“Anybody home?” he called when he found the parlor and kitchen empty. Even Tia Juanita had disappeared—a disappointment, because he’d had his mouth all set for a mess of her good cooking.

  Hell, the stove wasn’t even hot!

  He called out again when nobody answered his first shout, but the house remained silent.

  “What the hell?” he muttered beneath his breath. Pete hadn’t mentioned the women were gone. Nobody had mentioned it.

  And then he got to thinking that maybe Teddy LeGrande had headed out while he was in that alley, talking with Cassidy, and that LeGrande had snuck in and taken them someplace. Probably killed them.

  Those idiot hands! They hadn’t heard or seen a thing, goddamnit!

  He was halfway out the front door, ready to punch Pete’s lights out, when both Becky and Tia Juanita rounded the corner of the porch. They were chattering happily, and their arms were full of flowers.

  Slocum was so tense that “Dammit, Becky!” was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

  Both women stopped, and Becky blinked. “I was going to say welcome back,” she said. “But if you’re going to be that nasty for no apparent reason, you can just go back to town.”

  “Sorry,” he said, and relaxed. “I thought somethin’ had happened to you.”

  “Well, it hasn’t,” Becky said curtly, stepping forward. Tia Juanita followed her. “We were just picking the last of the flowers before the cold snap, that’s all,” she continued. “Tia Juanita says there’s one coming tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Tia Juanita. “I feel it in my old bones.”

  Becky held one forward—he didn’t know what kind, not being much for flowers—and passed it beneath Slocum’s nose. “Smells pretty, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a steady grin. “Smells like you.”

  Tia Juanita took Becky’s flowers. Her arms brimming, she walked past them both, into the house. Slocum waited until the door had closed behind her to pull Becky into his arms.

  In the west, the sun was slowly nearing the horizon. Pink and soft purple traces were already starting to streak the sky.

  “I don’t know about that cold snap,” he said. “Seems pretty warm around here to me.”

  Playfully, she pushed at his chest. “Tia Juanita’s got the last word about the weather on this ranch. Besides, you know how the high desert can be. Hot in the daytime—”

  “Freezing at night,” he finished for her. “Except in our bed.”

  They kissed long and sweet, and when they were finally finished, Becky whispered, “I hate to break the mood, honey, but did you find anything out today? You nearly frightened me to death, riding off by yourself like that.”

  He shook his head. “Women. You don’t have to nursemaid me every minute, you know. There are some things—”

  “That you have to do on your own,” she finished. “I know. Tia Juanita gave me six kinds of hell for trying to send Pete along.”

  “Figures,” Slocum said with a grin. “Pete told me how you got after him.”

  He opened the front door for her, and they went inside. Good, spicy smells were starting to emerge from the kitchen, and he said, “Don’t you ever cook anymore, Becky?”

  Becky snorted and softly smacked his arm. “Not for you, Slocum. Not since that thing you did with my gravy.”

  Smiling, Slocum shrugged. “I thought it looked kinda nice, what with all them forks and spoons standin’ up in it.”

  “Oh, very funny,” she said with a snort. She sat down on the sofa, and taking his hand, drew him down next to her. “So tell me all about it. What happened in town?”

  Suddenly, Tia Juanita appeared beside them, and pulled up a rocking chair.

  “Yes, Slocum,” she said, folding a dish towel in her lap. “What happened? Did you learn anything?”

  Some time later, Pete smelled Tia Juanita’s cooking when he rode past the main house, and his mouth started to water. It smelled awful good, like peppers and tomatoes and onions and beef.

  He wondered if she had made up a pan of those good enchiladas, and if she was going to serve frijoles alongside them.

  Now, Pete was a refried beans man. He could eat them by the bowlful, topped with lots of that good shredded goat cheese from down home, down at the old Bar S, and plenty of green chili sauce and guacamole. When they had any, that was.

  But he wasn’t going to see any beans or green chili sauce tonight. Old Fats Harker, the bunkhouse cook, had supplied him—as well as Dave and two other boys—with a cold dinner of biscuits and ham, which they had wrapped in brown paper and tucked into their saddlebags.

