The office was a mess, like a man at the desk. Rifles and guns lined the shelves, mixed with photographs of rough-looking Texas Rangers on the wall. Dusty filing cabinets stood open with papers piled high. Two flags stood beside his desk: one of the states of Texas and the other of the United States. Don Federico wondered if Hanson was trying to appear as an intimidating government official. An old, blue, enamelware coffee pot stood simmering on top of an iron stove, and, by the strong smell, it had been boiling for many hours. The sharp sound of the tapping of a telegraph could be heard in the background.
Hanson's legs were crossed on top of his unorganized desk, displaying his leather boots with fancy gold metallic stars attached to them. He was leaning back in his chair, enjoying one of his cheap cigars. The sight of Don Federico surprised him as if seeing a ghost, and he dropped his legs hard to the wooden floor.
He was a brute of a man, weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds, with cold, dark pig-eyes. He had come from the debased school of tainted, unlawful teaching and "unscrupulous excessive maleness," as it was called. Rumor said he drank hard, smoked dozens of cigars a day, gambled, and aside from getting enormous pleasure in killing, took joy in women, especially the Mexicans, whom he preferred. He could get away with almost anything, for he was the law, and with his badge and two six-shooters, he could cover his tracks very easily. He had the majority of the whites fooled, convinced that he would restore law and order, and he did so in his brutal public acts that were effective against the Mexicans. Those around him felt manipulated by his power and control, responding only to his greedy, evil needs.
"Well!" exclaimed Hanson, moving his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth. "What the hell brings you to Harlingen? Is it the hurricane from the Gulf coming in our direction? It's amazing when the weather turns, what it brings in." He cocked his head toward his assistant, a young rookie named Smith. There was obvious sarcasm in Hanson's voice. The assistant eyed Don Federico from his small desk in the corner and snickered.
Haughty and uncultured, Hanson failed to offer Don Federico a seat. The Don found a chair that was stacked with papers. He moved them to one side and sat on the edge, turning to face Hanson.
"Yeah," said Hanson, jokingly. "Why don't you sit down somewhere?"
By the strong, foul smell of alcohol, Don Federico sensed that the brute was drinking cheap whiskey, and he noticed the bottle in the debris on top of the desk. Hanson took a few sips and offered some to Don Federico.
With the courtly manner of a Spanish Don, Federico waved it away. "No! Thank you! It's too early for any drinking."
"You're more accustomed to the expensive kind!" retorted Hanson, displaying his ill manners. "You're more used to the good stuff—brandy, scotch, or even champagne. Your father enjoyed the best of everything. And surely it's rubbed off on you. You rich sonsabitches have everything!" he replied scornfully, exposing his brown, stained teeth. Leaning back heavily on his chair, he lifted his legs and returned his boots to the messy desk, unconcerned.
Invoking his father's name associated with a dirty word provoked Don Federico and sent the blood rushing to his head. Trying his best not to let his temper get the best of him, he said flatly, "Leave my father’s name out of this, Hanson!" He stood up and harshly pushed the chair with his boot, giving it a quick shove to one side, causing several papers to slide to the floor. He adjusted his gun belt. "My father is dead and gone. Nothing is going to bring him back. I'm here strictly for business! I don't like this any more than you do."
He put his hands on the desk and leaned toward the Ranger. "I need to know what your plans are for the gold mine in Monterrey. Since you and I have unfortunately become partners and nothing is being done about running it."
"Whoa! What the hell ya' mean—plan to do about it'?" yelled Hanson. He was inebriated by this time, and his face reddened with agitation. The atmosphere in the room became tense. "I don't plan to do a goddamn thing about it!" he said, coughing and clearing his throat. His eyes widened, and it appeared as if fire and brimstone were coming out of them. "Matter of fact, the dividends have been real good this past year."
"Dividends from the gold mine?" questioned the Don. "Without you lifting a finger and doing anything about it? Well, how nice! How convenient it was for you!"
"I just got lucky," Hanson bragged.
The young rookie Ranger sensed the atmosphere was about to explode into a real fracas. He calmly put down the papers he was reviewing, stood up, and walked out into the dusty main street.
