Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  Kruger hesitated, chose his words with care. “For the moment, let’s just say I’d like some idea of how soon you intend to settle down.”

  “What you’re really asking is whether I aim to marry Becky.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, Dad, you’re a sackful of surprises, I’ll give you that. But you still haven’t told me the reason.”

  “All right, I’ll try to be more direct. I believe Becky has two older sisters ... no brothers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And as I recall, both sisters married well-to-do cattlemen, with spreads of their own.”

  “I’m beginning to see the light.”

  “Then explain it to me,” Trudy demanded. “You two sound like you’re talking riddles.”

  “No riddles, Mom, just a tricky mind at work. What he’s saying is that Becky’s sisters are all fixed, and whoever she marries will likely wind up with the Hazlett ranch.” Hank gave his father a sardonic look. “And if the lucky fellow turns out to be me, then that would automatically extend Santa Guerra’s holdings to the county line.”

  “To be more precise,” Kruger noted, “it would consolidate both properties into a single holding ... and make Santa Guerra the only ranch in Kruger County.”

  “Why not say what you really mean? It’d just about make Santa Guerra and Kruger County one and the same, wouldn’t it?”

  “God in heaven!” Trudy blurted, staring at her husband. “Ernest, I think that’s absolutely the most brilliant idea I’ve ever heard.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I’m rather proud of it myself.”

  “Hold your horses!” Hank said indignantly. “Don’t you think you ought to consult me before you start congratulating yourselves?”

  “Good point,” Kruger agreed. “Which brings us back to the original question. How serious are you about Rebecca Hazlett?”

  Hank stood and walked to the fireplace. He stared into the bed of ashes for a long while, mouth clenched tight and a steady tic pulsating in his jaw muscles. Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned to face his parents.

  “You two sure make a pair. And I’m damn sorry you even told me what you had in mind. But to answer your question ... Becky’s promised to wait for me till I’ve got means of my own.”

  “Of course!” Kruger mused out loud. “That’s, why you bought those mares, isn’t it? To build yourself a stake.”

  “Not the way you mean. I figured to sell off the colts and keep breeding the mares. Maybe buy myself a good stud.”

  “Son, I don’t want to disillusion you, but that’s a long road to prosperity. Very few Thoroughbred breeders ever strike it big.”

  “Some do, some don’t. I’m willing to risk it.”

  “Perhaps. But a smart gambler always hedges his bet. The idea I had in mind would work out better all the way around ... especially if you meant what you said about Becky.”

  “Yeah, what idea’s that?”

  “I want you to take over Santa Guerra.”

  The silence was tomblike. Trudy sat frozen, her mouth a perfect oval. Hank lifted his hand, lowered it when words failed, then stood rooted before the fireplace. Their reaction was one of stark disbelief, and it was obvious that neither of them could credit what they’d heard. Kruger had expected surprise, even shock, and he allowed them a moment to collect their wits. Then he smiled, glancing from mother to son.

  “The explanation is really quite simple. There comes a time when a man has to delegate responsibility. Things have progressed somewhat faster than I anticipated, and I suddenly find myself stretched too thin. Unless the other projects are to suffer, then I have no choice but to delegate, and Santa Guerra seems the place to start. That’s all there is to it.”

  Trudy gave him a triumphant look. It was precisely what she’d planned, and had been accomplished without the need of guile. Somehow that made it all the sweeter, and she felt an enormous outpouring of affection toward her husband. Then she glanced at Hank and experienced a sudden stab of alarm. His face was fixed in a frown.

  “Something wrong, son?” Kruger inquired. “You don’t seem exactly bowled over by the news.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Hank countered. “Would you have made the offer if I hadn’t come up with the right answer about Becky?”

  “One way or another I could always acquire John Hazlett’s ranch. But you’re my son, the only one I have. Does that answer your question?”

  Hank searched his eyes for a time, finally shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Kruger nodded. “You’ll take over Santa Guerra.”