  They’d see no hot supper tonight, or for the next few days, if he was any judge.

  Dave had gone north, Toots had gone south, Baker set out toward the southeast, and now Pete was going east, toward town. Slocum had instructed them to keep watch through the night and alert him if they saw anything funny.

  Like, for instance, somebody riding toward the ranch from town.

  He’d told them to especially watch for a man in a white-fringed jacket.

  Pete didn’t know who the man in the fringe was, but he wasn’t going to question Slocum. He’d found out three years ago that it just didn’t pay.

  He rode until he found himself a roost where he could see the road from town pretty well, as well as the surrounding territory. After he settled his horse—and patted his pocket for the fifth time to reassure himself that he hadn’t forgotten his pipe—he sat down crosslegged.

  Cursing the lack of a fire for coffee-making on what promised to be a bitch of a cold night, he opened up his dinner parcel.

  There was a full moon tonight, he thought, chewing as he watched it emerge from the darkening sky, round and large and white. He’d be able to see anything moving on the road for a good ways.

  Pete unstoppered his canteen and took a long gulp of water. That Old Harker sure made one holy duster of a dry sandwich. No mustard, no nothing.

  He set aside the canteen.

  He watched the road.

  12

  “I think I’ve got it straight, Slocum,” said Becky, from the leather sofa. She sat perched at attention on its edge beside Tia Juanita.

  Tia Juanita, the dish towel working absently between her fingers, spoke up. “So, where you say you know this Cassidy from? Is he to be trusted?”

  Slocum, standing beside the mantel, nodded. They had lit a fire, for the evening had become a little on the nippy side—as prophesied by Tia Juanita—and the warmth felt good to him. He felt kind of sorry for Pete and the other boys he’d sent out to stand guard. Not sorry enough to join them, though.

  He said, “Met him over in Braintree, Texas, about five, maybe six years ago. There was a little range war goin’ on back then, and I was hired to help end it. Me and Cassidy started out on opposite sides and ended up workin’ together, after I found out my boss was a damn crook.”

  He smiled. “Kind’a the same as this time, only in reverse. And yes,” he added, “I can trust him.”

  I hope, he thought.

  Both women nodded, and then, quite suddenly, Tia Juanita shot to her feet. Slapping a hand to her face, she dashed toward the kitchen, shouting, “Ay! My enchiladas!”

  Slocum’s brow furrowed. “Hope dinner ain’t burnt,” he said.

  “You,” said Becky, rising.

  “Me what?”

  “Just you,” she said, stepping toward him. “After you rode into town and faced both those killers in the saloon—”

  “I didn’t face nobody, Becky,” he cut in.

  “You know what I mean. I would have been afraid to even ride into town today.”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “Now, Becky, I know you. Sooner or later, you’d have taken McMahon’s head off.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she said, pouring out two glasses from the sherry decanter on a side table. She handed him one. “I’ve changed, Slocum. After so many years of this, well, I guess I’m beaten down.”

  She took a sip of her sherry, then seemed to reconsider. “I might have poisoned McMahon eventually, or slid a blade between his ribs while he was sleeping, but not before he’d married me.”

  Suddenly, she downed the glass, as if just the idea of it—either McMahon or the poisoning or the knife, or most probably all three—was incredibly distasteful.

  Softly, Slocum said, “I doubt that, honey. Why, you would have run straight for the strychnine before he had a chance to marry you. Or at least, before the wedding night.”

  Grinning, she smacked his arm and hissed, “Oh, Slocum!”

  He chuckled. There was still some fight left in her.

  He took a sip of his sherry and looked toward the kitchen. “You suppose supper’s about ready? I’m hungry enough to eat a deep-fried horse.”

  She set her glass down. “Men. Always hungry.”

  “For one thing or another,” he said with a grin, and reached for her.

  But she slid away before he could take hold, saying, “Somebody’s got to set the table, and I’m that somebody.” She winked at him, then scampered toward the kitchen.

