Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  Kruger’s approach was iconoclastic and highly experimental, in direct opposition to methods advocated by genetic experts. At first, upon assuming command of the ranch, Hank had argued for a return to orthodox breeding procedures. But his father was intractable, and in the end he’d agreed to stick with the original plan. Today, watching the Brahman-Hereford crossbreds, he had to admit the first step bore all the earmarks of success. The cows appeared hardy and almost immune to the blazing Texas sun. Moreover, because of their tough hide, inherited from Babs, they had a high tolerance to tick fever; the loose folds of skin also protected them from swarming insects which caused canker-eye and screwworm in purebred Herefords. If nothing else, the program had already produced an animal better suited to the land and the climate.

  Yet it was a long-range program, several generations away from a proved concept. Hank still subscribed to all the traditional beliefs with regard to breeding; the modest success he’d enjoyed with his mares had merely reinforced those beliefs. Earlier that spring the colts had been auctioned off at a handsome profit; with the proceeds he had imported a Thoroughbred stud from Kentucky, and next year, when the mares foaled, he would have a bloodline all his own. It gave him impetus and hope for the future, and along with the

  Brahman-Hereford crossbreds, it represented a ray of sunlight in a singularly gloomy year.

  Last summer, shortly after he’d taken over Santa Guerra, the beef market had begun a steady decline. The slaughterhouses were still buying, but prices dropped daily, and by midsummer it became obvious that the Western cattle industry had simply outstripped the demand for beef. Toward the latter part of August, with ten thousand head still unsold, he’d been confronted with a crucial decision. Santa Guerra lacked adequate graze to support its natural increase and hold the unsold cows for another season; but to sell the cows would result in a loss of nearly a quarter-million dollars. His father advised him to take the loss, and chalk it off to the vagaries of the cattle business. Hank determined instead on a bold gamble. He leased grazeland in the old Cherokee Nation, located in northeastern Oklahoma; the cows were wintered there after being shipped north by rail in September. He’d staked everything on an upturn in the beef market, which as yet had shown no signs of recovery. Now, with another summer upon him, Santa Guerra was facing imminent disaster. If he was forced to sell the current crop, along with the wintered steers—roughly forty thousand head—the loss in revenues would total upward of $1 million. For a young cattle baron, it was baptism by fire, and often made him wonder why he’d so readily accepted the title of El Patron.

  The responsibility, compounded by the unrelenting pressure, had left its mark. Hank smiled less these days, and his happy-go-lucky manner had given way to an attitude of sober introspection. His tour of the Brahman-Herefords was meant to buoy his spirits and make him forget the thirty thousand cows, as yet unsold, awaiting him at the Northern Division. But he couldn’t forget, and as he finished his cigarette, it occurred to him that he couldn’t hide. He turned to the caporal, eyes grim, and nodded.

  “Bueno, Luis. You’ve done well.”

  The comment came as a relief, but it left Luis Morado thoroughly bewildered. He still hadn’t the vaguest notion of why the, patron had picked today to inspect his cows. Without another word, they reined around and rode back toward division headquarters.

  ***

  The Coastal Division was almost a separate ranch, located closer to Lairdsville than to the main compound. A village had been built to house the vaqueros and their families, and a large adobe structure served as division headquarters. Here Luis Morado supervised the breeding program, maintained a commissary, and kept extensive records on the overall operation. As was the custom on inspection days, the patron returned to headquarters for a monthly accounting by the caporal. Usually he spent the night, and with little excitement in their lives, Los Lerdenos always made it an occasion. There was a feast prepared by the village women, followed by music and dancing and a generous allotment of tequila, courtesy of El Patron.

  But today Los Lerdenos lost their excuse for a fiesta. Hank and Luis Morado had barely dismounted when the Pierce-Arrow roared into the village. Ernest Kruger braked to a halt, tooting his horn, scattering dogs and chickens in a cloud of dust. Beside him sat his wife, and in the back, waving gaily, was Becky Hazlett. Hank started toward the car, confounded by their sudden appearance, and his father motioned him to hurry.

