by Braun, Matt;
The physician was an old man, with a face like ancient ivory and hands webbed by blue ropy veins. He’d practiced medicine in San Antonio for nearly forty years, and in that time he thought he’d become hardened to misery and death. But today was different. He suddenly felt the weight of responsibility and resented having to play the role of God. He admired Hank Laird, considered him a friend, and the prospects of the next few minutes were particularly bitter. There was no way to approach it tactfully, not with a man like Laird; he found himself wishing the conversation could somehow be postponed. It wouldn’t be pleasant.
After a few minutes Laird entered the office, shrugging into his coat. He crossed the room and took a seat beside the desk. The two men stared at one another a moment, almost like duelists sizing up an opponent, then Laird smiled.
“What’s the verdict, Doc? Think I’ll live?”
“A poor choice of words, Hank.”
“Hell, it’s no worse than your bedside manner. You look like you’ve just come from a wake.”
“Hank, you can joke all you want”—Parker hesitated, slowly removed the pipe from his mouth—”but it’s not making it any easier on either of us.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
Laird regarded him with a level gaze. “Let’s have it, then. And none of your fancy lingo. Give it to me in plain English.”
“You’ve got a bum ticker,” Parker informed him. “To be precise, angina pectoris.”
“You’re sure ... no doubts?”
“Very sure. It’s hardly a diagnosis I’d make lightly. All the symptoms are there, and the seizure you had in Kansas was ... merely a warning.”
“God’s teeth!” Laird growled. “It just doesn’t make sense. I’m strong as a horse. Never felt better in my life!”
Parker nodded, took a couple of puffs on his pipe. “Hank, your heart’s like a piece of machinery. It was made to handle a certain load, and when you overwork it then you run the risk that one day it’ll just quit.”
“Aye, and you’re a sneaky old bird, aren’t you? I’ve the feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”
“I’m saying you’ve pushed yourself too hard for too many years, and it’s got to stop. Otherwise your heart’s liable to stop.”
“Liable to or will?”
“Depends.” Parker knocked the dottle from his pipe and placed it in an ashtray. “If you give up cigars and whiskey—”
“Christ!”
“—get plenty of rest and take it easy with women, then you could live to a ripe old age.”
“And if I don’t?” Laird’s eyes bored into him, demanding frankness. “How long have I got?”
“A year at the outside, maybe less. Right now, you’re like a fine timepiece that’s been overwound. A few more turns on the stem, and one day the mainspring will just pop. I couldn’t explain it any better than that.”
Laird’s expression revealed nothing. He uncoiled from the chair and rose to his feet. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll let you know how it comes out,”
“Hank, a word of advice.” Parker leaned forward, very earnest now. “I believe Angela’s with you?”
“Her and the girl both, over at the hotel.”
“Then I suggest you have a talk with her. You’re not a man to shed his vices easily, and I suspect you’ll need all the help you can get.”
“Aye, it’s a thought.”
Laird nodded and jammed his hat on his head. He walked to the door, then paused, looking back. He seemed on the verge of saying something but apparently changed his mind. His mouth ticked in a smile, then the door opened and closed and he was gone.
On the street, Laird walked toward the center of town in a mild daze. For all his outer calm, he’d been shaken by Doc Parker’s report, but he found it difficult to accept the truth. In Wichita, the morning after his attack, he’d felt fine except for a monstrous hangover. All the way back to Texas he had experienced only minor discomfort, like a band being tightened around his chest. And upon arriving in San Antonio, where Angela and Trudy met him for their annual shopping spree, he’d convinced himself there was no reason for concern. Still, he hadn’t forgotten the knife-edged pain, those moments of choking for air, and Josh Campbell’s stiff lecture the next morning. Merely as a precaution, certain it was some passing ailment, he’d gone to see Doc Parker.
