by Jory Sherman
“Yes,” Matteo said, “‘my kingdom for a horse,’ said the king.”
“Who is this king?”
“I do not know. But he was fighting a mighty battle and he could not win without a horse. So he was ready to trade his entire kingdom so that he could win the battle. He knew that he could trade his kingdom for a horse and reclaim it in victory.”
“That, too, is a wise saying,” Bone said.
“So what is your decision, Mickey?”
“I will take the horse and the arms you give me. I will work for you for one year and go where you go. But I will live my life in my heart.”
Matteo smiled. He pointed to the cigarro next to Mickey’s plate.
“Let us smoke on it, Mickey,” Matteo said. “Pick up the cigarro and I will light it with mine. This will seal our agreement.”
Bone looked at the cigarro for several seconds. Finally he picked it up, put it between his lips. He leaned over the table and Matteo held the burning end of his cigarro to the tip of Bone’s. Bone drew air through the cigarro and the tobacco began to glow. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled smoke into the air.
“The Great Spirit leads us down many paths,” Bone said to Matteo. “And we cannot see the end of our journey.”
“That is true,” Matteo said. “But we can still choose the path we will take. I have chosen mine.”
“And I have chosen mine,” Bone said, a somber cast to his tone. He looked at the smoke from the two cigarros mingling above the table and thought of the girl he would soon take for his wife. He thought about the new name he would give her and spoke to his heart for guidance.
He looked out the window and the Spanish word for dawn came unbidden into his mind. La madrugada. It was an unwieldy name, but it suited her. It was a name of beginning. In Lipan, it was a very beautiful name. In English, it was also beautiful. And he knew then, that he would call his bride Dawn and she would be his sunrise every day for the rest of his life.
44
BENITO AQUILAR SAT on the top rail of the corral at the Rocking A, watching the three riders move slowly toward the house from the north. The riders wound their way through the small bunches of cattle feeding on sorry summer grass. One of his vaqueros rode out to see who was coming, but Benito already knew.
He sighed deeply and rubbed his tender, cracked hands. Sun and sweat had created fissures in his flesh around the knuckles. Pilar had put salve on them that morning, but already the salve was drying and the pain had returned.
He climbed down and walked away from the corral.
“Basta,” he said to Simón Carrasco, who had just finished shoeing the fourth horse. “We will do the others later in the day when it is cool.”
“Sí, patrón,” Simón said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. He began picking up the shoes and the nails as Benito walked toward the house.
Benito moved like a man grown old beyond his years. He seemed to carry a great weight on his shoulders. His hair was laced with gray streaks; his sideburns were peppered with the frost of aging. He seemed stiff-jointed, slowing his pace when he was near the porch. He pulled the brim of his battered old hat down over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and the brim painted his chin and the right side of his face with shadow.
The vaquero he had seen ride out to see who the riders were had turned and was riding slowly back to the house. Benito recognized him as Federico Ruiz, one of the few who still remained on the ranch, although he had not been paid in anything but beans and flour for several months. Cash was something Benito had not seen in some time, though he had a deal pending on the horses he was shoeing, and the new infusion of cattle had helped his breeding stock. But the grass was poor that summer and he had been forced to feed his stock with winter hay and mesquite cakes.
“The Barons, they come,” Federico called out as he was riding up.
“I see them, Rico.”
“Martin gave me tobacco. He asks about your health.”
“That was good of him. Keep the tobacco. Give some to Simon, if you can.”
“I will do that, patrón.” Federico rode off toward the barn, the ribs of his horse stretching the animal’s hide so that it looked like something made out of wood and brown paper.
“Who is coming?” Pilar called from the front door.
“Martin Baron,” Benito said.
“Good. Maybe you sell him that whore you brought back from Victoria.”
“Be quiet, Pilar.” There was patience and resignation in Benito’s voice.
“Where is your lazy whore, Benito? Why does she not show her face?”
“Be quiet or I will slap you quiet.”
