The Edge of Hell Page 2

  Ned Becker wasn’t most men, though, as those who had been unlucky enough to cross him had found out.

  He was almost as dark as the Apaches, but black beard stubble covered his lantern jaw. His eyes under the pulled-down hat brim blazed with hatred. He kept those fires banked most of the time because he knew it was dangerous for a man to let his emotions get out of control.

  But every now and then the flames inside him leaped up and threatened to consume him from the inside out if he didn’t cut loose. When he did, somebody usually died.

  Becker figured if anybody ought to be known as The Fires of Hell, it was him. He wasn’t going to argue about it with Bodaway, though. The war chief was too useful to risk making him mad.

  “Remember, hit ’em hard and fast,” Becker went on. “That’ll draw Slaughter’s crew and Don Eduardo’s men away from the herd. My men and I will take care of everything else.”

  Bodaway’s lip curled slightly in disdain. To an Apache’s way of thinking, stealing more cattle than you could eat was a waste of time and effort. For that matter, they would rather steal horses, since a warrior could ride a horse—and they preferred the taste of horse meat to beef.

  “You will deliver the rifles?” he said to Becker.

  “In two weeks or less,” the outlaw promised. “Just as we agreed. Fifty brand-new Winchesters and a thousand rounds of ammunition for each.”

  Bodaway nodded in solemn satisfaction. Offering him money wouldn’t have accomplished a damned thing, Becker knew. The Apaches didn’t have any use for it.

  But the lure of rifles had been more than the war chief could resist. Only a few of Bodaway’s men were armed with Winchesters. Most of the others carried single-shot Springfields taken from dead cavalrymen. A couple even had muzzle-loading flintlocks that had been handed down for generations after being stolen from fur trappers farther north.

  Most of the Apaches were on reservations now, but isolated bands of renegades still hid out in the mountains. It was Bodaway’s dream to mold those groups into a band large enough to do some real damage to the cavalry and to the white settlements in the territory. With modern rifles to use as a lure, he might well succeed in bringing together all the bronco Apaches.

  In the night, he probably thought about doing all the bloody things Cochise and Geronimo had never been able to accomplish. Becker knew what that was like.

  He had a dream of his own.

  His old friend Bodaway didn’t know anything about that, and there was no reason to tell him. As long as Bodaway and his men did what Becker needed them to do, that was the only thing that mattered. If they did . . .

  If they did, then Becker’s long-sought vengeance would be right there in front of him where he could reach out and grasp it at last.

  * * *

  Evening settled down on the San Bernardino Valley, bringing some cooling breezes. Viola Slaughter loved this time of day. It gave her great peace and happiness to step out into the dusk and gaze up at the spectacular wash of red and gold and blue and purple in the sky as the sunset faded. Often she stood there drinking in the beauty of nature and listening to the faint sounds of the ranch’s activities winding down for the day.

  Today wasn’t like that, however. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever, but the air was filled with the sound of preparations for the evening’s festivities.

  Servant girls chattered as they brought plates and silverware from the house and set them on the tables under the cottonwoods. Cowboys and vaqueros called to each other and laughed from the great spit where a beef was roasting over a crackling fire. Fiddlers and guitar players tuned their instruments for the dancing later. Children from the families of the ranch hands ran around playing and shouting. Among them were some Indian youngsters. The peaceful Indian families in the area knew they were always welcome when the Slaughters had a party. Everyone was welcome, in fact. That was just the way it was on the Slaughter Ranch.

  Viola’s husband came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her thick dark hair.

  “I say, you’ve done a fine job with this fiesta, as usual,” John Slaughter told her.

  Viola leaned back in the comfortable embrace of his arms and laughed.

  “I haven’t done much of anything, John, and you know it. The people who work for us deserve all the credit.”

  “Without your planning and supervision, there wouldn’t even be a party,” Slaughter said. “And you know that.”

  She turned to face him and asked, “What do you think of Don Eduardo?”

