“Everything all right up there?” Slocum asked when Helga came out a moment later.

  “Ja,” she said as she made her way down the hall to the head of the stairs. “Ralph has much pain. But the doctor says that he thinks he will be all right. It will take much bed rest and nursing.”

  She turned the corner of the landing and started down the stairs. “The swearing, that came when the morphine wore off,” she added. “Dr. Oaty has given him more. He sleeps now.”

  “That’s good,” Slocum replied as she walked down to his level, then started for the kitchen. “I make coffee now. You would maybe like something to eat?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am.” He was still standing in the foyer. “I’d best get myself back to town. Got a couple friends there that need to be warned about this feller that shot up Ralph.”

  She turned toward him, her hand on the kitchen door. “Why, Slocum? Why do these men do these things?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Helga.”

  “I think they do not, either,” she said softly and walked into the kitchen and out of his sight.

  Concho had been fed and watered and was eager to be off again when Slocum saddled him. At least someone was happy, Slocum thought as he tightened the cinch.

  He sure wasn’t. MacCorkendale was probably going to live, but he had been just plain lucky. The doc had said a half inch farther to the side, and that slug could have exploded his heart.

  And Slocum had no idea where Ralph’s assailant was. He might be out there, hiding somewhere along the trail, or he could already be in town, hunting down Jorgé and Juan.

  Then again, he might have just gone home, since his main target—at least, Slocum assumed MacCorkendale was the main target—had been taken down.

  Of the three options, Slocum was betting his money on the last one. He had to. He needed to get to Jorgé and Juan.

  The sun was most of the way down when he started out, but he traveled at a gallop. Concho was surefooted and smart. And careful. Slocum gave him his head, let him run, and trusted the Lord that he wouldn’t step in a badger’s den or a prairie-dog hole.

  Then, when he was nearly halfway to town, Concho went down.

  Slocum was catapulted free of the saddle and scrambled out of the thrashing horse’s way, cursing himself and whatever had made the hole the horse had stepped in, when he heard the distant report of a shot.

  And he knew he’d made the wrong bet. Whoever had shot Ralph MacCorkendale was out there right now and probably had Slocum in his sights.

  He lay very still, silently cursing Valdez and whoever he’d hired to do this. The man had done worse than shot Slocum. He’d killed Concho. The horse heaved his final, rattling breath while Slocum lay there, unable to help him, unable to do anything except mutter, “Sorry, old son. Sorry, boy.”

  He thought fast, shoving his grief aside for the moment. He could move and try to get back around the son of a bitch. But chances were that if the bastard could see well enough to kill his horse from wherever he was, he’d surely see Slocum coming. He must have a rifle with a telescopic sight; that was all Slocum could figure.

  Very slowly, he inched his hand toward his gun belt and drew his pistol. It would be no good to him now, but maybe, just maybe, the shooter would come down to check on his handiwork.

  And if he did, Slocum would have a little surprise for him.

  The goddamn horse killer.

  Five minutes. Seven. Fifteen.

  The son of a bitch was taking his time, all right.

  Slocum considered standing up. Maybe he was gone.

  But then, maybe he’d just been so far out that it was going to take him a while longer.

  Better safe than sorry, he supposed. He lay still and waited.

  More than twenty-five minutes after he’d fired the shot that killed Concho, the son of a bitch sniper came close enough for Slocum to hear his approaching hoofbeats. He was walking, plodding nearer and nearer.

  At last, when he was close enough that Slocum could hear the creak of his saddle leather and the soft breaths of his mount, he stopped. Slocum waited for him to dismount but was disappointed.

  What’s he going to do? Shoot me from the saddle, just to make sure I’m dead? Slocum thought angrily.

  He heard a gun cock and almost leapt to his feet when he heard the complaint of saddle leather. The bastard was getting down, after all.

  He held very still, the gun in his hand hidden beneath his aching shoulder.

