What the hell was going on?

  He climbed up to one hand and his knees, favoring his wounded shoulder, and promptly emptied his stomach into the weeds. There wasn’t much left, just some canteen water and what remained of the very tail end of his breakfast. And after he vomited, he didn’t feel much better.

  He forced himself to his feet, then felt his shoulder.

  It wasn’t bad. He could still move it and didn’t hear anything grating around in there, so he figured he hadn’t broken any bones. But still, he’d need to get that slug pried out.

  And somehow, he didn’t think that Valdez’s place was the spot to have it done.

  As badly as he wanted to get back to Maria’s, he was afraid she’d give him some more of her “secret painkiller,” and he needed that like he needed another slug in his shoulder.

  He’d go back to MacCorkendale’s place and see how Helga MacCorkendale was at patching up wounds.

  Slowly, while the desert danced around him, he mounted Concho and eased himself into the creaking saddle, and turned the gelding back to the north, out of the canyon and toward Ralph MacCorkendale’s ranch.

  4

  “Helga!” Ralph MacCorkendale shouted when he saw a slumped-over Slocum riding slowly into the yard.

  “Wie gehts?” she called back from the kitchen. Probably she was making more hot potato salad and donkey dong, he thought, disgusted.

  But he said, “It’s Slocum. I think he’s hurt. Least, he’s got a lot of blood on him!” MacCorkendale yanked open the door and rushed outside, all the while cursing Valdez and his men.

  He eased Slocum down from the saddle, and Slocum just stood there, glassy-eyed and shifting his weight from foot to foot. MacCorkendale grabbed the Appy’s reins with one hand and propped up Slocum with the other, and started toward the porch.

  Helga was just coming out the door. She didn’t need any instruction. She ran straight out to them, insinuated herself between her husband and Slocum until she was carrying nearly his entire weight, save what Slocum took himself on his own two feet.

  Without looking up at him, she said, “Herr MacCorkendale, put horse away. I see to this.”

  MacCorkendale stood and watched as she carefully guided Slocum to the porch steps, then urged him up them and into the house.

  Sometimes he couldn’t figure women at all.

  Not for goddamn beans.

  Slocum awoke to the sound of a woman’s hum, and also to quite a bit more pain than he’d been feeling previously. It was night. He was in a dark bedroom that wasn’t Maria’s, and it took him a moment to remember just where he was and what had happened.

  “Mrs. MacCorkendale?” he croaked in a voice that didn’t sound a bit like his own. He dimly recalled riding into the MacCorkendale ranch.

  The humming stopped, and a cool hand touched his forehead. “Ja, Herr Slocum. You are safe, now. I dug the bullet from your shoulder.”

  Mustering the only German he knew, he said, “Dank.”

  “You were with the luck, Herr Slocum,” she went on. “The bullet, it impacted nothing important. I am sure you are very sore, though.”

  Nodding hurt him, so he said, “Yes,” and then, “Water?”

  She produced a pitcher and poured him a glass. He drank it down, then asked for more, with which he was supplied.

  “Herr Valdez, his men have done this.” It wasn’t a question.

  Slocum, who still thought there might be a way to salvage this situation without starting a border war, set his glass down and said, “No ma’am. Could’a been bandits. Could’a been anybody. They—I mean he—was too far off for me to see.”

  She nodded. “You are a very cautious man, I think.”

  He mustered a smile. “Yes ma’am.”

  “I go get Herr MacCorkendale now. He wished to speak with you when you awakened. And I will bring you some supper.”

  She went out the door, letting in a glow of lantern light, and left it open behind her. Slocum listened to the soft tread of her shoes down the hallway runner, and after a moment, MacCorkendale’s sharp, clipped bootsteps drawing near.

  He burst in the door, shouting, “Damn it, Slocum! That Mex dog is lower than a well digger’s boot, sendin’ his men out to bushwhack you! Helga says you’ll be fine, but goddamn! You see what I’m up against, now? Won’t listen to reason, won’t listen to anybody! He’s a thief and now practically a murderer, and—”

  Slocum held up a hand. “I’m not dead, remember?” he offered, hoping to stave off any further tirade.