  “A fine fellow. Very straightforward.” Slaughter shrugged. “A bit arrogant, perhaps, but that’s common with these grandees. It’s the Spaniard in ’em, I suppose. Europeans have a weakness for the aristocracy.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Doña Belinda? She’s all right, I suppose. We don’t really have anything in common with her, what with her being from back east and all.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m not sure I like her,” Viola said quietly.

  “What?” Slaughter looked and sounded surprised. “I thought you liked everyone.”

  “Not everybody,” Viola said, a little tartly now. “She’s pleasant enough, I suppose, but I’m not sure I trust her.”

  “Well, luckily you don’t have to,” Slaughter pointed out. “Her husband seems trustworthy enough, and he’s the one I’m doing business with.” Slaughter stepped back, slipped his watch out of his vest pocket, and opened it to check the time. “In fact, I ought to get back inside. I’m supposed to meet Don Eduardo in my study and deliver the payment for those cows to him. Then we can get the fandango started.”

  “All right, go ahead,” Viola said as she patted her husband’s arm. “I’ll see you when you’re finished.”

  Slaughter nodded, put his watch away, and turned to stride back into the house with his usual vigor. He was not a man to do things in a lackadaisical manner, whether it was pursuing lawbreakers as sheriff, working with the hands here on the ranch, or making love to his beautiful young wife.

  Viola checked with the servants to make sure the preparations were going as they were supposed to, then walked out to talk to the vaqueros and see that the meat would be ready. Assured that it would be, Viola started back toward the house.

  Her route took her near the elevated water tank. She was surprised to see movement in the shadows underneath it. The area where the fiesta would be held was brightly lit by colorful lanterns hanging in the trees, but their glow didn’t really reach this far. Twilight had deepened until the gloom was nearly impenetrable in places.

  Viola had keen eyes, though, and she knew it was unlikely that any of the servants or the ranch hands would be around the water tank right now. She gave in to curiosity and walked in that direction, moving with her usual quiet grace.

  As she came closer she heard the soft murmur of voices, but she didn’t recognize them and couldn’t make out any of the words. She started to call out and ask who was there, but she stopped before she said anything.

  Her natural caution had asserted itself. If whoever was lurking under the water tank had some sort of mischief in mind, it might not be wise to let them know she was there.

  Instead she stuck to the shadows herself and slipped closer, and then stopped as she began to be able to understand what the two people were saying.

  They spoke in Spanish, the man with a fluency that indicated it was his native tongue. The woman’s words were more halting as she tried to think of how to express what she wanted to say.

  It was perfectly clear to Viola that they were lovers, and passionate ones at that. After a moment they both fell silent, and she assumed that was because they were kissing.

  She had recognized the voices and understood the words as well. One of them belonged to Santiago Rubriz.

  The woman was his stepmother, Doña Belinda.

  Viola knew there had to be a reason she didn’t like or trust the blonde from Boston, she thought as she stood there in the darknes
s, her face warm with embarrassment from the secret she had unwittingly uncovered.

  Chapter 3

  Before Don Eduardo came in, Slaughter had already worked the combination lock on the massive safe bolted to the floor in his study. All he had to do now was twist the handle and swing the heavy door open. He reached inside and pulled out a pair of leather saddlebags, grunting a little at their weight.

  The saddlebags clinked meaningfully as Slaughter deposited them on the desk.

  “Payment in gold, as we agreed, Don Eduardo,” he said to his visitor. “Double eagles. Feel free to count them if you’d like.”

  Rubriz waved a hand dismissively. “I trust you, Señor Slaughter,” he said. “I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you are an honest man.”

  “I appreciate that,” Slaughter said with a faint smile. “Unfortunately, not everyone I’ve dealt with in the past has felt that way.”

  “Then they were mistaken.” Don Eduardo’s shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. “Such things happen.”

  “Be that as it may, if you’d like to count the money, it won’t offend me.”