  “Thanks all the same, but I reckon I’ll pass.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said ... no deal ... that’s simple enough.”

  “Too simple, perhaps. Would you mind explaining your reason?”

  “Oh, let’s say it’s a personal matter, and let it go at that.”

  Kruger stiffened, glanced at Trudy out of the corner of his eye. She was watching Hank intently, puzzled by the cryptic remark. Kruger sensed there was no way to let it drop without further arousing her curiosity. He turned back to Hank, carefully stressing the words.

  “I take it you don’t approve of my methods?”

  “Yeah, that’s a fair statement.”

  “You think I’m using you—to further my own goals—and that makes you angry?”

  Hank studied him a moment, slowly nodded. “Among other things.”

  “That’s rather shortsighted, isn’t it? You’re allowing personal differences to affect your judgment.”

  “If you’re saying I don’t want any part of your scheme, then you hit it dead center. Hell, it wouldn’t make any difference how I feel about Becky! I wouldn’t marry her or anybody else just to give you a tighter grip on the county.” Hank laughed a bitter laugh. “You don’t need me, Dad. There’s Jots of ways to skin John Hazlett, and you know ‘em all. I’ll just sit this one out and tend to my mares.”

  “Son, you’ve been sitting it out all your life. Don’t you think it’s time you climbed down off your hobby-horse and got your feet wet?”

  “Ahhh come off it! You’re not talking about getting my feet wet. You’re talking about getting my hands dirty! The way I see it, there’s a helluva big difference.”

  “Stop it!” Trudy cried. “Both of you!”

  She glared at them, looking back and forth with an expression of fierce dismay. In her heart, she knew they were both right. Ambition, the thirst for power, had corrupted her husband. The austere, highly principled man she’d married, the man of probity and Christian value, no longer existed. In his place sat a hard-bitten pragmatist, concerned not with rules but results. To some, he was devious and underhanded and never to be trusted. But to her, he was a man of vision and foresight, with the iron will and strong stomach to transform his dreams—her dreams!—into reality. She much preferred him to the callow young lawyer she’d taken to her wedding bed so long ago.

  By the same token, she loved her son for his stubborn pride and rough assurance. In many ways, he was the very incarnation of her father, possessing all the traits that were perhaps the fondest memories of her childhood. All the more important, it was natural to him, part of his nature. Unlike her husband, he hadn’t learned it, he was born with it. Beneath the indifference and mockery, there was a man of determination and immense vitality, another Henry Laird. Yet he’d set himself against his father—for reasons that weren’t entirely clear—and his stubbornness, his certainty of self, was now jeopardizing his own best interests. He had it all within his grasp, but he was on the verge of throwing it away, destroying everything she’d worked toward since the day he was born. Unless she turned him around tonight, the chance might be lost forever. She wouldn’t risk that. She wouldn’t allow him to....

  “Hank, I am not goin
g to sit here and watch you make a damn fool of yourself. You’ve always had your way—done whatever you pleased, whenever it struck your fancy—but not tonight. You’re full grown and it’s high time you started acting like a man. So let’s get it settled ... right now!”

  “Settled? Get what settled?”

  “Whether or not you remain on Santa Guerra.”

  “Are you—”

  Hank faltered, staring at her with a look of bewilderment. Her sudden outburst had stunned him. All his life, since he was old enough to remember, she had taken his side, defended him. But tonight her voice was cold and hard, the expression on her face implacable. He felt stricken, somehow unnerved by her threat, yet a part of him couldn’t believe she’d said it. He shook his head.

  “Mom, you’re not serious ... are you?”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “You’d actually kick me out?”

  “Yes ... if I have to ... yes, I would!”

  “He’s wrong!” Hank stabbed a finger at his father. “You know damn well he’s wrong!”

  “Oh for god’s sake! Wake up, Hank. Wake up and grow up! Can’t you get it through your head that you don’t matter? Your father and I don’t matter—nothing matters except Santa Guerra—the land, Hank!—the land!”

