by Braun, Matt;
There was a prolonged silence. Laird glowered at him, breathing heavily, barely able to control himself. A sharp pain knifed through his chest, but he ignored it, and then, infuriated by the silence, his temper snapped. For the first time in all the years they’d known each other, he cursed Ramon Morado.
“Goddamn you, say something! Answer me!”
Ramon closed his eyes, slowly shook his head. “I would cut off my arm for you—”
“I don’t want your bloody arm! I want an answer!”
“Perdonenme, Patron. Forgive me. I cannot.”
Laird turned from him and strode toward the house.
Laird was seated behind his desk, eyes fixed on the ceiling. For the past hour, he’d sat perfectly still, trying to collect himself. The pain in his chest had gradually diminished, but his anger was merely smothered, like banked coals. He wasn’t at all certain he could control it, even though he knew the effort was necessary. The girl had his temper, and a shouting match between father and daughter would accomplish nothing. With no real conviction, he kept repeating the thought to himself while he waited.
When the front door opened, he sat forward and busied himself with a stack of correspondence. There were footsteps in the hall and a moment later Trudy entered the study. She was dressed in a charro outfit and appeared to be out of breath. The jingle bobs on her spurs chimed melodically as she hurried across the room.
“You sent for me, Pa?”
“Aye, that I did.” Laird tossed the papers aside, motioned with a brusque gesture. “Sit down.”
Trudy gave him a quick, intent look. Outwardly he appeared calm and impassive, but she wasn’t deceived. He was seething inside, and she knew it the instant he’d spoken. She removed her hat, brushing back a damp curl, and took a chair in front of the desk.
“Hope it’s important, Pa. I just about ruined a horse getting here.” She glanced airily around the room. “Where’s Mama?”
“Your mother’s taking inventory in the commissary.” Laird hesitated, considering. “In fact, that’s one reason I sent for you. We’ve something to discuss, and it’s best done while she’s not around.”
“Oh? What’s the big secret?”
“Secret indeed! You and your mother evidently thought to keep it just that—or did you even talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“No, probably not. Her being so delicate about such things, she couldn’t even mention it to me.”
Laird pondered it a moment, and then, almost as though he was thinking out loud, he went on. “I suppose the pair of you figured it would go away if you ignored it long enough. Or at least I wouldn’t find out—which pretty much amounts to the same thing—doesn’t it?”
“I don’t follow you, Pa.”
“I think you do,” Laird said flatly. “I had a talk with Ramon this morning.”
Trudy’s gaze was bland, revealing nothing. “I still don’t see your point.”
“Well now, it’s quite simple, though it seems I was the last to learn of it. He told me Roberto has left the ranch.”
“What’s that got to do with me? I knew he was gone, but I just assumed—”
Laird’s fist crashed into the desk top. “None of your lies! I’ll have the truth, and by the Living God, I’ll have it from you ... not somebody else.”
“Now, wait right there!” Trudy flared. “Are you trying to say there was some sort of funny business going on ... between Roberto and me?”
Laird squinted at her. “Are you telling me you’re still a virgin? Are you, lass? Look me in the eye and say it’s a fact. Can you do that?”
“All right, it’s true!” Trudy looked at him with utter directness. “But it’s not like you think, Pa. Roberto and I intended—”
“Damn your intentions!”
Laird rose, flushed with anger, and moved around the desk. Trudy stood, quickly backed away a few steps, then stopped and faced him defiantly. He halted, glaring at her, and his words were hard, contemptuous.
“Are you blind, or have you simply lost your wits? Everyone on Santa Guerra knows what you’ve done, and they care nothing for your intentions. You’ve cost Ramon a son and you’ve made me look the fool ... and the vaqueros— Sweet Mother of God!—can you imagine what they’re saying about the patron’s daughter? Can you just imagine?”
“To hell with them! Let ‘em think what they want!”
“Then you’ve no shame, none a’tall?”
