“I better not drink too much tonight,” Stonewall said. “I’ll need a clear head in the mornin’ if we’re gonna be racin’. How long are we talkin’ about? A mile?”
“That’s fine with me.”
Santiago’s easy agreement made Stonewall wonder if he should have chosen a different length for the race. But it was too late now. The deal was done . . . except for the stakes.
“What are we bettin’?” he asked.
“I thought that was understood,” Santiago said. “The stakes are our mounts, amigo. Whoever wins walks away with the other man’s horse.”
Chapter 4
Slaughter and Don Eduardo had just emerged from the house when the don’s wife reached the other side of the patio. She hurried to meet them and laid a hand on her husband’s arm.
“Oh, Eduardo, everything is so beautiful,” Belinda said. “Señor and Señora Slaughter have gone to great lengths to celebrate our visit.”
“As well we should, ma’am,” Slaughter said. “It’s not every day we have a lady such as yourself on the ranch, all the way from Boston.”
She shook her head and laughed lightly. “I’m not from Boston anymore,” she said. “I’m from Mexico now.”
“This is what I have longed to hear,” Rubriz said. “You accept my home as your home.”
“Well, of course it is,” Belinda told him. “We’re married, aren’t we?”
“We most certainly are.”
With that, Don Eduardo leaned down and kissed her with a passionate intensity that was clearly visible.
When her husband stepped back, Belinda went on, “At any rate, Señor Slaughter, you have a wonderful lady here on the ranch in your wife, no matter where she’s from. I never met a more gracious and caring person.”
“Well, that’s certainly true,” Slaughter agreed. “Meeting Viola was a great stroke of luck for me. Convincing her to become my wife was an even greater one.” Slaughter looked around. “Have you seen her recently?”
“Not in the last few minutes. I’m sure she’s around somewhere, making sure that everything is done properly for the party.”
“No doubt about that. I believe I’ll go and find her. I’m sure things will be getting under way soon. If you two would like to freshen up, I can have one of the servants take you back to your quarters.”
“That would be excellent, Señor Slaughter,” Don Eduardo said.
“Please, call me John.”
“Texas John, is it not?” Rubriz asked with a smile.
“That’s true. Arizona is my home now, but I’m still a proud son of the Lone Star State. Always will be.”
Slaughter beckoned to one of the servants and told the girl to escort Don Eduardo and his wife to their quarters. She lowered her gaze and murmured, “Sí, Don Juan.”
When they were gone, Slaughter looked around, pleased at the preparations he saw. He was even more pleased when he spotted his wife coming toward him a moment later. Viola looked slightly flushed but as lovely as ever. She had probably been scurrying around making sure everything was done right, thought Slaughter.
“There you are, my dear,” Slaughter said. He took both her hands in his. “I trust all the preparations are to your satisfaction?”
“What? Oh, yes, the party. It’s fine.”
She was definitely distracted by something. Slaughter frowned slightly and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Viola gave a little laugh and said, “I never could hide much from you, could I, John? It’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise.”
“You’re sure?” Slaughter pressed her.
“Absolutely certain. In fact, I’m going to put it out of my mind myself.” She squeezed his hands and smiled at him. “We’re not going to worry about anything this evening except having a good time.”
* * *
There was enough food for an army, as the old saying went, and by the time people began filling their plates, it seemed as if an army had descended on the Slaughter Ranch. Word of the celebration had gone out to all of John and Viola Slaughter’s friends on neighboring ranches and in the town of Douglas, eighteen miles to the west. Everyone was invited, and most of them had shown up for the festivities.
Slaughter and Viola sat at the main table with Don Eduardo, Doña Belinda, and Santiago. Their plates were piled high with barbecue, beans, potatoes, greens, and cornbread. Attentive servants saw to it that wineglasses never ran dry.
Eventually Slaughter had to push himself away from the table. He patted his belly and said, “I believe I could live for a month on what I’ve eaten tonight.”
