Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  The Scotsman did a quick calculation. “Call it four hundred eighty thousand dollars even.”

  Laird was no slouch with figures himself. “Josh, you just bought yourself some cows.”

  The men grinned and shook hands, then stepped back inside to seal the bargain with a drink. Campbell thought he’d saved himself three dollars a cow, and Hank Laird had turned an extra $20,000 profit. His rock bottom had been twenty-three from the outset.

  Late that night Laird and Josh Campbell crossed the toll bridge to Delano. Their celebration, begun in the hotel bar, had progressed through a string of dance halls and saloons in Wichita proper. Between them, the men had consumed copious amounts of liquor, and after a brief stop at the Keno House, Laird was feeling especially festive. He’d won nearly $3000 at the faro tables, and he suggested they top off the evening with a visit to Mattie Silks’s parlor house. Since he considered himself the big winner all the way round, he insisted that it was to be his treat.

  Campbell thought it a grand gesture. Secretly, each man still figured he’d skinned the other, but tonight they were warmed by drunken camaraderie and effusive goodwill. An interlude among ladies of negotiable virtue seemed a fitting tribute to their friendship.

  Upon entering the red-light district they had to pass a warren of cheap cathouses. These establishments were operated by the likes of Rowdy Joe Lowe and the Earp Brothers, Wyatt and James, and catered to cowhands who couldn’t afford better. Down the street, Mattie Silks and Dixie Lee were in fiece competition for the parlor house trade. They had imported redheads and blondes, sloe-eyed Chinese and high yellow octoroons, and the girls were trained to pamper their customers in ways considered daringly exotic by Texans. Yet the charge for their services was purposely steep, and the parlor houses were usually frequented by men of substance, drummers and cattle buyers and ranchers flush from the sale of a herd.

  Laird stormed into the brothel and let out a roar that shook the house. Followed by the austere little Scotsman, he entered the parlor to find Mattie Silks and her girls on their feet staring wide-eyed in alarm. The bouncer, Handsome Jack Ready, rushed from one of the back rooms with a lead-loaded bung starter in his hand.

  “Mattie, my love!” Laird greeted her with a tottering bow. “You’re looking lovely as ever.”

  “And you look like you’re pickled.”

  “Aye, that I am. But with reason, lass, with reason. Me and my wee friend here are celebrating, so bolt the doors and lock the windows. I’m buying your house for the rest of the night. Every girl you’ve got.”

  The girls squealed with delight and started forward, but Mattie Silks halted them with an upraised palm. She was a plump woman, heavily corseted, with hair the color of corn silk and a pert oval face that lacked the hardness of most cowtown madams. Still, she knew how to handle Texans— drunk or sober—and she wasn’t about to have the decorum of her parlor house unsettled. She drew herself up, hands on her hips, and fixed Laird with a stern look.

  “That isn’t the way I operate, Hank. And you’ve been here often enough to know it.”

  “Awww, Mattie, don’t spoil my fun. It’s a rare occasion! Haven’t I just told you we’re celebrating?”

  “Yes, and you’re welcome to the hospitality of the house, but I won’t have my regular customers inconvenienced. Not for you or anyone else.”

  “Regular customers!” Laird howled. “And what in the name of Christ would you call me? In all the years we’ve known each other, have I ever patronized any house but yours? Have I?”

  “Hank, as much as I’d like to oblige you, I can’t. It’s just not good business. Now that’s final, so mind your manners and stop being unreasonable.”

  “Oh, it’s final, is it?”

  Laird scooped her up by the waist and swung her high over head in a billowing shower of petticoats. The madam screamed and thrashed, her tiny fists pounding at him in a fit of indignation.

  “Let me go! Goddamnit, Hank Laird, you put me down!”

  “Not till you’ve agreed. C’mon now, be a good girl and say it. Say the house is mine for the night.”

  “No, I won’t! And if you don’t put me down, I’ll have Jack beat your brains out.”

  Handsome Jack Ready dwarfed everyone in the room. He circled them, slapping the bung starter in his open palm, looking for an opening. Laird pivoted, roughly jiggling her around, and presented her bottom to the bouncer. She screeched and kicked and he laughed uproariously.

