She was bound and determined that Slocum would at least spend some time with her—and by that, she meant some serious bedroom time—or that he’d marry her. Both, if possible.

  That would sort of make her famous, too, wouldn’t it?

  Her hand tightened on her purse as the driver helped her down from the stage. She’d gone so far as to buy herself an engagement ring, which she’d tied into the corner of her hankie, then stuffed into her handbag. Precious cargo, that. It hadn’t been a very expensive purchase—just a very slim silver band with three little turquoise stones—but it was enough. She didn’t plan on giving Slocum any time to think about buying one for her.

  She stood in front of the station for quite a while after the horses had been changed and the stagecoach had departed. And she was more than a little annoyed that Slocum hadn’t magically shown up to greet her. So what if she hadn’t told him she was coming!

  He should have just known shouldn’t he?

  But she waited and waited, and finally, when she didn’t see hide nor hair of either him or that stupid polka-dot horse of his, she picked up her bag and made her way to the hotel.

  She figured to check in, ask a few questions, and if that didn’t pan out? Then she’d go across the road to the cantina to get herself a bite of lunch and inquire there.

  “Rodriguez! What in the hell are you doing?”

  Jorgé froze, mid-chop. Señor Valdez’s voice boomed out, shaking the very trees, and Jorgé was almost afraid to turn and look at him.

  But he did, and what he saw on Valdez’s face was most terrible. Flanking him on horseback were Juan and Carlito, two of his toughest hands. Carlito was smiling a most unpleasant smile.

  Jorgé let his ax drop to the ground and used it as a walking stick, leaning on it. “Hola, Señor Valdez. What in the world are you doing out here this morning, so far from your rancho?” he asked, smiling.

  Act casual, Jorgé, he told himself. You may talk your way out of this yet.

  But Señor Valdez did not appear as if he would be easily swayed. Again he demanded, “What are you doing out here, chopping my trees down? We have no need for fire-wood. And if we did,” he added, “I have much less expensive help to cut it.”

  Jorgé took a deep breath. He supposed he would have to fess up sooner or later. He said, “Señor Valdez, I am cutting posts for your new fence.”

  Valdez’s brow furrowed. “My new fence? I have ordered no such fence. I hate fences.”

  Jorgé shrugged. “So do I, patrón, so do I. But Slocum and I, we have spoken at much length. We agree that the only way to keep those damned steers of MacCorkendale’s from invading your property is to string one up. A fence, I mean,” he added when he saw Carlito’s face brighten on his mention of stringing up something.

  He would like to get Carlito out behind the barn, he thought. He probably would have that opportunity before he finished this job.

  “No,” said Valdez. “I do not approve.”

  “I was afraid of that, señor,” admitted Jorgé.

  “This is obvious. This is why you have sneaked out before the dawn, is it not?”

  Jorgé didn’t flinch. “Yes, it is. I had the feeling that you might not approve of the fence being built, but that once it was up, you would not have it torn down. I do not wish to see this dispute between you and MacCorkendale turn into a border war, Pablo. I do not wish to see your land occupied by troops instead of steers.”

  This stopped Valdez cold. At least he said nothing, and he actually appeared to be thinking it over. Jorgé hoped his thoughts were of the positive variety.

  At last he spoke, and when he did, it was amazing. “All right, Jorgé,” he said, counter to everything that Jorgé expected.

  Jorgé congratulated himself on his persuasive powers while Valdez continued. “You have more experience with these things than I. We will try your way and see what happens. Carlito and Juan will stay and help you.”

  Carlito said, “But, patrón—”

  “You will stay and assist,” Valdez said firmly and reined his horse away. “For as long as you are needed.”

  “Yes, patrón,” Juan muttered, shrugging.

  Carlito looked daggers at Jorgé.

  Jorgé simply smiled back innocently and said, “Welcome, amigos. Saw or ax?”

  Slocum rode into the MacCorkendales’ yard and tied Concho to the rail out front. He wasn’t looking forward to this, but it had to be done sooner or later. He figured that MacCorkendale would likely explode with anger when he heard the news about the fence, but he was going to have to hear it.