“It was an exceedingly fine meal,” Don Eduardo agreed. “My compliments to Señora Slaughter.”
“Oh, I didn’t have much to do with it,” Viola said. “The cooks deserve all the credit.”
Belinda said, “You’ll have to visit us at our ranch. We’d love to return the favor, wouldn’t we, Eduardo?”
“Sí, of course,” Rubriz said. “The two of you will be most welcome at any time.”
“We’ll take you up on that,” Slaughter promised.
He noticed that Viola didn’t chime in and agree with him. Not only that, he also thought he saw a hint of coolness in her eyes. That told him it was unlikely they would be accepting Belinda’s invitation anytime soon, and her attitude puzzled him slightly. Normally Viola was a very sociable person and loved visiting friends.
Then he recalled what she had said earlier and figured that she didn’t consider Belinda Rubriz to be a friend. Slaughter was still puzzled over the reason for that, but he didn’t suppose it was any of his business.
Not long after the meal was over, the musicians who had stationed themselves on the other side of the road, near the cottonwoods that bordered a large stretch of open ground, fired up their fiddles. The Mexican guitarists joined in, and within moments the jaunty strains of a lively tune filled the air. It was a siren song that drew the guests away from the tables and their empty plates. They streamed across the road and began dancing.
Belinda put her hand on her husband’s arm and said, “Come and dance with me, Eduardo.”
“You know my leg is a bit too stiff for that, my dear,” Rubriz told her. “Santiago, lend a hand here. Dance with your stepmother.”
“Of course,” Santiago said as he got to his feet. Slaughter thought he showed a noticeable lack of enthusiasm for the task. Stiffly, Santiago held his hand out and Belinda took it as she rose from the table. He led her across the road to the area where the dancing was going on.
Slaughter heard a faint sniff from where Viola sat beside him. He looked over at her and asked quietly, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Shall we dance, John?”
“We shouldn’t leave Don Eduardo alone—”
“Please,” Rubriz interrupted. “Do not let me hold you back, por favor. By all means, Juan, dance with your lovely wife. The two of you should enjoy this beautiful evening.”
“Well . . . all right, then,” Slaughter said. He stood and extended his hand to Viola. “If you would do me the honor, Mrs. Slaughter?”
“I’d be happy to, Mr. Slaughter,” she said as she smiled at him and took his hand.
* * *
Viola knew it was all an act, the way Belinda and Santiago were carrying on toward each other. Their coolness, their demeanor of not actually liking each other all that much, all of it was intended to fool Don Eduardo. To keep the image of his wife and his son locked in a passionate embrace from ever even entering his mind.
And it seemed to be working, otherwise he never would have been so casual about telling the two of them to dance together.
“You’re thinking about something again,” Slaughter said as he held her close to him and they turned in time to the music. “And it’s not me or the tune the fellows are playing.”
“I’m sorry, John. It’s true I’m a bit distracted tonight.”
“It’s Belinda, isn’t it? You said earlier that you didn’t like her
.”
For a moment Viola considered telling him what she had discovered. After all, she had promised Belinda only that she wouldn’t say anything about the affair to Don Eduardo. She hadn’t mentioned anything about whether or not she would tell her own husband.
But that would violate the spirit of the promise, if not the letter, she decided. John wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings, either. If he knew the truth, he might not be able to act the same toward their guests.
Viola didn’t want a scene, didn’t want anything to ruin the evening for everyone else.
So she said, “I’ll tell you all about it later, John, I promise. But not until the time is right.”
When their visitors were gone, she added silently to herself.
Slaughter sighed and nodded.
“Very well,” he told her. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years we’ve been together, it’s that I’d be wasting my time and energy arguing with you.” He pulled her even closer and nuzzled her ear. “It’s much more pleasant agreeing with you.”
“Later you’ll see how much more pleasant it can be,” she whispered.
“I’ll hold you to that, my dear,” Slaughter said.