  “C’mon, slowpoke, climb aboard! We’re running late.”

  “What’s the rush? Where’re we going?”

  “Questions later ... just get in!”

  Hank jumped in beside Becky and Kruger gunned off in a thunderous backfire. As the car cleared the village, Kruger turned his head, shouting over the roar of the wind.

  “Got a message from the driller. He’s hit paysand! Said if we hurried, we could see the well come in.”

  “How’d you know where I was?”

  “Didn’t! Called the house and they told me you were here.”

  Hank glanced at his mother, then turned to Becky, thoroughly mystified. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Your mother and I were in town together. When the news came, Mr. Kruger just grabbed us up and here we are.”

  “In town together?” He met her gaze, found something merry lurking there. “What gives? You look like you just ate the canary.”

  Trudy laughed. ‘No, hijo mio ... un vago!”

  “Yes!” Becky exclaimed. “The man who won’t be caught.”

  Hank eyed them suspiciously. “What sort of plot have you two been hatching now?”

  “Actually, darling, we were discussing your birthday present. A very special present.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Me!”

  “You?”

  Becky nodded, gave him a catlike smile. “We’ve decided to hold the wedding on your birthday ... that way you’ll never forget our anniversary.”

  Though their engagement was official, Hank had been dragging his feet about setting a wedding date. In part, his reluctance stemmed from Santa Guerra’s problems. He wanted to prove to himself—and his father—that he was equal to the job. Then, too, there had been no profits last year, and he was using that as an excuse to delay the wedding further. Now it seemed Becky had enlisted his mother in a conspiracy of sorts... .

  Or perhaps it was the other way round!

  Hank turned to his mother. “Whose brainstorm was this?”

  “A joint effort.” Trudy winked at the girl, mashed his hat down over his head. “Your roaming days are over, vago. So relax and enjoy it.”

  Becky grabbed him around the neck and hugged fiercely. Suddenly it all seemed too much, too quickly. An oil well and a firm wedding date—all on the same day—fairly boggled the imagination. He sank back in the seat, hat jammed down on his ears, glowering.

  Oil had become a major industry in Texas. The spectacular growth, all occurring within the last eight years, could be traced to the Spindletop discovery outside the town of Beaumont. There, early in 1901, a gusher was brought in that electrified the world. The Spindletop well had a flow of 100,000 barrels a day, roughly half the daily production of the entire United States. By the end of the year, Beaumont had mushroomed into a boom town, with 138 producing wells, and an oil craze swept the land. Wildcatters and oil companies began drilling holes all across the state of Texas.

  But Santa Guerra had thus far proved barren, and for Ernest Kruger, it had been a dismal experience. His company had drilled three dusters in the past year, and he’d discovered that oil exploratipn involved staggering costs. Still, despite the financial drain and the lack of results, he wasn’t discouraged. He was convinced there was oil on Santa Guerra, and he had a hunch today was the day he would find it.

  The Pierce-Arrow was parked some distance from the derrick, and Kruger stood on the running board, watching the drilling opera
tion. Hank was still sulking, propped up against one of the front fenders, trying to ignore his mother and Becky. They chattered on endlessly, switching back and forth between wedding plans and the thrill of witnessing Santa Guerra’s first well brought in. Becky’s eyes gleamed with excitement. Everything about the oil business was new and fascinating, and she devoured it all with the greedy savor of a small girl. She wore a dress of sheer cambric, and her hair was arranged a la Romaine, the latest fashion, involving twists and coils framed by wispy spit curls. She looked ravishing, and the sunlight seemed to accentuate the swell of her breasts through the fabric.

  Feigning indifference, Hank couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He was experiencing subliminal flashes of what lay beneath the gauzy dress, punctuated by distinct images of how she would appear naked, wrapped in his arms, snuggled deep in a featherbed. It was a tantalizing vision, and despite himself, he began to think the wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Then he glanced at his mother, and frowned. What he’d merely suspected before had now been confirmed. She had switched sides, joined forces with the old man—and Becky! —in a conspiracy to marry him off. Suddenly he felt surrounded, badly outnumbered, overwhelmed by a sense of being trapped into something not of his own choosing. He forced himself to look away from Becky, and focused his attention instead on the drilling rig.