  Slocum just hoped MacCorkendale wouldn’t blow himself—or Slocum—into the next world.

  He climbed the steps to the porch, then rapped on the door.

  Helga answered it. She didn’t say hello or how are you. She didn’t say anything. Her mouth dropped open, her pretty face turned red as a sunset, and she just stood there, hands over her breasts.

  Slocum was a little flummoxed by this odd welcome, but finally said, “Morning, Mrs. MacCorkendale. Is the mister around?”

  Helga opened her mouth as if to speak, then abruptly fell straight down to the ground.

  Slocum blinked a couple of times, then bent down to her. “Mrs. MacCorkendale? Helga?” Then he looked back into the dark house and hollered, “Ralph! Hey, Ralph, you in there?”

  A voice carried down the stairs. “That you, Slocum? Where in the hell you been? Me and Helga half expected you to come back for supper last night.” MacCorkendale’s boot steps neared, each strike echoing overhead.

  “Better get down here, Ralph,” Slocum warned. “Helga’s gone and had the vapors on me.”

  The tempo of MacCorkendale’s step picked up as he started down the stairs. “What’s that you say? Why I ain’t heard that term since I left . . .” He took one look at Helga on the floor, then vaulted down the last four steps. “Helga!”

  He shoved Slocum out of the way and began patting Helga’s face and hands. “Helga? Helga, honey, don’t you go and die on me, now!”

  Slocum picked himself up, then found his hat, which he tossed to the hall tree. Once he regained his composure, he said, “Ralph?”

  MacCorkendale didn’t even look up, just went on rubbing her wrists and imploring her not to die.

  Again, Slocum said, “Jesus, Ralph! Don’t be such an old woman. Go find her a wet cloth.”

  “A wet cloth,” MacCorkendale muttered as he climbed to his feet. “Of course. A wet cloth.” He sprinted toward the rear of the house, leaving Helga to lie on the hallway floor in something of a heap.

  Slocum muttered, “Shit, Ralph,” then picked her up and carried her into the parlor, where he put her down on a small leather sofa between potted palms. MacCorkendale came in directly, carrying a wet dishcloth, which he applied to Helga’s temples and throat.

  She came round almost immediately.

  Blinking, she looked around the room, took in her husband and Slocum, and then looked terribly flustered. “Excuse me, Herr Slocum, Herr MacCorkendale!” she said, then covered her face with her hands. Between her palms, she added, “I am very sorry.”

  “There, there, honey,” MacCorkendale offered fairly lamely for somebody who’d been as concerned as he’d been a couple minutes ago. What was going on with him, anyway? He was a different man when his wife was conscious than when she was out cold.

  Slocum gave a quick shake to his head. It didn’t matter. Right now, he just wanted to talk to MacCorkendale. “Ralph?” he said.

  “What?” Ralph looked anxious for an excuse to get rid of his wife, now that he was sure she was going to live.

  “Maybe Helga’d like to go on upstairs and lie down?” Slocum said.

  “Oh! Good idea!” said MacCorkendale and piloted the still unsettled woman off the sofa and to the bottom of the stairs. “Go on, now, Helga,” Slocum heard him say. “Go and lie down.” And then he heard the light tap of Helga’s feet as she slowly climbed the steps.

  MacCorkendale came back in the parlor, looking relieved.

  “You let her go up alone?” Slocum asked, thinking to shame MacCorkendale into some sort of gentlemanly behavior.

  It didn’t work, though. MacCorkendale just sat down in his big easy chair, waved a hand, and—despite his earlier almost maniacal concern for his wife—said, “Oh, she’ll be all right. Probably, it’s the heat what got to her. Her folks come from the old country, y’know. It don’t get hot over there, not like it does out this way.”

  Slocum decided to let it go. He had bigger fish to fry.

  He slid into a chair opposite MacCorkendale’s, propped up his boots, and said, “Ralph, I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk all you want, Slocum. It’s free.”

  Slocum didn’t smile at MacCorkendale’s little attempt at a joke. He just went right to the point. “Ralph, me and Jorgé Rodriguez had us a long confab yesterday. There’s only one way we can see to keep you and Valdez from rip-pin’ each other’s throats out, and that’s a fence.”