  “You could’a been, Slocum! You could’a been, real easy!” MacCorkendale’s eyes were bugged out, and his nose was ruddy. Slocum figured he’d been spending his day in a bourbon bottle. Then again, considering Helga, maybe it had been a bottle of schnapps.

  In any case, he was clearly inebriated. It was a good thing it was dark. Otherwise, he might have done something really stupid, like round up his hands and ride down to Pablo Valdez’s place with mischief on his mind.

  Which was exactly what Slocum was trying to prevent.

  “Sit down, Ralph,” Slocum said. It was more on the order of a command than an invitation.

  MacCorkendale didn’t seem to notice, though. At least, he took no umbrage and sat down in a chair next to the door, his elbows on his knees.

  “Now listen, Ralph,” Slocum began. “Don’t go off half-cocked on me. I don’t even know who it was took a shot at me. Could’a been anybody.”

  MacCorkendale started to break in, to say something, but Slocum quickly said, “I know what you’re thinkin’, Ralph. But Jorgé Rodriguez wouldn’t shoot from heavy cover like that. And he sure as hell wouldn’t leave without making sure than his man was sure and certain dead. And as far as you’ve told me, Valdez has only hired on Jorgé Rodriguez, no one else.”

  MacCorkendale pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. Finally, he said, “Guess we’ll give ’em the benefit of the doubt. This time. But it if happens again, I’m gonna—”

  Slocum waved his hand. “If it happens again, I won’t care what you do, because I’ll be dead.”

  MacCorkendale seemed to get a kick out of Slocum’s gallows humor, or at least Slocum thought he heard him chuckle. And was saved from asking him about it when Helga burst into the room, bearing a tray.

  “What you do here, Herr MacCorkendale?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I think you are in parlor, getting drunk!”

  MacCorkendale stood up, stared at her for a long moment, and then said, “If you insist, my dear.”

  He left, his steps down the hall much more measured than his clip-clop gait when he’d come up. Slocum didn’t ask questions. He figured it wasn’t his business if Ralph and Helga weren’t getting along.

  But Helga must have read his mind—or at least his face—because she said, “You are right to leave it alone, Herr Slocum.” She set her tray down on the bureau.

  “It’s just Slocum, ma’am. No Herr to it.”

  She moved to his side. “Ja, ja . . . Sitzen Sie up, Herr Slocum. I am sorry. Slocum.”

  They worked until he was nearly upright and Helga had all the pillows behind him, and he couldn’t help but notice that she had fine-textured, clear, creamy skin, and that she was pretty. Damned pretty, in fact, with that cornsilk hair all done up in old-country braids. He had a sudden urge to pull the secret pin that held it all up and watch it come tumbling down, but resisted it.

  Light blue eyes and rosy cheeks floated above a full bosom, which filled out the front of her long white apron, and while she wasn’t as slender as, say, Maria, there was flesh enough to hang onto.

  Yesterday, he had let the idea that she was MacCorkendale’s wife blur his vision of her, but now he was forced to really see her as she was.

  As she placed the bed tray on his lap, he wondered if MacCorkendale knew what he had. “Thank you,” he said as she lifted the cover off his supper tray.

  It was chicken, with big, fluffy dumplings floating in a gravy thick with peas and chopped onions and corn and carrots.

  He licked his lips. “Looks mighty good, ma’am!” he said, honestly eager.

  She smiled for him and muttered, “Dank, Slocum. I bring buttermilk also,” she said, producing a glass from God knows where and placing it on the tray beside his enormous bowl of chicken and dumplings.

  “Und if you are still hungry when you finish that,” she said, reaching across him to pull a smaller napkin from a smaller plate, “There is Apfel pie.”

  He grinned. “Apple pie? My favorite! Mrs. MacCorkendale, ma’am, it’s a real pleasure to be shot up in your house.”

  She laughed then, and he quickly said, “Well, you know what I mean . . .” And then he chuckled, too.

  She stood erect then, accidentally brushing her breast against Slocum’s arm. He smiled because it felt so firm and round and good, but she flushed hotly and appeared flustered.

  “I go now,” she said, staring at the floor, and she practically ran from the room.

