by Braun, Matt;
Shortly after noonday there was a clattering roar, followed by several loud reports, on the wagon road west of town. People around the depot began shouting and pointing, hoisting children to their shoulders for a better view, and moments later a dazzling yellow Pierce-Arrow emerged out of a dust cloud. It was the only automobile in southern Texas, a massive lumbering affair tricked out with brass fittings, mahogany paneling, and a tonneau of lushly upholstered Morocco leather. As it crossed the railroad tracks, the engine backfired, rattling windows all along Main Street. Horses reared and spooked, wide-eyed with terror, and a pack of dogs, barking madly, chased after the car. Then the band struck up a march and the crowd roared, surging into the street.
At the wheel of the Pierce-Arrow, Kruger squeezed the horn, motioning people out of the way, while beside him Trudy waved and smiled. Packed together in the backseat were Hank and Becky Hazlett, along with her parents. John Hazlett was a wiry feist of a man, and his wife Josephine had all the mannerisms of an articulated kewpie doll. But Becky looked ravishing, and unlike her parents, her laugh was infectious and her eyes bright with excitement. As the car proceeded uptown, the band fell in behind, blaring a Sousa march, and throngs of people swarmed after them.
Kruger brought the car to a halt at the end of Main Street. Directly to the north was a large, roped-off area, with a sign identifying it as the future site of the Henry Laird Memorial Hospital A photographer from the newspaper, which Kru-ger also owned, already had his camera set up and was waiting expectantly. Several of the town’s leading merchants were grouped before the sign, and as the guests of honor alighted from the Pierce-Arrow, there was a round of introductions and handshakes. Then someone produced a shovel, handing it to Trudy, and the Kruger family was hustled in front of the camera. Trudy planted the shovel in the ground, Kruger assumed a dignified pose, and Hank beamed like a trained bear. The flashpan exploded, freezing everyone in a blaze of light, and the spectators broke out in a thunderous ovation.
Walking to the car, Kruger hopped up on the running board and raised his arms for silence. One of the merchants gallantly assisted Trudy up beside him and a murmur ran through the crowd. Then the noise subsided and Kruger removed his hat, gazing out across the upturned faces.
“Good friends and neighbors! Allow me to welcome you to the first annual Lairdsville Founders Day. I have a few remarks of special interest, but if you will, allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Trudy Laird Kruger. She would like to express her thanks in person.”
The onlookers applauded enthusiastically. Trudy appeared a bit uncomfortable, but she waited, smiling graciously, until they quieted down. Finally, drawing a deep breath, she raised her voice as the crowd pressed closer.
“Today we broke ground for a hospital to honor my father, Henry Laird. He would have been proud of that, just as I’m sure he would be proud of this town and all the people who worked so hard to make it happen. My husband assures me the hospital will be finished before winter, and he asked me to tell you that we’ve arranged for a doctor to set up practice here sometime within the month. Thank you.”
Trudy stepped down from the running board, and quickly rejoined Hank and the Hazletts. The applause was even louder than before, and it took Kruger several minutes to quiet the crowd. At last, he jammed his hat on his head and stared them into silence, waiting until he had their undivided attention.
“I’ll keep my remarks short. We have a full afternoon ahead of us and I know you came here to enjoy yourselves... but I thought you’d want to know that the lawmakers in Austin have given us cause for real celebration.”
He paused for effect, then resumed. “As you all know, our county seat is presently located in Brownsville. That’s a long way off and it places many hardships on us. Not the least of which is the fact that we’re a small community, and as a result, couldn’t expect to have much of a voice in county politics.”
From inside his coat a document emerged like a magician’s dove. He snapped it open and held it aloft. “I have here a letter from the governor of Texas. He assures me that at the fall session of the legislature, the lower Rio Grande Valley will be divided into several new counties. And the county seat of one of those counties ... will be Lairdsville!”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then pandemonium broke loose. Farmers and townpeople slapped one another across the shoulders and hugged their wives, laughing and shouting and congratulating themselves on what was truly a stroke of fortune. Land values would rise, and they would have their own county government and, of still greater consequence, their own people would be representing them in the state legislature. It was indeed a day for celebration. A time to dance and get drunk and count their blessings. And a time to praise Ernest Kruger, the man who had made it all come true. The people surged forward, pressing around the Pierce-Arrow, but again he hushed them, motioning for silence.
“We’ve got a parade and a barbecue and a whole afternoon to talk good old country politics. But before we get started, there’s one last bit of news, and because you’re all my friends, I hope it will make you as proud as it does me.”
He flapped the letter, grinning broadly. “They’re going to call it Kruger County!”
The crowd erupted in a spontaneous, roaring cheer. Several men in the front row pulled Kruger off the car and hoisted him onto their shoulders. People jostled and shoved, straining to touch him, and the band burst out in a rousing march. Then they turned en masse, roaring ever louder, and carried Ernest Kruger down the main street of Lairdsville, their town.