  Slocum stood up and watched her disappear through the doorway, sighed, then moved to sit in one of the two deep leather armchairs. It was nice Becky hadn’t done anything to this room. It was all man. Scarred leather chairs and couches, everything rugged. The only traces of femininity were the vase of fresh flowers that rode the mantel, and a smaller vase on the table in back of the big sofa.

  The pictures on the walls were likewise masculine. Horses and cattle, and one of a couple hound dogs. The one exception hung over the fireplace: a large, stern portrait of the former lord of the manor, Jack Jamison. He fairly glared out of the painting, as if to say, “This is mine, goddamnit.”

  “Was yours,” Slocum said, and raised his glass to the late Jack Jamison. “And if we get our way, it’s Becky’s. For keeps.”

  Becky popped through the door again, carrying a stack of plates, napkins, and a handful of silverware. “What?” she asked, even though Slocum had little more than mumbled her name.

  “Nothin’,” said Slocum. He indicated the painting. “Just talkin’ to Jack.”

  Strangely enough, her mouth quirked up into a hint of a smile. “It helps me,” she said. “It’ll help you, too.” She turned toward her work.

  Maybe Jack Jamison hadn’t been such an old fart after all, Slocum thought grudgingly.

  “I saved them,” called Tia Juanita, entering with a steaming—and enormous—pan of enchiladas. She placed it on the table, on the towel that Becky had just put down. The housekeeper motioned to Slocum. “Come. Sit. Eat. I will get the rest.”

  Slocum pulled out Becky’s chair for her, then sat down and helped himself to the enchiladas and some extra cheese. “This is great stuff,” he remarked as he took another spoonful.

  “Thank you,” replied Becky. She shook out her napkin, then paused, looking out the window, into the darkness.

  She hugged herself tight. “I wonder how the men are doing out there. It’s so cold!”

  Teddy LeGrande had slipped out of town with no one the wiser, even that old hack, Cassidy. And what kind of a first name was “Drug” anyway? LeGrande snorted. Now he was slowly making his way due west out the road to the Jamison place.

  That Cassidy was really something, wasn’t he? The man was plain as an old boot, for one thing. And he was old, for another. LeGrande shook his head and gave another snort. Why, he didn’t know how Cassidy could face him again after he’d been outfoxed on the bounty. Hell, LeGrande couldn’t even remember the bastard’s name—the one he’d turned loose, then shot and turned in for the reward over in Jackson. But he’d bet that Cassidy did.

  So when Cassidy told him to lay low for a while, to just bide his time, he figured Cassidy to be playing some sort of game with him. He hadn’t figured it out exactly, but it was probably something like Cassidy sneaking out to the S Bar J and gunning Slocum all by himself.

  The rat bastard.

  He was going to show that Cassidy up, he thought with a smile. Show him up again, more like.

  Which was why he was headed toward the S Bar J, long after dark and all by his lonesome. Hell, maybe he’d get to pick up Cassidy’s share, too.

  And then he mentally kicked himself. He should have asked McMahon about that part.

  Well, too late. Come morning, he’d have already killed Slocum and picked up his bounty, and be headed back to New Mexico. Which would leave behind a real big—and real unpleasant—surprise for Cassidy.

  He grinned at that one.

  This Slocum was all reputation. He’d heard of him, sure. But he’d also heard about a lot of men who were supposed to be fast or slick or cunning, or all three. The last one of those big-reputation guns that he’d run across was the Arapaho Kid, who happened to be all of sixteen years old.

  LeGrande had tracked him to the bath house in Trestle Junction, New Mexico, and shot him while he was in the tub. He’d left the kid floating, facedown in the dirty water.

  Some shootist.

  But Perry Broadside, the man who’d contracted the killing—having listened to those stories about the Arapaho Kid, and wanting rid of anyone who could possibly cause his horse rustling operation any trouble—had paid him anyway, boy or not.

  That was the kind of client LeGrande liked. No questions, just pay the money.

  Tate McMahon struck him as that sort.