Now, with an almost grudging sense of realization, he knew he’d been wrong. The ailment wouldn’t pass, and only by turning himself into a monk could he hope to prolong his life. Yet he couldn’t reconcile himself to such an existence. Perhaps he could cut down on his work load at the ranch, delegate greater responsibility to Ramon and some of the older vaqueros. That was something he could accept, for it in no way diluted his authority, and he would still have the final word. But a life without women or whiskey—purged of his favorite vices—that was no life at all. The very thought sickened him, for he would no longer be a man but rather a manso, a tame bull. And that wasn’t his idea of living! Better to be dead and buried than gelded by his own hand.
Crossing the plaza, his eye was drawn to the Alamo, and the sight of it somehow strengthened his resolve. There were ways of dying and there were ways of living, and if a man was to retain his self-respect, then he had to make the choice for himself. Of course, he had to consider Angela and Trudy, and that would involve a certain amount of compromise. But he was confident it could be done, and without resorting to lies. A little evasion, spiced with a few half-truths, would serve very nicely. His stride suddenly brisk, chin jutting out defiantly, he crossed the plaza and hurried toward the hotel.
Upstairs, he entered the suite in the midst of a family squabble. Trudy had a new hand-tooled saddle thrown over the back of an easy chair, and was sitting astraddle it, her dress hiked up past her knees, beaming with pride. Angela stood off to one side, her expression cloudy, delivering a sharp rebuke on the girl’s unladylike behavior. As he came through the door, they both turned, and Angela greeted him with a look of immense relief.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve returned, Henry. Honestly, your daughter has just driven me to distraction. She’s simply impossible!”
“Is she now? And what seems to be the problem?”
“Look, Pa! Look here!” Trudy flung her legs wide, rearing back in the saddle. “Got a new rig. Center fire and tapaderas, the whole works. And look at this!” She kicked free of one stirrup and thrust an ornate, hand-stitched boot high into the air. “Aren’t they beauties? Soft as calfskin and fits like a glove!”
“See! See what I mean!” Angela declared. “I took her shopping and she insisted on buying all this ... this equipment!” Laird sensed there was something more involved than the saddle. A curious discord between mother and daughter—nothing he could put his finger on—but an element of conflict that hadn’t existed before his trip to Wichita. It puzzled him, for Trudy was attempting to mask her defiance with a sort of sportive impudence. That wasn’t at all like his daughter, and vaguely disturbing; she normally went out of her way to flaunt her defiance. Still, he could handle only one problem at a time, and at the moment Angela was on a tear. Her voice rose in pitch.
“On top of everything else, I practically had to drag her into a dress shop! And after I went to all the trouble of choosing new gowns, she won’t even try them on. She’s been perched—literally perched!—on that saddle ever since we got back.”
“Awww, that’s not fair, Mama! I told you I’d try ‘em on. But they haven’t brought the water up, and there’s no sense spoiling a new dress when I’m all hot and sticky.”
“That’s another thing, Henry,” Angela gestured imperiously at the washstand. “I ordered fresh water so we could have a sponge bath, and that was over an hour ago. I must say, after all the years we’ve stayed in the Menger you’d think they could at least give us decent service.”
Lai
rd went to the washstand, collected the pitcher, and left the room without a word. Outside, he walked to the edge of a balcony which looked down upon the marble-floored lobby. He leaned over the balustrade, sighting carefully, and dropped the pitcher. An instant later crockery exploded across the lobby, and the desk clerk ducked for cover.
“If we can’t get water,” Laird thundered, “then by the Sweet Jesus, we’ve no need of pitchers!”
He turned, marched back into the suite, and slammed the door. “You’ll have water in a jiffy. Now, why don’t you run along and slip into one of your new gowns. It’s not often I get to see you all gussied up, and I’m sure it would please your mother.”
“Whatever you say, Pa.” Trudy dismounted from the chair and moved to the door of a connecting bedroom. Over her shoulder she laughed and looked around. “I’m not taking my boots off, though. Not for anybody!”
The door closed and Angela collapsed into a chair with a deep sigh. “Honestly, she grows more like you every day, Henry. And that little episode with the pitcher hardly set a good example. It was crude of you, Henry. Very crude.”
