by Jory Sherman
“Oh?” The newsman sensed something worth delving into behind Richman’s words.
“Matteo Aguilar is a bitter man. Killed almost his whole family to get back the Rocking A and now he wants to run Martin Baron off of land he bought legally from the family.”
“Aguilar must have owned the original Spanish land grants,” Wales said.
Ken looked at the newsman with a startled gaze. “You know about land, then.”
“Land is the basis for all wealth.”
“True.”
“Then Martin Baron must be a very rich man.”
“In many ways. Cash poor, but rich. Potentially.”
“Potentially,” Wales said. “And what man isn’t?”
“True, also,” Ken said.
Wilhoit escorted Ursula to a table in the opposite corner where the lamps were dim. He made sure Ursula sat facing the room. In the flickering glow of the coal oil flame, she was a striking woman; the light was kind to her and it appeared David knew it. He smiled and took his chair, beckoned to a waiter.
“You going to talk to that man?” Ed asked.
Ken shook his head. “Now is not the time. I expect we’ll hear from Aguilar one of these days if the survey appears to be in his favor.”
“Appears to be?”
“Land can be juggled like tenpins,” Ken said.
“You think Aguilar might try to pull something?”
“Like wool over my eyes?”
“Yes.”
“He might. He is not beneath any form of behavior to get what he wants. He’s already proven that.”
“Is that so?”
“I suspect, and Martin does as well, that Matteo is behind some of the Apache raids on the Box B.”
Ed pursed his lips, spewed a low whistle. “That’s something serious.”
“It is.”
“You have proof?”
“Talk. Suspicion. No real proof. Out here, proof is not needed, Ed. If one of our vaqueros found Culebra’s band of Apaches camped at Aguilar’s ranch, that would be reason enough to go against Matteo.”
“Is that likely?”
“No,” Ken sighed, “Aguilar is not that stupid. There’s a man who works for him who does all his dirty work.”
“Who is that? The surveyor?”
“No. A half-breed named Mickey Bone. At least we think he’s a half-breed. He’s pure Indian, I suspect. Used to work for Martin.”
“A traitor, so to speak.”
“So to speak,” Ken said.
“I can see a range war developing,” Ed said.
“Oh, I don’t think so. This isn’t sheepmen against cattlemen, after all. There’s plenty of land and some of it may be in dispute. Matteo Aguilar wants something else. He’s just using the land as an excuse.”
“What does he want?” Ed asked.
“God only knows,” Ken said.
“And may the best man win, huh?”
“That could be it.”
“Well, the newspaper could be a powerful weapon, Ken.”
“That’s so. People take sides easily. It just depends, sometimes, on who has the loudest voice.”
“Right,” Ed said.
“You just make sure you know which side you’re on and we’ll get along.”
“Noted.”
Both men laughed and the waiter brought a tray with their evening meal and began setting plates down on the table. Steaming tortillas, beans, beefsteak, hot chili peppers soon graced their table and the two men ordered wine and began to eat.
Roy Killian kept glancing toward the back table where his mother sat with David Wilhoit. He was careful not to draw attention to himself and sulked privately as he drank watered whiskey as if it were cold milk.
“You better watch that stuff, Roy,” Harrison said. “It can cut a man’s legs right out from under him.”
“Mind your own business, Will.”
“Aw, Roy, I thought we came here to have some fun.”
“I came here to get drunk,” Roy said. “I don’t know about you.”
“Well, that, too.”
“So, go on and get drunk, Will.”
“Say, what’s a-gnawin’ at you, anyways, Roy? You keep lookin’ over at that feller with your ma?”
“That’s a damned survey man who works for Aguilar. I don’t like him.”
“How come?”
“He ain’t got no business with my mother. He’s a snoop for Aguilar, buttin’ into our lives like he was one of us. He’s tryin’ to take my land away from me.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, I think so. I ought to go over there and punch him in the snoot.”
“Well, before you do, look what’s a-comin’ through them doors,” Will said.