  LeGrande figured Slocum wouldn’t suspect he was coming. Hell, the man hadn’t set foot into town, not once! He was probably already scared out of his britches. Probably quivering in his boots!

  He’d never suspect Teddy LeGrande was coming to call . . . and blow him to Kingdom Come.

  The moon was bright and the road was clear. He began to whistle.

  This would be about the easiest five hundred he’d made all year.

  Pete was colder than the balls on a brass monkey. At least, that was what he thought as he sat there, shivering while he watched the road. He knew there was a blanket tied behind his saddle, but somehow, the idea of moving— and thus exposing a few new parts of himself to the weather—held little appeal.

  Tia Juanita had been right when she insisted that the men take blankets to wrap themselves in. Hell, she was always right. And somehow, she knew every damned thing that happened on that spread. She must have had a few of those Mexican witches in her family, that’s what he thought.

  Brujas. Anyhow, that was what he thought they called them.

  When he found he was too cold even to lift a jittering hand to reach into his pocket and check his watch, he gritted his teeth and stood up as fast as his cold and creaky bones could travel.

  As he had expected, this plunge into an icy stream of air was all the motive he needed to hustle over the rise to where he’d left his rig and snatch up the blanket. Hurriedly, he shook it out and wrapped it around his shoulders.

  Better. But he tramped around for a few minutes, stamping his feet and getting his joints oiled up and halfway warm again before he sat down.

  Damn! he thought as he settled once again. Why couldn’t there have been a rock or something out here that he could cuddle up to?

  The land was softly rolling around this part of the ranch. Pete had hobbled his gelding down in the soft hollow behind him so that he couldn’t be seen, just in case anybody did come down that road. But Pete just sat there, as obvious as a sore thumb.

  If I’d’a thought about it, he mused, I would’a brung my own boulder . . .

  He had just got the blanket tucked into every available nook and cranny when he suddenly leaned forward, squinted, and froze.

  “That ain’t no bird,” he whispered. The whistling was a little louder now. He could hear it faintly, but steadily.

  He still couldn’t see anything, though. And if he couldn’t see the whistler, then the whistler couldn’t see him. Yet.

  As quickly as he could, he shrugged free of the blanket and flattened pressing his belly to the ground. He brought his rifle up and rested his cheek against the stock.

  There! There he was. Pete could just make out a faint shape moving toward him.

  A faint shape in a pale jacket, riding a pale horse, maybe a palomino.

  It was just like Slocum had said, and for just a second, Pete wondered if maybe Slocum wasn’t related to Tia Juanita and all those witches.

  The rider came closer, preceded by the sound of his whistling, and Pete found that he was sweating despite the cold. It beaded on his forehead and trickled down his nose.

  Of course, he wasn’t supposed to shoot the fellow. He was only supposed to report back.

  But the whistler was almost in range—the range that Pete felt safe with, when it was dark and he couldn’t see too well. He couldn’t stand up now without giving himself away.

  He decided to wait until the man passed, then sneak around him, go back to the ranch, and get Slocum.

  But then the man in the white jacket reined up his horse and just sat there, square in the middle of the road.

  Pete screwed up his face. “What the—” he muttered before he realized that the sonofabitch had seen the barrel of his rifle, glinting in the moonlight.

  Damn it, anyway!

  The man shifted, like he was reaching for his rifle.

  Pete reacted immediately. He fired—and missed.

  Cursing, he took careful aim—trying not to think about the rifle that the man out there was just bringing to his shoulder—and fired again.

  This time, the figure on the horse wavered a split second after Pete pulled the trigger.

  But he didn’t fall off his damned horse. No, he got off, dismounted fast but deliberately on the horse’s off side, and began to return fire.

  He was sloppy about it though. Pete could hear his slugs sharply drilling the dirt about ten feet in front of him and to the right.

  He aimed again.

  This time, the man, who was halfway into the brush beside the road, screamed, stood straight, then fell over.

  Pete didn’t move, though. Watching intently for the slightest movement of brush, he waited a good fifteen minutes. Then he began to creep slowly toward the site, sometimes on his hands and knees, sometimes in a crouch.