The Devil to Pay

There were no wounded among Davis Salt’s men. Frank Cobb counted twenty-nine dead, all the corpses shot full of holes. Salt was identified by his pockmarked face, but there was no sign of Seth Koenig.

“So, he got away clean,” Kate said.

“Seems like,” Frank said. “But we’ll get him, Kate. You have my word on that.”

Her own wounded had been carried into the house and her three dead had been laid out in the parlor, awaiting coffins. She was exhausted, her ashen face streaked with gunpowder, spotted with blood. She found it difficult to speak. “I want Seth Koenig brought back here and I want him to hang.” And then, after a few moments, she asked Frank, “Do you still correspond with Jacob O’Brien?”

He nodded. “Maybe two or three times a year when he’s back in the New Mexico Territory. Jake’s a bounty hunter, as you know, Kate, and he moves around a lot. He’s so strange and his letters so interesting I read them over and over and pretty much memorize every word. Last I heard he was studying Buddhism, traveling around the country as a bodyguard to a Japanese Zen master by the name of Soyen Shaku.”

“What is a Zen master?” Kate said.

“I have no idea,” Frank said, “but that’s what Jake called the Japanese man.”

“Can we hire him to track down Seth Koenig?”

Frank shook his head. “No, Kate, we can’t. Jacob O’Brien is the best there is, but he’s a hard man to pin down. He’s one of a restless breed and attempting to corral him is kind of like trying to dab a loop on the wind.” Frank’s face tightened and the lines showed on his face. “I’ll go after Koenig.”

“I need you here,” Kate said.

“I have some experience as a manhunter.”

“You’re also the segundo of this ranch, and your place is here with the KK.”

“Winter is cracking down, Kate. I could bring Koenig in before the start of the spring roundup.”

“No, Frank,” Kate said. “We have a ranch to run, and Koenig has already done enough damage. I’ll find some other way. I have friends among the Pinkertons and I’ll seek their advice.”

“You’re the boss, Kate, and you have to play it the way you see it.” Frank’s face softened. “Why don’t you get some rest? Me and the others can do what has to be done.”

“I’ll take a bath and change my clothes. Then I want a report on range conditions, the state of the wells, and how much hay we have stacked. And then . . .”

“I’ll bury my dead.”

Late afternoon sunlight angled through the windows of Maria Ana’s room in the Kerrigan mansion. Outside, the vaqueros shared mescal with the surviving KK hands, and Gabe Dancer seemed merry enough to sing “Put Thy Little Hand in Mine” at the top of his lungs.

Don Pedro ignored the din and pulled a chair close to Maria Ana’s bathtub. “Can you forgive your Pedro, my love? For all the wrongs I’ve done you in the past.”

The doña laid her neck on the copper rim of the tub and closed her eyes. “Pedro, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I reduced the number of your servants, forced you to wear the dress of a peasant woman. There is much to forgive, my love.” He shoved his face into his hands. “Wicked, wicked Pedro. Why has the devil entered you so?”

Maria Ana opened her beautiful black eyes. “Earlier today a boy died with his head on my lap. Before he passed away he looked up at me and said, ‘I’ll be fine, Ma. Don’t worry. I’ll be just fine.’ Then I felt his head grow heavy and a moment later his soul fled to his Creator.”

“Mi amor, it is good that you brought the boy such comfort,” Don Pedro said. “Surely the good Lord will light another star in your honor.”

As though she hadn’t heard, Maria Ana said, “Though wounded, my faithful Yolanda stayed by my side, and Rodolfo Aragon . . . the gallant and faithful servant I treated with such disdain . . . laid down his life for me. Amid the inferno of blood and death, I came to realize that French gowns, trips to Paris, are so unimportant. They are the empty desires of a spoiled, selfish woman.”

Don Pedro was wise enough to say nothing

Maria Ana shifted a little, and soapy water slopped over the rim of the tub. “I have never been faithful to you, Pedro. Over the years, I’ve taken many lovers. Until now, I’ve never regretted them. Now I regret them terribly, all those empty, meaningless affairs I used to flatter my own vanity.”

The little don’s expression remained the same. “Yes, this I know. I was aware that there were other men, but I turned a blind eye. Through it all, my love for you never waned. Maria Ana, you were always my moon and stars, my whole life, and that did not change and will never change.”

“Then who should seek forgiveness? Not you, Pedro. It is I who should ask for pardon. I should fall at your feet and beg you to take me back and never stop loving me.”

“I will love you always, Maria Ana. Until the end of my days.”

For the first time that day Maria Ana smiled. “Then take me home, Pedro. I vow that never again will anything stand between us.” She stood in the tub, water rippling from her magnificent body, then stepped out and, unheeding of her husband’s finery, sat on his lap.

“I love you, Pedro,” Maria Ana said, staring into her husband’s eyes, her slender arms around his neck. “Will you take me back as your wife?”

“And I love you,” Don Pedro said. “And you will always be my wife . . . forever and a day.”