“Aye, but it’ll damn sure fetch the water.”
Angela couldn’t argue the point. Within minutes every pitcher in the suite had been filled, and the hotel manager dropped by with a personal apology. Laird finally shooed them all out, chuckling to himself, and went to stand by the window. Gazing across the plaza at the Alamo, his expression slowly changed, became somber and somehow pensive. Angela sat watching him for a long while. Her temper was improved by the appearance of the water, but she was puzzled by the look on his face. He appeared cocky and assured, which was all quite normal, but there was something in his eyes that troubled her. Something she’d never seen before.
“Is anything wrong, Henry?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. Just thoughtful, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? You seem rather ... far away.”
“Oh, I was just thinking of the financial panic back East. It’s fortunate I sold when I did. There’s many a cattleman that’ll be wintering his herd in Kansas this year. And more than a few of them will go broke.”
The room was pleasantly dark and cool, but his face was framed in a spill of sunlight. She studied him a moment in silence, unsettled by some feeling she couldn’t define. “You’re not being honest with me, Henry.”
“Honest?” Laird caught her eye for an instant, looked quickly away. “I don’t take your meaning.”
“I think you do. You’re worried about something, but it’s not those other ranchers. I know you too well to be fooled by that, so there’s no need trying to hide it from me.”
“Aye, I suppose you’re right.” Laird pursed his lips, seeming to deliberate. “I went to see Doc Parker this afternoon.”
Angela stiffened, sat erect. “Then something is wrong.”
“Well, there is and there isn’t. I was off my feed a bit up in Kansas, so I thought it was worth having him look me over.”
“And?”
“Oh, he says I have a spot of heart trouble—”
“Your heart!” Angela rose, her face chalky. “Not a stroke?”
“No, no.” Laird waved the thought aside. “Nothing like that. The doc said it’s common for men my age, especially them that’ve overworked themselves. Told me I’d have to take it easier, not push myself so hard. That’s all.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Henry Laird. Is that all he said?”
“God’s blood! Would I lie about my health?”
“You haven’t answered me. Did Dr. Parker say anything else?”
“Nothing much. Only that I’d be wise to shift some of the duties at the ranch. Let someone else take on a bit of the worry for a while.”
“Well, I should think so! And that’s exactly what we’ll do when we get home.”
“We?”
“Don’t argue with me, Henry. I know as much about that ranch as you do, and I’m perfectly capable of assuming some of the responsibility.”
“Aye, I’ve no doubt you are. But that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Perhaps not. But the vaqueros certainly won’t take orders from an outsider, so I’m the logical choice. Until you’re recuperated I’m afraid that’s how it will have to be.”
Laird gave her a quizzical look. “I never thought you cared that much for the ranch.”
“Honestly, there’s no fool like an old fool.”
Angela crossed the room, halted in front of him. “I don’t care two hoots about that ranch, Henry.” She ran her arms around his waist, watching his eyes, and smiled. “But I still care about you, even if you are a heathen.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Oh, you were damned long ago, Henry Laird. But perhaps there’s time to save you yet.”
“Aye, lass, perhaps there is.”
Laird bent to kiss her when suddenly the connecting door swung open. Trudy swirled into the room, hobbled somewhat by her boots, and pirouetted across the floor in a yellow organdy gown. Angela disengaged herself from his arms, blushing like a schoolgirl, and Laird glanced from his wife to his daughter with a lopsided smile. Trudy laughed, whirling faster and faster, and spun back through the door into her bedroom.
“Encore! Encore! Just call me in time for supper.”
The door closed. A moment later they heard the latch click into place, then Laird took her in his arms and they were alone.