“Stage’s in,” a man yelled from the front. A group of Mexicans strained their necks to see who was coming through the batwing doors and the piano player stopped thumping the keys and swung around on his chair to look at the disembarking passengers entering the saloon.
A small, wizened, bowlegged man entered first and politely stepped aside to hold one door for the women who followed, all wide-eyed and bewildered looking, as if they had been ushered into a den of thieves.
First to step through the doors was a small, finely featured young lady in her late teens, with reddish curly hair, wearing a blue dress and bonnet that partially shielded her face. Behind her, a square-jawed woman, deeply tanned, with black straight hair braided into a single pigtail, wearing a blue shawl and a red comb in her hair, dressed in a one-piece gingham dress and wearing high-topped shoes, stepped delicately as if walking on eggs. She swept the room with a steely gaze, giving the impression that beneath her frock beat the heart of a strong-willed woman with a spine forged of high-grade Damascus steel.
The flint-eyed woman was followed by a petite blonde lady in her twenties, a small pillbox hat laced to her head with velvet green ribbons. She wore a pale yellow dress that hid her feet, but she was dainty from head to toe and wore a serene quizzical smile on her comely face. She carried a small valise in one hand, and a folded fan in the other.
Ken stared at the young blonde woman with a bold intensity that gave him the appearance of a man who had been struck by a bolt of lightning. Ed Wales noticed the expression on Ken’s face, but said nothing.
Two more men tramped through the doors and the small, wizened man made for the bar, rubbing his throat like a man who had crossed a desert without water. The last two men glanced around the room and headed for Ken’s table as one of them waved and smiled in recognition.
“Who’re they?” Ed asked, as the two men approached.
“Hawks,” Ken said, a cryptic edge to his voice.
Roy Killian could not avert his gaze from the young girl with the red curly hair. She moved with a confidence that belied her years and when she glanced his way, she did not turn away from his stare, but held her head proudly and fixed him with a frank stare of her own.
Roy felt his pulse race and a lump formed in his throat that blocked any chance for him to speak, even if he could have found his voice. The older woman behind her, evidently her mother, guided the young lady to a table near the center of the room. Roy noticed that the girl took a seat facing in his direction. Her mother sat beside her and scanned the room with sharp dark eyes.
“Roy,” Will said. “What you lookin’ at?”
“That girl there, the one with the red hair. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Not to my mind. Homely is more like it.”
Roy, in a state of rapture, paid little mind to his companion’s comment. His gaze remained fixed on the young lady. She suddenly stopped looking at Roy and he felt as if he had been erased from her mind.
The two men stopped at Ken’s table and looked at Ed Wales for a long moment without speaking.
“It’s okay, Tom,” Ken said. “You and Cullie sit down and tell me what you know.”
“Ken,” Tom said. Cullie said nothing, but looked at Wales as if ready to pounce on hi
m. Ed squirmed in his chair. Both men sat down and Ken motioned to one of the waiters.
“Order what you like, gentlemen,” Ken said. “And shake hands with our new newspaper publisher, Ed Wales. Ed, this is Tom Harris and Seth Culbertson. We call him Cullie.”
The three men shook hands as the waiter stood waiting for Ken’s order.
“Lonnie,” Ken said, “bring these gentlemen something to drink. Something strong, I imagine.”
“Whiskey,” Tom said. Cullie nodded.
“Two whiskeys,” Lon Visser said in a monotone. “Anything else?”
“We’re fine for the moment,” Ken said.
Tom reached inside his shirt, pulled out a sheaf of papers wrapped in oilskin. He laid them on the table in front of Ken. Cullie took a sack of makings from his pocket and began to build a cigarette. Neither man said a word. Ken did not pick up the packet of papers.
“You can speak freely in front of Ed,” Ken said. “What have you got to tell me? That bunch on the stage, for starters.”
Cullie cleared his throat, licked the thin cigarette paper to seal it around the tobacco he had thumbed into an even layer. Tom glanced at the table where the women sat.
“That pigtailed gal didn’t give out her name,” Tom said. “That’s her daughter sitting beside her, the redheaded one. She calls her Wanda. The other gal, the blonde, is named Nancy Grant. She’s the schoolteacher you sent me to fetch from Galveston.”