"I'll bet," said Don Federico, shaking his index finger in Hanson's face. "Tell me, Hanson. How did you come to own a piece of my father's gold mine? How did you pull that off?" he demanded.
"Well! Hell!" stammered Hanson, knowing he was getting cornered. His actions became suspicious. "Your father had a habit of doing a lot of bragging. Shooting off his mouth about his Sona bitchin' money, all the land he had, and his goddamn cattle. He bragged about other properties he had in Mexico and here in Mercedes City. While the four of us were gambling, playing serious poker at the Mercedes Hotel, your father began flaunting his great wealth. The three of us took him up on his word. We told him to put up or shut up."
Hanson paused to take another sip of the cheap whiskey. "Your father was drinking very heavily and began betting up to a thousand dollars a hand. He began losing but kept betting. He was a poor loser and didn't want to stop. He kept betting, drinking, and boasting more than ever, and he kept the cards coming for a long time. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen. You know how stubborn he was, never wanting advice from anyone. Your father was a very determined man in anything he did. It was past midnight, and by that time he had lost several thousand dollars, the majority of it owed to me."
Don Federico stood listening, never commenting or interrupting, and glared at Hanson, trying to believe what he was saying. Then he spoke. "So Dad gave you part of the mine for his recompense? How convenient! How lucky you are!"
"Hell! He owed me the money. It was his damned idea! Your father signed a piece of paper, witnessed and signed by the other two men, giving me a partnership in the gold mine. He promised that the dividends coming from the mine would more than pay the bill." He coughed, took several puffs from his cigar, put it down, and then continued. "Lawyer Parker has your father's handwritten document in his office. He witnessed the whole damn thing." Hanson paused for a moment as if catching himself in giving out too much information. He picked his words carefully. "I was his confidant," he said convincingly. "He relied heavily on our friendship. There's a lot more that you do not know about your father—there's more, but maybe it's better this way."
"You mentioned Parker. Who else?" asked Don Federico, narrowing his eyes and now furious. "Besides you, Parker, and my father, who else was involved in this shark playing the game?"
"I thought you knew all this time!" gasped Hanson, with a surprised expression. His crafty, beady eyes were dead set on Don Federico's actions, and he felt forced to answer. "Your own relative from Mercedes City," he said. "Judge Howard Ale."
"Howard Ale?" The name hit Don Federico like a lightning bolt. Emma's husband! It was all coming together as the completion of a great puzzle.
"Shark game?" replied Hanson coldly. "You're not suggesting the game was rigged?" The Ranger glanced at Don Federico with a suspicious look, feeling that he might be catching onto their con games.
Astounded over the discovery of Howard Ale’s involvement, Don Federico ignored the question. He began pacing the floor. "I would like to get this settled before taking my family to Monterrey in January. I'd like to sell my part—you buy me out— or vice versa," he replied, eyeing Hanson with suspicion.
"Going to Monterrey, eh?" commented Hanson, leaning forward. He began pulling the cigar out of his mouth and looked interested. Like a shark exposing his true nature, he was no longer hiding his cunning and deviousness. He was an opportunist, taking the side that benefited him the most.
"Yes! My daughter Victoria i
s going to school south of Monterrey. Francisca will be visiting her family, while I go and see the gold mine. We plan to spend Christmas and the New Year in Mexico with my wife's parents. While I'm there, I'll inspect the mine, during the first week of the New Year. I would like to establish a commitment to us and square things up before then."
"What the hell is your big rush?" growled Hanson, putting his cigar back into his mouth and holding it between his stained teeth. "There's money to be made in the gold mine! January!" said the Ranger, getting up from his desk. He slammed his boots down on the wooden floor and, in deep thought; he brushed his dark beard with his right hand and walked toward the front of the office to the window facing the busy street.
Don Federico sat down again on the edge of the chair and studied Hanson as he stood facing the window. He was waiting to see if the man was going to take any responsibility in the partnership of the mine. A missing ornament on one of Hanson's boots caught his eye. They were custom-made boots, but one of the gold metal stars was missing from his right boot. He found it odd and distracting.
