The first bullet struck the man in the belt buckle, doubling him over. The second caught him in the throat. Blood spewed from the throat wound. The man’s fingers tightened on the twin triggers as the shotgun pointed skyward. Both barrels blasted off, sending double ought buckshot straight up in the air. The man hit the ground, twitched and kicked, then lay still, blood gushing from his throat and back.

  Then another man emerged from the barn. He, too, had a shotgun in his hands. When he saw Slocum spin back around to face him, a smoking pistol in his hand, the man started turning to go back into the livery. Slocum snapped off a shot at him. The bullet plowed a furrow in the ground where the man had been and sent up a cloud of dust.

  Slocum walked back to the man he had just shot. He stuck a boot under his torso and turned him over for a better look. Deputy Smith was as dead as a stone, a grisly smile on his face, his eyes glassy and lifeless, staring up at a sun that no longer burned his retinas.

  He walked back to the barn and sidled alongside the outer wall until he was near the entrance.

  “Jones,” Slocum called in, “Smitty’s dead. If you want to join him in Boot Hill, just stay right where you are. If you don’t, throw your shotgun out here and light a shuck.”

  There was no answer. Slocum waited, ejecting the two empty cartridges from his pistol and sliding two more full ones into the cylinder. He took the hammer off of half-cock and squatted down to present less of a target in case Deputy Jones decided to come after him and take his chances.

  “All right,” Jones called out. “I’m givin’ up the shotgun, Slocum.”

  “Toss it out.”

  He heard a shuffling of feet, then a noise like a wind through a chimney. The shotgun came sailing out of the livery, whoop, whoop, whoop. It struck the ground and skidded to a stop. Slocum heard the sound of a man running. The footfalls stopped somewhere at the far end of the barn. Then he heard hoofbeats. Slocum wasted no time. He walked over to Ferro and untied him. He led the horse inside the livery, scanning every inch of the ground and wall.

  He found what he was looking for. His Winchester was leaning against the wall, near the left corner. He picked it up and checked to see if it was still loaded. He pulled the lever and saw the brass gleam of a cartridge in the chamber. He closed the receiver and slid the rifle back in its boot. Then he mounted the horse and rode out the back of the stable. He saw Jones loping away, his vest flapping loosely on his back.

  The deputy had wisely chosen to keep on breathing.

  Slocum did not chase after him because he knew he could not linger in Del Rio. He still had one more place he wanted to go before returning to Hidalgo, but it was not in town. He put the spurs to Ferro and made a wide circle in the opposite direction of the fleeing Jones, crossing the creek and heading west toward the Rocking H, Hardesty’s spread.

  Slocum crossed and recrossed the creek, trying to hide his tracks. He knew he would be followed, perhaps not right away, but soon. Today, tomorrow. He had killed a sheriff’s deputy and now they would be hunting him. And if they found him, they would shoot to kill. No questions asked. No hangman for him. Maybe, he thought, he should have killed Jones, too. Killed both of them.

  He sighed as he neared the confluence of the Rio Grande and San Felipe Creek. It didn’t matter. He would probably get another chance at Jones, and perhaps the sheriff himself, and those he brought with him to hunt him down.

  Slocum rode toward the entrance to the Rocking H. He was in the open now, and he was wary. Del Rio wasn’t the only dangerous place for him. He knew enough about Hardesty now to know that he was a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his aims. He may not have pulled the trigger on anyone, but he had most certainly killed men. That made him as dangerous as any gunslinger—more dangerous perhaps. He was a snake with no rattles. He could strike from anywhere and the victim would never know that Hardesty was the one with the venom.

  Slocum rode to the fence line of Hardesty’s ranch, the easternmost corner, where the creek formed a natural boundary. He rode into a grove of trees: cottonwood and water oaks growing thick on both banks. There, he rested Ferro and surveyed that corner of the Rocking H.

