The Baron Brand

by Jory Sherman

  “Besides,” she said, “you are too young to hate anything. God loves you and you must love everyone.”

  “I know what hate is,” Lazaro said. “Now that you told me. And if someone I love very much hates someone, I will kill that person.”

  “What person?”

  “The person who I hate.”

  “But you do not hate anyone, Lazaro. You are too young.”

  “Oh, yes I do,” he said, and skipped across the floor and was through the door before she could call him back.

  “Such a child,” she said in Spanish. “Perhaps he will not live long enough to bring harm to anyone.” She blessed herself and her lips moved in prayer. “My God,” she breathed, “protect us all from this child who does not know what he says.”

  But, something in her heart told her that Lazaro understood hate and that one day he would strike someone down. She thought it might be Martin Baron who disliked Lazaro. Martin did not beat the boy, nor mistreat him, but he did something far more cruel, she knew. Don Martin ignored the boy, and that was the harshest punishment of all for a boy who so desperately wanted his love.

  19

  ROY KILLIAN HEARD the voice through clogged ears filled with thick paste, heard it echo in his anvil-heavy brain. His head throbbed like a sore toe, and he knew it must be swollen as big as a watermelon. He fought off the vocal intrusion, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder and the shaking made the pain shoot from his head to his ankles and he opened boil-sore eyes to sunlight and a shadowy person standing over him, saying words he couldn’t understand and that hurt to hear.

  “Wake up, Roy, wake up now,” his mother was saying. “Wake up so I can kill you.”

  “Ma? Jesus.”

  “I ought to wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Wha? What’s goin’ on?”

  “I threw that Will out an hour ago, the lazy lout. Now, you get up so’s I can whup your miserable hide.”

  “Ma? What’s wrong? What did I do?”

  Roy felt himself being jerked out of bed by his right arm and then he fell three feet to the hard floor and the jarring pain coursed through his head as if someone were driving a twenty penny nail straight through the top of his skull.

  “Godamighty,” he exclaimed, and the cobwebs of sleep began to crumple and drift away in milky wisps.

  “I ought to beat you within an inch of your life,” Ursula said.

  Roy looked up to see his mother standing over him, both hands on her hips, her hair straggling down the sides of her face, her eyes blazing with a caustic rage.

  “Ma, what’s got into you? I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “Roy, you’re one sorry excuse for a son. You don’t remember last night? At the Longhorn?”

  Roy scratched his head, tried to clear it of the throb that blocked all thought. He blinked his eyes and even that slight movement hurt. There was pain deep in his eye sockets, pain that stabbed in all directions.

  “I ’member some of it.”

  “You were drunk, Roy. You said terrible things to David. And, you got into a fight. Oh, it was horrible. You were horrible, Roy Killian, worse than your father Jack ever was.”

  “I guess I don’t remember that much, Ma.”

  “Get up. You look like you’ve been sleeping in a hog wallow.”

  “Yes’m,” Roy said, and he grabbed the side of his bunk and tried to get up on his feet. Ursula had to help him. He stood there, his head reeling, the room, his mother, all a blur, out of focus, all the images wavy and undulating.

  Roy could smell himself. He looked down at his shirt front and saw the remains of vomitus and his stomach rebelled, roiling and contracting as if bound to the coils of a snake. He tried to remember where he had been, what he had done.

  “Well?” Ursula asked. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “Ma, I—I don’t remember much. Let me think.”

  “You made a fool of yourself, of me, insulted Dave, and you got into a stupid, senseless brawl.”

  Roy rubbed his right hand over his chin. It was sore as a swollen boil. He had a crick in his neck and his ribs felt as if they had been pummeled with bricks. He felt woozy and unsteady on his feet as he tried to recall the events of the night before.

  “I—I got into a fight?” he asked.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call it a fight,” his mother said. “It was more like one of Jack’s donnybrooks at the alehouse in Fort Worth. You even tried to hit me.”

  “I did?” Roy fought to clear his brain. He remembered sitting at the bar with Will. Then, he remembered the girl, the half-Indian girl and the other women sitting at the table in the center of the room.