“Nancy Grant.”
“Single. Spinster, I reckon,” Tom said.
“The pigtailed woman says her last name’s Fancher,” Cullie said, a tinge of sarcasm edging his voice. “Won’t tell us her given name.”
“Fancher?” Ken asked.
“That’s the name she give,” Cullie said.
“From Arkansas,” volunteered Wales.
Cullie shrugged.
“Wild country,” Ken said. He turned to Tom. “What about the cattle?”
Tom shoved the sheaf of papers toward Richman. “Orders there for several head in New Orleans, a hundred here, a couple hundred there.”
“How many all tolled?” Ken asked.
“Five hundred head,” Tom said.
“We could double that, I think,” Cullie added.
Ken’s eyebrows arched. “How?” he asked.
“Some people we talked to said they’d like to see how the beef sale goes. If you doubled the herd, you might be able to sell the ones we didn’t get nailed down.”
“I agree,” Tom said.
“Sounds right,” Ken said. “But just as easy to drive a thousand head as five hundred. Easier, maybe.”
“I think we might have a buyer for that cannon of Martin’s,” Tom said.
“Oh?” Ken brightened.
“Cullie talked to a man who said he had a buyer upriver.”
“He said he’d take it if the price was right,” Cullie said.
“Well,” Ken said, “you boys seem to have done your work and then some.”
“Problem is, in New Orleans, at least,” Tom said, “there ain’t much market for beef. The Mexicans and South Americans are all tryin’ to sell there.”
“We’ll just have to give ’em a better price,” Ken said.
“Price ain’t the point,” Cullie said. “People just don’t hanker for beef much over yonder. They eat fish and crawdads and goddamned mutton.”
“Did you find out who is bringing the merchandise into Texas?” Richman asked Cullie.
“A man out of New Orleans,” Cullie said. “He is here now, in fact.”
Ed Wales shot Ken a questioning look.
“Later, Ed. Now is not the time.”
“Your friend Aguilar is in on it,” Tom said.
“Who’s his partner?”
“A Frenchie named Reynaud. He’s a pretty cagey feller.”
“How does he do it?” Ken asked.
“He off-loads the cargo in New Orleans, reloads ’em onto ships heading for Corpus Christi and Galveston. Then he picks them up there and carts them overland to Aguilar’s ranch. He hasn’t gotten that far, but he’s down there now.”
“Where? Corpus Christi?”
“No. Far as we know, he’s at Aguilar’s.”
Ken whistled.
“There’s more,” Tom said.
“More?”
“Yep. This Reynaud is an old pard of Baron’s. But, there ain’t no love lost between ’em. Word is that Reynaud come out here to put a frog-sticker between Baron’s shoulder blades.”
“Or a bullet in his back,” Cullie said.
Ken let out a breath. He shook his head in disbelief.
“What’s this ‘merchandise’ you keep talking about?” Ed asked, looking at the faces of the two nighthawks.
Cullie and Tom both looked at Ken without speaking. Ken shrugged and let out a deep breath. Then he leaned over the table and spoke in a soft voice so his words would not carry.
“I guess it won’t be a secret much longer,” Ken said, “but I got word that Negro slaves were being smuggled into New Orleans for later transport to Texas, more specifically, to the Rio Grande Valley. I asked Tom and Cullie to look into it.”
“And you think Aguilar is smuggling slaves onto his ranch?” Wales asked.
“I do now. Like most of the ranchers out here, money is in short supply. Now we have word that Mr. Lincoln has freed the slaves and that the South might secede from the Union. It was only a matter of time before someone tried to illegally sell slaves to Southerners who want to break loose from the federal government.”
Ed Wales let out a low whistle.
“Do you get the idea?” Ken asked.
“I never thought it would go this far,” Ed said.
“Oh?”
“I mean, I’ve heard talk about secession, and of course, there’s a lot of animosity from slave owners against Honest Abe, but I never thought it would go this far.”