  There were a few cattle grazing and doves sitting on the top rail. Well inside, about a quarter mile away, a stand of mesquite grew thick and he could see that men had been working on cutting down the remaining trees and bushes. It was too bad, Slocum thought. The mesquite provided good cover for doves and quail, but he knew cattlemen in south Texas hated the mesquite since it grew so fast. The cattle would eat the leaves and berries and then when they roamed, they dropped the seeds, which did not digest, atop the pile of cowshit. This acted as a fertilizer to the beans and where one grew, others sprouted, spreading the thick tough brush in every direction.

  As Slocum gazed at the ranchland, movement caught his eye. Then he saw a familiar sight, a flash of white in the mesquite grove, then a beautiful horse galloped into view. It was Aladdin, under saddle, and someone was riding him, heading straight for him. As the rider drew closer, Slocum’s heart began to pound faster. He recognized the rider, too.

  “John,” Lorelei cried. “Wait for me.”

  He spurred Ferro and rode up to the fence to wait for Lorelei and Aladdin. They both looked beautiful in the sunlight, streaking across the field of alfalfa, Aladdin’s mane flying in the wind, Lorelei’s hair streaming behind her.

  She reined up at the fence. Aladdin stretched his neck and touched muzzles with Ferro.

  “They look as if they’re glad to see each other.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you, Lorelei. I’m just sorry there’s a fence between us.”

  “There’s a gate farther down,” she said, crooking her neck toward the upper stretch of fencing.

  “Do you want me to come onto the Rocking H?”

  Her eyes flared wildly.

  “No, that might not be a good idea. Not now.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, John, you don’t know how I’ve missed you. I’ve wanted so much to talk to you. So much has happened.”

  “Your father?”

  “Oh, him,” she said, a sharp edge to her tone. “I’m so disgusted with Daddy. And that woman. Ugh.”

  “Well, it’s his business,” Slocum said, but he could see there was more on Lorelei’s mind than her father’s taking up with Cordelia Granby.

  “How do you like Aladdin?” Slocum asked, sensing that it might be time to change the subject.

  “I love him,” she said. “Riding him is like sitting in a rocking chair.”

  “That’s because he’s a trotter. He’s got a smooth gait.”

  “John, something’s terribly wrong. My father . . .”

  “Look, Lorelei,” Slocum said, “if you want to talk about him, fine. But before you do, I want you to know I’m investigating him. I think he’s responsible for several murders, including the setup of that Mexican boy they hanged the other day, Luis Delgado.”

  Lorelei’s face drained of color. Her mouth opened. She seemed to be gasping for air. He noticed that her upper lip was quivering and he thought she might have been on the verge of either crying or screaming.

  “John, oh John,” she said. She moved Aladdin closer to the fence, brought him alongside so that her face was close to Slocum’s. “It’s that land across the way. Daddy wants to buy it and when Mr. Rankins turned him down for a loan, I thought he would have a fit. Then he met the Granbys and I saw a complete change.”

  “A complete change? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Daddy was very helpful to Norville and Cordelia. He showed them the property. He introduced them to Mr. Rankins. And then . . .”

  “And then Norville Granby was shot dead.”

  “Yes. And then someone tried to murder you at the hotel, and then I saw Daddy with Cordelia and I got sick to my stomach. I just knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.”

  “What did you think?” Slocum asked, as tears began to well up in Lorelei’s eyes.

  “I—I thought my father might have had something to do with Norville’s death. I mean he took up with—with that woman, Cordelia, right away. The same night her husband was murdered. What was I to think? And now it looks as if Mr. Rankins is going to loan Daddy the money to buy that accursed land.”

  “You’re the second person I’ve heard tell me that the land is cursed,” he said. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it is, that’s why. Oh, John, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things since I last saw you. I thought about men who worked for my daddy and who were arrested, tried and hanged. So many. So many. Too many.”

  “Did you know that Luis Delgado dug up a strongbox or a trunk on that property?”

  “Yes,” she said, her tears now streaming down her face. “Daddy brought the trunk home and opened it.”

  “Was there gold in it?”

  “No, but Daddy was very excited. It had papers in it, maps, I think. And I heard him say that he had found the key to the other map. Last night, I heard him and Cordelia talking about it and they were going over the first maps he found, which he’s had for a long time and the new ones that were in that old trunk.”