  The derrick was an ancient contraption of wood and squealing ropes, towering high above the prairie. A huge wheel groaned, reeling a string of drilling tools from the wellhead, and the crown block wailed in protest. On the derrick floor a man quickly engaged the band wheel and lowered his bailer into the well. Several minutes later, when he brought the bucket out of the hole, it was full of pulverized cuttings and water. He inspected the cuttings, rubbing sand between his fingers, smelling it, then stood and yelled something to another man in the enginehouse. He moved to the near side of the rig, went down a ladder to the ground, and walked toward the Pierce-Arrow.

  Kruger went to meet him, and Spud Thompson, the driller, briefly explained the problem. Every load of cuttings he’d brought up in the bailer had shown streaks of color, but so far there was no flow of oil from the hole. Of course, as everyone knew, oil was embedded in sand at various depths in the earth. Below these beds, however, were formations of rock and clay, generally impregnated with water. The trick was to tap the oil sand without boring through to the water. All day he’d drilled down foot by foot, and bailed the hole after each drilling. By relieving pressure on the paysand, he’d hoped to coax the oil to the surface. Yet the oil hadn’t budged, and at this point, he dared not drill another foot. One miscue and they might wind up with a very expensive water well.

  “What we’ve got here,” Thompson concluded, “is a bitchkitty of a teaser.”

  “Teaser? Are you telling me it’s another duster?”

  “Nope, never said that. There’s likely oil down there, but it’s just enough to tease you into drilling deeper. If you let her, she’ll tease you into boring that last foot, and you’ll strike water sure as hell.”

  “Then there’s definitely oil down there?”

  “Never said that neither. Leastways not the kinda well you’re talkin’ about.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kruger said wearily. “You just finished saying we’ve found oil.”

  “Yeah, after a fashion.” Thompson jerked his thumb at the derrick. “This here well might produce fifty barrels a day. Then again, it might not cough up enough to fill a teacup. ‘Course, I’d have to hire a nitro man and shoot it ... explode the paysand. That way we free the oil—assumin’ it’s barrels instead of teacups—and force it to wellhead.”

  Kruger regarded him dourly for a minute. “Fifty barrels a day hardly seems worth the effort. In fact, I’m wondering why you brought me all the way out here for nothing.”

  “Well, you gotta admit, Mr. Kruger, it’s better’n a duster. ‘Course, I know it ain’t exactly what you had in mind, but I thought you might like to go ahead and shoot it and make yourself a well.”

  “I’m not interested in an expensive toy, Mr. Thompson. I want results! Now, does this hole indicate we’re getting any closer to a strike ... or doesn’t it?”

  “Yes and no,” Thompson informed him. “Next hole we drill could bring in another Spindletop easy as not. On the other hand, we might keep drillin’ dusters till Hell freezes over. See, irregardless of what some folks say, Texas ain’t floatin’ on a bed of oil, Mr. Kruger. There’s a little bit everywhere and a whole lot in certain spots. But it takes a helluva lot of luck to tap the right spot, and you gotta be willin’ to put your money where your mouth is ... maybe for a long damn time.”

  “I’m not a great believer in luck, Mr. Thompson, but I have the money and I have the time. Come see me when you finish up here. We’ll take stock and figure out where to spud in the next hole.”

  Kruger turned and walked back to the car. The others were waiting anxiously, their faces eager and expectant. His eyebrows drew together in a slight frown as he stopped, shoulders squared, thumbs hooked in his vest.

  “It’s not a gusher, but it’s not a duster either. I’m informed it’s a teaser.”

  Everyone began peppering him with questions and he warded them off with upraised palms. “All in due time. We have a long drive home, and I’ll explain Mr. Thompson’s definition of a teaser on the way.” Then he paused, glancing around at the derrick and a strange light came into his eyes. “I’ll tell you one thing right here and now, though. There’s oil on Santa Guerra and one of these days the whole world will wake up and read about it in their newspapers.”