Hanson finally spoke. "Normally, it's been pretty peaceful around here during the winter months. But, hell! In the last couple of weeks, there have been several skirmishes from across the river, affecting all of us. I’ll have to make some kind of plans and leave one or two of my Ranger’s to take care of business.”
"Since we are both accountable for the outcome of the gold mine, maybe we can set up an agreement, a contract, as to who is going to do what with it!" remarked Don Federico impatiently.
"I may not have the time!" Hanson thundered. "Several days ago, Sheriff Anglin and several of my boys were notified of a disturbance by the border in that shit-hole of a village, Rio Rico, across the river. Found four men and several women with children all slaughtered—everything was destroyed. It was a hellacious mess. Nothing was left standing in the area. All of the crappy huts were burned down and nothing remained except the smell of the dead bodies. With the help of some Federalist officials from Matamoros, they ended up putting kerosene on the bodies and setting fire to the whole goddamn mess. An old man, who had been to see some of his relatives on the Rancho de la Manteca returned hours later. He was hysterical and had inspected the bodies and mentioned that one of the young girls was missing, possibly had escaped. I would sure like to know what happen to her so we can get some more information as to what took place in that shit-hole."
I bet you would, thought Don Federico, recalling the poor girl, Soledad. He remained silent, letting Hanson do all the talking, hoping he might incriminate himself.
Hanson immediately changed the subject, becoming vague, uncomfortable and edgy about the Rio Rico massacre. "I'll let you know what I plan to do." His mouth was tight with rage, either from the border incident or because the Don was questioning him, pinning him down, and forcing him to take some responsibility for his newly acquired foreign mine. "Mes'kin bandits!" he ranted. “Yes, that's who they were. Assassins! Greasers! Bastards," he kept repeating. Being an alcoholic, Hanson turned red-faced when angered, highlighting his coarse, pockmarked skin and red-veined nose.
"The Mexican Federalists will bring justice to whoever did this, having jurisdiction in Mexico, not in the United States." Don Federico replied, livid over Hanson's persistent dirty digs.
"Justice, you said justice? Hell! I'm the justice here! If I had gotten my hands on the sonsabitches I would have blown their heads completely off." Hanson boasted, swinging his hands and repeating over and over all the terrible things he was going to do to get even as if he had to account for that incident.
Don Federico got the impression that Hanson was feeling remorse. There was more to his story that wasn't being told. The Don kept silent and narrowed his eyes. He was known to be a tough negotiator. His facial features became expressionless, displaying a cool head. Still sitting next to Hanson's desk, he kept his distance, and yet his eyes never left the brute's sight. He had gotten the information he wanted, especially the disappearance of the young girl Soledad. Apparently, the Rangers suspected there was an escaped witness, who, unbeknownst to Hanson, was staying at his place. What about the other woman involved, the gringa! Had anybody reported her missing? He wondered.
"You still haven't said what you're going to do about our gold mine. That's the main reason I'm here. There's going to be problems here on the border and in Mexico."
"Here you go again!" roared Hanson, like a demon. "Is that all you have on your mind?"
"There's talk going on all along the border of a Mexican Revolution. This means trouble for any investors in that country, especially Americans. If we want to settle the gold mine between us, we need to do it as soon as possible," said Don Federico becoming frustrated and getting nowhere with a solution. He was talking to an idiot who had gotten lucky by using his father's friendship and did not understand the seriousness of the coming problem.
"Revolution, hell! There's always something going on across the river. That doesn't scare me. I can handle any situation or, for that matter, any goddamn Mes'kins that come along, here or across the border. You pick the place! I don't need any help with the gold mine, and I haven't seen the day that I couldn't take care of myself. There's an awful lot of money at stake in that mine." His conversation skipped back and forth between the two different subjects at hand.
"Hanson!" yelled Don Federico, interrupting his blathering. "Regarding my father's partnership, I'm willing to sell out. Or else I'll buy you out." He could sense the Ranger going into one of his hellacious rages.
