Dunn flattened. He had it all worked out in his head. He would fire twice—the extra shot to be sure—then he would race for his horse and ride like hell. By the time they worked out where the shot came from and found his tracks, he would be halfway to the Circle T. They might give chase, but Dunn’s horse was as fleet as an antelope. With enough of a lead, they had a snowball’s chance in Hades of catching him.
The Pierces came to the river, and drew rein to let their mounts drink. Steve Pierce climbed down and inspected one of his animal’s front hooves.
Roman shifted and scanned the grassland behind them, his one hand under his jacket. “No one follows us, patrón.”
“I didn’t think anyone would,” Dar Pierce responded. “Kent Tovey trusts me not to go after Demp.”
“I do not trust Tovey. We are not safe here,” Julio grumbled. “We will not be safe until we are across the Rio Largo.”
“I believe them,” Steve said. “I believe Jack Demp had nothing to do with Berto’s death.”
“You would.”
“That is enough out of you, Julio,” Dar said. “Your mother and I will have a long talk with you after we get back. You were unforgivably rude to Kent and Nance, and it must not happen again.”
“They are not our friends, Father. They never were.”
“You are young yet. You do not see what is right in front of your face.” Dar gigged his mount into the water. “Let’s go.”
The others were quick to follow suit. Water sprayed and frothed.
Hijino glanced at the trees, at the exact spot where Dunn lay. His perpetual grin widened a trifle. No one else noticed.
Dunn wedged the Winchester’s smooth wooden stock to his shoulder. He centered the sights on his target’s back. But he did not shoot. Do it too soon, and the vaqueros might catch him.
Dar Pierce was almost to the middle. Rising in the stirrups, he looked back. Why, Dunn couldn’t say. Maybe fate was making it easy for him. Dar opened his mouth to say something just as Dunn steadied the barrel, took a deep breath, and fired. In a twinkling, he fed in another round and squeezed off his second shot.
Dar Pierce’s face dissolved in a shower of scarlet.
Chapter 14
Trella was napping when a commotion woke her. She lay on her side, staring at the sunlit window, puzzled by loud voices and the patter of running feet. She should rise up and see what was going on, but she did not want to get out of bed. It was cool and comfortable, and she was perfectly content.
Trella’s parents would deal with it. Or her brothers and sister, who were bound to criticize her for meddling in matters that did not concern her. They always treated her the same. To them, she was the youngest and the least experienced, and needed to be protected—or, worse, treated as if she did not have a brain between her ears and certainly could not think for her own.
Trella hated it. She wished she had been born first so she could boss them around as they bossed her. She closed her eyes, intending to fall back asleep, but the insistent clamor would not let her. Annoyed, she stared at the window and said aloud, “Some people have no consideration.”
Suddenly her bedroom door was flung wide, framing her sister. Dolores had a strange look on her face, and seemed to sway slightly. “Get up,” she said urgently. “It’s father.”
“What do you mean?” Trella asked, but Dolores had already turned and run off.
Trella remembered that her father had gone to the Circle T to talk to the Toveys about Berto. She had been as stunned as everyone else by his murder. He always treated her nicely, much nicer than her siblings. When she was small, he would bring her presents. Now he was dead, and one of the cowboys was to blame. She tended to agree with Julio that their father should never have permitted the Toveys to settle there. By rights the DP should own the entire valley.
A loud cry filled the house. A shriek such as Trella had never heard. Startled, she sat bolt upright, her fingers squeezing her pillow until her knuckles were white. It sounded like her mother! But what could tear such a wail of anguish from her mother’s throat? Her mother was always so calm, always so composed.
Trella slid off the bed. A sob punctuated the shriek—a great, racking sob such as only the crushing of a heart could produce. For once Trella did not check her hair and her dress in the mirror. She ran toward the front of the house. Outside, someone shouted, barking commands.
The front door was open. Trella paused in the doorway, absorbing the scene before her; her brothers staring aghast at a prone form on the porch; her sister clutching a post for support, tears streaking her cheeks; her mother on her knees, hands clasped to her bosom; and her father on his back with his arms folded across his chest, hatless, part of his face blown away.
The world around Trella swirled. She reached for the jamb, about to faint. Hands took hold of her, bracing her. Numbly, she realized it was one of the maids. Normally she resented such familiarity from the servants, but now she did not object. She was too dazed. Too bewildered. “Padre?” she breathed.
Her mother gently placed a hand on her father’s chest, and said softly, “Tell me again how it happened.”
Steve answered her. “We were on our way back, crossing the river. Someone shot at us from the trees. Two shots. Both hit father. I caught him before he could fall in the water, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing any of us could do.”
“The bastards!” Julio roared. He shook from the intensity of his emotion. “It was a gringo from the Circle T. It had to be.”
“We don’t know that,” Steve said.
Julio whirled on him. “You were there! You saw the tracks! The direction they went! Back to the Circle T. Kent Tovey sent a cowboy to murder our father just as Berto was murdered.”
“Tovey had no reason to want our father dead,” Steve said. “They had talked things out. They parted as friends.”
“Listen to you!” Scorn dripped from Julio’s voice. “Defending them! Taking their side when our father lies here as proof of their treachery!”
“Julio,” Juanita said, still in that quiet way. “You will show proper respect for your brother.”
“I will not!” Julio cried. “He has always been a gringo at heart. Always preferred their ways. Look at how he dresses! You would not know he had a drop of your blood if you had not given birth to him.”
“Enough,” Junita said in a rare display of sternness. “I gave birth to you, too, and as your mother I require you to show the same love for your family as I do for you.”
Her rebuke caused Julio to flinch in remorse. “I am sorry,” he said contritely. “But the gringos are to blame. I feel it in my soul.”
Juanita touched what was left of Dar’s blood-flecked cheek. She closed her eyes and groaned. Armando started toward her, but she opened her eyes and waved him off. “I can not bear to see the man I love disfigured like this. Dolores, fetch a blanket. Steve, send riders to round up the vaqueros. All of them.”
“But the cattle—” Steve began, and promptly stopped. “Yes, Mother. It will be as you wish.”
“Yes!” Julio savagely exclaimed. “We will ride to the Circle T and wipe them out! Every last gringo!”
“I am calling in the vaqueros to attend the funeral,” Juanita said. “Or would you rather we dig a hole in the ground right this moment and throw your father in?”
“No, of course not,” Julio responded, chastised. “But after the funeral, we will have our revenge, will we not?”
“You worry me, son,” Juanita said lovingly. “You truly do.” She went to stand, and Steve was there, supporting her. “Now, listen to me. All of you.” Juanita paused and gazed searchingly at each of them. “I have lost the man I adored more than life itself. You have lost your father. But we are still a family. We stand by one another.” She waited for a reaction, but no one said anything. “We will lay Dar to rest in the family plot, with the dignity he deserves. Only after that is done will we find out who shot him, and see that justice is done.”