* * *
Late that afternoon, as the sun dipped westward, farmers began loading their families into wagons. Their mood was boisterous, fueled by excitement and liquor, and they would have much preferred to spend the evening discussing the future of Kruger County. But prudence dictated; there was an exodus of wagons as everyone hurried to reach home before nightfall. Within a half-hour, the countryside was ribboned with trails of dust, and Lairdsville’s main street appeared deserted.
Ernest Kruger and his guests departed with the last of the wagons. Though the Pierce-Arrow had acetylene headlamps, the roads leading to Santa Guerra were little more than rutted trails, and he too wanted to arrive home before dark. At Kruger’s suggestion, John Hazlett sat up front, and the women crowded into the back with Hank. No one thought anything of it except Trudy; she was thoroughly infuriated with her husband, and alert to some underhanded design. His announcement about the county seat—Kruger County! —had shocked her as much as everyone else. Obviously he’d known about it for quite some time, but hadn’t seen fit to confide in her. Nor were his plans for the future any too clear; everything seemed organized, highly calculated, yet shrouded in secrecy. She ignored Josephine Hazlett, who was prattling on about the day’s events, and kept her ear tuned to the conversation up front.
Kruger was expounding on the necessity of creating new counties. There were clusters of population springing up throughout southern Texas; like Lairdsville, these communities were small and generally isolated; the larger towns, such as Brownsville, were able to control the political process and dictate to outlying areas. The change was inevitable, and fortunately the governor had agreed to expedite a division of the old counties. It was an equitable arrangement all the way round, and from a political standpoint, it made perfect sense.
“I’m not so sure,” Hazlett observed. “We always came out pretty good under the old system. Leastways, we knew who our enemies were, and the way I see it, that’s a darnsight better than dealing with strangers.”
“By strangers, I take it you mean the farmers?”
“Yep, none other. They’re not like us, Ernie, and I’ve got an idea we’re not gonna see eye to eye. Then it’s farmers against ranchers, and I don’t need to tell you ... that could get a mite dicey.”
“I don’t agree, John. If we use our heads we can run this county pretty much to suit ourselves.”
“How do you figure to do that?”
“Simplest thing on earth. I intend to vote my vaqueros.”
“Mexicans!” Hazlett’s mouth sagged open in amazement. “You intend to vote Mexicans?”
“I do indeed. And if we stick together—vote our vaqueros in a block—we can handpick a slate of candidates and carry the county by a landslide.”
“That’s risky business,” Hazlett pointed out. “You give Mexicans the vote and you might find out you’ve got a tiger by the tail.”
“Oh?” Kruger’s eyebrows rose briefly. “Would you rather have farmers calling the shots?”
“Nope, didn’t say that. But I sure get jittery thinkin’ about greasers mixing in our politics.”
Kruger fixed him with a stern look. “I can control my people, John. Are you saying your vaqueros won’t vote the way you tell them?”
“Of course they will! Hell’s bells, you ought to know better than that.”
“Then there’s no problem, is there?”
“Guess not,” Hazlett said grudgingly. “But I’d feel a helluva lot easier if you hadn’t played it so close to the vest. Least you could’ve done was told me you and the governor had it all rigged.”
“That’s politics.” Kruger gave him a cryptic smile. “Wheels within wheels, John. But all’s well that ends well, and don’t forget ... I always look after my friends.”
From the backseat, Trudy studied her husband with an eloquent look, surprised and ruefully impressed. John Hazlett hadn’t realized it yet, but what he’d just heard was a form of honesty, raw and simple, that she herself could appreciate. In a moment of candor, Ernest Kruger had once told her that men could never be trusted to know their own best interests. Now, reflecting on the conversation, she saw that he’d followed the precept to the letter. He had manipulated everyone, herself included, in order to bolster his political influence. And in his strength, for all the days ahead, lay the promise of Santa Guerra.
Suddenly she hugged herself, suppressing a laugh. How clever he was, deliberate but crafty, utterly ruthless. Those were the very traits her father had admired, and it occurred to her that today had vindicated Hank Laird’s judgment. He’d always said that cream and bastards rise to the top, and the very existence of Kruger County dispelled any lingering doubt.
Her husband was an unmitigated bastard.
Chapter 36
The engineer throttled down and set the brakes as the train approached the outskirts of Lairdsville. Up ahead, the stationmaster threw the switch, and the train eased into a siding along the stockyards. The engine rolled past the cattle pens, belching steam and smoke, and ground to a halt. A brakeman swung down from the caboose and walked forward. The engineer poked his head out of the cab window, watching the brakeman’s hand signals, and slowly jockeyed one of the boxcars into position beside a loading chute.
At the north end of the stockyards, Hank left Becky seated in a buckboard, and motioned to several vaqueros who were standing near the pens. He moved along the siding as they lowered the loading chute and locked it into position. One of the vaqueros threw open the car door, then they all turned, waiting until he halted at the bottom of the chute. His expression was sober, and when he spoke his voice was crisp and businesslike.
“Tien cuidado, hombres! Go slow, and treat them gently.”