  “Call your gorilla off, Mattie. Do it or I’ll rattle your teeth!”

  “All right! All right! But put me down, you dirty—!”

  Laird tossed her high in the air, laughing at her shriek, and effortlessly caught her with his arms outstretched. But as he lowered her to the floor, all the color suddenly drained from his face. He gasped, unable to get his breath, and clutched at his chest. The pain blurred his vision and a film of sweat popped out on his forehead. Then he seemed to lose his balance, staggering sideways, and crumpled to the floor.

  For a moment no one moved. His face turned a peculiar shade of blue and spittle leaked down over his chin. Then Mattie dropped to her knees, rolled him onto his back, and tore his shirt collar loose. Handsome Jack Ready brought a tumbler of brandy and, assisted by Campbell, managed to get some of the liquid down his throat. He coughed, sputtering hoarsely, and his stomach heaved as he sucked in several quick breaths. Slowly his vision cleared, and as the pain in his chest diminished, his breathing became less labored. After a few seconds the color returned to his face and he became aware of their worried expressions.

  “Quit frowning. Lost my wind, that’s all.”

  “Like hell!” Mattie snapped. “You damn near croaked.”

  “No, I told you, I’m all right. Nothing wrong except I overdid it a little too much.”

  “I think we ought to send for a doctor.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Laird grumbled. “Wouldn’t trust one of the bastards with a hangnail. Just give me time to catch my breath and I’ll be good as new.”

  His eyes closed, and Mattie watched him silently for a few moments. Then she stood, motioning the girls away, and nodded to Campbell. She drew him aside, lowering her voice. “Hank’s not kidding anyone but himself. He’s a sick man, and if you’re any sort of friend, you’ll get him to see a sawbones.”

  Campbell shook his head. “That’s easier said than done.”

  “Well, he can rest here tonight, but you’d better read him the riot act tomorrow. Another one of those and it’s all over.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning.”

  Laird was asleep, snoring softly. Handsome Jack Ready lifted him off the floor and carried him toward the rear of the house. No one spoke for a long while, then Mattie shrugged and looked around at the girls.

  “All right, let’s see some smiles. Off your butts and look sexy! The evening’s still young.”

  Chapter 18

  The compound lay still and dark under a midnight sky. Trudy paused at the window of her bedroom, eyes watchful, alert to any sign of movement. Fireflies darted through the night, brief flickers swiftly dimmed, but everything appeared normal. She eased onto the windowsill, sat listening a moment longer, then dropped silently to the ground.

  Walking to the corner of the house, Trudy again hesitated, once more scanning the darkness. Her heart was thumping, a steady drumbeat in her ears, and her pulse quickened. By now, after all the times she’d sneaked out of the house, she would have thought to control her fears. Yet it was always the same, her palms damp and a fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. She drew a deep breath, calming her nerves, and gathered her skirt in a wadded bunch above her knees. Then she ran, hurrying across the open ground toward the stables. There, without pausing to catch her breath, she circled the building and disappeared into the trees along the creek.

  Be
hind her, a figure emerged from the shadows of the blacksmith shed. Her direction was obvious, and there was no need for haste. She was easily followed.

  Once in the trees, Trudy turned upstream, walking now but still clutching her skirt for speed. The scary part was crossing the compound, and her fears always diminished after she’d gained the safety of darkened woods. Her excitement mounted and her skin began tingling with anticipation. Her thoughts leaped ahead, to the swimming hole ... and Roberto.

  She felt giddy and slightly flushed, knowing he was already there, waiting for her. A warm dampness spread between her legs, and her loins began to ache. She tried to slow her pace, mocked herself for rushing to meet him. All her urgency and need was shamelessly apparent. She should tease and tantlalize, force him to wait long past the appointed hour. Instead of throwing herself at him, she should madden him with elusiveness, play indifferent to his charms. But she had no pride where he was concerned, nor was she cut out to play silly games, act the coquette. She wanted him, needed to feel him inside her, and to pretend otherwise might somehow spoil it.