“C’mon, Pa, don’t talk to me about shame. You’re not worried because I lost ... my virginity ... you’re only worried because you lost face. That’s it, and you damn well know it!”
“You little fool, it’s not you or me that lost. It’s Ramon!”
“What a crock of—”
Laird slapped her. The blow left a vivid welt on her cheek and brought tears to her eyes. Her mouth fell open, and she stood, blinking with childish astonishment, as her father walked to the door. There he paused, motionless, for several seconds and finally looked around. His eyes were moist, rimmed with sadness, and his words were a distorted whisper.
“Someday you’ll understand how much I love you. When you do, you’ll know what it cost Ramon to lose his son.”
Laird stepped into the hall, and there was a moment of leaden silence. Then Trudy gasped, suddenly covered her mouth with her hand. A rush of tears blinded her and she slumped into the chair, softly began a low, keening cry.
She understood.
Chapter 20
The trial was a circus. Newspapers ballyhooed it as a milestone, and called it the biggest event to take place since Texas’s scalawag governor departed office earlier in the year. By late April the sensationalism had crested, and people converged on Corpus Christi from all directions to see the spectacle. Their mood was carnival and a holiday atmosphere settled over the city. They had come to gawk at Hank Laird and watch him brought to earth.
Unlike his previous legal battles, Laird wasn’t defending himself against railroad cartels or carpetbagger politicians. The plaintiff was John Kelton, a veteran of the war against Mexico. He claimed that Laird had appropriated his land grant, 640 acres on the eastern boundary of Santa Guerra, awarded to him by the state for two year’s service in the army. The newspapers billed it as a David and Goliath extravaganza, the common man challenging the ruthless land baron. It fired the public’s imagination, but those who flocked to Corpus Christi were only marginally concerned with justice. Their chief interest was in witnessing one of their own perform the role of giant killer.
John Kelton became an instant celebrity. He was the first man, Mexican or white, ever to sue Henry Laird over land rights. Although eighty-two years old, and an admitted drifter without family, he was lionized by press and public alike. His lawyer, a young firebrand from a prominent Corpus Christi family, made equally good copy. He promptly established the validity of Kelton’s land grant, then paraded to the stand a long line of witnesses who testified to Laird’s outrageous methods. Several Mexicans, all of them derecho holders, told of relatives who had mysteriously disappeared after making demands on the patron of Santa Guerra. Like a phoenix, Joe Starling even made a brief appearance, describing the violent tactics Laird had used against him in past railroad ventures. The key witnesses, however, were three men who had observed the plaintiff—repeatedly described as a doddering old man—physically ejected from Santa Guerra land by Laird’s vaqueros. It was damning testimony, and resulted in explosive newspaper headlines.
Warren Pryor objected often and strenuously, filed several motions for mistrial, and ultimately drew a contempt citation when he charged the court with prejudicial conduct. But his histrionics did little for Laird’s defense, and it was clear even to the spectators that he had alienated the judge. Throughout it all Hank Laird merely listened and watched, wisely refusing to take the stand. His only display of emotion came with the a
ppearance of Joe Starling, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly six years. Then the atmosphere grew charged with violence, and afterward an armed deputy was assigned to escort Starling to the train station. During the remainder of the trial, Laird stared off into space, utterly contemptuous of the entire proceeding.
On the final day an overflow crowd filled the courtroom. Down front, Laird and Warren Pryor were seated at the defense table. Across from them were John Kelton and his counsel, Ernest Kruger, and on the bench sat Judge Marcus Grisham. Earlier that morning Pryor had presented closing arguments for the defense, and now it was time for the plaintiff’s lawyer to deliver his summation. With the stage set, and the spectators hanging on his every word, Kruger rose and approached the bench.
A tall man, lean and muscular, he had a deep baritone voice and a commanding presence. His gestures were restrained; his manner brisk and businesslike. And he wasted no time on formalities.