“You and your filthy whore.”
Benito did not stop at the porch as he had intended, but walked on past the house to the other side where he could meet the riders. He heard the front door slam. He should not have brought the woman back to the ranch with him, but she was a solace, and he could beat her if she was bad to him. But Pilar he could not bring himself to beat. She was always with the blind boy, Lázaro, and she always inspired pity in him, and sometimes even shame.
He kept the woman in one of the adobes that had been vacant since two vaqueros, who were brothers, had moved out while he had been gone to buy the cattle up north. He knew she had the sickness, but so did Pilar, and Pilar had gotten it from his brother, Augustino. The sickness that had blinded Lázaro in the womb and infected them all, curse him.
The woman’s name was Caridad, which was ironic, and he had never mentioned her name to Pilar. Indeed, he had tried to keep Caridad a secret, but Pilar had found out, perhaps from one of the other women who knew about her.
He heard the back door of the house slam shut and knew that Pilar and Lázaro had gone out the back. They would probably go out in the field to play, or perhaps she would let him ride his pony and pretend he was a vaquero. Lázaro’s name was ironic too, he thought. He would never see, never be able to rise from the dead.
“Benito,” Martin called.
“Welcome,” Benito said. “Do you want to go into the house? I can offer you cups.”
“Whatever pleases you,” Martin said. “I want to talk to you.”
“I see you have brought your young son and Juanito. It is good to see you again.”
“Benito, how goes it?” Juanito said.
“It passes,” Benito said. “I am well.”
“Mr. Aguilar,” Anson said, not knowing what to say. Their saddlebags were bulging with things Martin had brought: tobacco, coffee, flour. Small gifts to give them something to talk about before they discussed business.
“Tie your horses up at the house,” Benito said. “We can sit on the porch and talk. I do not know where Pilar is. She has gone with the blind boy somewhere.”
“That’s all right,” Martin said. “It was you we came to see. I have some things for your wife and for you.”
“You are very simpático, Martin,” Benito said as he walked with them to the house. He waited while the three men dismounted and tied their horses to the hitchrail. Anson dug into the saddlebags and began laying the things they had brought on one step of the porch. Benito walked up the steps and motioned for Martin and Juanito to sit on one of the benches there. He set out two chairs for him and Anson.
“Caroline says to tell you hello,” Martin said.
“Please give my good wishes to your wife as well. Those things you brought—Pilar will have gratitude for you, Martin.”
“There is some tobacco for you and some aguardiente, a pair of spurs I hope will suit you. Some playthings and some dulces for Lázaro.”
“I am most humbled,” Benito said.
“Will you have a smoke now?” Martin asked.
“No. My throat is very dry.”
“Some brandy, then?”
“I will wait and have the brandy tonight—unless you will take a cup?”
“No, we cannot stay long,” Martin said.
“You have come to talk business.”
; “Yes. I sold my boat and have brought some money. I am hoping you will sell me more land,” Martin said.
“You have a great deal of land now.”
“Yes, but I am expanding my herd. I think that someday soon we will have a good market for beef.”
“Yes, I am hoping that will be so. You have heard that the Rocking A is not doing so well.”
“I have not heard that. That is not why I came. I sold my boat so that I could buy more land from you, Benito.”
“Do you have a price in mind?” Benito asked.
“I will pay the same price as I paid Victoria.”
“Perhaps the land is worth more now.”
“It is empty land. It is doing you no good. It is doing me no good if I cannot call it my own and make use of it.”
“That is true,” Benito said. “How much land do you want to buy?”
“I have measured it and I have brought the surveyor’s reports. It is roughly a half a million acres to the west of La Loma de Sombra and north of Bandera Creek. You hold title to it and I have brought the documents that tell of it and pass ownership to me.”
“That is a lot of land. I might need it someday.”