“Do you think the South will secede?” Ken asked.
Ed shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Well, what if Texas didn’t join in? What if Texas wanted to throw its lot in with the Union?”
“Are you talking about war?”
“There sure as hell could be a war,” Ken said.
“That’s the talk,” Tom said. “’Bout ever’where we been. Right, Cullie?”
“We saw a lot of guns comin’ in to N’Orleans, Corpus, Galveston,” Cullie replied.
“Shit,” Wales said.
“Exactly,” Ken said. “And that bastard Aguilar is probably just waiting to see which side he’ll fight on. And, making him some money while the wrangling’s s going on in Washington and Austin and every other capital city.”
“Where does Martin Baron stand in all this?” Ed asked.
“He hasn’t paid much attention yet. He doesn’t get much news out at the Box B.” Ken finished his drink. “Tom, you and Cullie get yourselves rooms at the hotel. I’ll take care of it. See you in the morning. Eat what you like. Ed, you keep all this under your hat, hear?”
“But, if it’s news …”
“It will be news,” Ken said. “But only when I say it is.”
“I understand.” Ed nodded and stared into his drink as if divining tea leaves in a cup.
Ken looked at the light-haired woman again. She, in turn, was looking at him with bold, sparkling eyes. He felt something inside him melt.
“So that’s the new schoolm’arm yonder,” Ken said. “The one looking over here.”
“That’s her,” Tom said. “Nancy Grant. And she don’t have no husband.”
“Not yet she doesn’t,” Ken said, scooting his chair back from the table.
“Where you goin’?” Cullie asked.
“You boys get some grub in your bellies. I’m going to talk to Miss Grant.”
Ken left the table. Wales stared after him. Cullie looked at Tom. “I’ll bet that ain’t all he’s goin’ to do,” he said.
“Cullie,” Tom said, “you got the
dirtiest mind in Texas.”
Cullie grinned and downed his drink without shedding a tear.
17
THE HUNGER STARTED in his belly soon after the sun went down. So, too, the chill that crept over the darkening land with no more breath than a whisper. Anson grunted at Peebo a few yards ahead of him and Peebo stopped and turned around.
“Yeah?”
“No use in goin’ on,” Anson said. “In another ten minutes, we won’t be able to see the ground, much less a track.”
“I can see well enough. We can go another hour.”
“No,” Anson said. “We’ve gone far enough. We won’t catch anything tonight but a damned cold.”
“We’ll likely catch one quicker if we stop now, son.”
“Peebo, you got a hard head, you know that?”
“If you mean I got sense in it, you’re right, Anson. Sun ain’t been down more’n ten minutes and it’s sure as hell light enough to see for a while longer.”
“I’m hungry,” Anson admitted.
“Stoppin’ ain’t goin’ to fill your belly, son.”
“My feet are wore out.”
“Shit, what else?” Peebo asked.
“I don’t like trackin’ Apaches in the damned dark, that’s all. They could be waitin’ up ahead in the shadows.”
Peebo walked over to Anson and set his rifle butt on the ground. He took off his hat and rubbed fingers through his blond locks. Anson held his rifle with both hands, stretching it across his legs just above his knees, his thumb on the hammer.
“You scared of gettin’ kilt, son?”
“No. I’m scared of being stupid, Peebo.”
“Fair enough. You think it’s stupid to go on trackin’. I don’t, comes to that. But, we got a problem here, the way I see it.”
“No problem. It’s dark and we ought to get some rest. Be fresh in the morning.”
“Well, like I was goin’ to say, you may be the boss of the Box B, and, as far as I know, I’m workin’ for you. Right?”
“Right, so far,” Anson said.
“But, them horses are mine and I got a stake in ’em, sure enough.”
“So?”
“So, if they’re my horses, and they are, I should say whether or not we keep goin’, fair enough?”
“I don’t see it that way, Peebo. Your horses, yes. But, it’s my land and I don’t work for you. So, you can go on by yourself and I’ll just turn my feet toward home tomorrow.” Anson paused a moment. “And fire you before I go.”