12

“I think I’ve got it straight, Slocum,” said Becky, from the leather sofa. She sat perched at attention on its edge beside Tia Juanita.

Tia Juanita, the dish towel working absently between her fingers, spoke up. “So, where you say you know this Cassidy from? Is he to be trusted?”

Slocum, standing beside the mantel, nodded. They had lit a fire, for the evening had become a little on the nippy side—as prophesied by Tia Juanita—and the warmth felt good to him. He felt kind of sorry for Pete and the other boys he’d sent out to stand guard. Not sorry enough to join them, though.

He said, “Met him over in Braintree, Texas, about five, maybe six years ago. There was a little range war goin’ on back then, and I was hired to help end it. Me and Cassidy started out on opposite sides and ended up workin’ together, after I found out my boss was a damn crook.”

He smiled. “Kind’a the same as this time, only in reverse. And yes,” he added, “I can trust him.”

I hope, he thought.

Both women nodded, and then, quite suddenly, Tia Juanita shot to her feet. Slapping a hand to her face, she dashed toward the kitchen, shouting, “Ay! My enchiladas!”

Slocum’s brow furrowed. “Hope dinner ain’t burnt,” he said.

“You,” said Becky, rising.

“Me what?”

“Just you,” she said, stepping toward him. “After you rode into town and faced both those killers in the saloon—”

“I didn’t face nobody, Becky,” he cut in.

“You know what I mean. I would have been afraid to even ride into town today.”

Smiling, he shook his head. “Now, Becky, I know you. Sooner or later, you’d have taken McMahon’s head off.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said, pouring out two glasses from the sherry decanter on a side table. She handed him one. “I’ve changed, Slocum. After so many years of this, well, I guess I’m beaten down.”

She took a sip of her sherry, then seemed to reconsider. “I might have poisoned McMahon eventually, or slid a blade between his ribs while he was sleeping, but not before he’d married me.”

Suddenly, she downed the glass, as if just the idea of it—either McMahon or the poisoning or the knife, or most probably all three—was incredibly distasteful.

Softly, Slocum said, “I doubt that, honey. Why, you would have run straight for the strychnine before he had a chance to marry you. Or at least, before the wedding night.”

Grinning, she smacked his arm and hissed, “Oh, Slocum!”

He chuckled. There was still some fight left in her.

He took a sip of his sherry and looked toward the kitchen. “You suppose supper’s about ready? I’m hungry enough to eat a deep-fried horse.”

She set her glass down. “Men. Always hungry.”

“For one thing or another,” he said with a grin, and reached for her.

But she slid away before he could take hold, saying, “Somebody’s got to set the table, and I’m that somebody.” She winked at him, then scampered toward the kitchen.

Slocum stood up and watched her disappear through the doorway, sighed, then moved to sit in one of the two deep leather armchairs. It was nice Becky hadn’t done anything to this room. It was all man. Scarred leather chairs and couches, everything rugged. The only traces of femininity were the vase of fresh flowers that rode the mantel, and a smaller vase on the table in back of the big sofa.

The pictures on the walls were likewise masculine. Horses and cattle, and one of a couple hound dogs. The one exception hung over the fireplace: a large, stern portrait of the former lord of the manor, Jack Jamison. He fairly glared out of the painting, as if to say, “This is mine, goddamnit.”

“Was yours,” Slocum said, and raised his glass to the late Jack Jamison. “And if we get our way, it’s Becky’s. For keeps.”

Becky popped through the door again, carrying a stack of plates, napkins, and a handful of silverware. “What?” she asked, even though Slocum had little more than mumbled her name.

“Nothin’,” said Slocum. He indicated the painting. “Just talkin’ to Jack.”

Strangely enough, her mouth quirked up into a hint of a smile. “It helps me,” she said. “It’ll help you, too.” She turned toward her work.

Maybe Jack Jamison hadn’t been such an old fart after all, Slocum thought grudgingly.

“I saved them,” called Tia Juanita, entering with a steaming—and enormous—pan of enchiladas. She placed it on the table, on the towel that Becky had just put down. The housekeeper motioned to Slocum. “Come. Sit. Eat. I will get the rest.”

Slocum pulled out Becky’s chair for her, then sat down and helped himself to the enchiladas and some extra cheese. “This is great stuff,” he remarked as he took another spoonful.

“Thank you,” replied Becky. She shook out her napkin, then paused, looking out the window, into the darkness.

She hugged herself tight. “I wonder how the men are doing out there. It’s so cold!”

 

Teddy LeGrande had slipped out of town with no one the wiser, even that old hack, Cassidy. And what kind of a first name was “Drug” anyway? LeGrande snorted. Now he was slowly making his way due west out the road to the Jamison place.

That Cassidy was really something, wasn’t he? The man was plain as an old boot, for one thing. And he was old, for another. LeGrande shook his head and gave another snort. Why, he didn’t know how Cassidy could face him again after he’d been outfoxed on the bounty. Hell, LeGrande couldn’t even remember the bastard’s name—the one he’d turned loose, then shot and turned in for the reward over in Jackson. But he’d bet that Cassidy did.

So when Cassidy told him to lay low for a while, to just bide his time, he figured Cassidy to be playing some sort of game with him. He hadn’t figured it out exactly, but it was probably something like Cassidy sneaking out to the S Bar J and gunning Slocum all by himself.

The rat bastard.

He was going to show that Cassidy up, he thought with a smile. Show him up again, more like.

Which was why he was headed toward the S Bar J, long after dark and all by his lonesome. Hell, maybe he’d get to pick up Cassidy’s share, too.

And then he mentally kicked himself. He should have asked McMahon about that part.

Well, too late. Come morning, he’d have already killed Slocum and picked up his bounty, and be headed back to New Mexico. Which would leave behind a real big—and real unpleasant—surprise for Cassidy.