  “And I say again, it will not be necessary. Besides—” Don Eduardo’s eyes twinkled with good humor, but a glitter of steel lurked there as well, Slaughter noted. “If you were to try to cheat me, as the old saying goes, I know where you live, señor.”

  That brought a laugh from Slaughter, a laugh in which his visitor joined. Don Eduardo picked up the saddlebags, hefted them approvingly, and went on, “We may consider our arrangement concluded. Now that it is, if I might request a favor of you . . .”

  “Of course,” Slaughter said.

  “If you would not mind keeping this locked up in your safe until we depart tomorrow, I would be in your debt.”

  “Certainly, if you’d prefer it that way,” Slaughter said. He reached out and took the saddlebags from the don.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust my people, or yours,” Rubriz said as Slaughter locked the double eagles in the safe again. “But I wish to enjoy the evening’s festivities without the slightest hint of worry in my mind.”

  “Can’t blame you for that. It should be quite a shindig.”

  “I hope my wife enjoys it. Belinda has had a bit of trouble adjusting to our Western ways since coming to live at my hacienda. She finds us somewhat . . . uncivilized.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Slaughter muttered.

  Don Eduardo waved an elegantly manicured hand. “I’m sure it is only a matter of time until she becomes accustomed to life on the ranch,” he said. “But for now, I’m glad she has the friendship of such a fine lady as Señora Slaughter. That will make it easier for her to adjust.”

  Slaughter just nodded. He couldn’t very well say anything about what Viola had told him earlier. Anyway, he was certain that despite how his wife might feel about Doña Belinda, Viola would treat her with the utmost courtesy and kindness. To do otherwise would be to go against everything she believed about being a good hostess.

  Slaughter came out from behind the desk and suggested, “Why don’t we go and see how the preparations are coming along? I reckon it ought to be time pretty soon to get this fandango started.”

  “An excellent idea,” Rubriz agreed. Together, the two men left the study.

  * * *

  Viola didn’t want to move for fear of making a noise and giving away her presence. It was bad enough that she had stumbled upon this illicit rendezvous. She didn’t want Doña Belinda and Santiago to know that she was aware of their affair.

  After a few more moments that seemed longer to Viola than they really were as she waited in the shadows, Belinda and Santiago moved apart. Belinda murmured an endearment in Spanish and then added in a mixture of Spanish and English, “Later, mi amor. When your father is asleep, I will come to you.”

  “Sí,” Santiago breathed. “I will count the seconds until then.”

  In the darkness, Viola rolled her eyes. All too often, young men in love sounded as if they were reading lines from a second-rate melodrama.

  Santiago faded away quietly, disappearing into the warm, early evening gloom as he headed toward the house.

  Viola expected Belinda to follow him—after a suitable interval, of course—but instead the woman stayed where she was in the shadows under the water tank. Viola began to get restless.

  She jumped a little as Belinda said in a quiet but clear voice, “You can come out now. I know you’re there.”

  Viola didn’t budge. She hoped the other woman would decide that she had been mistaken.

  Instead, Belinda said, “There’s no need to pretend, Mrs. Slaughter.”

  That took Viola even more by surprise. She stepped forward and said, “How—”

  “How did I know it was you?”

  Viola was close enough now that even in the poor light, she could see the faint gleam of Belinda’s teeth as the blonde smiled.

  “I smelled your perfume,” Belinda went on. “I remembered the scent from earlier.”

  “I wasn’t wearing it then,” Viola said.

  “Maybe not, but enough of it lingered about you that I noticed. I’m observant about things like that.”

  “I’m observant, too,” Viola said. Her tone was a little sharp now. “Sometimes I notice things that I wish I hadn’t.”

  “How much . . . did you see?” Belinda asked with only the faintest of catches in her voice.

  “Enough. You and your stepson—”

  “Please,” the other woman broke in. “You don’t have to tell me. I was here, after all.”