  MacCorkendale’s eyebrows shot up, and his face turned red. “A what?”

  “A fence,” Slocum repeated. “You heard me. Valdez is springin’ for the posts, and you’re buyin’ the wire.”

  MacCorkendale started to interrupt, but Slocum cut him off quickly, saying, “It’s already ordered. Now, me and Jorgé’ll string it up, and we figure that’ll take care of your steers crossin’ the border. Mostly. You’ll need to look after it after I’m gone. Send somebody out to ride it once a week or so. You know.”

  “I hate fences! I never had a place with a fence on it in my life!” MacCorkendale’s face was not one iota less red than it had been before Slocum’s speech.

  “You’ve got a corral,” Slocum offered.

  “That’s different!” MacCorkendale snapped.

  Slocum took a breath. “No, it ain’t, Ralph. You want to keep your saddle horses in one place, you fence ’em. Same for the damned cows. And it’s not even a fence that goes all the way around anything!”

  “No fences!”

  “It’s just a barrier, that’s all. Jesus H!”

  MacCorkendale was silent, and so was Slocum, mainly because he figured the next thing he’d do would be brain the man. Talk about stubborn!

  Finally, a little of the crimson drained from MacCorkendale’s face, and he asked, “Valdez gonna have his men patrolin’ this thing, too?”

  Slocum had no idea, but he said, “Far as I know.”

  MacCorkendale shook his head sadly. “A damned shame, that’s what it is. Why, when his cows wander north, my boys just shoo ’em back south, over the border. Don’t know why he can’t just do me the same courtesy.”

  “Good question, Ralph,” Slocum said. It looked like MacCorkendale was going to okay this little experiment after all, and Slocum wasn’t going to press his luck.

  “Gettin’ dark,” MacCorkendale said, looking out the window. “You stayin’?”

  “Reckon so,” replied Slocum. “That is, if your missus don’t mind. Maybe you want to look in on her?”

  “She’d better not mind,” MacCorkendale said. He was still staring out the window. “And I don’t feel like climbin’ them stairs again.”

  Slocum unfolded himself from his chair. “Well, I’ll go put my horse up, then.”

  “You do that,” came the muttered response.

  8

  Having learned nothing of Slocum’s whereabouts at the hotel, Samantha freshened up, checked her hair, pinched her cheeks, and locked her room behind her. She headed down the stairs and outside, crossing the dusty street to Cantina Lopez.

  Her purpose was twofold: she was as hungry as a starved wolverine, and Cantina Lopez also looked to be the only restaurant in town. If anybody would know anything about Slocum, the people there would.

  When she walked in out of the late afternoon’s glare, she realized she was the only female in the place. This didn’t stop her, though. She stuck her nose up in the air, walked straight to an empty table, and sat down, her back to the wall, her face toward the bar.

  She scanned the crowd and didn’t see him. She did, however, see a knot of men in the corner who had all turned to look at her, and several standing at the bar. She also saw a short Mexican man rounding the bar and heading toward her.

  “Greetings, señorita,” he said, smiling. “How may I serve you?”

  “I’d like some lunch, please,” she said.

  “The menu, she is there,” the man said, pointing to a chalkboard behind the bar.

  She noted that all they had was Mex food, but she ordered anyway. You couldn’t trust Mex food, in her experience. Sometimes it was fine, and sometimes it would send you to the shitter for three solid days. She asked the man to have it seasoned as lightly as possible.

  Before he left the table, she said, “Have you by chance seen a man, a big man, in the last few days? He’s American, called Slocum.”

  The little man nodded enthusiastically, “Oh, sí Señor Slocum! Yes, he is here often.”

  Success at last. Samantha allowed herself a smile. That ring was as good as on her finger!

  “Will he be in tonight, do you think, Señor . . . ?”

  “Diego, just Diego,” he replied. “And maybe, maybe not. I think it is most probably too late. He has stayed the night with the MacCorkendales.”

  “The MacCorkendales?”

  “His employers. He will likely be back tomorrow, maybe the next day.”

  “Thank you, Diego,” Samantha said.

