“I know the place,” Bull said. “But how in the devil did those boys get the word? They’ve hardly been off the ranch since they got here. They don’t even have access to a phone.”
“That’s a thing about Mexicans,” Jasper said. “They’ve got their ways of keeping in touch between the farms and ranches where they work. A few of ’em will have a car, or even a bicycle. They’ll visit back and forth at night and out on the range. They’ll send messages, have places where they get together and have a few beers. Somethin’ tells me our boys have been busier than you think.”
“All right.” Bull stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. He’d been behind the wheel for more hours than he wanted to think about. He needed a good shower and a few hours of sleep. “So when do they want to go after those men?”
“They wanted to go last night, but I said they had to wait for you. They can’t go alone and unarmed. One of us will need to go with them, that is, if the murdering buzzards haven’t moved on already.”
“I’ll go,” Bull said. “You stay here and keep an eye on things.”
“You’re sure? This is damned serious business.”
“I promised myself I’d even the score for what they did to Carlos,” Bull said. “I’m grateful for the chance.”
“Fine,” Jasper said. “For now, you might as well get some rest. The boys and I can take care of the chores. I’ll tell them it’s on for tonight.”
* * *
Bull doused the pickup’s headlights as he turned off the narrow asphalt and found the washboard road that led to the old gravel pit. Abandoned years ago, it had become a hangout for teenage alcohol parties, lovers, and homeless tramps. He could only hope the men who’d killed Carlos and stolen his car hadn’t moved on.
Carlos’s sons sat next to him on the truck’s bench seat. They’d made a plan before leaving the Rimrock, but between Bull’s high school Spanish and their limited English, he couldn’t be sure how well they’d understood each other. Bull had strapped on his. 44. Raul and Joaquin were unarmed except for their switchblades, some lengths of rope, and a six-pack of Dos Equis beer.
A quarter mile from the gravel pit, Bull pulled the truck onto a wide spot in the road. The three of them got out quietly, barely closing the doors. In the distance they could see the faint glow of a fire and hear the unmistakable blare of a radio tuned to a Mexican station. The two young men glanced at each other and nodded.
Bull carried the ropes l
ooped over his shoulder, the pistol cocked and ready in his right hand. Jacinto carried the six-pack of beer. As they neared the gravel pit, Bull hung back, keeping out of sight among the clumps of sage and mesquite. The plan involved putting the two criminals at ease before overpowering them and tying them with the ropes. It would have been simpler for Bull to shoot them from cover, but Carlos’s sons had wanted to take their revenge with their own hands. Bull understood and respected their sense of honor. If he ever learned who’d murdered his own father, he would do the same.
The stars were bright overhead, the moon just rising. A small animal—a mouse or lizard—skittered across the path and vanished into the long, dry grass. The pistol was cold in Bull’s hand. He’d never killed a man. Neither, he suspected, had the two boys. One way or another, tonight would change them all.
Bull stayed in the shadows outside the shallow ring of the gravel pit as Raul and Joaquin walked into the firelight with the six-pack of beer. He could catch only a few words of Spanish, but he could make out laughter and sounds of greeting.
Carlos’s Buick was parked a few yards from the fire. When the stockier of the two men turned into the light, Bull could see the ugly slash of a scar across his face. There was no doubt these were the murderers who’d killed the old man.
Bull kept the pistol cocked and aimed, ready to fire if either man made an aggressive move. He was a decent shot—his father had taught him, railing at him, even cuffing him, every time he missed a target. After a while he’d learned not to miss.
Now the four Mexicans were sprawled around the fire drinking beer. The two thugs didn’t appear to be armed, and Bull couldn’t see any guns within reach. They were downing their second bottles, laughing and singing along with the music on the radio, when Bull stepped into the firelight.
“Manos arriba!” he barked, ordering the men to put their hands up. Playing along, Joaquin and Raul raised their hands. The two thugs hesitated, but the sight of the heavy pistol in the gringo’s hand was enough to convince them not to try anything.
“Bájense—en la tierra!” He gave up on Spanish. “Down on the ground, damn you! Now!” As the men prostrated themselves in the gravel, Bull tossed the ropes to Carlos’s sons. “Tie their hands and feet,” he ordered. “Do it!”
Still pretending to be frightened, the young men obeyed. Only when the two men were securely trussed hand and foot did their demeanor change. Standing over them, Raul spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. Bull caught the gist of what he was saying—that he and his brother were the sons of the old man they’d killed. Now the two cabrones were going to pay.
Bull’s part was done. He kept his gun trained on the two bound men, but their fate was in the hands of Carlos’s sons. Bull had resolved not to interfere. Even so, he had to stifle a gasp when the young Mexicans took the remaining rope, passed it around and between the bound ankles of the two men, then lashed it securely to the trailer hitch on the back of the Buick.
Still facedown on the ground, the men were blubbering and pleading now, tears streaking their dusty faces as they begged for their lives. Ignoring them except for a pause to check the ropes, the two young men climbed into the front seat. Raul, the driver, started the big car, switched on the headlights, and gunned the powerful V8 engine. The car roared out of the gravel pit and shot across the rocky, brush-strewn flatland.
Bull could hear the men screaming as he turned and started back to his pickup. By the time he reached it, the screams had stopped. As he stood by the truck and watched the red taillights grow faint with distance, the truth struck him.
Carlos’s sons weren’t coming back. They had all they’d come for—their revenge and their father’s beloved car. Joaquin and Raul were headed straight for Mexico.
Bull couldn’t help wondering if they had money for gas and food, or even if they knew the way. Never mind, he could only wish them well and hope they would reach Rio Seco, covered with honor and driving the most beautiful car in town. He would never know for sure. His business in Rio Seco was done.
The Buick had reached the road. Bull saw the taillights stop briefly, long enough, most likely, for somebody to untie the rope from the trailer hitch. Then the old Buick moved on and vanished into the night.
Much as he wanted to be out of that place, Bull knew he couldn’t leave until he’d checked on the two men. Hopefully they were dead. If they weren’t, they damned well ought to be.
He started the truck and drove back to the spot where he’d seen the Buick stop. In the play of the headlights, he could see a pair of bulky shapes in the runoff ditch next to the road. Taking his pistol, he climbed out of the truck.