  “So, now your father knows where the gold is buried.”

  Lorelei nodded.

  “Tomorrow, I think, he and Cordelia are going to finalize the loan at the bank. And right after that, she and my father are going to get married.”

  “If she lives that long,” Slocum said.

  “What do you mean?” she gasped.

  “It seems to me that your father is an opportunist. He takes advantage of people. Uses them for his own ends.”

  “That’s my daddy,” she said. “He’s ruined my life and my sister’s life.”

  “You have a sister?” Slocum asked.

  “Why, yes. A half sister, really. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, I thought you were an only child. Your father sure seems to dote on you.”

  “He was married, for a time, to a Mexican woman. They had a daughter. Then her mother died and my father married again and my mother had me. Pandora and I grew up together. After my mother died, she took care of me like an older sister.”

  “Pandora? The hangman’s wife?”

  “Yes. Oh, John, didn’t you know?”

  Slocum swore under his breath.

  Now, some of what he had been straining for in his mind was starting to make sense. He felt as if someone had driven a fist into his gut and knocked all the wind out of his lungs.

  Pandora Fernandez was Bill Hardesty’s daughter. And all those men hanged—innocent men—were stumbling blocks in the path of Hardesty’s search for buried gold. It was monstrous, that’s what it was.

  Slocum’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats in the distance. They were coming fast.

  Lorelei looked up, alarmed.

  “Someone’s coming,” she said.

  “That would be the posse from town,” Slocum said. “They’re after me.”

  “Why?”

  “I just killed a deputy sheriff. Who was trying to kill me.”

  She hesitated only a moment.

  “Then, run, John, run. Get away from here as fast as you can.”

  Slocum looked at her. Her face was animated. Shadows played over the quivering muscles in her jaw and over her cheeks.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  “My father. Last night. I heard him tell Cordelia that ...”

  The sound of hoofbeats grew louder.

  “That I was going to be killed?” Slocum asked.

  Lorelei nodded.

  Slocum wheeled Ferro and put the spurs to him. Before he had ridden a hundred yards, he heard the crack of a rifle. A bullet sizzled the air over his head. He turned and saw them, three men wearing out leather, bearing down on him with guns blazing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lorelei galloping away on Aladdin.

  Now, he thought, her father will know that she talked to me.

  Slocum hunched over as more bullets flew at him, frying the air over his head like murderous hornets.

  19

  Slocum raced Ferro straight up the creek, crossed it and began zigzagging to avoid being hit by rifle fire. He knew his horse was fresher than those of his pursuers, and he had a plan of escape. He had learned the tactic during the war. When an enemy came at you straight on, you must flank him, either through deception or with speed. Slocum knew he had the speed, and he gradually opened the gap between him and the three men who were chasing him. The rifle fire stopped, but Slocum did not.

  He made a wide circle and then doubled back toward the creek. He followed it to its juncture with the Rio Grande. He stopped and let Ferro rest and drink, then he moved on toward Del Rio. He joined the main road and let Ferro mingle his tracks with those of other riders and stock which had passed over it that day. Ferro had begun to sweat, but was in no danger of foundering.

  Slocum made another wide circle just so he could check his backtrail. He saw no sign of the small posse that had been chasing him. He rode east, using what cover was available, and widened his circle so that he came up on the opposite end of the Hidalgo settlement.

  Outside the town, he saw people gathered in a cemetery. He knew they were attending the burial of Luis Delgado. He slipped past them quietly to show his respect. He didn’t see Carmen. By the time he reached the village, the mourners were breaking up and streaming back into Hidalgo. He could see that the women were praying with their rosary beads and the men looked downtrodden and sad, shuffling along on sandals like outcast mendicants.

  He rode in, until the buildings shielded him from anyone on the outside of the village. People stopped and stared at him; dogs skulked to get out of his way and sleepy cats lounging in the shade eyed him quickly, then went back to dozing.

  “You return,” Abeja said as Slocum made for the adobe where he had spent the night. The Indian’s eyes scanned the horse’s flanks, its withers. “You run the horse hard. He breathes like the storm wind.”