  “I know that, Mom.”

  “You don’t know anything. You just think you know!”

  Trudy’s eyes burned with an intensity that left him transfixed. “Your grandfather killed himself building Santa

  Guerra! He died before his time because that’s what it took to turn a wilderness into a ranch. He picked your father— when he found out he was dying, Hank!—he picked your father to carry on what he’d started.” Her gaze swung to Kruger, softened. “And your father kept his promise. Oh god, how he kept it! He came to love Santa Guerra as much as your grandfather did—as much as I do!—the way you should.” She turned back, frowning. “But you’ve never understood that, have you? You’ve always taken it for granted, just assumed somebody waved a magic wand and—magi-presto—there stood Santa Guerra. Now part of that is my fault, and I take the blame. I taught you to believe Santa Guerra was yours—all yours!—but I was wrong, dead wrong. It’s not yours until you understand what it means, Hank. Until you understand why men died and burned themselves out to build what you take for granted.”

  Trudy slumped back in her chair, breathing hard. She stared at her son, a look of weighing and calculation, and there was a moment of deadened silence. Then her fists clenched and her chin jutted out proudly, defiantly.

  “What you’ve never understood—what it means—is that men don’t count. Only the land counts! We’re nothing, less than nothing. When we’re all dead and buried, the land ... Santa Guerra ... will still be here. It’s the only thing that lasts—the only part of ourselves we can leave behind!—and that’s the reason it’s the only thing that matters. Your grandfather and your father understood that, and they always put the land before themselves. Always!”

  Her fist opened and closed, fell against the arm of the chair. “Unless you understand it too, then you have no place on Santa Guerra. The land takes everything a man has to give ... everything.”

  Hank regarded her with profound shock. He swallowed, watching her as though mesmerized, struck dumb by the force of her words. Several moments passed, the stillness almost unbearable, while she waited for his reply. He tried to speak, but there was no sound, and he found himself unable to tear his eyes away. At last, his father cleared his throat, broke the silence.

  “Your mother’s right, son. Whatever our personal differences, it’s Santa Guerra that matters. You have an obligation to the land, and perhaps an even larger obligation to yourself. You were born to the job, and you’ll never be able to live with yourself if you run away from it. To put it quite simply, it’s your birthright and your time’s come. You are the patron!”

  Hank glanced at his mother. She held his gaze an instant, then her eyes misted over and she nodded. He paced to the end of the fireplace, turned and propped one hand on the mantel, stared into the ashes for a long time. Slowly, his features changed, the line along his jawbone tightened, and he seemed to come to grips with some inward part of himself. When he faced them, the old assurance was there, but somehow different. He was solemn, the look of mockery gone, his mouth thin and straight. His presence was commanding, vital.

  “All right, I’ll take over. But there’s a couple of conditions attached to it, so we’d better get them ironed out now!”

  “Oh?” Kruger observed. “What sort of conditions?”

  “Well, first off, I won’t stand for any interference. Not from you”—Hank paused, looked directly at his mother— “not from anyone.”

  “By interference, do you mean—”

  “I mean there’ll only be one boss around here ... and that’s me!”

  “You’ll need help,” Kruger insisted. “You haven’t had the experience to take on the job overnight, not without some guidance.”

  “I’m not saying I won’t take advice. But once we’ve thrashed it out among ourselves, that’s it. I’ll give the orders on Santa Guerra ... all the orders.”

  Kruger and Trudy exchanged a glance. She nodded, and after a moment’s deliberation he threw up his hands. “Very well, what’s your next condition?”

  “I’m through working for wages. We divvy up the profits once a year, and I take my third right off the top.”

  Kruger smiled. “If nothing else, I taught you how to drive a hard bargain.”

  “One more thing. And you’d better listen close, because it’ll be the first order I give.”

  “Believe me, you have our undivided attention.”

  “I intend to post the ranch, every last acre.”

  “But that’s unheard of!” Kruger declared. “Nobody posts their land.”