  He remembered seeing Ken Richman walk over to the center table and lean down to talk to one of the women. After that, his mind was a slate wiped clean of chalk.

  “If it weren’t for that half-breed gal,” Ursula said.

  “What half-breed gal?” Roy’s heartbeat stumbled and tripped, seemed to leap up into the gutter of his throat.

  “Oh, some wastrel who came off the stage. She ran over and grabbed you. My, I never saw a little bit of a thing with so much gumption and strength. She pulled you away from David and turned you around, marched you across the room before I could gather my wits about me.”

  Roy strained to remember. He wondered if the girl his mother was talking about was the same one who had caught his eye. He remembered her, all right.

  But he remembered her through a haze of smoke and strong whiskey, through waves of raucous laughter and the clink of glasses, the scrape of chairs, the scuff of shoes, and the interminable babble of the Longhorn Saloon.

  He remembered her sad wise eyes and the wild scuff of dark hair poking out from her bonnet and the rustle of her skirts as she walked into the saloon, and her bearing, the air of poise and femininity she carried with her like a royal shawl.

  And he remembered her smiling at him, and glancing in his direction out of the corner of her eye, hypnotizing him with her dark looks, that maddening smile, so old on one so young, yet so understanding, so soft and warm, he could feel it now as if it were a summer breeze on his face, or light fingers riffling through his shock of reddish hair.

  “Wha—where did the girl take me?” Roy asked.

  “To her table, of course. But, you angered David so much, he got mad and came after you. He hit you with his fist, knocked you down. Oh, it wasn’t a hard blow and I must say you deserved it. Then, Mr. Richman had to restrain David, and that gal cleaned the blood off your mouth and David and I left. What happened after that, I don’t know. You were lying in your bed when David dropped me off, and Will was sprawled out in the front room, half naked and stinking of whiskey. It was all so terrible and it was all your fault.”

  “I don’t like David Wilhoit,” Roy said.

  “Well, you’ve no call to dislike him. He’s never done anything to you.”

  “He works for Matteo Aguilar, that’s enough.”

  “That’s no reason to dislike him. He works for whomever pays him.”

  “Aguilar murdered his whole family,” Roy said lamely.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Anson told me.”

  “Oh, Anson. Those Barons think they’re so high and mighty. I wouldn’t put a penny on what they tell you.”

  “Well, it’s thanks to Martin Baron that we have this land, a roof over our heads.”

  “Grub land, not worth a tinker’s damn. Charity, to boot.”

  “Who told you this? Wilhoit?”

  Ursula dipped her head, batted her eyes. She seemed to struggle with the answer. “Well, he did sort of say the land wasn’t worth much.”

  “Because he means to take it away.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Ursula said in a temper. “Besides, he doesn’t want the land.”

  “No, but Matteo Aguilar sure as hell does.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “What did Wilhoit say? About his damned survey?”

&nb
sp; “Why, ah, nothing. It’s not his say.”

  “I don’t believe you, Ma.”

  “Don’t you call me a liar.” She lifted a hand as if to strike her son, but held it suspended as Roy glared at her in defiance.

  “I’m not calling you a liar. I think Wilhoit has a blanket over your head. He’s using you, Ma. He gets his pay from Aguilar.”

  “Roy, listen to me.” She put both hands on his cheeks, brought her face close to his. “I don’t want you to be hurt, but I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “What about?” he asked, a surly tone in his voice.

  “David has asked me to marry him.”

  Roy blinked. A stunned expression froze on his face as if she had slapped him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “I’m lonely. Since your father died, I haven’t had a man. David is kind and has some means. This place … it just doesn’t feel right to me. You and Will haven’t finished the cistern yet and there’s really no market for cattle even if you had a herd to tend.”

  “Ma, Ma, don’t talk that way. I’ll fix the place up, make it bigger. Me and Will, we ain’t got much more to do on the cistern. We just need to haul in some more wood and buy some nails. It won’t take but a week or two.”

