At a gesture from Dolores, the three of them quietly moved into the hall.
“She is hysterical,” Dolores whispered so their sister would not hear. “I do not blame her. I cried the whole way here. For the moment I am out of tears.”
“Who did it?” Steve was struggling to contain his own grief until later, when he could be alone. Men did not weep in front of others. It simply was not done.
Armando sagged against the wall, his shoulders sagging. “Would that I could tell you, mi hermano. We know there was another horse and rider. I instructed Carlos to backtrack them. He is one of our best trackers. If they lead to the Circle T, there will be no holding Julio back.”
“There will be no holding him back anyway,” Dolores said. “He is beside himself. I have never seen him so mad. Once he hears we have found her body, he will go berserk.”
“Maybe I should not have sent Paco to tell him,” Armando said.
“What’s done is done.” Steve’s own emotions were in a whirl, and it was all he could do to concentrate. My father and mother, both gone. The weight of the ranch bore down on his shoulders with crushing effect.
“The important thing now,” Dolores said, “is to keep our heads, and not do anything rash. We must find out who has done this terrible thing, and punish them, and we must do it quickly.”
“I agree,” Armando said.
Dolores stared at the settee. “First we bury mother and father. Next to each other, as they would have wanted.”
Steve nodded. “Out of respect, everyone on the rancho will attend. I will call in every last vaquero.”
“What about outsiders?” Armando asked. “Friends from San Pedro?” He paused. “And the Toveys?”
“Under the circumstances,” Dolores said, “inviting Kent and Nancy would be like waving a red cape in front of a bull’s nose. Julio would shoot them the moment he set eyes on them.”
“I reckon they will understand,” Steve remarked. “Once we have it all sorted out—” He broke off as boots thudded on the porch, and someone knocked loudly and urgently on the front door.
“What now?” Dolores wondered aloud.
Paco had his sombrero in hand, and was wringing the brim. “It is terrible, patrón. Most terrible,” he said the moment Steve opened the door. “I found Julio and told him about Señora Pierce, as Armando told me to.”
“And?” Steve feared the answer.
“I regret to report, patron, that Julio and five vaqueros have gone to kill the Toveys.”
Chapter 19
Timmy Loring was keeping watch at the middle crossing when he heard riders in the distance. He sat with his back to a tree, a blade of grass between his teeth, daydreaming about a certain dove in San Pedro who had caught his fancy. Her name was Betsy. She had been at the saloon eight months now, and he still had not mustered the courage to speak to her.
Betsy was short, not much over five feet, but exquisitely shaped. Timmy particularly liked how her legs swished against her dress. He could sit and stare at those legs for hours, and usually did, from a corner table where no one would notice.
Jesco had noticed, though. Jesco noticed everything. He had not teased Timmy about it, as some of the other punchers would. He had merely asked if Timmy was in love with the girl.
That gave Timmy pause. He was not quite sure if he was in love or in lust. Lust he savvied. It was a powerful hankering to have a female under the sheets. Something Timmy had never done, although he’d had the hankering many a time. As for love, now there was a mystery. Maybe Timmy was in love and didn’t know it, having never known what it was to actually be in love. Love or lust, either way, Timmy could not stop daydreaming about sweet little Betsy and those wonderful legs of hers that swished so exquisitely.
At the rumble of hooves, Timmy sprang to his feet, his hand dropping to his revolver. It took a few seconds for him to realize the riders were not approaching the Rio Largo from the DP side, but were coming from the Circle T.
Timmy stepped from the trees to see who it was, and promptly stepped back under cover again. Jesco had warned him not to take chances. “Never take anything for granted,” were Jesco’s exact words. So Timmy figured he better stay hidden until he was sure it was safe.
Timmy would never admit it, but the business with the DP had him spooked. He had never killed anyone. Hell, he had never even shot anyone. Nor, he was surprised to discover, did he really want to. All this time, he had been dogging Jesco like Jesco’s shadow, thinking that he wanted to be just like him, thinking it would be the greatest thing in the world to have a reputation like his. But now, with the talk in the bunkhouse of more violence on the horizon, Timmy found that he was not as keen on killing as he thought. It was one thing to imagine gunning down hordes of outlaws, it was another to squeeze the trigger and slay another human being.
Timmy hoped it would not come to that. The latest word, though, was that Dar Pierce had been shot, and that the DP’s vaqueros were blaming the Circle T. Dunn had heard the news from a friendly vaquero, and told everyone. Timmy had been there, and happened to be looking at Jesco when Dunn broke the news. Jesco had the strangest expression. Only for a few seconds, and only Timmy noticed. He had intended to ask Jesco about it, but forgot.
The riders appeared. Two, hell-bent for the crossing. Timmy could not tell who they were yet; they were too far off.
The smooth grips of his six-gun reassured Timmy. He glanced down. He had been practicing for months now. Jesco had taught him to how draw, taught him how he should empty his mind and let his body take over, and cock the hammer as he cleared leather. Jesco warned him not to try to be fancy and shoot from the hip like Jesco did, because he did not have Jesco’s years of practice.
“Bring your arm straight up, take quick aim, and shoot. It will take you an extra split second,” Jesco had said, “but that split second can mean the difference between breathin’ air and breathin’ dirt.”
Jesco sure had a pretty way of putting things.
Timmy looked up, and relaxed. The two riders were Jeb Wheeler and Ray Ornley. Older, dependable hands. Ray occasionally teased Timmy about his age, but the teasing was generally harmless. Wheeler never teased anyone. Wheeler was always serious about everything. They drew rein in a flurry of dust motes.
Timmy walked into the open again, and grinned. “Where are you gents off to? San Pedro?”
“No, you infant,” Ray said. “We’re here to fetch you.”
“But I’m supposed to keep watch until tonight,” Timmy said. “Clayburn himself told me.”
“The big sugar is callin’ everyone in,” Wheeler said, and grew even more somber than was usual. “Brace yourself, boy. We bring bad news.”
Timmy tried to think of what could be worse than Dar Pierce being shot. He had always liked Mr. Pierce. “How bad can it be?”
“Nancy Tovey is dead.”
Stunned, Timmy could only gape.
“She was beat to death,” Wheeler related. “Had her face caved in. The son of a bitch took her right out of the house in the middle of the night.”
Timmy found his voice. “God in heaven!” It simply could not be. No one ever killed a woman. Ever.