Roman’s right hand blurred, and a short-barreled, ivory-handled Colt appeared as if out of thin air.
“Is that good enough for you?” Paco chortled.
Hijino was impressed, but not overly so. It had been so long since he met anyone who could rival him that it was too much to expect he had met one now. He shammed mock amazement. “You must be the fastest pistolero in New Mexico.”
Roman’s hand blurred a second time, and the Colt disappeared under his black jacket. “Would that it were true.”
“There is someone faster?”
It was Paco who replied. “Sí. His name is Jesco. He rides for the Circle T. Each year they finish first and second in the pistol competition.”
“I am always second,” Roman said.
“The what?” Hijino could not wait to meet this Jesco. He almost wished he had been sent to the Circle T.
“Each year the two ranches hold a rodeo,” Paco explained. “There are roping and riding contests. Shooting matches, too. Jesco always wins the pistol match. He is not human, that one.”
Julio Pierce stirred, and said in Spanish, “Enough about pistols and shooting. We are cowmen, and cows are what matter.” He switched to English. “You are welcome to come with us to the ranch house, if you like. My father does the hiring, and he is always on the lookout for good men.”
“I would be most grateful,” Hijino assured him in Spanish. Something in Julio’s expression compelled him to repeat it in English. He sensed he was being tested, although why it should be so important for their vaqueros to speak English, he could not begin to guess.
“Let us go, then.” Julio reined to the north.
Gigging Blanco, Hijino came up next to the sorrel and paced it, saying offhandedly, “It seems to me that you have a most marvelous rancho, senor.”
“It is my father’s ranch, not mine,” Julio said, and went on to proudly extol the DP’s virtues.
Hijino was already familiar with them. Approximately ten thousand head of cattle, and all the water the ranch could need, thanks to the Rio Largo. The valley was an oasis of plenty in the midst of the semiarid mountains. Every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold, or, to be more exact, worth its weight in beef. Julio finished, and Hijino commented, “But surely you are part owner, being the son?”
For an instant a frown curled the young man’s mouth. “I am but one of three sons. When my father dies, he will undoubtedly divide the ranch between us and our sisters.”
Without thinking, Hijino blundered. He said, “Three brothers and two sisters. But one-fifth of something is better than nothing, eh?”
Julio shot him a sharp glance. “How did you know?”
“Senor?”
“That I have two sisters. I did not mention how many.”
Hijino became conscious that Paco and Roman were staring at him. Suppressing a stab of nerves, he shrugged and said, “The name Pierce. I have heard it before. Your ranch is well spoken of on both sides of the border.”
“Rightly so!” Paco unwittingly came to Hijino’s rescue. “The DP turns out the finest cattle anywhere.”
“I suppose my family is well known,” Julio said, but he did not sound happy about it. “My brothers Steve and Armando have made many cattle drives into Mexico to sell our beef.”
“Steve?” Hijino said.
“He takes more after our father than our mother,” Julio said. “My father named him after his father. Armando is named after my mother’s grandfather.”
“Who are you named after?”
“I was a coin toss.” Julio laughed lightly. “My father wanted to name me John, and my mother wanted to name me Julio. Since they could not agree, they had Berto toss a coin, and my mother won.”
“Berto?”
“Our caporal. Our foreman. He has been with my father from the beginning. He is most capable.”
So Hijino had heard. But he would jump that hurdle when he came to it. Now that he had actually seen the valley with his own eyes, he was fully committed to his part in the plot, come what may.
Cattle were everywhere. Fat, contented cattle worth a fortune in themselves. All of the cowhands were of Hispanic extraction, an expected advantage for Hijino. It was easier to turn people against one another when race was the issue.
Bathed in sunshine, the hacienda could be seen from a long way off. Small wonder, since the valley floor was essentially a broad, flat plain, broken only by the Rio Largo, which slashed the valley from the northwest to the southeast.
The buildings were adobe, except for the stable. They reminded Hijino of the ranchos he had worked south of the border before he took to living outside the law. Vaqueros and others bustled about at various tasks. A heavyset blacksmith was fixing a wagon wheel. Two other men were winching bales of hay into the hayloft.
The casa grande was everything Hijino expected—a magnificent house, as stately as it was imposing. Julio rode straight to the portico and dismounted. Almost immediately, an old servant came out to take Julio’s reins.
Since Paco and Roman stayed on their horses, Hijino did the same. He must be careful not to overstep himself.
Two more men came out of the house. One was a tall gringo with a bony face, his hair gray at the temples. He had a casual manner about him. He wore common work clothes and a sombrero rather than a typical gringo hat. He did not wear a revolver. “Hola, son,” he said softly, and warmly embraced Julio.
Hijino was amused. This was the famous and feared Dar Pierce? The gringo who had braved countless hardships to build the DP from empty grassland? Hijino almost laughed. Then he noticed the second man studying him, and his instincts warned him that the hurdle was upon him sooner than he had imagined it would be.
The second man was a short, stocky Mexican, with a body as square as an adobe brick and a face that made Hijino think of a fox. Intelligence glistened in the man’s dark eyes. To be under his gaze was like being under a magnifying glass. Hijino inwardly shook off the feeling that the man could see right through him.
Julio and Dar Pierce had exchanged words, and now Dar stepped to the end of the porch. “My son tells me you are looking for work.”
“Sí, patrón,” Hijino said with the utmost civility.
“He also tells me you speak English.”
“Yes, I do. Quite well, señor. Is that important?” Hijino used the most perfect English of which he was capable.
“At most ranches, no,” Dar said. “But at the DP all the hands speak both. It has to do with my wife and I being from two different cultures. I speak both and so does she.”
“I see,” Hijino said, although he did not really see at all.
“I happen to be in need of an experienced hand,” Dar said. “But I never hire anyone without putting them to the test. You have a month to show your worth—at full pay, of course—and if you pass muster, you can stay on as long as you like.”
“Gracias, señor. I mean, thank you, sir.”
Dar motioned. “Save your gratitude. It won’t be easy. My men earn their pay the hard way. They work for it.” He nodded at the fox beside him. “My foreman, Berto, has the final say. It’s him you must impress.”
“I will try my best, señor,” Hijino promised. He looked at Berto and resorted to his most charming smile, but it had no effect.
“The rules are simple,” Berto said. “Do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. No drinking at the rancho unless it is a special occasion. No cursing, either, in the presence of the señora and the señoritas. Behave yourself and we will get along.”
“I rarely drink,” Hijino said, “and I never swear, senor.”