  He heard a soft chuckle. “Two for the price of one, eh?” a gruff male voice said. “Just so you will know, spotted horse, you are the reason Slocum is as dead as you. I would have seen that spotted coat from miles away.”

  The muscles of Slocum’s jaw clenched involuntarily.

  Dirt sprayed his nose as the killer stepped to stand over him. “Break your neck, fancy man?” he asked, rhetorically.

  “Your reputation, she turned out to be bigger than you were, no?”

  “No, you goddamn horse murderer!” Slocum shouted as he suddenly rolled and fired. His slug went directly into the killer’s heart, angling up to sever his spine.

  He fell forward, on top of Slocum, who wriggled free, still cursing.

  And when he gained his feet, he kicked savagely at the corpse over and over again, taking pleasure in the sound of the dead man’s ribs breaking. He wanted to pound him into nothing.

  Finally, when he was himself again, he turned to Concho. He knelt next to the animal, stoking his glossy neck a final time. The slug had taken him just in front of the girth, probably ricocheting around inside him to slice up all his major organs.

  At least he’d died fast.

  Slocum wished he could have made his killer’s death last a whole lot longer.

  He pulled his saddlebags free and tied them on the killer’s horse, then did what he could to strip off Concho’s tack. He couldn’t pull the saddle all the way free, but he got the bridle off and tossed it aside.

  And then, without a backward glance at the dead man’s corpse, Slocum mounted his bay horse and trotted off toward town.

  Had the killer been there already? He’d had time. Slocum urged the horse into a gallop.

  He reached town in slap time, stopped at the livery only long enough to give instructions for the kid there to walk the bay out for a half hour, and loped up the street toward the cantina.

  He was ten feet inside the door when Maria rushed into his arms and embraced him tightly.

  “What?” he said. “What is it?” He noted that the mood in Cantina Lopez seemed odd somehow. The crowd was thin, and everybody seemed jumpy. He held Maria out at arm’s length. “Was he here, Maria?”

  Without asking who he meant, she said, “Sí, sí, he was.”

  “And Jorgé? Juan?”

  Tears in her eyes, she pointed out the door, across the street toward the hotel.

  “Shit,” he breathed, and took off running.

  22

  There were two women in the hotel room, and both of them were crying. Samantha Rollings was the first. The second one Slocum took to be Conchita, Maria’s sister. Anyway, she was hovering over Juan and feverishly praying for him in Spanish.

  At first, Slocum couldn’t tell whether Juan was dead or alive. Jorgé was fine, though, relatively speaking. He knew it right off, when Jorgé lifted his head from the pillow and grumbled, “As always, amigo, you are too goddamn late.”

  He also knew that Jorgé was wounded pretty bad, from the amount of blood covering his shirt and his sheets.

  “Juan?” Slocum asked.

  Jorgé shook his head and said, “Wait.”

  Two other men had come into the room and were occupied with moving Juan to another room. Conchita followed them, wailing.

  When they were gone, Slocum closed the door and asked, “What happened?”

  Jorgé tried to shrug and ended up grimacing instead. “Somebody shot us through the window. We have no proof, but I think it was Miguel Cordura. He works for Señor—”

  “Cordura?” Slocum broke in. He remembered Cordura’s name from way back. “I thought he was dead!”

  “It seems not. He works for Señor Valdez. I saw him there, but I did not make the connection.”

  Slocum ground his teeth, then said, “Worked for Valdez, you mean. He ain’t workin’ for nobody anymore.”

  Jorgé’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”

  By the time Slocum walked back into the cantina, it was fully dark outside, his stomach was growling, and the doctor had arrived back in town and was working on Juan.

  It seemed he wasn’t as near death as Jorgé had thought, but it was still going to be touch and go. It had fallen to Slocum to escort Conchita away, so that Doc Oaty could do his work.

  Jorgé was next in line, and together, Slocum and Samantha had managed to slow the flow of blood down to a mere trickle while he waited his turn.

