Those flinty eyes fixed on him like the piercing eyes of a hawk on prey. “I’m new hereabouts. Maybe you wouldn’t mind givin’ me the lay of the land.”
Encouraged, Mort moved closer. “There’s not much to it. Follow the trail ten miles to the southeast and you’ll come to the Sweet Grass Valley. The old Spanish called it the Rio Largo Valley, after the Rio Largo river, but a lot of the Spanish names aren’t used anymore.”
“I hear tell it’s prime grazin’ land,” the rider remarked.
“Is it ever,” Mort confirmed. “Between the Circle T and the DP, there must be thirty thousand head or more.”
“Those would be the two ranches I’ve heard about,” the rider said. “Are there any others?”
Mort chuckled. “I’d like to see someone else try to horn in. Kent Tovey and Dar Pierce would fix their hash, pronto.”
“Tell me about the outfits,” the rider goaded. “I’m lookin’ to hire on.”
Warming to the topic, Mort leaned back. “The Rio Largo sort of divides the valley in half. The Circle T owns all the land north of the river; the DP has all the land south of it.”
“Sort of? Are they about the same size?”
“The Circle T is bigger.”
“Which ranch was here first?”
“The DP. Dar Pierce was with General Taylor during the Mexican War. When the troops pulled out, he stayed on and got himself hitched to a pretty Mexican gal by the name of Juanita.”
The rider was about to take another swig. “You wouldn’t catch me marryin’ no greaser.”
Mort smothered a flash of anger. “Juanita Pierce is a genuine lady. And I wouldn’t go sayin’ that about greasers between here and San Pedro, or the DP boys might get wind of it and come callin’.”
“They don’t worry me none,” the rider said flatly.
“They should. They’re a salty bunch. Insult their boss at your own risk.”
The rider changed the subject. “What about the other spread? The Circle T? The owner’s name is Tovey, did you say?”
Mort nodded. “He comes from a well-to-do family back east. Brought in a few thousand head from Texas to start his herd years back, and now has one of the best spreads in the whole territory.”
“But wasn’t Pierce already here when Tovey came? Didn’t Pierce mind a greenhorn waltzin’ in and takin’ over half the valley?”
“Dar Pierce isn’t land hungry like some cattle barons. He’s content with what he has. But don’t let that fool you. He’s one tough hombre.”
The rider treated himself to another swallow and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the Circle T is hirin’ hands?”
“Not that I’m aware,” Mort said. “It’s late in the season, and there’s never a shortage of punchers who want to sign on. Tovey pays really well and has a first-rate cook.”
“Food’s not important,” the rider said.
Mort blinked in surprise. Never in his life had he heard a saddle stiff utter such bald-faced blasphemy. To the cow crowd, food was everything. There was a saying to the effect that cowboys lived by their stomachs. The outfits with the best cooks always attracted the best cowpokes.
The man patted the bottle. “How much? I need to be moseyin’ on. Daylight’s a wastin’.”
“Four dollars,” Mort said.
“That’s a mite steep.”
“Rotgut doesn’t grow on trees,” Mort said. “The cost of shippin’ it out here is twice what the saloons in San Pedro pay, and I need to make a profit same as any other business.”
The man paid and touched his hat brim. “I’m obliged for the information.” He wheeled on his high heels and strode away.
Mort was struck by a strange insight: The man hardly had any dust on his clothes.
Given the time of year—the middle of the summer—and given how dry it was, any rider who traveled any distance was bound to be covered with the stuff. Curious, Mort walked outside.
The big man had unwrapped the reins to a zebra dun, and was reaching for the saddle horn. A lithe swing, and the saddle creaked under him.
Neither the zebra dun nor the saddle, Mort noticed, were the least bit dusty. The rider had lied about how far he’d come. An interesting tidbit that in and of itself meant nothing. The world was full of liars. Good riddance, Mort thought. Aloud, he said, “If you’re ever again in this neck of the woods, feel free to stop in.”
The rider looked back. He was supposed to act friendly to dilute suspicion, so he smiled and touched his hat brim, feeling the fool as he did. Once beyond the clearing, he applied his spurs. The trail was well defined. He made good time. It was not yet noon when he reined up on the crest of the last of the foothills.
Sweet Grass Valley was everything he had been told: lush with the rich greenery that lent the valley its name, prime grazing land any rancher worthy of the title would give anything to own.
The rider slid a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. The hand-drawn map was crude, but the landmarks were plain. He reined north, and for the next hour and a half followed the edge of the hills. Careful to stick to cover, he came to a trail that saw less use. It wound around a low hill, and presently brought him within sight of a shack.
Gigging the zebra dun into some scrub oak, the rider dismounted and shucked his Winchester from the saddle scabbard. He levered a round into the chamber, then crouched and cat-footed in among pockets of dry brush to within a stone’s throw of the shack. Two horses were in a small corral attached to the side. Inside, someone was whistling.
The rider squatted and tucked the Winchester to his shoulder. Patient by nature, it did not bother him that over half an hour passed before the door opened and out came a human broomstick carrying a bucket. Shirtless and hatless, the string bean walked past the corral and over near a stand of cottonwoods.
Only then did the rider spot the spring.
“Yes, sir,” the thin man said over his shoulder to the horses in the corral. “Ten more days and I’ll be shed of line duty. I can’t wait. Not that I mind your company, but you are a poor substitute for the gals at the Lucky Star.”
Keeping low, the rider circled toward his quarry. There was no breeze, so he did not need to worry about his scent giving him away to the horses.
The broomstick knelt and dipped the wooden bucket into the water. “That Maggie sure treats me nice. Last time I was there, she did me for half price. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
A break in the brush gave the rider a clear shot. He sighted down the barrel, then lowered the Winchester without firing. Rocks lined the spring—large rocks that would serve as well as a bullet, if not better. Quickly bending, he removed his spurs and set them beside his rifle.
The thin man was a chatterbox, which was to be expected. The job of the line rider was lonely work, and cowhands often developed the habit of talking to themselves.
The rider should know. He had been a cowpoke, once.
“I aim to repay the favor by buyin’ Maggie a fancy gift,” the broomstick was saying. “A new shawl, maybe. Or one of those pretty new bonnets with the bows and frills the females cotton to. It can’t be a mirror. Ugly women hate mirrors, and she sure is powerful ugly.”
As silently as a stalking Comanche, the rider crept toward the puncher. He placed each foot with care. The broomstick had a Remington on his hip, and while it was doubtful he used it for anything more than shooting snakes, the rider preferred not to tempt fate by giving the cowboy time to draw.
“Listen to me!” the thin cowpoke marveled. “You would think I was booze-blind, but I’m sober as a parson.” He laughed at his own antics. “Maybe it’s true what old Shonsey says. Maybe there comes a time when every man is more than willin’ to step into a woman’s loop if it means a warm bed the rest of his nights.”