CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Don Pedro was a smart man and he saw at once that the Kerrigans were holed up inside the bunkhouse. His vaqueros, crazed with battle lust, were less analytical. If a man was running or shooting and he was a gringo, he was the foe and must be dealt with. They had little grasp of the concept of extending mercy to a surrendering enemy.
Aware of the thinking of his men, Don Pedro rode directly for the bunkhouse, threw himself out of the saddle, and ran for the door. Being a prudent man, before he dared enter he yelled above the rattle of gunfire, “It is I, Don Pedro!”
The little nobleman was rewarded by a shriek from inside and Maria Ana’s call of, “Don Pedro! You have come for me!”
“Mi querido amor!” the don yelled. He rushed inside, ignored the guns pointed at him, tossed his sombrero aside, and then he and Maria Ana rushed into each other’s arms.
“Maria Ana!” Don Pedro said.
“Pedro!” his wife said.
They clung to each other, both sobbing. Maria Ana’s joyful tears fell on the top of her husband’s bald head.
* * *
Outnumbered ten to one, Davis Salt and his men were gunned down in the first wave of horsemen. Seth Koenig dived to the ground and feigned death as the berserk vaqueros shot at anything that moved. After a few moments of frenzied, gun-blazing havoc, the Mexicans rode on in search of other prey.
Koenig saw his chance and took it.
He jumped to his feet and then hesitated as he heard Salt’s pleading voice behind him.
“Koenig, my knee is all busted up. Help me.”
“Hell, no,” Seth said. “You ain’t going nowhere with that leg.”
“Please . . .”
“I got to go.” Seth raised his Colt, ignored Salt’s terrified face, and shot the outlaw in the head. “I’ve had all from you I’m gonna take.”
The vaqueros were busily shooting down the gunmen around the bunkhouse and Koenig sprinted unseen for the door of the Kerrigan mansion and ran inside. His path to the back was immediately blocked by Moses Rice, who had stalwartly refused to desert his butler’s post.
“You can’t come in here,” Moses said.
“Get the hell out of my way!” Koenig yelled. He threw the old man aside and bolted out the back door. It was a sprint to the horses while trying to remain out of sight, keeping the mansion between himself and the rampaging vaqueros.
The two gunmen Salt had left with the horses were already mounted. For several minutes, they watched Seth stumble toward them but made no effort to bring him a horse.
When he reached them, breathless, it took a while before he could answer the questions thrown at him. Finally, he said, “Get the hell out of here. Salt is dead and you’ll be next.”
“What happened?” one of the men said.
“Mexicans, hundreds of them. They’ve killed everybody.”
The two gunmen stared at the pall of dust and gun smoke that obscured the ranch buildings.
“Rurales, bandits?” one of them said.
“How the hell should I know?” Seth said.
“Ol’ Salty is dead? Are you sure?”
“He’s got a .45 slug in his brainpan. Is that sure enough?”
The gunmen exchanged glances and swung their horses around and cantered away, heading in the direction of the New Mexico border.
Seth Koenig watched them go and then swung into the saddle. He took a last, bitter look at the Kerrigan ranch, his face set and hard. To be sure, it had been a setback, but he still had his pa’s money and he could hire guns, plenty of guns, the best there was. He’d be back. Back in force, and he’d play it smarter. The redheaded woman had given him a taste of what she had to offer and whetted his appetite. She might feel safe in her bed tonight, but she wasn’t, not that night or any other. He’d bet the farm that Kate Kerrigan would have disturbing dreams, terrified that Seth Koenig was in bed beside her, his panting breath on the back of her neck. One night she’d wake . . . and he’d really be there.
Seth kicked his horse into motion, and like the two riders ahead of him, he headed for the New Mexico Territory. He would return to the Hellfire to rest up for a few days at the only home he’d ever known, and then visit the Deming bankers to claim his inheritance.
Seth Koenig smiled to himself. He’d lost the battle, but he’d win the war.