  Slocum had told Samantha that he was proud of her. He meant it, too.

  He might be wrong, but he was pretty well convinced that Samantha had actually fallen for Jorgé.

  The crowd at Cantina Lopez was even thinner and more sedate when he ushered Conchita inside. Conchita was a lot like her sister, although she probably had an extra thirty pounds on her, and she wasn’t as tall. But she still had those gorgeous sloe eyes and that coffee-and-cream skin, and the long, silky, raven’s wing hair.

  She was a looker, too.

  They found a table and waited for Diego to take their orders, which Maria eventually brought to the table herself. She also brought her own dinner, and pulled out a chair.

  Maria immediately put an arm around her sister’s shoulders and asked, “How is Juan, Conchita?”

  Conchita sniffed and replied, “He lives. The doctor says it will be a long time until he is himself, though. Oh, Maria, he was nearly killed!” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry again.

  Maria flicked a glance toward Slocum before she said, “Yes, Conchita, but he still lives! Is it not wonderful? Should we not celebrate for Juan?”

  Conchita wagged her head, behind her hands. “Every time a man falls in love with me, he is shot!”

  “Hell, Conchita, I know a whole lot of men got themselves shot and never even met you!” Slocum said.

  Despite herself, Conchita’s giggle escaped through her fingers, and Maria smiled broadly at Slocum and reached over to take his hand. “This is true, Conchita,” she said.

  “And Juan is avenged, Conchita,” Slocum added. “The man who shot him and Jorgé tried to take me out tonight, on my way into town. He’s dead, now.”

  The memory of it was maddening, and he dropped Maria’s hand before he crushed her fingers. He picked up his cerveza and took a long drink.

  “This is true?” both Conchita and Maria said at the same time.

  “True,” said Slocum staring down at his plate. He picked up his fork and cut off a bite of enchilada, but he was too angry to eat, despite his rumbling stomach.

  Maria said, “Slocum, what is wrong? Did you know this man? Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Hardly.” How could he admit that the rage he felt was because Cordura had killed his horse? Not because he had nearly killed three good men, friends of his, but because of the horse.

  It was something he expected practically no one would understand. No one except possibly Maria—and Jorgé, who he’d already told—but certainly not her sister.

  Gently, Maria said, “It is done, my Slocum. Whatever there was, it is now over and done.”

  He looked up and shook his head. “No,” he said. “There’s still Valdez.”

  Salma Valdez carried a small tray up the stairs to her husband. On it was one of his favorite cigars, a decanter of port and a crystal goblet, and a small plate of the special sugar cookies he liked so much.

  She tapped at the door and announced herself, then walked in without waiting for a reply. Valdez was propped up in bed and putting a marker in the book he had been reading.

  “I thought you might like a little something, my love,” she said with a smile.

  “How kind, Salma,” he replied, and patted the edge of the bed. “Come and sit beside me.”

  She did, and put the tray on his bedside table. He reached for the cigar first, as she had known he would, and made a show of trimming and lighting it. She smiled sweetly through all of it. Pablo was a boy, really, and now he was showing off for her with his little ceremony with the cigar. She found it endearing.

  She also had something to tell him, something that would make him very happy. She had tried to tell him the other afternoon, when they had walked through the gardens with their fragrant roses, but he had seemed distant. He was probably still thinking about the fence.

  How foolish, how asinine, to spend so much time and energy fussing over a simple fence! It seemed perfectly natural to her. But this was a new land, and sensibilities were different here. She knew that.

  She also knew that sensibilities had to change—both those of countries and people. She was proud of Pablo for trying, for making the effort to change.

  He puffed at his cigar gratefully, then set it down to pour himself a glass of port and snatch a cookie from the plate. “How nice,” he said. “You had them make my favorites.”

  “Always, Pablo. How are you feeling?”

  “I will be better once I have had a glass of this port,” he replied, taking a sip, then another. “I think your ‘magic’ medicines are working though, Salma. This is not the first time I have been wounded, but this is the best I have felt afterwards. Muchas gracias, querida.”