  Besides, she could never fool Roberto anyway. Even as children he could divine her moods, understand what she was thinking before she thought it. In that sense he was very much like her father. He could see through her in an instant! Her secrets laid bare at a glance.

  Hurrying along in the dark, it occurred to her that lately she’d thought of little else. For some reason, since her father had left for Kansas, the similarities between them had become more pronounced in her mind. It had nothing to do with looks or build, for in that way they were almost exact opposites. Of course, she had to admit they were uncommonly handsome—very attractive men—but it was still something aside from physical attributes. Though it was difficult to pinpoint, it seemed to her the similarities were of an inner nature. On the surface, one was brash and outspoken while the other was solemn and reserved, so that pretty much eliminated character traits. Or at least the kind that were obvious. Instead, it had to do with ... strength ... assurance ... some certainty of self that emanated from within ... felt rather than seen. Perhaps nothing they displayed, but rather a quieter force that somehow affected those around them. A sense of being sheltered ... perfectly secure ... less vulnerable with them than alone. Still, she could take care of herself, and she wasn’t given to the vapors in times of stress. The very idea of a ... protector ... seemed to her a sign of personal weakness, and yet she somehow felt snug, curiously safe, in their presence. It was all very confusing.

  Then she broke clear of the trees, stepped into the glade, and saw him. Roberto was standing beside the swimming hole, smoking a cigarette; as he took a drag, the fiery tip glowed, outlining his profile in a flare of light. Trudy was mesmerized, the aura of his features captured forever in her mind’s eye, and a moment slipped past before she found her voice. When she spoke his name, Roberto turned, tossing his cigarette into the water, and moved toward her. She ran the last few steps and he laughed, caught her in his arms and swung her around, brought her down in a tight embrace. His mouth covered hers, and she thrust herself against him, clutching him in fierce possession. The kiss was warm and long, their tongues entwined, and at last he groaned, pulled his head back, and looked into her face.

  “Madre mio! You make a man wait all night and then you drive him loco.”

  “You!” Trudy kissed the tip of his nose. “No, caro mio, I’m the one who’s crazy. Just look at me! I ran all the way, and now I’m hot and sweaty and smell of goats.”

  “You smell of love, querida. The scent of it fills my head and makes me dizzy.”

  “And you lie; but don’t stop, you do it beautifully.”

  “Hmmm.” Roberto pursed his lips, studied her with mock gravity. “Perhaps you’re right. I do detect a faint aroma. Shall we have a swim ... before we make love ... just to refresh ourselves, eh?”

  “Valgame Dios! Have I run all this way for a swim?”

  “Well, one never knows when a woman talks of sweat and goats. Verdad?”

  “You fool!” Trudy laughed, and took his head in her hands. “Would you waste our night on talk when I beg to be loved?”

  “Si, no more talk. We will love and swim and love again, and who knows what the night—”

  A branch snapped in the woods. Roberto stiffened, head raised, and quickly pushed her aside. His hand went to the pistol on his belt, and he advanced a few steps, peering into the darkness.

  “Quien es? Show yourself, pronto!”

  There was a moment of silence, then a figure emerged from the trees. Trudy gasped as he stepped into the clearing, and Roberto seemed turned to stone, the pistol forgotten. Ramon Morado advanced a few steps further and halted, his features set in a grim scowl. He ignored his son, eyes fixed instead on Trudy. Even in the dark she could feel the intensity of his gaze, and when he spoke, there was an undercurrent of rage, barely restrained, in his voice.

  “We will say nothing of this night, senorita. Not for your sake, or the sake of this traidor”—he dismissed Roberto with a gesture—”but for the sake of your father. Agreed?”

  “Ramon, listen to me.” Trudy moved to Roberto’s side, took his arm. “I love Roberto! We want to be married and—”

  “Silencio! You will go home ... now!”

  “Ramon, por favor, you must—”

  “Now, senorita! Do not test my patience further.”

  Trudy wilted before his fury. She cast a terror-stricken glance at Roberto, and he nodded. For an instant no one moved, then she turned, tears streaming down her cheeks, and ran toward the trees. At the edge of the clearing, she paused and looked back—father and son were immobile, staring at each other—and her hand went out to them like a wounded bird. She seemed on the verge of saying something, but suddenly she whirled away and vanished into the darkness.

