“Oh, Nance.” Kent bowed his head. Outside, a horse nickered. He had not looked out the window in a while, but he imagined they were still out there, every puncher on the spread, called in by Clayburn, ready to ride to the DP. Ready to wage war.
They would not leave without Kent. He must lead them. But he could not tear himself away. They were ready to do what must be done, but he was not. He had never killed, never given the command to kill, never seen a shooting, even. But that was not the real reason he kept them waiting.
“Oh, my sweet Nance.” Kent bent over her. Her nose had been beaten flat, her mouth was mangled, one eye terribly swollen, the other amazingly untouched and open. Clayburn had offered to shut it, but Kent had motioned him away. That eye was the one part of Nance’s face that still reminded him of her. He gazed into it. In life, her eyes had mirrored her love for him, and he had never tired of gazing into them. Now they were as empty as the awful emptiness inside him.
“I shouldn’t do this, I know. It’s childish. But I can’t help myself. I can’t cut the string.”
Kent slowly reached out and touched his fingertip to what was left of her lips. A crushed tooth protruded through the rent skin. Whoever did this had not been content with beating her to death. They had continued to beat her well after she was dead. The sheer viciousness of it sickened him. To do something like this to someone as sweet and kind as Nance was hideous.
“It’s my fault,” Kent whispered.
Clayburn had told him not to blame himself, but Kent could not help it. She was spirited away right under his nose. The torment she had undergone, the fear, and all the while, he was sound asleep in their bed, dreaming God knew what dreams, oblivious to her peril. He should have heard something. He should have sensed something. He had failed her, failed her utterly when she needed him most.
“It’s my fault,” Kent repeated, the constriction in his throat making it hard to breathe. He tenderly caressed her elbow, and noticed a dark droplet he had missed when he cleaned up the blood. Clayburn had offered to do it, but Kent did not want anyone else to touch her.
“Who could do this?” Kent asked the question he must have asked a hundred times. His punchers blamed the DP. They believed Nance had been murdered to get back at the Circle T for Juanita. One of his men had been in San Pedro, and heard about her death from the bartender. That serene, wonderful woman, Nance’s best friend. The vaquero who told the bartender made it plain the Pierce family held the Circle T responsible. As if Kent or any of his hands could ever do something like that.
“They’re idiots,” Kent said. But was he any better? He had no proof the DP had slain Nance in revenge.
That was not entirely true. The new puncher, Dunn, had seen a lone vaquero galloping south at first light the morning Kent woke up to find Nance missing.
Two and two still made four.
“They will turn over whoever did this to you, or I will burn the DP to the ground,” Kent vowed to the corpse. He entertained the hope, however slight, that the Pierces would not put up a fight.
A new thought left Kent breathless. What if, he asked himself, it had not been a vaquero? What if it had been one of the Pierces themselves? Both Armando and Julio wore sombreros, and could be mistaken for vaqueros in the tricky glow of predawn.
“If it was, they die,” Kent said, staring into the lifeless eye. He placed his forehead on her shoulder, and that close, smelled the odor. He shuddered, his stomach churning. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it and drew back. “Sorry,” he whispered.
Once, after hearing about a woman they knew who died of consumption, Nance had told him that if anything ever happened to her, he was to remarry. “Don’t spend your life alone,” she had said. “Nothing is worse than loneliness.”
Kent swallowed. She had been right. But it would be a snowy day in Hades before he took another woman for his wife. Nance had been everything to him. No woman could replace her, ever.
Reluctantly, Kent rose. He had put it off long enough. Time to bury her. Time to ride to the DP and settle accounts, one way or the other. He strode to the front door and opened it, recoiling as bright sunlight seared his eyes like twin daggers. Blinking, he shielded his face and called out, “Walt?”
In seconds, Clayburn was there. He did not say anything. He did not have to.
“Fetch the shovels and pick three men to help me dig. Advise the rest we leave in an hour. I won’t hold it against any man who refuses. This isn’t a roundup we’re going on. Some of us might not come back.”
“We’ve already talked it over,” Clayburn said. “We’ll paint the valley red if we have to. It’s more than bein’ loyal to the brand. It’s for Mrs. Tovey.”
“I loved her so much,” Kent said.
Chapter 22
The last hundred feet taxed John Jesco’s self-control. He wanted to run. To charge up the slope. Any moment, he dreaded the crack of a pistol shot or the rattle of a death scream. But neither occurred. Jesco reached the top of the hill and hunkered down.
Timmy Loring stood with his hands tied, defiantly glaring at Lafe Dunn, who had a revolver in one hand and a knife in the other, and was wagging the blade in front of Timmy’s face.
Jesco had only seconds to act. He glided to the left, circling around and coming up on Dunn from behind. Neither Dunn nor Timmy saw him when he unfurled. His Colt leaped into his hand.
Dunn chuckled and jabbed Timmy in the chest with the point of the knife. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make Timmy wince. “Any last words before I start carvin’ on you, boy?”
“Go to hell.”
“That’s it? Hell, boy. Curse me to high heaven if you want. It’s what some would do. I’ve had others cry and blubber like babies. A few have passed out. Since it’s no fun when they can’t feel it, I always wait until they come around.”
“I have a question,” Timmy said.
Dunn lowered the knife a few inches. “Do you now? Well, this is new, I’ll grant you that. What is it? Maybe I’ll answer it, maybe I won’t. But you can ask.”
“What’s this all about? I don’t want to die not knowin’ why.”
“You’re a disappointment, cub,” Dunn said. “Nancy Tovey fought harder than you, and she was a woman.”
“As God is my witness, you’ll pay for what you did to her.”
“Hell, boy,” Dunn scoffed. “If there’s a God, why’d He let me do it? Heaven and hell is bull.”
By then, Jesco was where he wanted to be. He had been careful to keep Dunn between him and Timmy so Timmy did not see him and give him away. At arm’s length he extended the Colt and touched the muzzle to the back of Dunn’s neck. Simultaneously, he thumbed back the hammer.
At the click, Dunn froze.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Jesco said. “Can you turn and shoot me before I shoot you. You’re welcome to try if you’d like.”
“Jesco?”
“Drop the six-gun and cut Tim loose. If the knife slips, your brains decorate the grass. Savvy?”
“You must be part Apache to sneak up on me like this.”
“I’ll count to three. If you haven’t let go of the revolver, I squeeze the trigger.” Jesco paused. “One. Two . . .”
The Colt landed with a thud. Dunn carefully applied the edge of the knife to the rope around Timmy’s wrists, and slowly sawed back and forth. “How is it you were able to follow us without me spottin’ you?”
Jesco extended his other arm past Dunn’s shoulder so Dunn could see the object he held. “With this. I was in the hayloft in the stable, keepin’ watch like Clayburn wanted. I saw you wallop Tim.”