Martin took out his pipe, filled it with tobacco. He struck a match and lit it. He would wait Benito out if he had to. He knew Benito was cash poor and that he would not pass up the money, even though he was selling part of himself, part of his brother Jaime’s dream. Jaime had obtained the Spanish land grants for millions of hectares in the Rio Grande Valley, but had been killed by Apaches before he had the chance to build his ranch as he had wished.
Juanito said nothing. He just looked at Benito, and Benito turned away from him in shame. He wondered if Juanito had told Martin about the woman in Victoria, the whore he had been with when the Argentine passed through.
Anson leaned his chair against the porch rail, sucking on a horehound candy, listening to the talk, wondering how long it would take to complete the deal. He had ridden over the half million acres with Juanito and liked the lay of the land. He could see it thriving with new grass and the new breed of cattle they were raising. The addition would give the Box B room to grow and make it one of the largest ranches in Texas.
“Let me see the papers you have brought,” Benito said finally, and Martin reached inside his shirt and pulled out a sheaf of documents. Benito studied them all carefully. He looked over at Juanito, whose face was impassive. He looked at Martin.
“The papers seem to be in order,” Benito said.
“They are. I have the money with me—gold, silver and some currency.” Martin nodded to Anson, who went to his father’s horse and lifted a small satchel out of one of the saddlebags. He carried it to the porch and set it down beneath Benito’s chair so that it was between his legs. His father had told him to do it that way.
“Open it,” Martin told Anson. Anson opened the satchel’s mouth and spread it wide.
Benito looked down into the satchel. The money was arranged so that the gold coins were on top, the silver beneath the gold and the currency forming a bed on the bottom.
“That is a lot of money,” Benito said.
“Count it if you wish.”
“No, I trust you, Martin.”
“Sign the papers then, Benito.” Martin said it so softly, Anson could barely hear him.
“Who will witness?” Benito asked.
“I will witness,” Juanito said, and his words carried much weight. Benito looked at the Argentine for a long time, wondering if he should offer some explanation for the whore. He decided that it was not the time to bring up the subject.
Benito signed the documents, handed them to Juanito. Juanito signed them and handed them to Martin, who wrote out a receipt and gave it to Benito. These actions took only a few moments, but Anson thought that hours must have gone by.
“You will be a very rich man someday, Martin.”
“And so will you, Benito. Perhaps the cash will help you keep the ranch going for a long time.”
“Then you do know I am having trouble keeping vaqueros to work the ranch.”
“I have been having the same trouble,” Martin said. “Now we must return to the Box B.” He stood up, walked over and shook Benito’s hand as the Mexican rancher arose from his chair.
“Go with God, Martin.”
“Take care, my friend.”
Just then Pilar and Lázaro came around the corner of the house. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and stared at them all. She looked at the things Martin had brought.
“Did Benito tell you he has brought a whore to this place?” she asked.
“We are here on business,” Juanito said. “We wish you a good day, Pilar.”
“Why don’t you take the whore with you, Martin? You have bought all of our land.”
“Not all of it,” Martin said. “There is plenty left for you all to make a good living.”
“A curse on you, Martin Baron. A curse on you too, Juanito. You do not care what Benito does with this whore of his. You only want our land.”
“I am sorry, gentlemen,” Benito said. “Please forgive my wife. She is very upset and is not well.”
Martin and Juanito joined Anson at the bottom of the steps. The three men tipped their hats to Pilar. Anson stuck a piece of candy in Lázaro’s hand.
“Good-bye, Pilar,” Martin said and walked to his horse.
“Go with the devil,” she spat.
Martin, his son and Juanito mounted their horses and rode slowly away so as not to appear to be in a hurry.
“Daddy, you left the satchel there. Don’t you want it back?”
“No, let Benito have it. We have the land. That’s what I came for.”
“I’m glad for that,” Anson said.
Juanito looked back at the house as they rode away. Pilar was kicking all of the gifts off the porch steps. Lázaro stood there in darkness. Benito was picking up the satchel and closing it tightly.