  “Nobody ever had reason until these sodbusters moved in.”

  “Good lord, they hunt for meat! There’s no crime in that.”

  “Yeah, and they’ve already killed off half the deer and most of the wild turkey. Give them another year and they’ll exterminate all the game on Santa Guerra.”

  “Perhaps it’s good riddance. We need the graze for cows, anyway.”

  “C’mon, Dad, you know better than that. If we let ‘em kill off the game, then the predators won’t have any natural prey, and we’ll really start losing cows.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Kruger admitted. “But I already have trouble enough with the farmers... . This will certainly complicate matters.”

  “That’s your problem. I intend to post the land, and once it’s posted, I’ll make it stick.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you will.” Kruger deliberated a moment, then dismissed it with a quick gesture. “Very well, if there are no more conditions, can we move on to other matters?”

  Hank pursed his lips. “If you’re talking about Becky, forget it. I’ll handle that in my own way, in my own good time, but she’s not part of our deal.”

  “I’m referring to another matter entirely. In a way, it’s what convinced me to put you in charge of the ranch. You see, assuming all goes well, I suspect it will occupy a major portion of my time in the future.”

  Kruger extracted a document from inside his coat and unfolded it. “I’ve formed another company. Unlike the railroad, however, this will be a family enterprise.”

  “God save us!” Trudy laughed. “Aren’t you satisfied with what you’ve got, Ernest?”

  “As your father often remarked”—Kruger handed her the typewritten sheet—”enough is never enough.”

  Trudy glanced at the document, suddenly caught her breath. “This says—I don’t believe it!—the Santa Guerra Oil Company?”

  “Indeed it does. We begin drilling next month.”

  Chapter 41

  The year passed s
wiftly. Too swiftly for Hank Kruger, whose first year as patron of Santa Guerra had been marked by ill fortune. On a warm summer day, accompanied by Luis Morado, he rode out to inspect the breeding pastures. It was an unexpected visit, almost a week ahead of his normal schedule, but it provided a respite from the worries awaiting him elsewhere. He needed a boost in spirits.

  The sun was a polished ball lodged high in the sky, and a shimmering haze hung over the land. Luis Morado, long the caporal of the Coastal Division, found today’s heat oddly oppressive. El Patron had scarcely spoken since riding into division headquarters; his expression was somber and he appeared in a dark mood. Worse, he had offered no explanation for his visit, and that in itself seemed a bad sign. Morado was sweating profusely, eyes guarded and watchful.

  The patron had recently promoted him to segundo, a position left vacant following the death of his father, Ramon Morado. It was a signal honor, and indicated a return to the old ways. The promotion was to take effect in one month, allowing him time to train a replacement for the Coastal Division; thereafter he would be responsible for the whole of Santa Guerra, second only to the patron. Morado was privately of the opinon that La Madama had influenced her son in the decision. She valued his friendship and discretion, and through the years they had remained companeros. While nearly four decades had passed, she still loved to reminisce about their childhood and, perhaps the dearest of all her memories, Roberto. It was natural, then that she would want her old friend elevated in rank, and brought to live at the main compound. Yet it was entirely possible the patron was having second thoughts on the matter. Perhaps that was the reason for his sudden appearance today, and his brooding manner.

  One leg hooked over the saddle horn, Hank rolled a cigarette and lit it, puffing in silence. With Morado at his side, they sat their horses overlooking a fenced pasture. A small herd of two year olds grazed placidly in the noonday heat. These were the initial offspring of Babs, the Brahman bull; now approaching maturity, the cows had been bred earlier that spring to a Hereford bull. Because of the long generation intervals with cattle, usually four years, the breeding program constructed by Ernest Kruger was expected to span a decade or longer. By culling and mating linebred cattle with outcross offspring of the Brahman bull, Kruger hoped to establish a fixed type of cow. The animal he envisioned would be strong and heavily fleshed, larger than shorthorn cattle, about five-eights Hereford and three-eights Brahman ancestry.