One of the horses nickered.
The rider froze. The animal had seen him. But the cowboy did not look around. The rider continued his cautious advance.
“I laughed at the notion when I was younger,” the puncher rambled on. “But life has a way of sweatin’ the fat out of a man’s brain.” Sloshing water over the rim, he raised the bucket out of the spring. “Of course, if I’d had any sense to begin with, I wouldn’t be nursemaidin’ cows for a livin’, would I?” He began to rise.
By then the rider was close enough. A single bound brought him to the rocks. He had already selected the one he wanted. As large as a melon, with a jagged edge, it was perfect. He had it in his hands and over his head before the broomstick awoke to his presence.
“What in tarnation?” the cowboy blurted, his eyes widening. He clawed for his pistol, but it was much too late and he was much too slow.
The rider brought the rock crashing down. It caught the cowboy across the forehead, caving in his skull and bursting his brain like overripe fruit. He was dead before his body hit the ground.
Tossing the bloody rock into the spring, the rider hoisted the body and pushed it into the water, head-first. He deliberately left the puncher’s boots sticking out, so someone would spot them.
Hurrying into the brush, the rider replaced his spurs and snatched up his Winchester. Retrieving the zebra dun took only a few moments. The bottle he had bought at the Wolf Pass Saloon was in one of his saddlebags. Taking it out, the rider returned to the spring, opened it, and laid it at the water’s edge. Satisfied with his handiwork, he swung onto the zebra dun. As he rode past the corral, the horses stared at him. He winked at them.
“I hope the rest are as easy.”
Chapter 2
The second rider came from the south. He used the Old Spanish Trail, once part of a network of trails established by Spain’s intrepid explorers and colonizers to take them to remote mines and missions.
The second rider was different from the first. Where the big man who stopped at Wolf Pass was dark and somber, the second rider was friendly and cheerful. Macario Hijino always smiled. He smiled every minute of every day. He smiled when he ate; he smiled when he talked; he smiled when he rode; he smiled when he walked. He smiled when he killed, too, and to Hijino, killing was the most enjoyable part of life. As a boy, he had liked to kill snakes and toads and scorpions and every other small creature he could catch, including, on several occasions, family cats. He saw it as only natural that once he grew into manhood he would continue to kill, and what did it matter if those he slew walked on two legs and called themselves human?
Hijino dressed to match his disposition. His sombrero was the best he could afford, worn tilted at the back to lend a certain dash to his appearance. His Spanish-style saddle and bridle were decorated with silver, as was his hatband, his belt, and his chaparreras. An amigo once joked that Hijino was a living silver mine, and Hijino had to admit he did love his silver. He flashed in the sun with brilliant gleams of light, and made a striking impression on all he met. Hijino liked it that way.
Next to killing and silver, Hijino’s other passions in life were his white caballo, Blanco, his pearl-handled Colt, and money. Hijino spent money like he was the richest man in all of Mexico. Only he was not rich, and in order to go on spending, he had to obtain money by any and all means he could. Some of those means were illegal, which was why the Mexican authorities were so eager to stand him in front of a firing squad.
On this bright, gorgeous morning, Hijino rode with the easy air of someone at home in the saddle. Hijino and his white horse moved as one, in fluid synchrony, as superb an example of a caballero and his caballo as could be found south or north of the border.
Presently Hijino came to a high ridge, and drew rein. The Rio Largo Valley unfolded before him like a flower unfolding to embrace the warmth of a new day. Hijino’s smile widened. Somewhere over the horizon was the river that gave the valley its name. Between the mountains and the river were herds of cattle, looking like so many ants from Hijino’s altitude.
Lightly tapping his Spanish spurs against his mount, Hijino followed the Old Spanish Trail down to his destination. He adjusted his sombrero, flicked a few specks of dust from his jacket, and rode out across the valley, smiling the whole while. Soon he came upon cattle—cows so plump, Hijino imagined that if he squeezed them, they would pop like pimples.
Soon, riders spotted him. Three broke from a herd and galloped to intercept him. Hijino reined up and waited, smiling his perpetual smile, his hands casually folded over his silver saddle horn.
The three slowed and spread out. Their Spanish heritage was evident in their features and their attire. They were dressed much like Hijino, only their clothes were plainer, as befitted men more interested in their work than in how they looked in a mirror. They came to a stop twenty feet out, and regarded him with wary interest.
Hijino did not feel threatened. He knew he could draw and shoot all three before they cleared their pistolas from their holsters. He was lightning with his Colt, and proud of it.
At last the man in the middle spoke. Young and handsome, he had an air of authority. “Do you speak English?” he asked in Spanish.
Puzzled by the question, Hijino gave the young one closer scrutiny. He had been mistaken. This one was not entirely Mexican by birth. Traces of gringo were apparent in the eyes, the hair, the face. “Sí. I speak several languages,” Hijino amiably answered. “English is but one of them.”
The young man pushed his sombrero back on his head. “Why are you on the DP?”
Hijino did not like the other’s tone, but he did not show his resentment. He feigned ignorance. “What is that?”
“The best rancho in all of New Mexico,” the young man said. “It is run by my father, Dar Pierce. I am Julio, his youngest son.”
“Ah.” Hijino continued his act. “In Mexico we do not name our ranchos after the letters of the alphabet.”
“You are a vaquero, then?”
“Sí, patrón. A vaquero in need of work if any is to be had.”
“The last I heard there is no shortage of ranchos in Mexico,” Julio said with a wry grin.
Hijino was not deceived. The young one was fishing. Many men came north a step ahead of prison, or worse. “I am not a bandido, patrón,” he said with as much sincerity as he could fake. “I am a simple worker of cows.”
One of the other men, a moon-faced pumpkin whose fondness for food was all too apparent, chuckled good-naturedly and commented, “Madre de Dios. You must have blinded half the cows in Mexico, wearing all that silver.”
All of them chuckled, and Hijino mentally patted himself on the back. “That is why I seek employment here in the north. All those blind cows had to be put out of their misery, and there is not enough work for an honest vaquero between the border and Mexico City.”
The one who had spoken laughed. “An hombre after my own heart. I am Paco.” He jerked a thumb at the third man. “This other one is Roman. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
“Should I?”
“Roman has more than a small reputation as a pistolero ,” Paco revealed. “When Señor Pierce needs cow thieves and outlaws disposed of, he always calls on Roman.”
Hijino’s interest perked. All the more so because Roman was not wearing a gun belt. Slight bulges under Roman’s black jacket explained the mystery. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Maybe you will honor me some time by showing me how good you are. I am only a fair shot, myself,” he lied.