by Janet Dailey
Resting a hand on the butt of the .44, Bull gazed out over the foothills and beyond them to the dry flatland, dotted with brush and scarred with trails and gullies. Jasper was right, he told himself. He couldn’t afford to spend time investigating his father’s death when he had a ranch to save. For now, at least, he would need to put the tragedy behind him and move on.
From where he stood, he could see all the way to the heart of the ranch. The house and outbuildings were as drab as the earth beneath them. Closer, at the base of the foothills, he could see the pickup where they’d left it to climb the trail.
A half mile beyond, in a dry wash, something caught his attention. Bull tensed, shading his eyes against the blinding sun.
“What is it?” Jasper moved to stand beside him.
“That wash, the one just past that big clump of mesquite. Can you see anything down there?”
“Hard to tell.” Jasper squinted into the glare. “All I can see is a little bit of color. Might just be trash, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Let’s go.”
Bull had already started down the steep trail. Half an hour later they reached the spot where they’d left the pickup. Climbing inside, they headed across the rough, open land toward the wash.
As the truck pulled up and stopped, two ravens flapped off a gnarled, dead cedar on the edge of the wash. Bad sign, Bull thought as he swung to the ground. He could detect no odor yet, but odds were that something down there was either dead or dying.
The wash was about six feet deep and an easy stone toss from rim to rim. At first, when he looked down into it, Bull could see nothing but rocks, sand, and tumbleweeds. Then he saw it, sprawled facedown below the exposed tangle of cedar tree roots—the chunky figure of a man. Jeans-clad legs, faded, plaid flannel shirt, a thatch of silver hair—it was Carlos.
Half-leaping, half-sliding, with Jasper behind him, Bull crashed down the side of the wash. Dropping next to the old man, Bull laid a hand on his shoulder.
Carlos stirred and moaned. Incredibly, he was alive.
But he wouldn’t be alive for long, Bull realized as he and Jasper rolled the old man onto his back and saw the dirt-clogged wound below his ribs. Blood soaked the ground where he’d lain—more blood than a man could stand to lose. If blood loss didn’t kill him, the infection would.
Cupping the back of Carlos’s head in his hand, Bull tipped the canteen to the cook’s lips. The old man could barely swallow. With that wound, he had to be in terrible pain.
“We’ve got to get you to the hospital,” Bull said.
Carlos’s lips moved. “No . . . no hospital, por diós. Don’t let me die there. Take me home . . . to Rio Seco. Bury me with Rosita . . . mi esposa . . .”
His voice trailed off. His head sagged. But then he seemed to recover a little. With surprising strength, he seized Bull’s arm, holding it like a vise. “Promise . . .” he rasped. “Promise to take me.”
Bull’s gaze met Jasper’s. Jasper gave a slight nod of agreement. Carlos was too far gone to make it to the hospital, an hour away in Lubbock. If he died in the truck on the way to his village, at least he’d know that he was going home.
Bull lifted the crucifix out of his pocket and slipped the silver cross with its broken chain into the old man’s hand. “All right, Carlos,” he promised. “If that’s what you want, we’ll take you to Rio Seco.”
Bull pulled off his shirt and singlet. After wadding the singlet into a ball, he pressed it over the wound and bound it tightly in place using the long-sleeved shirt. There was a moment’s deliberation while they figured out how to move Carlos. Jasper used the tool kit to unbolt the pickup’s tailgate and lift it off. They worked the old man onto it and found a sloping spot to carry him out of the wash. Bull helped slide the tailgate into the pickup bed and stayed back there with Carlos while Jasper drove.
The drive back to the house was hot, dusty, and bumpy. Bull used his hat to shield the old man’s face, gave him a little more water, and used his bare arms to cushion Carlos’s body against the jarring. The ride had to be agonizing, but no whimper escaped Carlos’s tightly pressed lips.
“Carlos.” Bull spoke close to his ear. “Who did this to you? Was it the Prescotts?”
“Didn’t . . . know them. Two men. Mexican. One with a bad scar. They . . . take my car, drive me to that wash . . . I run . . . they shoot . . .”
