Like everything else in life, to be a skilled shootist took talent. Hours and hours of practice helped, but without talent, the best a man could rise to was average. Jesco’s razor reflexes were a gift of birth. He was quick on the shoot, but he never bragged about it or gloried in it, as some were wont to do.
“Your turn,” Dunn said to him.
Anger rippled through Jesco. He never liked being played for a fool. Ordinarily, he would not let himself be goaded, but now an urge came over him to show the new hand exactly what he was dealing with. His hand was lightning, the blast instantaneous, the Colt back in the holster in less than the blink of an eye.
“That was damn fine,” Dunn said with genuine admiration. “So the stories they tell are true.”
“I told you!” Timmy glowed.
“Well, I have work to do.” Dunn looked at Jesco. “Thanks for showin’ your fangs. I’ll be sure not to get bit.” Pivoting on his boot heels, he strode off.
Timmy scratched his head. “Strange, him mentionin’ fangs after we just saw that rattler. What did he mean by that?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” Jesco was annoyed. Not with the boy or with Lafe Dunn, but with himself. He had shown a man he did not trust exactly what that man was up against. No wonder Dunn had thanked him.
“You’re fixin’ to practice some more, aren’t you?” Timmy eagerly asked.
“I might as well.”
“What’s the matter? Why are you so down at the mouth?”
Jesco had to remember the boy was sensitive to his moods. Brightening, he fibbed, “I’m fine, mother hen.”
Timmy laughed. “Quit teasin’. We’re pards, aren’t we?” He gazed along the arroyo. “There goes Dunn. Looks like he’s headin’ back. I like him. He doesn’t say a lot, but he’s nice enough.”
“So was that rattlesnake until it coils,” Jesco observed.
“Dunn is no snake. Your trouble is that you’re too suspicious. You think everyone is out to shoot you in the back.”
“It only takes one.” Yet another reason Jesco hated the tales spread about his prowess. A reputation was a beacon. It drew every sidewinder hankering after fame from near and far.
The boy pulled his hat brim low to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. “You don’t need to worry about Dunn. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.”
Unknown to Timmy Loring, at that exact moment Lafe Dunn was thinking that when it came time to kill John Jesco, it would best be done by shooting Jesco in the back. From the front was certain suicide.
When Dunn had spied Jesco and the kid preparing to leave the ranch, he had guessed their purpose. Clayburn had mentioned that Jesco went off to practice now and then.
Thinking of the foreman reminded Dunn of his purpose for coming to the Circle T. So far all he had done was take stock of the opposition. Now it was time to start stirring the stew.
Dunn held to a canter. He was counting on most of the punchers being gone, and he was not disappointed. The buildings stood quiet under the hot sun. He rode straight to the bunkhouse and dismounted. Familiar odors assailed him as he entered, a mix of tobacco, sweat, rawhide, and smoke.
Most bunkhouses were a study in shambles, but not the bunkhouse at the Circle T. Kent Tovey insisted it be neat and tidy. The hands were required to make up their beds each morning, and must not leave clothes lying around.
Dunn stood just inside, letting his eyes adjust. No one was there. He shut the door and quickly moved down the aisle to the third from the last bunk on the right. It was Jack Demp’s. Squatting, he groped about underneath the bed. He had watched the young cowhand closely, and hoped the particular item he was after was still stashed in Demp’s war bag.
Dunn’s mouth curled in a rare smile. The folding knife lay amid an assortment of personal effects: a mirror, a tin cup, a plug of tobacco, a harmonica, a tin of boot wax, and more. He palmed the knife, slid it into his pocket, and replaced the war bag exactly where it had been. As he straightened, the door opened, spilling a rectangle of light along the floor.
“I thought I saw you come in here,” Walt Clayburn said. “When I give a man a job, I expect him to do it.”
Dunn indulged in another smile. “I was just on my way to check for strays along the river, like you wanted.”
The foreman scanned the bunks. “Some hands like to sneak naps when they can. Lazy is as lazy does.”
“I’m not an infant.” Dunn patted the pocket into which he had slid the folding knife. “I wanted a chaw and came back for a plug.”
“Next time, go without. You’ve wasted an hour. At the Circle T we take our work seriously.”
“Yes, sir.” It grated on Dunn to be so civil when what he really wanted was to whip out his pistol and crack Clayburn over the skull. The foreman stepped aside, and Dunn went out and climbed on his buttermilk.
“Keep an eye peeled for DP stock. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Julio Pierce.”
“I will.” Dunn rode south. He was confident Clayburn had bought his lie, but to be safe, when he reached the Rio Largo, he pretended to search for cattle for a while, until he was confident no one had followed him. Then he set about his real business.
On a spur of land that jutted into the Rio Largo like an accusing finger, on the south side of the river, grew a stand of cottonwoods. Riders were in view of the trees from a long way off, and anyone hidden in the trees could spot them, which made it ideal. Dunn crossed from the north, and no sooner had the vegetation closed around him than the acrid odor of cigarette smoke tingled his nose. “Those Mex quirlies of yours stink to high heaven.”
“To each his own, eh, amigo?” Marcario Hijino had one leg looped over his silver saddle horn and the other dangling down Blanco. “You are late, and I do not like to be kept waiting.”
“It couldn’t be helped.” Dunn mentioned his chance brush with the Circle T foreman.
“But he does not suspect you, this Clayburn?”
“No. They’re sheep, the whole passel.” Dunn paused. “I take that back. There’s one curly wolf. His name is Jesco.”
Hijino sat straighter. “I have heard of him, usually in tones of awe. Is he really the pistolero they say he is?”
“I wouldn’t try him except in the back,” Dunn admitted.
“Really? You have seen him shoot with your own eyes?”
“Just today,” Dunn said. “I wanted to see for myself. Glad I did. If anyone can give us trouble, it’s him.”
“I will get word to Saber. He should know.” Hijino dragged on his cigarette and exhaled smoke out his nostrils. “Did you bring it?”
Dunn produced the folding knife. “It’s not much. The blade is only about four inches long.”
“So long as it is sharp.” Hijino took the knife and opened it. He tested the blade by lightly running his thumb along the edge. A thin line of blood appeared. “Sí. It will do nicely.”
“When?” Dunn asked.
“Tonight, I think,” Hijino said. “It will stir them up. I will help without being obvious. As you say, they are witless sheep.” He chortled merrily. “This is fun, is it not?”
“Any special problems that need to be dealt with on your end?”
“There is Berto. He trusts no one, and is fiercely loyal to the Pierces. But we expected that of him.” Hijino dragged on his cigarette again. “The Pierces themselves are of no consequence. They handle ropes better than they do pistolas.”
“Not one gun-shark in the whole outfit?”
“There is one. A small shark called Roman. I will deal with him when the time comes.”