* * *
Stonewall slipped away from the party and went along the tree-lined path to the barn and corrals. It was difficult for him to leave when there was dancing going on, especially when there were so many pretty señoritas eager to go for a spin around the “dance floor” with him.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the race with Santiago Rubriz in the morning. He wanted to go check on Pacer and see how the roan was doing.
Stonewall wouldn’t have admitted it to anybody, but he had his doubts about being able to beat El Halcón. Santiago’s horse was something special. Stonewall knew that, but his own stubborn pride had prodded him into issuing the challenge. Once he’d done that, it was too late to take it back.
But Pacer was a heck of a horse, too. They had a chance, Stonewall told himself. That was all he had ever asked out of life.
As he walked through the darkness, Stonewall reflected on how he’d be making evening rounds right about now if he’d been back in Tombstone, where he served as one of his brother-in-law’s deputies. Slaughter had left Tombstone in the capable hands of his chief deputy Burt Alvord while he made this trip to the ranch to meet Don Eduardo and accept delivery of the cattle he’d bought.
Stonewall had told Slaughter he would stay in town if that’s what the sheriff wanted, but it had been a half-hearted offer. He knew there would be a big party to celebrate Don Eduardo’s visit, and Stonewall hated to miss out on a party.
Slaughter knew that, too, and had told his brother-in-law to come along. Stonewall hadn’t wasted any time in agreeing.
A lantern burned in the barn, its warm yellow glow spilling out through the open double doors. A couple of ranch hands sat on three-legged stools in the broad center aisle between the stalls, using a crate for a table as they played cards. They looked up and nodded greetings to Stonewall.
“Surprised to see you here, youngster,” one of them said. He was a wizened wrangler named Pete who had been around the Slaughter Ranch for years. “Figured you’d be at the fandango, dancin’ with all the pretty girls and tryin’ to convince ’em to slip off into the trees with you.”
“Maybe they all told him no,” the other cowboy suggested with a grin.
Stonewall said, “As a matter of fact, there are at least a dozen gals up yonder I could be sparkin’ right now if I wanted to. But I got a race in the morning to uphold the honor of the ranch, and that’s more important. I came down to check on Pacer.”
“He’s fine,” Pete said. “You insin-yoo-atin’ that I don’t know how to take care of a hoss? I been handlin’ horses more’n twice as long as you been alive, boy.”
“I know that. I just wanted to take a look at him for myself.”
Pete waved a gnarled hand at the stalls and said, “Go ahead and he’p yourself. Ain’t nobody gonna stop you.”
Stonewall walked over to the stall where Pacer stood. Even in the dim light from the lantern, the horse’s hide seemed to glow with a reddish fire. He tossed his head and whickered a greeting to Stonewall, who reached over the gate to scratch between Pacer’s ears.
“You’re gonna run your heart out in the mornin’, aren’t you, big fella?” Stonewall murmured.
Pacer didn’t answer, of course.
Stonewall stood there a few moments longer, talking quietly to the horse in encouraging tones that he knew were aimed as much at himself as they were at Pacer. The roan appeared to be in fine shape. He had left the party for nothing, Stonewall thought.
“Who the hell—” Pete suddenly said.
Stonewall heard the note of alarm in the wrangler’s voice and turned his head to look just as Pete came up off the stool and took a step toward the barn’s entrance.
Then there was a quick fluttering sound followed by a thud, and Pete swayed back a step and half-turned as he clutched at the shaft of an arrow buried in his chest. He made a plaintive gurgling noise as bright crimson blood trickled from a corner of his mouth.
The other cowhand yelled and jumped to his feet just in time to catch an arrow in the throat. The arrowhead went all the way through his neck and emerged out the back of it, accompanied by a flood of gore. He collapsed on the hard-packed dirt like a puppet with its strings cut.
Pete fell to his knees but stayed upright for a second while he continued fumbling at the arrow in his chest. Then he fell over onto his side and didn’t move again.