  “Abeja, I’ve got three men on my trail. I think it’s the sheriff.”

  Abeja’s eyes turned steely. He walked up to Slocum.

  “You step down.”

  “There might be trouble if I stay here again.” Slocum sat still in the saddle.

  “No, you stay. The sheriff no come here.”

  “He might.”

  Abeja shook his head.

  “He come, I kill. Good men here. We all watch for starman. He no come here.”

  “I killed one of his deputies, Abeja.”

  “Which one?”

  “Smith.”

  “They’re all bad men.”

  “I need a place to stay, but I don’t want to bring trouble down on the people here in Hidalgo.”

  “You stay. I will talk to the men here. They will fight on your side.”

  “I’ve got a plan,” Slocum said. “But there’s a lot of risk. I’ll need help. But what I plan to do is dangerous.”

  “You good man, Slocum. You go after the bad men in Del Rio?”

  “Yes. All of them. Right up to the judge, Wyman.”

  “Um. Mighty dangerous, I think.”

  “Can you help? Will the young men of Hidalgo be willing to risk their lives? It might not work, any of it.”

  “The men here, young or old, are mad at Judge Wyman and they want justice. They know the town is bad. The judge, the sheriff, the deputies, and one more, most of all, the hangman.”

  Slocum wondered how much he should tell Abeja. Probably now was not the time. There were still some details to work out. But he wanted that ring of killers brought to justice before they murdered anyone else.

  “If the sheriff and his posse come here looking for me, you call me out, Abeja. They’re my responsibility. I don’t want you or anyone else here to break the law on my account.”

  “Hidalgo is not part of Del Rio. He has no authority here.”

  “That’s good to know,” Slocum said.

  “He will not come here on his own.”

  “Were you not at the funeral?” Slocum asked.

  “Why? Luis Delgado is dead. His spirit is in the clouds, in the sky. There is no one in that coffin.”

  “But you honor your dead, do you not? Your tribe, I mean.”

  “My tribe honors our dead every day. But we do not bury our dead in the ground. The old ones did not do this. They give the dead body back to the earth. They pray that the spirit rises to the stars, that bright path in the night sky.”

  “Good point,” Slocum said.

  Abeja walked with Slocum as he rode to the adobe where he would spend another night.

  “I will put up your fine horse,” Abeja said.

  “Tomorrow, if there’s no trouble with the sheriff tonight, I’d like to meet with the men of the town and lay out my plan,” Slocum said, as he swung down out of the saddle.

  “I will bring them here,” Abeja said.

  “Good.”

  “Do you have hunger? There will be food brought to you, as before.”

  “I could eat,” Slocum said. He had not eaten since breakfast, but his mind was on other matters at the moment.

  “Rest. I will talk to the men. We are ready to fight with you as our leader.”

  Slocum smiled.

  “I think you will be the leader, Abeja.”

  “We will see,” he said.

  Slocum took his saddlebags, rifle and bedroll into the adobe. The tiredness struck him as soon as he laid out his bedroll. He was surprised to see that someone had put curtains on the window and swept the little house out. It looked very neat and clean, and there was a jar with water in it on the table where he and Abeja had eaten the night before. Inside the jar was a single wildflower, a yellow daisy that brought a brightness to the room.

  Carmen, Slocum thought, and he suddenly felt good about coming back to Hidalgo.

  Slocum cleaned his pistol, oiled it and reloaded the cylinder with fresh .45 cartridges. He loved the smell of gun oil, but he knew it carried the scent of death with it. He had killed a man that day and no amount of cleaning could erase the stain of that death from his weapon. Yet, it had been necessary. Smitty and Jones had meant to kill him. They had waited in ambush for him, like the cowards they were. There could be no fair fight with such men. They were backshooters and skulkers, spineless creatures who deserved no mercy. He was pretty sure that Smitty and Jones had been the men who had gone to his hotel room with shotguns meaning to kill him so that he couldn’t testify at Delgado’s trial. He couldn’t prove it, but he didn’t have to. Smitty had made his play and lost. Jones would do the same, eventually. It was in his nature.