“Your Honor, we have before us a classic example of one man holding himself above the law. In the past three days we have heard testimony from eight witnesses regarding the piratical acts and the villainous methods of Henry Laird. That testimony has withstood cross-examination, and in no way has it been refuted by the defense. In fact, the reluctance of the defendant to take the witness stand—and subject himself to sworn testimony—in large measure corroborates everything we’ve heard in this courtroom.”
Kruger paused for effect, slowly turned from the bench. Then he leveled his finger at Laird. “There sits a modern-day feudal lord! A throwback to the Dark Ages, and all that was vile and base in the human spirit. We know that he rules his vaqueros as if they were vassals. We know that he rules his land as if it were a medieval kingdom. We know that on Santa Guerra his word is law, and there are none who dare oppose him. Those who have tried have simply vanished, never again seen by their families. But then, we are not here investigating murder—nor is Henry Laird charged with killing poor, defenseless Mexicans.”
A low murmur swept the courtroom, and the crowd watched in awe as the young attorney attempted to stare down Laird. Neither man wavered, and after a moment Kruger shook his head in disgust, then turned back to the bench. The onlookers waited, hushed and expectant.
“Henry Laird is charged with robbing an old man of his legal land rights. There is evidence that he took the land by force, and there is evidence that he held it by force. Further, there is proof that he used his vaqueros as an instrument of intimidation to bully and threaten a man who honorably served his country in time of war. I ask the court to award the plaintiff his rightful land. I ask the court to award the plaintiff one hundred thousand dollars in punitive damages. I ask justice for John Kelton, and through it, the swift and certain censure of Henry Laird.”
The crowd broke out in applause, and several men rose to their feet, cheering the young lawyer. Presently, after the spectators were quieted and order restored, Kruger rested the case for the plaintiff. Judge Grisham immediately called noon recess, informing them he would hand down his decision that afternoon. His announcement caught everyone by surprise, for in a case of such magnitude the decision was normally, delayed several days. Before counsel for either side could respond, the judge stepped from the bench and hurried into his chambers.
Warren Pryor conferred briefly with his client, expressing guarded optimism. It appeared they had lost, he admitted, but the judgment could be delayed almost indefinitely through appeals. Laird gave him a dark look, suddenly reminded that the tactic had been of limited value in past cases. He was about to raise the issue when Ernest Kruger approached and halted in front of them.
“Warren.” Kruger nodded. “Mr. Laird.”
Laird bristled, his features livid, and Pryor quickly took the lead. “Very nice presentation, Kruger. What can we do for you?”
“Nothing. But I thought I might do something for you.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“It occurred to me that both parties could benefit by an out-of-court settlement.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Kruger countered. “You’ve obviously lost the case, and while I assume you’ll appeal, that would only delay things for my client. From the look on Judge Grisham’s face, I suspect it would also result in a harsher judgment against Mr. Laird.”
Pryor shrugged. “I don’t necessarily agree, but we’re willing to listen. What sort of settlement did you have in mind?”
“A quitclaim deed in exchange for thirty dollars an acre.”
“Go to hell!” Laird grated. “And take your goddamn client with you!”
“Not so fast, Hank.” Pryor took his arm and pulled him aside. Lowering his voice, he motioned for Kruger to wait. “Now, let’s be reasonable, Hank. Everything he said is true, and under the circumstances it’s not all that bad an offer.”
“In a pig’s ass! It’s triple what the land’s worth, and I’ll not be sandbagged by some young squirt with a fancy education.”
“Hank, listen to me and try to “control your temper. We’ve lost the case—that’s a foregone conclusion—and Kruger’s right. Thirty dollars an acre is less than a quarter of what the judge might award in damages. And you’d still lose the land in the bargain, so it’s a compromise very much to your advantage.”
“I pay you to win cases, not compromise.”
“I know, but that’s not what we’re discussing. And before you get too huffy, there’s something else you should consider. If the old man wins a big judgment, then a thousand more like him will crawl out of the woodwork. On the other hand, if we settle out of court, then it won’t look so tempting, and it just might discourage a lot of people from bringing suit.”