Every word cost the old man. Bull gave him another sip of water. “It’s all right, Carlos,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Just rest.”
At the house, they lowered Carlos to the ground while they lined the truck bed with a mattress from the bunkhouse and added a blanket and the shell that fit like a roof over it. Jasper came up with some nonprescription pain pills and helped Carlos swallow three of them before they eased him back into the truck bed and reattached the tailgate. Even if they’d had the skill for it, cleaning and dressing the bullet wound would only have wasted precious time, and there was no way to give him blood. All they could do was keep their promise and get the old man home.
“The trip to Rio Seco is about six hours each way,” Jasper said. “One of us will need to stay here and keep an eye on the ranch. Shall we flip a coin?”
“I’ll go,” Bull said. “I had a tenth-grade Spanish class and picked up a little more on the rodeo circuit. It might come in handy.”
“Fine. The map I marked is in the truck, along with the rest of those pills. You shouldn’t have any trouble at the border. Now you better get goin’.”
“Keep a sharp eye out,” Bull said. “There could be more trouble headed our way.”
Jasper patted the heavy Colt that hung at his hip. “Don’t worry. If anybody shows up, I’ll be ready for ’em.”
Bull climbed into the truck, put it in gear, and drove slowly down the rutted lane toward the highway. He was careful going over the bumps and hollows. Any jarring would cause excruciating pain to Carlos.
A cold anger rose in him as he drove. Anybody who’d shoot a harmless old man and leave him to die in agony deserved the worst. Whatever it took, he would see that they paid the price.
Carlos’s description hadn’t told him much, except that there’d been two Mexicans, and at least one of them would’ve known about the wash. That didn’t mean they had any connection to the Prescotts. But it did mean they were armed and ruthless. The sheriff had already washed his hands of the matter. That left Bull—and Jasper, if he felt the same—to see that justice was done.
By the time he turned onto the main highway, the sun was low in the sky. Bull checked the map, glanced back at Carlos, and kept driving south toward the Mexican border.
CHAPTER 4
SUSAN RUTLEDGE SAT ALONE ON THE FRONT STEPS OF THE TWO-STORY frame house—the sort of house that passed for a mansion in rural Texas but would be nothing more than a rental in Savannah. At this late hour, almost midnight, no one else was stirring. At last she could be alone. At last she could breathe.
Striking a match on the heel of her boot, she lit the cigarette she’d pilfered from the gold-plated case on Hamilton Prescott’s desk. Inhaling the bitter smoke, she coughed, then tried it again. Maybe if she smoked enough, she’d get to like it. Meanwhile, at least it gave her the rush of doing something forbidden.
She blew a puff of smoke into the darkness, trying to make a ring like she’d seen some people do. She and her father had been here for two weeks, with at least three more weeks to go. The days were long and hot and endlessly boring. She could have stayed in Savannah with her mother, but Vivian Rutledge’s world of shopping, cocktails, and beauty treatments was even more depressing than being in Texas with her father and uncle—and with Ferg, who practically had to be bribed to entertain her.
At least the nights were pretty here, the stars big and bright, just like in the song. A crescent moon was rising in the east, above the rolling Texas hill country. Wind rustled the dry grass. Faint insect and animal sounds, few of which she could identify, drifted out of the night. If she closed her eyes, she could a
lmost imagine being in some wild, exotic place, stalking like a lioness through the thorn bush.
In the distance, she could see headlights leaving the highway and turning up the long gravel lane toward the house. Even from here, she recognized the ranch’s pickup truck. That would be Ferg, coming back from one of his late-night visits to town. The fact that he hadn’t taken his convertible told her he didn’t want to be noticed. He was probably seeing a woman—maybe that pretty, older waitress at the burger place who’d been paying him a lot of attention yesterday. At least she had been until that rough-looking cowboy had come in and joined them.
Bull Tyler. Susan had been intrigued by him—even though he’d called her a baby. There’d been something tough and raw about him. Something forbidden—like smoking, only more exciting and dangerous. Last night, lying in bed, she’d fantasized about kissing him. He would never kiss her for real, of course. But she could imagine anything she wanted to.