“Yes, the land,” Juanito said. “Men will kill for it and men will die for it.”
“What was all that talk about some whore?” Martin asked.
“I do not know,” Juanito said. “Something in Pilar’s mind, perhaps. Something she carries with her, some real or imagined wound, like a soldier carries a scar or a limp from which to gather sympathy.”
“I don’t like family arguments,” Martin said.
Anson looked at his father with a sudden shift of understanding. In that one sentence, Martin had said it all and the portent was chilling. He felt a gust of wind in the breezeless air and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His father’s words had been like a warning, Anson thought, and the bristling hairs, the chill made him think of the old saying that when such a thing happened, it was if someone had just walked over his grave.
45
MARTIN CUT THE last calf out of the herd and chased it into the rope corral. A vaquero named Mario Garcia closed the gate as the calf bawled, mingled with the other calves. The calf’s mother lowed loudly, disturbing the air of a late spring morning on the spread at La Plata.
Martin was proud of his vaqueros. Juanito had taught them to ride and rope cattle so that it was now second nature to the Mexican cowboys. They were quick in the brush, had trained their mounts to cut and stop on a two-bit piece when the slack went out of the rope. It was damned hard work, and a lot of the men had no chaps, so their trousers were torn and ragged at the end of a day of rounding up cattle. The Mexicans seemed born to the saddle and made natural cowmen. There wasn’t a one who could not work the cattle better than Martin himself. And Anson had taken to the vaquero life like a horse to sugar.
“That makes forty-two,” Anson said, turning his horse to chase the mother away from the corral.
“Looks like a good bunch,” his father said. “You want to try your hand at branding?”
“Sure,” Anson replied without hesitation. His grin cracked wide in gratitude.
They had been beating the brush for a week and Anson ha
d never felt happier. He was sore and tired after every day’s work and his chaps weighed two hundred pounds when he took them off at night, but they slept under the stars on blankets and saddlebags and his father talked to him more than he ever had before. He wished Juanito were there so he could see how his father was treating him; like one of the regular hands instead of a wet-behind-the-ears boy.
“Light down and grab up an iron, then,” Martin said to Anson. “I’ll throw one down for you.”
The branding fire was just outside the corral. Three branding irons jutted from the hot coals, all fashioned in the shape of a Box B. Anson swung down from the saddle of Matador and swaggered over to the corral. He climbed through the ropes and took his place near the fire. His father followed him a few seconds later and slipped through the ropes.
“Mario, you and Carlos get in here and keep those calves boxed in a corner. We’ll take ‘em one at a time, at first.” The two Mexicans climbed into the corral and spread their arms, began moving the bunched calves into a corner. “Horky,” Martin ordered another Mexican named Horcasitas, “you drag ’em out once they’re branded. Minta, you and Leon, get ready to grab up them other two irons.”
Arminta and Le6n entered the arena. Another man, Chaco, stood by with a can of salve to daub on the fresh brands. Chaco was well prepared, having performed that task before. He was Carlos’s eldest son, just a couple of years younger than Anson, at fifteen. Like the other vaqueros, he wore a straw hat, a cream-colored shirt made of cotton, loose-fitting trousers, and sturdy leather sandals. Martin looked at the bunch of calves he’d put together for the branding and grunted in approval. Then he walked to the bunch and cut one calf out, chased him around in circles, finally grabbing it around the neck and twisting its head as he put his weight on the animal, driving it to the ground near where Anson stood, ready to yank a branding iron from the coals.
“Right on that left hip, son,” Martin said. “Do it quick and steady.”
Anson grasped the handle of the branding iron and pulled it from the hot coals. His father knelt on the back legs of the calf, giving Anson a fairly motionless target. Anson stood over the calf, holding the hot iron in his gloved hand. But he could already feel the heat through the handle. He jabbed the iron straight down on the calf’s hip. Tendrils of smoke arose from the burning flesh. He could smell the burning hairs, hear the hiss of the brand burning through the calf’s hide.