He grinned at that one.

This Slocum was all reputation. He’d heard of him, sure. But he’d also heard about a lot of men who were supposed to be fast or slick or cunning, or all three. The last one of those big-reputation guns that he’d run across was the Arapaho Kid, who happened to be all of sixteen years old.

LeGrande had tracked him to the bath house in Trestle Junction, New Mexico, and shot him while he was in the tub. He’d left the kid floating, facedown in the dirty water.

Some shootist.

But Perry Broadside, the man who’d contracted the killing—having listened to those stories about the Arapaho Kid, and wanting rid of anyone who could possibly cause his horse rustling operation any trouble—had paid him anyway, boy or not.

That was the kind of client LeGrande liked. No questions, just pay the money.

Tate McMahon struck him as that sort.

LeGrande figured Slocum wouldn’t suspect he was coming. Hell, the man hadn’t set foot into town, not once! He was probably already scared out of his britches. Probably quivering in his boots!

He’d never suspect Teddy LeGrande was coming to call . . . and blow him to Kingdom Come.

The moon was bright and the road was clear. He began to whistle.

This would be about the easiest five hundred he’d made all year.

 

Pete was colder than the balls on a brass monkey. At least, that was what he thought as he sat there, shivering while he watched the road. He knew there was a blanket tied behind his saddle, but somehow, the idea of moving— and thus exposing a few new parts of himself to the weather—held little appeal.

Tia Juanita had been right when she insisted that the men take blankets to wrap themselves in. Hell, she was always right. And somehow, she knew every damned thing that happened on that spread. She must have had a few of those Mexican witches in her family, that’s what he thought.

Brujas. Anyhow, that was what he thought they called them.

When he found he was too cold even to lift a jittering hand to reach into his pocket and check his watch, he gritted his teeth and stood up as fast as his cold and creaky bones could travel.

As he had expected, this plunge into an icy stream of air was all the motive he needed to hustle over the rise to where he’d left his rig and snatch up the blanket. Hurriedly, he shook it out and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Better. But he tramped around for a few minutes, stamping his feet and getting his joints oiled up and halfway warm again before he sat down.

Damn! he thought as he settled once again. Why couldn’t there have been a rock or something out here that he could cuddle up to?

The land was softly rolling around this part of the ranch. Pete had hobbled his gelding down in the soft hollow behind him so that he couldn’t be seen, just in case anybody did come down that road. But Pete just sat there, as obvious as a sore thumb.

If I’d’a thought about it, he mused, I would’a brung my own boulder . . .

He had just got the blanket tucked into every available nook and cranny when he suddenly leaned forward, squinted, and froze.

“That ain’t no bird,” he whispered. The whistling was a little louder now. He could hear it faintly, but steadily.

He still couldn’t see anything, though. And if he couldn’t see the whistler, then the whistler couldn’t see him. Yet.

As quickly as he could, he shrugged free of the blanket and flattened pressing his belly to the ground. He brought his rifle up and rested his cheek against the stock.

There! There he was. Pete could just make out a faint shape moving toward him.

A faint shape in a pale jacket, riding a pale horse, maybe a palomino.

It was just like Slocum had said, and for just a second, Pete wondered if maybe Slocum wasn’t related to Tia Juanita and all those witches.

The rider came closer, preceded by the sound of his whistling, and Pete found that he was sweating despite the cold. It beaded on his forehead and trickled down his nose.

Of course, he wasn’t supposed to shoot the fellow. He was only supposed to report back.

But the whistler was almost in range—the range that Pete felt safe with, when it was dark and he couldn’t see too well. He couldn’t stand up now without giving himself away.

He decided to wait until the man passed, then sneak around him, go back to the ranch, and get Slocum.

But then the man in the white jacket reined up his horse and just sat there, square in the middle of the road.

Pete screwed up his face. “What the—” he muttered before he realized that the sonofabitch had seen the barrel of his rifle, glinting in the moonlight.

Damn it, anyway!

The man shifted, like he was reaching for his rifle.

Pete reacted immediately. He fired—and missed.

Cursing, he took careful aim—trying not to think about the rifle that the man out there was just bringing to his shoulder—and fired again.

This time, the figure on the horse wavered a split second after Pete pulled the trigger.

But he didn’t fall off his damned horse. No, he got off, dismounted fast but deliberately on the horse’s off side, and began to return fire.

He was sloppy about it though. Pete could hear his slugs sharply drilling the dirt about ten feet in front of him and to the right.

He aimed again.

This time, the man, who was halfway into the brush beside the road, screamed, stood straight, then fell over.

Pete didn’t move, though. Watching intently for the slightest movement of brush, he waited a good fifteen minutes. Then he began to creep slowly toward the site, sometimes on his hands and knees, sometimes in a crouch.

He cut up to the north a mite before he closed in, his handgun drawn and ready. He moved slowly, quietly, and with his heart thumping a mile a minute.

He finally found the body, down in the brush, by nearly falling over it. But he caught himself and, holding his breath, toed the man’s shoulder.

No response.

Letting out a relieved sigh that rose up in a foggy plume, Pete relaxed. He stuck his boot out again, and this time rolled the body over. Just as he was thinking that this fellow moved awful easy for a big, dead man, he saw the man’s hand move, heard the blast of a gun, and felt searing heat in his shoulder.

He fired even as his body was shoved back by the impact, and the body on the ground convulsed once, then lay still.

Pete managed not to fall down, but he cussed up a storm as he stumbled. Catching himself, he fired into the body again, just to make certain the bastard was dead.

“Sonofabitch!” he spat as he slowly walked up to the road to snag the fellow’s mount.

“Now I gotta load you clear up on that big yaller horse, and me with a stove-up shoulder!”