in any shooting affrays.
That exception was Jesco.
Nance’s dislike of the man brought a flush of anger. Were it up to her, she would boot him off the Circle T. But Kent would never stand for it. He was too fond of the man. That nonsense about Jesco’s reputation somehow helping to safeguard the Circle T was preposterous. It hadn’t scared off whoever slew Berto.
Nance was about to write Jesco’s name on the paper, but hesitated. Surely, anyone out for revenge on him would not slay the foreman of the DP instead. And why frame Jack Demp and not Jesco himself?
Nance shook her head in exasperation. All this thinking was getting her nowhere. She was stumped. She had never heard a single soul speak ill of the Circle T, never witnessed anyone express the least little resentment toward—
Suddenly Nance sat straighter, her entire body pulsing. There was someone! Someone she had overlooked because she always considered him a friend. But now she recalled the savage spite on his face when he spat out, “All you gringos stick together!”
Julio. Nancy wrote his name at the top of the sheet. Yes, now that she thought about it, Julio had always been the least friendly of the Pierces. At the rodeo last year, he got into a heated argument with two Circle T punchers over a trifle—something to do with a dispute over who should have won the calf-roping event.
Going back further, Nance remembered comments Julio had dropped. There was the time Dar and Juanita invited Kent and her to spend a weekend at their rancho. During supper, after Dar asked Kent how things were going at the Circle T, Julio remarked how fortunate it was that his father had allowed Kent to lay claim to the north half of the valley. “Had it been me,” Julio said, “I would want the whole valley for myself.”