Stonewall stood in front of Pacer’s stall, momentarily frozen in shock and horror. He had been talking to both of those men only minutes earlier, and now they were dead, struck down by a threat that came out of the darkness.
Three men stepped from the shadows into the lantern light, filling the barn’s entrance. Stonewall stared at them, at the bow one of them held and the rifles in the hands of the others, recognizing the fierce faces of Apache warriors who had come to the Slaughter Ranch to kill.
And unless he did something mighty quick, he was next.
Chapter 5
Hector Alvarez tried not to resent the fact that he was stuck out here guarding this herd of cattle instead of being at the main house half a mile away enjoying the fiesta Señor and Señora Slaughter had thrown for their guests.
Somebody had to watch the cattle and keep them from straying. The animals were in a strange place, after all, having been driven up here from the Rubriz ranch south of the border. They might take it into their heads to try to go back there. Cows were funny creatures. You never could tell for sure what they might decide to do.
So three of Señor Slaughter’s hands and three of the vaqueros Don Eduardo had brought with him had been chosen to ride night herd. As one of the youngest of Slaughter’s men, and one who had been working on the ranch for less time than most of the others, it made sense that Hector had been picked as a night herder.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Hector could see the lights in the distance, shining brightly and merrily on those lucky enough to be enjoying the good food, the music, and the dancing. From time to time when the night breezes were right, he could hear the sprightly strains of the fiddles. He even thought he heard laughter now and then, but that might have been his imagination.
The slow, gentle thud of hooves came toward him. The nighthawks crossed paths occasionally as they endlessly circled the herd, and Hector knew that was probably what he heard.
Even so, he reined in and waited, and as he did he placed his right hand on the butt of the old Colt Navy .36 he carried in a crude holster at his waist.
A voice softly hailed him in Spanish, asking who he was. Hector gave his name, then added, “I ride for Don Juan Slaughter.”
The rider came closer and said, “And I ride for Don Eduardo Rubriz, so you can take your hand off that gun, young one.”
“How did you—” Hector began.
<
br /> “How did I know you were ready to draw on me?” The man laughed. “Because I heard your voice and knew you weren’t very old and figured you were probably nervous. And my eyes are good—like those of the cat. In fact, they call me El Gato.”
“They do?” Hector asked, impressed by the name.
“No, you young fool!” The man laughed again and went on, “My name is Hermosa. No one has ever called me El Gato. So don’t start, all right?”
A match flared to life. Hermosa had turned in the saddle, leaned over, and cupped his hand around the match to shield the flame before he snapped it alight with his thumbnail. It was a sensible precaution to take around cattle.
Hermosa held the match to a thin brown cigarette he had rolled. Then he snuffed out the flame between thumb and index finger.
That one moment of light was enough to reveal a lean, leathery face with a wide mouth framed by drooping mustaches. Hermosa was old, or at least he seemed that way to Hector, who had yet to see twenty summers.
Hermosa didn’t take the quirly out of his mouth but rather asked around it, “Have you run into any trouble out here tonight?”
“None,” Hector answered. “Everything is peaceful.”
“Good. That’s what we want.”
Hector gave in to impulse and asked the older man, “Don’t you wish you were back at the house so you could go to the party?”
“Bah. A bunch of noise and commotion.”
“And food and wine and dancing and pretty girls—”
“All things that are important to a young man. I prefer a good horse, comfortable boots, and a warm place to sleep.”
“A man who feels like that is barely alive,” Hector said without thinking. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized that he might have insulted Hermosa—and the hard planes of the vaquero’s face had a cruel slant to them, Hector recalled.
Hermosa didn’t seem to have taken offense, though. He puffed on his smoke and said, “Barely alive is still better than dead.”
“I suppose.” Hector thought it might be a good idea to change the subject. “What is it like to work for Don Eduardo?”
The Edge of Hell Page 3