A week later Laird left the house and walked toward the stables. With Angela and Trudy, he had returned to Santa Guerra the day before, and almost immediately his suspicions were confirmed. All around him, particularly among Los Lerdenos, he sensed a conspiracy of silence. Angela and the girl continued their pretense—went out of their way to act normally—yet the false note he’d detected in San Antonio was still there. The servants, on the other hand, lacked the guile for deception. Everyone fell quiet when he approached, unable to meet his eyes, and their natural gaiety seemed to have vanished. Even the vaqueros were acting strangely; but he was troubled most by his old friend Ramon Morado. The segundo wasn’t himself, and since the family had returned he’d scarcely spoken to Trudy. Once they were thick as thieves, and now they treated each other like ... lepers.
It was damned odd, and he wouldn’t tolerate being played the fool. He meant to have some answers.
Laird found Ramon at the corral. The patron’s grulla stallion was being curried and groomed by a stablehand, and segundo was leaning against the fence, supervising the morning ritual. He straightened as Laird approached, his expression guarded and tense, almost as though he dreaded the meeting.
“Buenos dias, Patron. Como estd usted?”
“Bueno, Ramon. Y tu?”
“Muy bueno, gracias.”
Their exchange was formal, curiously strained. Laird was accustomed to being greeted with the warmth of times past, and the change irritated him, made him uncomfortable. He decided to force the issue.
“You seem troubled, compadre. What bothers you?” “Why, nothing, Patron ... nothing at all.” “Si, there’s something. Be frank with me, is it our new arrangement? Do you object to taking orders from Senora Laird?”
“La Madama? No, Patron, I swear to you. Never!”
“Then perhaps it’s Cordoba ... the renegados. Have you told me everything?”
“Everything, Patron. We cannot catch all, but those we catch, we hang. And that leaves fewer ladrons to steal our cows.”
Laird eyed him, thoughtful. “Your sons, then? I know we’ve lost men. Were either of them wounded ... killed ... fighting Cordoba’s bravos?”
“Gracias, Patron, but neither of them have come to harm.”
“Then they’re still leading the patrols ... si?”
Ramon glanced aside. “Only Luis, Patron.”
“And your eldest, Roberto? What of him?”
&n
bsp; “Roberto ... he left Santa Guerra, Patron ... a month ago, perhaps longer, I forget.”
“You forget!” Laird’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “You’re a poor liar, old friend. Roberto’s whole life was here —Los Lerdenos and his family—why would he leave?”
“A personal matter, Patron.” Ramon shrugged, and his voice trailed off. “A thing between father and son, nothing more.”
Laird studied his downcast face, considering. Somehow it all tied together—the funeral atmosphere around the ranch, Angela and Trudy, and now—suddenly he made the connection! He felt a stab of fear, some inner dread that warned him to walk away and leave it alone. Yet he had to know. His mouth hardened, and when he spoke the words were clipped, brittle.
“There is great sadness among our people these days. It has to do with Roberto, doesn’t it?”
Ramon winced, unable to meet his gaze. “Si, Patron.”
“And you say Roberto left a month ago?”
“A month, perhaps a little longer.”
“Perhaps a great deal longer,” Laird observed. “Perhaps shortly after I departed for Kansas ... isn’t that true?”
Ramon stared hard at the grulla, watching the stablehand brush and stroke the stallion’s sleek hide. His expression was like that of a trapped animal, grievously hurt and afraid, jaws locked tight against the pain. When he remained silent, Laird took his arm, slowly turned him around.
“Let there be no lies between us, old friend. Roberto would never leave Santa Guerra, not of his own will. You sent him away, didn’t you?”
“I had no choice, Patron. He was my son.”
Laird nodded. “You couldn’t kill him, so you ordered him to leave. Isn’t that it?”
A bleak stare was his only answer, and Laird went on. “But it happened right after I left, didn’t it, Ramon? I asked a personal favor of you—and you gave me your word—and you kept your word, didn’t you? What was it you said—you’d watch over her like she was your own flesh and blood—and that’s what you did, wasn’t it, Ramon? You watched over her too well. You caught her! You caught her and Roberto, wasn’t that how it happened? The two of them, Ramon ... together ... you caught them together!”