  His words had a ring of prophecy, and Trudy felt a shiver run down her spine. She regarded him with an odd steadfast look, and it occurred to her that she’d been very fortunate throughout her life. All her men had the gift of vision. Her father, her husband, and in his own way, even her son.

  She suddenly envied Rebecca Hazlett the years ahead.

  Chapter 42

  The washed blue of the plains sky grew smoky along about dusk. Fall had come and gone, and with winter approaching, a dusty coolness settled over the land at sundown. High overhead a squadron of ducks, fleet silhouettes against the muslin twilight, winged their way southward.

  Hank reined his horse to a halt and sat for a moment watching the ducks. Behind him Luis Romero and Umberto Mendez exchanged a glance, wondering that the patron would stop for a thing of so little consequence. But ducks were not all that common a sight on Santa Guerra, and their appearance evoked a curious sense of restlessness in Hank. They were creatures of the wild, beholden to nothing, free to take flight when they heard the ancient call. Not at all like man, whose freedom was measured by the degree of his bondage. A bondage to people and the land, and now a girl.

  Yet it was a velvet chain that held him. One most men would have gladly accepted, and counted themselves fortunate to be blessed by such restraint. In a week’s time, on the tenth day of November, he would marry a girl of grace and charm who loved him perhaps more than he deserved. A girl, however much he’d resisted the notion, that he had always wanted and cherished, and knew in some secret corner of his mind that he would eventually marry anyway. And in an ironic twist, his last excuse for delay had vanished within days of the wedding announcement. The beef market began to rise and throughout the summer it had climbed steadily higher. By early fall, when prices peaked, his agents had contracted for Santa Guerra’s entire production, including the herd in Oklahoma. The turnabout vindicated his judgment of a year earlier, and the gamble paid off beyond his wildest expectations. Today the last trainload of steers had been shipped north, and by this time next week, when he left the church a married man, Santa Guerra would have cleared upward of $800,000 in profits.

  Still, watching the ducks disappear in a dusky wedge, he felt some sense of loss. A deeper instinct, visceral in nature, to answer that call himself and vanish with them into the darkening sky. But the urge was q
uickly set aside. He was a fortunate man—damned lucky!—and only a fool dwelt on lost dreams. He turned in the saddle, pointing as the ducks faded southward, and smiled at the vaqueros.

  “Qui bonito, eh, amigos?”

  Luis Romero smiled, on the verge of replying, when a distant gunshot rolled across the plains. The three men froze, trying to fix the direction of the sound, and an instant later they heard the dull blast of a shotgun. Their heads swiveled in unison, eastward toward the railroad, and for a moment they stared at a ticket of woods almost a mile away. Then Hank jerked his horse round, spurring hard, and the vaqueros thundered after him.

  Several minutes later Hank led them into the woods. At his signal, Mendez and Romero fanned out to the flanks, and they proceeded through the thicket on a line. There was no need of questions or instructions; by now the problem of poachers had become commonplace on Santa Guerra. Upon posting the land, Hank had issued orders that anyone caught hunting was to be restrained, by force if necessary, and held for the authorities. Since then, he had filed trespassing charges against dozens of farmers, and each of them had paid a stiff fine in county court. But the poachers continued to hunt Santa Guerra, scornful of the law, and all the more outraged that Hank Kruger allowed his “greasers” to apprehend and detain white men. Tempers flared, and on more than one occasion, when dusk settled over the woods, gunshots had been exchanged. The farmers grew bolder then, relying on darkness and gunfire to make good their escape.

  Hank and the vaqueros came upon the deer in a patch of trampled undergrowth. It was a large buck, freshly gutted and still warm. The poachers were nowhere in sight, but their trail was visible through the tangled brush. Up ahead, the woods lay in deep shadow, and Hank listened intently, disturbed by the silence. Clearly the poachers had fled only moments before, yet men crashing through underbrush made a racket that could be heard some distance away. And there was no sound whatever. He pulled a carbine from his saddle scabbard, motioning the vaqueros to proceed with caution, and they rode forward at a walk.