Blood on the Verde River Read Online Free Page B

out of those damn spines.” JD laughed. “It is sure a tough country. I’ve been seeing a few cows out there. How the hell do you round them up?”
    Jesus laughed. “Being a vaquero is a tough job.”
    â€œDamn tough. I’ll stick to the high country or Texas to cowboy in.”
    Chet wondered if asking his nephew to come along was his best move. JD was not the same youth who rode with him and Reg after those horse thieves stole the entire ranch remuda in Texas that started the feud with the Reynolds. Chet hoped he was wrong. Somewhere ahead he might need a steady gun hand.
    â€œWhat’s our next town?” JD asked as they rode on.
    â€œA place on the Salt River with a water mill that they call Hayden’s Mill.”
    Jesus nodded as the packhorses followed him.
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    They stabled the horses late at night, located an open café, ate spicy Mexican food, and found a rooming house to sleep in for a few hours. By sunup, they were on the road.
    Chet was pleased with their progress when they reached the wide-street town of Mesa at midday.
    JD frowned at the design. “Why, these streets are wide enough to turn a wagon around anywhere.”
    â€œThe Mormons designed it that way,” Jesus said as they rode on through.
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    That night, they stayed in the small village of Chandler where the stage changed teams. Spitting all over, a tobacco-chewing man let them stable their horses and store their panniers. After another poor meal in a café, they slept the night in the stable’s haystack.
    In the morning, a Mexican woman street vendor made them tasty burritos before they rode on.
    They stopped in Casa Grande and looked at the adobe ruins of an ancient civilization.
    â€œWhat happened here?” Chet asked Jesus.
    â€œIt may have been a drought caused them to go back south. No one knows.”
    â€œLike the big cactus, those ruins aren’t talking,” Chet said.
    â€œMaybe it was so bad they didn’t want to,” JD added, sounding bored.
    Chet shook his head and they rode on, stopping only for meals and sleep.
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    Two days later, they reached the walled city of Tucson. A dead hog, half rotten and feasted on by bold vultures, lay in the street at the curb. The birds barely hopped around at their passage. A block later, a dead burro with his eye sockets empty was prone on the side of the street.
    â€œDo they bury dead people here?” JD asked.
    Chet pointed out a file of Sunday dressed people and a priest coming down the street. Several men carried a coffin. The riders halted, removed their hats, and let them to pass.
    â€œI guess you better belong to the church or you will be feed for the buzzards,” JD said as they moved out again.
    â€œThis is the town that competes with Preskitt for the capitol every time the state legislature meets,” Chet said.
    â€œWho in hell’s name would vote for being down here?” JD frowned.
    â€œJesus, doesn’t a powerful ring run the business down here?” Chet asked.
    The young man lowered his voice. “Oh, sí . A strong secret organization runs the services to the army and Indian reservations. So they make sure the large number of soldiers stay here and protect them from the Apaches.”
    JD looked around with another frown. “I damn sure see why the command for the Army is up there at Preskitt and I don’t blame them.”
    Jesus took them to a relative who owned a small farm on the Santa Cruz. Ronaldo Vargas was a man in his thirties. His small irrigated farm had alfalfa, a milk cow, and several acres of corn that was made in the shuck. His wife, a smiling woman named Rio, welcomed them to get down and she would cook them some food.
    Road weary, they dropped off their saddles and undid the girths. Vargas talked to his kinsman and told them to put the animals in a pen and the panniers inside the tack room so the dogs didn’t get into them. The horses