  She leaned forward, and he kissed her lips.

  “I am very proud of you, Pablo.”

  He appeared surprised. “Me? What have I done?”

  It was her turn to be surprised. “Why, the fence, my darling. You have decided not to interfere any further.”

  He looked away, and she frowned. Just what had he been up to that she had not been told about?

  “Pablo?”

  He tipped his glass back and drained it.

  “Pablo?” she repeated.

  “I would like to be alone now, my peach,” he muttered.

  “Pablo, what have you done?”

  He turned toward her and suddenly barked, “I said I would like to be alone. Now!”

  She stood up and stalked from the room without one further word, and slammed the door behind her. He had done something, something that would undoubtedly lead to more bloodshed. And all over a few stupid cows!

  She had great news to tell him, something wonderful, but now she never wished to tell him at all. She wished, in fact, that she could go home to her mother.

  But her mother had been dead for many years, now, and there was no home to go to. No home, except here.

  Perhaps her sister would take her in? No, she and Raquel had never gotten along. But there were cousins, back in France . . .

  In any case, she would not tell Pablo now.

  He did not deserve to know.

  After Salma left, Pablo Valdez was at first consumed with anger at her, then anger at himself for being angry at her, and finally with wondering why Miguel Cordura had not checked in with him yet.

  It was long past dark. Surely Cordura would not spend the night out on the range after his labors, when he had the bunkhouse to rest in.

  But he would most certainly not go the bunkhouse without seeing his patrón first!

  So he must not have come in, then.

  Perhaps he had been right about Cordura all along. He was too old, too out of practice. He should have sent for someone else. He should have sent for someone besides Jorgé Rodriguez in the first place, that was what he should have done!

  He sighed heavily and felt pain shoot through his shoulder. Damn. Everything was so much simpler in hindsight, was it not?

  And now he had angered Salma.

  About this, he felt very bad. But he had been frustrated and angry, and could not take the words back.

  He poured himself a fresh glass of port, and proceeded to smoke and drink.

  And fume and simmer.

  Miles away in Jaguar Hole, Slocum stood in Jorgé’s hotel room. Jorgé had been patched up and now bore a cast on his arm as well as his leg. He was not one bit happy about it.

  And he was drinking laudanum like there was no tomorrow.

  “Better slow down on that stuff,” Slocum warned.

  “Oh, go to hell,” Jorgé replied, and took another swig from the medicine bottle.

  “He’s a grown man, Slocum,” Samantha said softy. “He knows how much he needs.”

  “Damn right, honey,” Jorgé announced. “You’re a good woman, Samantha. You always take your man’s side of things.”

  Samantha smiled sweetly.

  Slocum wanted to be sick.

  But he bit his tongue and said, “Jorgé, I’m ridin’ out to Valdez’s place in the mornin’.”

  Jorgé cocked a brow. “You are going to kill him?”

  Slocum shook his head. “I’m goin’ to try and talk some sense into the son of a bitch. But I’ll kill him if he pushes me. He’s responsible for MacCorkendale and you and Juan. Not to mention his own men dyin’. And Concho.”

  “You are a fool, Slocum, but this goes without saying.” Jorgé shrugged. “How goes it with Juan? Have you checked on him?”

  “No, but Conchita’s in there now. She ain’t screamed, so I guess he’s still breathin’.”

  “Well, that is something, amigo.”

  “Yeah. Hope he makes it through the night.”

  “If Conchita stays at his side, he will not die.” Again, Jorgé sipped at the laudanum. “He will live, for her.”

  Before Jorgé had a chance to get sloppy about love or laudanum, Slocum got down to business.

  He sat down in a wooden chair next to the bed, pulled out a scrap of paper and a piece of lead he’d borrowed from Diego, and said, “All right, how many men does he have out there, and what should I be prepared for?”