"You must be out of your shittin', cotton-pickin' mind," shouted Hanson, raising his arms dramatically, and moving his cigar to another position in his mouth. "Me, sell out? I haven't received all of the money your father owed me. This damn job doesn't pay worth a shit. So having the gold mine has made it very beneficial for me." He walked back to his desk, leaned forward, and looked straight into Don Federico's face. "What you need to do, Juelson is surrendered the gold mine and put it in my name. Or I'll tell you something even better. You might wanna give me some of your lands in return for the difference. I'll make it real easy for you. As a matter-of-fact, the land over by the resaca, where the crazy old woman and her lunatic son live—I sure would like to have that piece of ground."
I'll bet your ass you would! Don Federico remained silent, glaring at the man he felt was responsible for his father's death. There, of course, had been no evidence and no one to pin anything on. No one would talk, and there was no way to prove anything. Hanson had been the last person seen with his father, and the Ranger claimed his father had a massive heart attack in an angry card game. But how could he explain the thin cut on the back of his father's neck, similar to that of a Mexican stiletto? The rumor had been that his heart gave out because the stakes of the game had gotten too high. But his father did not have a heart problem. That was the mystery.
"I'll need to check into what you've been talking about," answered the Don. "I'll need to get some of the facts straight. I'm going to Mercedes City in a couple of days to get supplies, and it will give me a chance to talk to Howard Ale. He had information on Father's doings since he kept him up on legal things. This will give me time to think about what you said regarding the gold mine." Don Federico spoke evenly but felt his temperature rising. "This will give me some time to put things together, do some investigating. And as for me to give you part of my land that my dad worked so hard for, Hanson—this is out of the question. It'll be a cold day in Hell! That land by the resaca doesn't belong to me. My father gave Doña Adela and her son that land, and she is to stay there until she dies. Then the section will come back to me, and when I die—well, the rest is none of your business."
"Right!" yelled Hanson. "You got a lotta balls coming in here, telling me what I have to do." His voice got progressively louder. "What you need to do is kill that old bitch and get rid of that crazy boy she has and give me the goddamn place. That should solve some of the problems with us." Hanson continued spewing his venomo
us words, as cigar smoke and spit spurted out of his filthy mouth.
"It's real white of you to think that killing innocent people could solve our problem," answered Don Federico, glaring at the brute. "You know and heard my intentions, and I'm making a gentleman's request. It's up to you now. What are your intentions in this partnership, and what's your responsibility in running the gold mine? If we are partners, I need to know what your plans are. There's a lot of work in running a gold mine, especially without any experience and in a foreign country."
"At this time, I don't plan to do a goddamn thing about anything," roared Hanson.
"Well, that's fine with me. And as far as I'm concerned, we may never talk again, and never would be too soon for me. I'll let my attorney from Brownsville do the talking for the both of us and settle my father's business. This conversation has gotten nowhere, and we are wasting time." The Don felt like he was holding a bad poker hand with unpredictable cards and it was time to fold and walk away. He began walking toward the door.
Hanson's face was a portrait of anger; his eyes stared transfixed, glaring with a cunning hatred as he watched Don Federico depart.
Bastard! The Don thought. This is not the end of this story. If he thinks he's going to swindle me out of the gold mine, he's got something else coming. It irked him that this illiterate bastard had been befriended by his father. However, he could see why they had become friends—they were very much alike: his father with his ambitious, ever-expanding enterprises; and Hanson, a gambler with a powerful desire for manipulation and control. But they were opposites in that his father was a man well respected and loved by all who knew him. How dare Hanson? Who the hell does he think he is?
The missing gold metal star on Hanson's boot was starting to disturb him. Deep in his subconscious mind, he visualized some poor Mexican man trying to save his land, being kicked in the ribs by Hanson's boot, and the star dropping on his property. A knot of anger twisted and formed in his stomach. The great Don's mind raced, stunned by what he had heard about his father's adventures. He would get to the bottom of the story. Being an honorable man of justice with an innate sense of fairness, he would get things straight.
Roots of Indifferences Page 8