  “Sí,” he said with a little bow. “I get your food now.” And then, when he was halfway back to the kitchen, he turned and said, “Maria, she will be here in a half hour. If anyone knows of Slocum’s plans, it will be she.”

  He turned and disappeared through the kitchen door, leaving Samantha to wonder just who the hell this Maria was!

  Jorgé Rodriguez—Mexico’s answer to Wild Bill Hickok, presently employed by Pablo Valdez as a hired killer, and a man of murky and ruthless reputation—sat on the ground before a small blaze, idly tossing small twigs toward the coffeepot.

  “I do not understand you,” Carlito said. “You were hired by Señor Valdez for your skills with a gun, not with an ax.”

  “I explained that before,” Jorgé said through clenched teeth. “And I am not going to do it again.”

  “That is right, Carlito,” Juan said, and then he hissed, “Please, for my sake and yours, do not push him.”

  Jorgé heard Juan’s comment but did not acknowledge it. Fear could be a healthy thing.

  But Carlito wasn’t done. “Blisters!” He held up his hands for all to see. “I have blisters on my hands!”

  Carlito had been bitching about the fence all day—about cutting the posts, about the building of it, and how he was above all this—and Jorgé was close to the edge. He turned toward Carlito and snapped, “Just be glad you are alive to feel the pain, amigo.” He did not smile when he said “amigo,” either.

  Juan hissed, “See, Carlito? Shut up! Here, I am making us a good stew.” He stirred the pot again for emphasis. “There will be tortillas, too!”

  Carlito just snorted, then turned away from them both.

  Jorgé wanted to say that if Carlito hadn’t been one of his employer’s caballeros, he would have used his gun skills already, and happily. On Carlito.

  But still, he said nothing except, “How soon for the dinner, Juan? My stomach is growling.”

  “Not long, señor,” Juan replied. “Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  “That’s your problem, Juan,” said Carlito, suddenly part of the conversation once more.

  Juan looked over, and it appeared than even he was getting a little riled. “What? What is my problem, Carlito?”

  “That ‘señor,’ ” Carlito grumbled. “You do not work for him. He is not some god come down to earth. He is just a man, like you and me.”

  Juan’s back stiffened visibly. “He is a great man, a man they write the books about. And now he works for Señor Valdez, just like we do. Except he is better. He deserves the respect.”

  Jorgé was getting to like Juan, but he already knew Carlito was the one to watch. There was nothing worse than a vaguero with an attitude, he thought, and gave his head a slight shake from side to side. So proud, like a strutting cock. So damned stupid.

  “It’s all right, Juan,” he said, and gave the man a smile, although a brief one. He wanted to keep his eyes on Carlito. They all had to sleep here tonight, and Jorgé didn’t want to wake up dead because of some fool with a grudge.

  “If you feel this work is beneath you, Carlito,” he said evenly, “then go back to the rancho. Juan and I will do just fine without you.”

  Obviously, Carlito hadn’t been expecting this, because Jorgé watched conflicting thoughts rapidly run across his less-than-handsome face until he came to a decision.

  “I will stay,” he said.

  It was apparent that he had decided that Señor Valdez’s wrath at his disobedience would be far worse than a few blisters—and having to work under Jorgé for the next week or so.

  Jorgé said, “Very good, Carlito. I am happy to have you.”

  All the men, Juan included, visibly relaxed. Jorgé was reasonably certain he would not be killed in his sleep. Tonight, anyway.

  He turned his attention to the stew, which smelled quite appealing. Of course, after the physical labor he’d put in today, he imagined that a turd sandwich might smell good to him.

  He was glad that the stew was made with rabbits, though, and some of the carrots, onions, potatoes, and seasonings he’d had in his saddlebags.

  “Ready, Juan?” he asked.

  “Sí, ready,” came the answer.

  Jorgé held out his plate.

  Slocum sat at the center of the long dinner table, with Helga at its foot and MacCorkendale at its head. It was a table built for a dozen diners, so there were two empty chairs between Slocum and Helga, and two empty places between Slocum and MacCorkendale.

  MacCorkendale had continued to act oddly all during the evening, and Slocum couldn’t tell if it was the idea of a fence that was bothering him, or something else, something between him and Helga.