  The note of wry humor in Belinda’s voice irritated Viola even more. She was not a stiff-necked prude. In fact, according to her mother, she had always been a bit too earthy for her own good.

  But she also had a code she lived by and a firm sense of what was right and what was not. There was no excuse for a woman to be carrying on with her own stepson.

  “What you do is your own business, Doña Belinda,” Viola said coldly. “But I hope you understand that I won’t tolerate any improper behavior under my own roof.”

  Belinda sighed. “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “That’s what people always say when they know they’re doing something wrong.”

  “Have you never gotten carried away by your emotions and done something you shouldn’t have?”

  “I married a man considerably older than myself when I was still a teenager,” Viola pointed out. “My family didn’t think that was a good idea.”

  “But you did it anyway, didn’t you?”

  “I was in love. I still am.”

  “Then you can sympathize.” A worried note entered Belinda’s voice. “Surely you won’t say anything—”

  “To your husband? You don’t think Don Eduardo deserves to know the truth?”

  “I don’t think he deserves to be hurt for no good reason!”

  The vehemence of Belinda’s response surprised Viola. She said, “You sound almost like you love him.”

  “I do love him. I just—” Belinda broke off with an exasperated sigh. “Arguing isn’t going to do any good. All I can do is ask you not to tell my husband and to throw myself on your mercy, Mrs. Slaughter.”

  A moment of awkward silence passed. Finally, Viola said, “A lot of work went into this party, and I don’t want it ruined. Since you and your husband are leaving tomorrow, I don’t see any need to say anything to him about this matter.”

  “Thank you,” Belinda said. The words sounded heartfelt and sincere.

  “But surely you can . . . conduct yourself with propriety. . . for one night,” Viola added.

  “Don’t worry. We won’t do anything to bring shame on your house.”

  Viola felt a flash of anger. It almost sounded as if Belinda were mocking her. But she had already promised not to tell Don Eduardo what she had seen and heard, and she wasn’t going to go back on her word.

  “I’ll see you again in
a few minutes,” she said. “We’ll act as if nothing happened.”

  “All right. Thank you again.”

  Viola didn’t say anything. She turned and walked away. She would be glad when this night was over, she thought.

  And she would be even happier when their guests from below the border were gone.

  * * *

  Stonewall spotted Santiago Rubriz on his way back to the house and hailed him.

  In the light from the lanterns in the trees, Santiago looked a little flushed and breathless. Stonewall wasn’t sure what he might have been doing to cause that, but it didn’t really matter. Stonewall had something else on his mind.

  “Have you been thinkin’ any more about that race?” he asked.

  A grin stretched across Santiago’s face.

  “I have been thinking about nothing else, amigo,” he said. “Have you settled on a horse that you think will put El Halcón to the test?”

  “Yeah. We got a roan we call Pacer that’s mighty fast. I’d like to match him against El Halcón.”

  “And will you be in the saddle, my friend?”

  “You’re dang right I will,” Stonewall declared. “Fact of the matter is, I rode Pacer in the race at the last Fourth of July picnic in Tombstone.”

  “And did you win?”

  “Well . . . no,” Stonewall admitted. “But we came in second, and there were ten horses in that race. The horse that won nipped us by a nose, right at the finish line.”

  “Then I’m glad you and Pacer will have a chance to redeem yourselves.” Santiago shook his head. “It’s too bad you’re destined to lose again.”

  “We’ll just see about that.” Stonewall frowned and went on, “But when? Your pa’s headed back to his rancho in the morning, right?”

  “That’s true. My stepmother, however, is not what you would call an early riser. We probably won’t leave until midmorning. Perhaps we can hold our race at dawn?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Stonewall enthused. “Fellas fight duels at dawn, don’t they? We’ll have it out, only with horses, not pistols.”

  Santiago clapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed. “Yes, that’s much more civilized,” he agreed. “And no one dies.”