The pickup was getting closer. Not wanting Ferg to find her on the porch, she hurried down the steps, stubbed out the cigarette, and slipped around behind the house.
Shortly after her arrival in Texas, she’d discovered the delicious pleasure of disguising her bed with pillows, sneaking out at night, and wandering the open land. Mostly she went on foot. But sometimes, if the moon was up, she’d saddle a docile mare in the stable and go for a ride. Her father would have a stroke if he were to find out. He would ground her for the rest of their visit, or even put her on a plane and send her home early. But so far she’d been both careful and lucky.
She knew the night could be dangerous. There were snakes, scorpions, coyotes, wild pigs, and cattle roaming the dark. There were washes and deep gullies. And there were beasts in human form who wouldn’t think twice about harming a young girl. But she was always alert and careful, even going so far as to tuck her hair under a cap, making her look more like a boy.
So, should she go tonight? After some thought, Susan decided against it. With Ferg still awake, she might be spotted. And she hadn’t arranged the pillows in her bed before going out to sit on the porch. She couldn’t chance it. One mistake and she’d be a prisoner in the house for the rest of the long visit.
Tomorrow, then. Or the next night. With a sigh, Susan bade a silent farewell to the moon and stars and slipped back into the house.
* * *
A few miles north of the border, Bull stopped for gas. When he checked on Carlos, he saw that the old man had passed away.
Gently he tugged the blanket over the lifeless face. At least his suffering was over. He looked peaceful now, almost happy, as if he’d known that he was going home to his loved ones.
Bull bought some coffee to go in Del Rio and drove across the Del Rio International Bridge to Ciudad Acuña. By now it was after eleven. The Mexican border station was quiet. The guard blinked himself awake, checked Bull’s driver’s license, and let him pass.
An hour later, on a two-lane asphalt road crossed by wandering cows and goats, he reached the outskirts of Rio Seco. The village, its name meaning “dry river,” was little more than a cluster of tile-roofed adobe houses around a public square with two iron benches, a well, and a single palm tree. On one side was a church that looked like something out of an old Western movie. The only place showing any sign of life was the local cantina across from the church. One side was open to the plaza. Bull parked the truck and climbed out.
Four men, of varying ages, were sitting at a table drinking beer and playing cards. Mariachi music blasted from a small portable radio. The bartender looked up as Bull approached the rough plank bar.
“En que puedo servirle, señor?” he asked. “Quiere una cervesa?”
Bull surmised that the man had asked if he wanted a beer. He struggled with his high school Spanish. “No, gracias.” He pointed to his truck. “Aquí tengo Carlos Ortega. El es . . . muerto.”
The men at the table were staring at him. One of them, who appeared to be the oldest, rose to his feet. “I speak English,” he said. “Did you say that Carlos Ortega, my brother, is dead?”
Bull nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to depend on his weak command of the language. “My friend and I found him dying. He asked me to bring him here. I’m sorry. He was a good man.”
“You knew him?”
“He worked for our ranch as a cook.”
The man extended his hand. He was a younger, leaner version of Carlos. His English, though spoken with an accent, was fluent, as if he might have worked for some years in the United States. “Ramón Ortega a su servicio. Did you say my brother’s body is in your truck?”
Bull accepted the handshake. “Yes. He wanted me to bring him home. He died on the way here.”
Ramón glanced toward a younger man at the table, who sprang to his feet and hurried off. “Tell me how he died. Was it an accident?”
“No.” Bull explained what had happened.
Ramón nodded, a sadness in his intense brown eyes. “Ay, that beautiful car. He drove it here once, so proud. And now he has died for it. What about the law? Did they catch the men?”
Bull shook his head. “The sheriff won’t do anything to help.”
Ramón’s expression hardened. “Please, I want to see my brother now.”
Bull opened the tailgate and pulled the mattress out. Ramón lifted the blanket, gazed down at Carlos for a moment, and covered his face again. By then people were spilling into the plaza, a few still getting into their clothes. Some of the older women were wailing.
