Most of the Apaches were on reservations now, but isolated bands of renegades still hid out in the mountains. It was Bodaway’s dream to mold those groups into a band large enough to do some real damage to the cavalry and to the white settlements in the territory. With modern rifles to use as a lure, he might well succeed in bringing together all the bronco Apaches.
In the night, he probably thought about doing all the bloody things Cochise and Geronimo had never been able to accomplish. Becker knew what that was like.
He had a dream of his own.
His old friend Bodaway didn’t know anything about that, and there was no reason to tell him. As long as Bodaway and his men did what Becker needed them to do, that was the only thing that mattered. If they did . . .
If they did, then Becker’s long-sought vengeance would be right there in front of him where he could reach out and grasp it at last.
* * *
Evening settled down on the San Bernardino Valley, bringing some cooling breezes. Viola Slaughter loved this time of day. It gave her great peace and happiness to step out into the dusk and gaze up at the spectacular wash of red and gold and blue and purple in the sky as the sunset faded. Often she stood there drinking in the beauty of nature and listening to the faint sounds of the ranch’s activities winding down for the day.
Today wasn’t like that, however. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever, but the air was filled with the sound of preparations for the evening’s festivities.
Servant girls chattered as they brought plates and silverware from the house and set them on the tables under the cottonwoods. Cowboys and vaqueros called to each other and laughed from the great spit where a beef was roasting over a crackling fire. Fiddlers and guitar players tuned their instruments for the dancing later. Children from the families of the ranch hands ran around playing and shouting. Among them were some Indian youngsters. The peaceful Indian families in the area knew they were always welcome when the Slaughters had a party. Everyone was welcome, in fact. That was just the way it was on the Slaughter Ranch.
Viola’s husband came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her thick dark hair.
“I say, you’ve done a fine job with this fiesta, as usual,” John Slaughter told her.
Viola leaned back in the comfortable embrace of his arms and laughed.
“I haven’t done much of anything, John, and you know it. The people who work for us deserve all the credit.”
“Without your planning and supervision, there wouldn’t even be a party,” Slaughter said. “And you know that.”
She turned to face him and asked, “What do you think of Don Eduardo?”
“A fine fellow. Very straightforward.” Slaughter shrugged. “A bit arrogant, perhaps, but that’s common with these grandees. It’s the Spaniard in ’em, I suppose. Europeans have a weakness for the aristocracy.”
“What about his wife?”
“Doña Belinda? She’s all right, I suppose. We don’t really have anything in common with her, what with her being from back east and all.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m not sure I like her,” Viola said quietly.
“What?” Slaughter looked and sounded surprised. “I thought you liked everyone.”
“Not everybody,” Viola said, a little tartly now. “She’s pleasant enough, I suppose, but I’m not sure I trust her.”
“Well, luckily you don’t have to,” Slaughter pointed out. “Her husband seems trustworthy enough, and he’s the one I’m doing business with.” Slaughter stepped back, slipped his watch out of his vest pocket, and opened it to check the time. “In fact, I ought to get back inside. I’m supposed to meet Don Eduardo in my study and deliver the payment for those cows to him. Then we can get the fandango started.”
“All right, go ahead,” Viola said as she patted her husband’s arm. “I’ll see you when you’re finished.”
Slaughter nodded, put his watch away, and turned to stride back into the house with his usual vigor. He was not a man to do things in a lackadaisical manner, whether it was pursuing lawbreakers as sheriff, working with the hands here on the ranch, or making love to his beautiful young wife.
Viola checked with the servants to make sure the preparations were going as they were supposed to, then walked out to talk to the vaqueros and see that the meat would be ready. Assured that it would be, Viola started back toward the house.
Her route took her near the elevated water tank. She was surprised to see movement in the shadows underneath it. The area where the fiesta would be held was brightly lit by colorful lanterns hanging in the trees, but their glow didn’t really reach this far. Twilight had deepened until the gloom was nearly impenetrable in places.
Viola had keen eyes, though, and she knew it was unlikely that any of the servants or the ranch hands would be around the water tank right now. She gave in to curiosity and walked in that direction, moving with her usual quiet grace.
As she came closer she heard the soft murmur of voices, but she didn’t recognize them and couldn’t make out any of the words. She started to call out and ask who was there, but she stopped before she said anything.
Her natural caution had asserted itself. If whoever was lurking under the water tank had some sort of mischief in mind, it might not be wise to let them know she was there.
Instead she stuck to the shadows herself and slipped closer, and then stopped as she began to be able to understand what the two people were saying.
They spoke in Spanish, the man with a fluency that indicated it was his native tongue. The woman’s words were more halting as she tried to think of how to express what she wanted to say.
It was perfectly clear to Viola that they were lovers, and passionate ones at that. After a moment they both fell silent, and she assumed that was because they were kissing.
She had recognized the voices and understood the words as well. One of them belonged to Santiago Rubriz.
The woman was his stepmother, Doña Belinda.
Viola knew there had to be a reason she didn’t like or trust the blonde from Boston, she thought as she stood there in the darkness, her face warm with embarrassment from the secret she had unwittingly uncovered.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William W. Johnstone is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over three hundred books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen: The Mountain Man, Preacher: The First Mountain Man, Flintlock, MacCallister and Will Tanner: Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers Black Friday, Tyranny, and Stand Your Ground.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Notes
1 Trail of the Mountain Man
2 Honor of the Mountain Man
3 Trail of the Mountain Man
4 Pride of the Mountain Man
5 Vengeance of the Mountain Man
6 Pride of the Mountain Man
7 Code of the Mountain Man
8 Honor of the Mountain Man
9 Honor of the Mountain Man
10 Honor of the Mountain Man
11 Code of the Mountain Man
12 The Last of the Mountain Man
13 The Last Mountain Man
Guns of the Mountain Man Page 24