  An eerie stillness settled over the clearing. For a long while neither of the men moved, and between them there was a sense of suppressed violence. Ramon’s eyes were hard and cold, unforgiving, and Roberto regarded him with a look of wary hostility. At last, his mouth twisted in a grimace, Ramon broke the silence.

  “Were the patron standing here, you would be a dead man.”

  “Perhaps.” Roberto nodded. “But I would not die easily.”

  “Mil Cristos! Are you so stupid? I stand in the patron’s place, sworn to protect his daughter.”

  “Si, Papa, your footsteps were always those of the patron’s shadow. So what will you do now, kill your own son?”

  “Do not mock me! You are a curse upon my name ... bicho ... vermin!”

  “Why, because I laid with a gringa lady? You heard her yourself, she loves me. And if it eases your conscience, I feel the same.”

  “You truly are an imbecil. You think with your cojones and talk nonsense.”

  “Careful, old man.” Roberto’s voice was edged. “There is no shame in what we’ve done.”

  “No shame!” Ramon thundered. “Sangre de Cristo! You have betrayed the patron. You have violated his daughter ... his only daughter!”

  “Don’t talk to me of shame! In the same breath you condemn me, you say a Morado is not good enough for a gringa lady. Yet I am good enough to risk my life killing the patron’s enemies. Verdad?”

  Roberto paused, his eyes filled with disgust. “The shame is yours, Papa! You place the interests of El Patron before those of your own family—”

  “Enough!”

  “You even talk like a gringo ... El Patron’s loro!”

  Ramon hit him. The blow caught Roberto flush on the jaw, staggered him backward, and he dropped to one knee. His expression was a mixture of shock and outrage, and he fixed his father with a look of feral savagery. As he climbed to his feet, Ramon struck again; smashing his nose, then buried a gnarled fist in his stomach. Roberto folded at the waist, gasping for breath, his lungs on fire. Wordlessly, with a sort of methodical stoicism,
Ramon beat him into the ground. The blows were measured and brutal, delivered without mercy, driving him sideways, then to his knees, and finally flat on his face in the dirt. Ramon stood over him, hardly winded, waiting to see if he would rise. After a time, when there was no sign of movement, he hooked a toe under the youngster’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  Roberto groaned, slowly regained his senses, then began retching and levered himself up on one elbow. His face was a bloody mask, lips swollen, and his nose crooked at an odd angle, no longer a handsome sight. He gagged, spit out a broken tooth, and shook his head. At last, eyes still glazed, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, looked up at his father. His mouth moved, frothing crimson bubbles, the words fragmented.

  “Well done, Papa ... he will be proud of you ... your patron.”

  “He will never know my shame,” Ramon said coldly. “And as for you, listen to me well, bicho. Leave Santa Guerra tonight, and never look back. You are no longer mi hijo! I wipe you from memory ... sabe?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Ramon turned and walked away. Roberto heaved to his feet, wobbled backward and almost fell, then caught himself, stood erect. His eyes were wild, homicidal.

  “I’ll be back, Papa. We have a debt—the patron and I—a blood debt. ... I swear it on your head!”

  Ramon halted, hand resting on the butt of his pistol, tempted to end it there. He felt Roberto’s gaze boring into his shoulder blades, and he knew it was no idle threat. Yet too much had passed between them tonight, and he decided to wait, hopeful there would never be another time. His hand slowly relaxed and he continued on into the woods. Out of the dark, without a trace of emotion, his voice drifted back across the clearing.

  “If you return, Roberto, I will kill you myself.”

  Chapter 19

  “Go ahead and get dressed. Then we’ll have a talk.”

  Tom Parker left Laird in the examination room and returned to his office. He walked to the desk, sat down, and methodically filled his pipe from a humidor. After tamping down the tobacco he struck a match and sucked the pipe to life. Then he leaned back in the swivel chair, which creaked ominously under his weight, and studied the ceiling with a look of deliberation.