  And Slocum thought, Now, wasn’t that interesting?

  On the other side of the border, Pablo Valdez and Jorgé Rodriguez were both fuming. Before them stood Pepé Mondragon, one of Valdez’s vaqueros, who had just bragged about having shot a gringo on a spotted horse earlier in the day. One of MacCorkendale’s hirelings no doubt, he had added.

  “Idiot!” Jorgé had exploded, and then quickly explained to his employer just exactly who that man on the Appaloosa had been.

  “Idiot!” repeated Valdez, much to Pepé Mondragon’s dismay. Then he turned to Jorgé. “Why is he an idiot?”

  “Because, Pablo, as I have told you—if you kill this Slocum, MacCorkendale will only call in more men. Many, many men to take Slocum’s place. Do you wish to go to war over a few head of cattle?”

  Valdez turned his attention back to Pepé. “Get out!” he commanded.

  Pepé did.

  “Those cattle are mine, Jorgé.”

  “So you have said many times, Pablo.”

  “The moment they cross the border, they are mine,” Valdez went on. Jorgé thought he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of it with every repetition.

  “That, you have said many times, too, Pablo.”

  Valdez fell into silence, and Jorgé knew better than to try to coax him out of it. He simply went to the little bar in Valdez’s study, picked up the decanter, and poured himself a fresh whiskey.

  It was very dark outside, which was the only thing preventing him from riding out this minute and going to look for Slocum. Or at least, Slocum’s body. However, he had a hard time convincing himself that a stinking little hand such as Pepé Mondragon had brought down the mighty Slocum. There was no justice to it, not even any symmetry.

  No, despite Pepé’s claim to a clean kill, he still believed Slocum was alive. He’d go in the morning and look—and he’d take that little pip-squeak with him—but he doubted he’d find a thing.

  Except, possibly, trouble. But this was nothing new to Jorgé. Trouble, he could handle.

  He took a sip of his whiskey, then turned back toward Valdez. “I will ride out in the morning,” he announced. “I’ll take Pepé with me.”

  Valdez’s head jerked, as if he had been awakened from a dream. “What? Pepé who?”

  “Pepé Mondragon. I will take him with me when I look for Slocum tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” said Valdez. “Very good. Very good. Leave me now, Jorgé.”

  “As you wish, patrón,” Jorgé said, and threw back the last of his whiskey. It was too good to waste.

  In Jaguar Hole, Maria was throwing out the last of her customers. Two o’clock, and no Slocum.

  She hoped he was well, that no harm had come to him. And then she shook her head and smiled to herself. What harm could come to a man such as Slocum? He was invincible, was he not?

  At least, last night he had been in her bed. He hadn’t been moving very much—mostly snoring, as a matter of fact—but he had been there, and warm, and when she had climbed atop him, he had grown hard even in his drunken state, and she had been able to mount him.

  But then, after she had taken her pleasure, she had felt a little like a rapist must feel. She knew it was silly. She knew Slocum would have been the first to approve of such an act on her part. But still, she much preferred him conscious.

  The last man went out the batwings, and Maria closed the bigger, solid doors behind him and locked them. Turning around, she leaned back on them, crossed her arms, and sighed.

  5

  The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Jorgé set out on his black Paso Fino for the long canyon. At his side trotted a nice little pinto gelding, with Pepé Mondragon aboard.

  Jorgé could tell that Pepé was none to happy about this little trip, and in fact, feared he would not return from it alive. This was evidenced by his constant mumbling and fondling of his crucifix and his occasional, hopeful, skyward glances.

  Pepé’s God was going to save him today, Jorgé thought. Unless, of course, they rode up on Slocum’s dead body. To tell the truth, he didn’t know what he’d do if that were the case.

  Kill Pepé? Probably, or at least make him wish he was dead. But for the moment, anyway, Pepé was in no immediate danger.

  The canyon opened up before them, and Jorgé rode right down the middle.

  “Shouldn’t we go up along the top, as I did yesterday?” Pepé asked sheepishly.

  “No,” said Jorgé. “What were you doin’ up there, anyhow?”

  “Looking for strays,” Pepé replied, eyes on his saddle horn.