Two young men, about Bull’s age, raced ahead of the others. Pulling Ramón aside, they exchanged bursts of rapid-fire Spanish. Ramón turned back to Bull.
“Joaquin and Raul—they are Carlos’s sons,” Ramón said. “After their mother died they grew up in my home. They are like my own children. They want to go back to Texas with you and find those evil men. They want justice for their father.”
“But those men could have left the state by now. They could be anywhere,” Bull argued.
“Joaquin and Raul know that. But there is no honor in staying here and doing nothing. If you take them, they will work to pay you back. They are hard workers.”
Bull weighed what he’d just heard. Smuggling two Mexicans back to Texas would be illegal as hell. But Lord knows, he could use the free labor, and he owed it to Carlos to help.
“What about the border?” he asked. “How would I get them through?”
“Easy. Before the border, you let them out. They cut around and cross the river. You pick them up on the other side. The coyotes do it all the time.” Ramón used the common term for people who dealt in smuggling Mexicans. “So what do you say?”
“Maybe. But I’d be taking a risk. I need time to think about it,” Bull said.
“Fine. The burial will be tomorrow, after the grave is dug and the body prepared. You can decide then.”
“I can’t wait that long. I left one man alone at the ranch. There might be trouble. I need to get back.”
Ramón turned and spoke to Carlos’s sons. Again, they exchanged volleys of Spanish, speaking so rapidly that Bull could catch only a few words.
“They understand,” Ramón said, turning back to Bull. “They will go when you are ready. But I ask you, please come to my house now. Have some food and coffee while they say good-bye to my wife and get their things. Give us a chance to thank you for bringing Carlos home.”
It appeared the decision had been made.
Two men had come with a litter and taken Carlos’s body away. The crowd was clearing, people going back to bed as Bull locked the truck and followed Ramón to an adobe house just off the square. Only now did he notice that the man walked with a painful limp. It was probably the reason he was here instead of working in the States and sending money home. With his brother injured, Carlos might have been the family’s main source of income. Now even that would be gone.
The house was small but clean, with colorful blankets on the furniture and pictures of saints on the walls. Ramón�
�s wife, a tired-looking woman who would have been pretty in her youth, was warming beans and tortillas on a makeshift wood stove. She gave Bull a weary smile as she dished up the food and poured the coffee, which they drank black, sitting at the table. The two young men ate hastily, eager to be off on their adventure.
“Do they speak any English?” Bull asked Ramón.
“Some. They are shy about using it, but they can speak if they need to. Don’t worry. They are good boys. They will behave well. Yes?” He gave his two nephews a stern glance.
“Yes.” They nodded, answering in English. Bull could only hope this was a good idea and that he wouldn’t end up in jail.
He had just finished his coffee and risen from the table when there was a knock at the door. Ramón’s wife hurried to open it. Three men, who appeared to be in their thirties, stood on the stoop. One of them, who looked a little older than the others, stepped inside.
“We hear you take these boys to Texas,” he said in broken English. “You take us, too? We pay you. Four hundred dollars each.”
Twelve hundred dollars! How much feed, fencing wire, and gasoline would that buy? He could even pay the phone bill. It was damned tempting. And damned risky.
“We lay down close in the back of your truck,” the man persisted. “You cover us—nobody will see. I tell you what—five hundred each. Half now and half when you take us to Big Spring. We know a rancher there. He will give us work.”
Fifteen hundred dollars. And Big Spring wasn’t that far out of the way. Still, he’d be smart to think twice. There’d be hell to pay if he got caught.
“Escuche,” the man said. “Listen—these two muchachos—it is their first time. They can get lost. They can get caught by the migra. We know the way to cross the river. We can keep them safe.”
A glance at Ramón’s worried expression was enough to tip the balance. True—the boys would be safer, and the whole plan had a better chance if the older, experienced men were along to guide the younger ones. And the idea of returning home with money for the cash-strapped ranch sweetened the temptation.