“If you’d done your job,” Laird informed him, “then we wouldn’t be in this fix. You were supposed to find people like Kelton and buy ‘em out, or have you forgot?”
Pryor flushed, gave him a hangdog look. “I’ve done the best I could, Hank. Unfortunately, we have a more immediate problem, and all the recriminations in the world won’t solve that.”
“Aye, it’s a sorry kettle of fish, and there’s no denying it.”
Laird pondered it a moment, then turned and gestured to Kruger. The young lawyer joined them, and before Pryor realized what was happening, he found himself excluded from the conversation.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars an acre,” Laird announced. “Take it or leave it.”
Kruger smiled. “I won’t haggle with you, Mr. Laird. And if you’ll allow me to say so, you’re in no position to horse-trade.”
“Think you’re pretty goddamn smart, don’t you?”
“Smart enough to know when I have the upper hand. It’s thirty dollars an acre, Mr. Laird.” Kruger paused, met his gaze with an amused expression. “Take it or leave it.”
“Mother of Christ! You’d kick a man when he’s down, wouldn’t you?”
“Every time, Mr. Laird. Wouldn’t you?”
“Aye, I suppose I would.” Laird studied him for several seconds, found no sign of weakness. Finally he threw up his hands in defeat. “You’re a bloody thief, but it seems I’ve got no choice. Tell the old man he’s got himself a deal.”
“A commendable decision, Mr. Laird. I’ll draw up the papers and have them ready for signature in the morning.”
Kruger nodded and walked away. Laird watched him rejoin John Kelton, boiling inwardly as the old man listened a moment, then let out a gleeful cackle of victory. A bit crestfallen, Pryor edged forward, his smile tentative.
“Well done, Hank. Couldn’t have handled it better myself.”
“Aye, and it cost me a pretty penny to find that out. You’re fired, Warren. Crate up my files and send me a bill.”
Pryor’s jaw dropped open, then he began muttering, trying to summon back his voice. But the momentary lapse cost him any chance to reply. Laird jammed his hat on his head and stal
ked from the courtroom.
Early that evening Laird left the hotel and walked along the streets of Corpus Christi. His mood was somber, and he scarcely noticed passersby as he reflected on the problem at hand. He was absorbed with thoughts of mortality, and the fact that no man, not even one as rich and powerful as himself, could exert his will from the grave. If the course of events was to be altered, then it must be done while he still lived.
Laird still felt the compulsion to wager against time and the vicissitudes of age. Given a choice, he would have followed his original impulse, and ended life as he had lived it. But these days he controlled the urge with an iron discipline. He drank sparingly and harbored his energy, for it had become apparent within the past several months that the timing was all wrong. He couldn’t indulge himself with one last fling at the sporting life, nor could his family afford the luxury of his death. All he had built must be consolidated and strengthened, left impregnable so that his legacy would endure whatever threat the future held. Then and only then would he feel free to end it the way he’d planned.
Some aspects of the problem were at least partially resolved. Angela had proved herself to be a capable manager, assuming the administrative duties and day-by-day details of running a large ranch. Ramon Morado, with a beefed-up force of vaqueros, had made rustling a hazardous occupation, and the outlaws now paid dearly everytime they raided Santa Guerra. And this year, for the first time, Laird would forego the pleasures of a summer hiatus in the Kansas cowtowns. He had contracted with a cattle agent to handle the sale of his herds, and while he begrudged the commission, it guaranteed that the agent would be satisfied with nothing less than top dollar.
Still, there was the problem of the ranch itself. Santa Guerra was vulnerable to lawsuit, and today’s court action made it clear that possession was no longer nine points of the law. Times had changed, and the tactics he’d used in the past wouldn’t work in the future. Until he had secured title to the land, there was no assurance his family wouldn’t lose it all once he was gone. He saw that now, and it had become a matter of utmost priority, one he must resolve without delay.