“I wouldn’t count the rest of the Circle T hands and the DP out just yet,” Jesco said. “Kent Tovey is no tree stump. He’ll figure it out, and when he does, there will be hell to pay.”
“He won’t figure it out in time. In a day or two, this whole valley will be ripe for the pluckin’.”
Jesco looked at him. “If you put half as much effort into makin’ money honestly as you do makin’ it dishonestly, you’d have more than enough to get by.”
“I don’t see you with your own spread and money galore in the bank,” Dunn retorted. “The problem with livin’ honestly is that it leads to the poorhouse.”
“Why, you’re a philosopher.”
“Go to hell.”
“But there are worse things than bein’ poor,” Jesco said. “Like losin’ your honor and self-respect.”
“God. You should be a parson. Where’s the honor in nursemaidin’ cows? Where’s the self-respect in forty a month and found?”
“If you don’t know by now, you never will.”
Timmy cat-footed into the parlor, saying, “No sign of anyone out back. I bet we could sneak off without them noticin’.”
“You would lose the bet,” Jesco said. “There’s bound to be at least one waitin’ for us to try. Step foot out the back door, and you’re worm food.”
Dunn’s teeth showed bright in the dark. “Don’t listen to him, boy. You go ahead and do as you please.”
From somewhere between the house and the stable came a harsh bellow, “Are you awake in there?”
“We’re playin’ checkers!” Jesco replied.
Saber was not amused. “You’ve killed a pard of mine and about near crippled another. This is your last chance to come out with your hands over your heads. You have one minute.”
“It must be the bull,” Jesco shouted back.
Silence lasted for all of ten seconds, then Saber yelled, “What bull, you damned nuisance?”
“The one that kicked you in the head when you were little and addled your brains. Why else would you think we’d give up?”
Timmy chortled and slapped his leg. “That’s tellin’ him!”
Through the shattered window came the ratchet of rifle levers being worked. Whirling, Jesco threw himself at Timmy and tackled him, bearing him down as the night exploded in gunfire. It sounded like five or six firing at once. Slugs ripped through the wall, through the front door, through what was left of the glass pane. Slivers flew every which way. A lamp disintegrated with a loud crash. A pillow on the settee spewed feathers. A portrait of Nancy Tovey’s mother fell off the wall.
Forty or fifty rounds were expended before the firing ceased.
Jesco raised his head and nudged Timmy, who had his arms over his. “Are you all right?”
“No.” Grimacing, Timmy groped low down on his left leg. “I’ve been hit. I can feel blood.”
“Let me have a look-see.”
Enough light spilled inside from the still burning buckboard to reveal a half-inch-deep furrow above the young cowboy’s ankle. The lead had missed the bone, and even as Jesco examined the wound, the bleeding slowed to a few drops.
“You’ll live.”
Timmy pointed. “It doesn’t look like he will.”
Dunn was slumped in the chair. His chest rose and fell erratically, as if he were having difficulty breathing. A pair of spreading stains on his shirt explained why.
“Well, this is fittin’.” Jesco poked the killer in the shoulder, and Dunn slowly lifted his head.
“I hate you.”
“You’re the one chose the life of a lobo,” Jesco said. “Us honest folks don’t generally get shot to pieces by our friends.”
“I can’t tell you how much I hate you.” Dunn let out a long breath. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I was goin’ to have more money than I knew what to do with.” He coughed, and swore, and coughed some more, ending with a gasp that abruptly choked off.
Jesco felt for a pulse. “And then there were six.”
“What do we do with him? Just leave him there?”
Scratching his chin, Jesco glanced at the window. “I hate to see a good body go to waste.”
Chapter 26
Hijino always had luck. He was lucky at cards, lucky with the ladies, and particularly lucky when he was in situations where it was shoot quick or die. He counted it luck bordering on a miracle that he reached the strip of woods along the Rio Largo alive. A hailstorm of slugs sought his life, yet he and Blanco made it.
Hijino raced in under the trees, past vaqueros who were firing in a mad frenzy at the gringos. He went almost to the river, then drew rein and swung down while Blanco was still in motion, yanking his Winchester from its scabbard as he alighted. Turning, he had taken barely six steps when Trella flung herself at him. In near hysterics, tears streaming down her cheeks, she beat on his chest with her small fists and screamed in his face.
“What happened? What in God’s name happened?”
Dolores and Paco and Roman were running toward them.
“Didn’t you see?” Hijino responded. “The cowboy, Demp, went for his pistola. I yelled at him not to, but he would not listen. Then the rest of the gringos started shooting.”
“Steve and Armando!” Trella wailed. “My brothers are dead!”
“I am sorry,” Hijino said. “I could not save them.” “Mi hermana,” Dolores said, enfolding Trella. “It was not his fault. There was nothing he could do.”
Trella wailed louder, and tried to push loose.
Paco was furious. Ordinarily the mildest-mannered of men, he swore luridly, and jabbed a finger at the gun smoke wafting over the grass. “We will kill them for this! Every last one! They made fools of us! They honored our white flag so they could kill Armando and Steve.”
Roman did not say anything. His eyes were hidden by the wide brim of his sombrero, but he appeared to be staring at Hijino.
“Tell me what you would have me do, and I will do it,” Hijino said to Paco, playing his part.
“Help the others. Shoot as many as you can before it is too dark to see.”
“Sí.” Filled with secret delight at how he had tricked them, Hijino threaded through the trees in a crouch. Slugs whistled and buzzed among the branches and boles, clipping leaves and bark and branches. Flattening, he snaked to a trunk wide enough to offer some protection.
A vaquero to his left raged nonstop with every shot. “Damned stinking gringos! Damned rotten bastardos!”
Inwardly smiling, Hijino sighted at the center of a gray mushroom, and fired. “Shoot at their smoke!” he hollered. Someone came through the woods and joined in. He knew it would be Roman. A glance confirmed it. “We will give them hell!” he declared.
Roman merely nodded.
Does he suspect? The hairs at the nape of Hijino’s neck prickled. But Roman would not act unless he was sure. That was the great difference between Hijino and men of honor. They always needed a reason to squeeze the trigger; Hijino did not. They always had to justify killing; Hijino killed for killing’s sake. They were good men, decent through and through; there was not a shred of decency anywhere in Hijino’s being.
So Hijino was wary, but not overly worried. He would deal with Roman when the time came. Until then, he did as the rest of the vaqueros were doing, and emptied his rifle at the cowboys, twice in succession. He had to pretend to be as outraged as everyone else.
The twilight darkened into the black of night, and Paco shouted for the shooting to stop.
“I wonder how many of them we got?” a vaquero said.
“I saw one fall for sure,” another mentioned.
“I hit one in the head when he popped up to shoot!” a third exclaimed. “I saw his hat go flying.”