  “And you just happened to see an hombre riding along, down here?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “How’d you know he was riding out to Valdez’s?”

  Pepé shrugged. “He just looked like a pistolero, that is all.”

  Jorgé ground his teeth. Just looked like a gunman. He said nothing, though.

  A scant hour later, right at the center of the long canyon, Pepé reined in his horse. Twisting in his saddle, he pointed to a place high atop the canyon walls. “I was there. He fell somewhere around here.”

  “Bet that spotted horse of his didn’t run off, did it?”

  Pepé shook his head.

  “Didn’t think so. You see that horse anywhere?”

  “No.”

  Jorgé grunted and started what he was pretty damned sure would be a fruitless search for Slocum’s body.

  Fifteen minutes later, he found a patch of flattened weeds and dried blood.

  “Pepé!” he shouted. “He went down over here!”

  “Is he dead?” Pepé replied, a little too hopefully. The idiot.

  “No, Pepé, and you’d better thank Our Lady of Guadalupe. Because if he had been, you’d have been next. ¿Verdad?” Jorgé snarled.

  Pepé had the good sense to cower in his saddle.

  Jorgé was busy looking at the ground. A man had lain here for quite a while, to bend the brush so completely. And then he had gotten up, remounted, and ridden back the way he had come.

  Slocum was alive, but he’d lost a good deal of blood. Had he headed for the ranch of MacCorkendale, or for town?

  Town, Jorgé thought. Slocum had been sweet on Maria Anna Lopez.

  But then, who wasn’t? She only had eyes for Slocum, though, that lucky hombre!

  He said, “Go back to the rancho, Pepé, and tell Señor Valdez that Slocum lives, and I have gone to speak with him.”

  Pepé nodded in the affirmative and turned his horse around. Without another word, he spurred his pinto toward home.

  Maria was in the kitchen when she heard boots clomp in the doors and heard Diego say, “Buenos días, Señor Rodriguez. Cerveza? Tequila?”

  But then Rodriguez answered, “Slocum.”

  Maria set aside the sopaipillas she was making and stepped out front. Dusting her hands on her apron, she said, “Jorgé Rodriguez? Is that you?”

  He turned toward her. Again she was struck by how handsome he was. You would never expect him to be a hired gun. Well, perhaps some would—like Slocum, for instance—but she supposed it took one to know one. Jorgé was tall, narrow, and black-eyed, with long, narrow fingers that she thought were beautiful.

  Not that they’d ever touched her. She had no time for men and the trouble they brought, excepting Slocum on those rare trips he made through Jaguar Hole. And now Slocum was bringing trouble, too. She did not like the tone of Jorgé’s voice.

  “What is it, Jorgé?” she asked. “What is wrong?”

  “Buenos días, Señorita Maria,” he said, gallantly bowing from the waist while he doffed his sombrero with a flourish. He rose again, grinning. “I am looking for Slocum. He is here?”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “No. He is not. Why?”

  “Then he has gone to that rancho of Señor MacCorkendale,” Jorgé said with a shake of his head. “Caramba,” he hissed. “I cannot go there.”

  “Jorgé—?”

  “He is hurt, Maria. One of Señor Valdez’s men was a little too . . . eager.”

  She felt herself stiffen. “Hurt? How badly?”

  “He is shot, Maria. That is all I know.” Jorgé shrugged, but he still looked worried.

  “Then you must go to the MacCorkendale rancho!” she said.

  “No, MacCorkendale, he will shoot me on sight.”

  She looked around at the lunch crowd gathering, at Diego running plates from the kitchen to the tables. She couldn’t leave, not now. There were more enchiladas to bake, sopaipillas to fry, beans to stir, rice to make . . .

  Diego could handle it.

  She said, “I will go, then,” and began to untie her apron. “Diego,” she shouted, “take over for a little while.”

  She had the apron all the way off and folded on the counter, and was just taking her first strides toward the door when Slocum walked in.

  “¡Madre de Dios!” Jorgé cried behind her. “He lives still!”

  Slocum looked pretty startled when Maria jumped into his arms, but he seemed happy about it. Never had she been so happy to see him! He was favoring one arm, though, and she carefully extricated herself from his grip.