His tone was that of El Onza rather than the young patron, and the vaqueros quickly bobbed their heads. Then he nodded, and without a word they quietly entered the car. A horse whickered, and there was the faint sound of hooves stamping in manure and straw. Several minutes passed, and at last one of the vaqueros appeared in the door, leading a chestnut mare. One after another, ten mares were gingerly brought down the loading chute and led into a large holding pen. Hank scrambled to the top of the fence, calling out instructions in a low voice. While he watched, inspecting the mares for any sign of injury, the vaqueros paraded them around and around the pen. The mares were high-strung, skittish after the long train ride, but the vaqueros gentled them with soft words and gradually walked off their nervous energy. Hank rolled a cigarette and lit it, seemingly in no rush. Yet his concern was evident, and he continued to scrutinize each animal as it was led past.
Every mare in the string was a Thoroughbred. Tall and graceful, with the sleek conformation and long legs of their breed, each, of them approached sixteen hands in height. All were of champion bloodlines, and until last month any one of the mares would have commanded a price of $5000 or more. Hank had bought the entire string for twenty thousand.
Beleaguered by ministers and a coalition of churches, the state legislature, on the second day of the fall session, had abolished horse racing in Texas. Breeders throughout the state suddenly found themselves in an untenable position; the demand for Thoroughbreds simply vanished overnight. Hardset hit were the small breeders, who lacked the resources to play for time and locate an out-of-state buyer. An acquaintance of Ernest Kruger, who owned a string of ten brood mares, had written asking for a loan to tide him over during the interim. Kruger politely refused the loan, terming the mares poor collateral, and let the matter drop. Three days later, unbeknown to his father, Hank appeared at the breeder’s ranch outside Austin. After inspecting the mares, and dickering nearly an hour on price, Hank laid down $20,000 cash—take it or leave it. The breeder damned Ernest Kruger, convinced the loan had been refused merely to force him to the wall. But his options were limited and the sight of hard cash was too tempting to resist. He took it.
Afterward, when Kruger learned of the transaction, he was infuriated that Hank had made him appear the villain. Still, he had to admire the youngster’s audacity, and in the end, once he’d cooled off, he even admitted the mares might prove a sound investment. Santa Guerra dealt with several Eastern breeders, and it was entirely possible Hank could double his money come spring, when the mares foaled. Since it was Hank’s money, honestly earned wagering on cockfights and horse races, he had seen no need to enlighten his father. Spring was a long way off.
Now, perched on the fence watching his mares, Hank felt quite proud of himself. A week ago he’d simply been another hired hand, the heir to Santa Guerra, but nonetheless paid a wage like everyone else. Today, he was a stockowner, and if all went well and the foals looked promising ...
Hank rose, straddling the fence, and ordered the vaqueros to get mounted. They tied the mares in a line along the fence and hurried off to their horses. Walking to the main gate, Hank swung it open and waited until they returned. Then he led the mares out of the pen, one at a time, and handed the lead rope to a mounted vaquero. All the men were again cautioned to go slow and take the utmost care with their charges. Within a matter of minutes, the riders were strung out single file, each leading a mare, moving at a sedate walk toward Santa Guerra.
After closing the gate, Hank quickly circled the pens and walked to the buckboard. Without a word, he climbed onto the seat, gathered the reins, and gave the team a swat across their rumps. Only when he’d closed the gap, trailing the last mare by several yards, did he glance around at Becky. His pale eyes glittered and a wide grin spread across his face.
“Aren’t they something? Did you see ‘em?”
“The horses? Of course I saw them.”
“Godalmightybingo! Those aren’t horses, they’re Thoroughbreds. Pick of the litter!”
Becky gave him a bright, theatrical smile. “Well shut my mouth! Never would’ve knowed unless you’d told me.”
“Awww c’mon! So I’ve told you ... one more time won’t hurt.”
“Hank Kruger! One more time makes about fifty, and that’s on the conservative side. You haven’t talked about anything but those horses for the last week.”
“Yeah, I know.” He laughed, looking slightly shamefaced. “But it’s a big day, honey. The biggest day of my life.”
“I still don’t understand that. Lord only knows how many thousands of horses you have
on Santa Guerra, and you’re like a kid at Christmastime all because of ten mares. It’s almost comical.”
“Nothing funny about it. Those mares are my ticket to ...”
His voice trailed off and Becky saw the carefree look dissolve into one of brooding. It was uncharacteristic of Hank Kruger, yet a look she had seen more and more often over the past few months. He seemed to be struggling within himself, and while he hadn’t volunteered any information, she decided that today was the day to broach the subject.
She touched his arm. “Please don’t shut me out, Hank. I’m sorry I made light of it ... but you’re ... you never talk to me anymore, not about important things. I want to understand, really I do, but I can’t if you won’t tell me.” She waited a moment, squeezed his arm. “Now, you started to say ... ticket to what?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain.” He pondered for a time, shook his head. “I don’t know exactly, it’s got something to do with freedom ... personal freedom.”
“Are you talking about Santa Guerra ... your father?”
“The whole ball of wax! It’s him and Mom and the ranch; one thing seems tied to the other, except there’s no place for me. I’ve never felt a part of it. Does that make any sense?”
“I’m not sure,” Becky murmured. “When you say personal freedom, do you mean some sort of independence?”