  “Roy, it’s not just the cistern. It’s just hard for me to stay out here all alone every day.”

  “You hardly know this Wilhoit feller, Ma. He—he’s just after you because … because …”

  “Don’t say anything that would make me ashamed of you, Roy. David’s not like that. He would never take advantage of me.”

  “Ma, that’s just what he’s a-doin’. I wouldn’t put it past him to throw in whole hog with Aguilar and get this land back by fixin’ his survey figures.”

  “He doesn’t like this part of Texas, he told me.”

  “I don’t believe him,” Roy said. “He’s got somethin’ up his sleeve.”

  “Well, I’m not going to discuss it now. He’s coming by here and I don’t want you here when he comes.”

  “This is my house, too.”

  Ursula sighed. “Yes, it is, and I feel like an unwelcome guest. All that’s going to change. Roy, I’m going away with David.”

  “What?” Her statement jolted Roy into full wakefulness. He stared at her in disbelief, speechless from shock.

  “David is coming by with his wagon. I’m all packed. I just wanted to tell you good-bye before I left.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Fort Worth. David has a home there and I’m going to marry him.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Ursula stepped forward and gave Roy a hug. She wiped away a tear when she broke away.

  “I love you, Roy. You take care of yourself.”

  “But … you … you just can’t …”

  Ursula turned away from her son, her body shaking with sobs.

  Then, they both heard the creak of a wagon out front, the slap and flat crack of leather harness. Roy followed his mother from the room and saw her bags by the door.

  Ursula picked up her two bags and turned to her son. “Good-bye, Roy. I’ll write you.”

  Then, she stepped through the open door and Roy saw the wagon standing out by the hitchrail. He padded to the door on bare feet and looked outside as David was setting the hand brake. He watched as the surveyor took his mother’s carpetbags and helped her up onto the wagon seat.

  Ursula waved to Roy. David nodded at the young man, then released the brake and turned the wagon around.

  Roy lifted his hand to wave good-bye, but his mother’s back was facing him. He dropped his hand in disconsolate failure and blinked his eyes as the tears broke from their wells and spilled onto his face.

  “Good-bye, Ma,” he said, and choked as the sobs began to wrack his body.

  Then, he saw her turn and wave farewell one last time. He lifted his hand again, but she turned away before he could wave good-bye.

  Roy watched the wagon until it disappeared from sight. Then, it was quiet, and he was all alone. The tears stopped and he drew a deep breath. He went back inside the house and looked out the back window at the cistern. The large wooden vat was finished and it was on its supports. But it still lacked braces and he would have to drill a hole and set a spout for the water to drain.

  He put on his socks and boots and walked out back to the unfinished cistern, wondering if he’d ever see his mother again. He picked up a hammer, looked at it for a long time, then hurled it as far as he could out into the field. He watched it twirl and tumble and heard it hit the ground with a dull thud. He kicked at a clod and turned back to go inside the empty house.

  Then, he saw another wagon in the distance. For a moment, he thought it was his mother and David returning. But, no, this wagon was smaller and was coming from the direction of Baronsville. He squinted into the sun to see who was coming to call, but they were too far away.

  “Shit,” he said, and went to the water trough to scrub his face, dampen his hair so he could comb it. His mouth tasted of iron and copper and he felt a queasiness in his stomach.

  When he looked at the wagon again, he saw the shapes of two figures in it.

  “I wonder who in hell that is,” he said aloud.

  And, for a moment, he thought it might be some Aguilar hands coming to throw him off his land. He walked inside to strap on his pistol and check the priming of his rifle. It would be another fifteen minutes before the wagon arrived and he wanted to be ready to defend his property—no matter who wanted to take it away from him.

  20

  ANSON BRACED HIMSELF, grabbed for his knife as the shadowy figure barreled down on him again. He heard Peebo grunt and the sound of something falling, hitting the ground. Anson had just grasped the handle of his knife when the man struck him in the belly, drove him backwards. He could smell the sweat, the oil of flesh. He went down, his breath knocked out of him and, instinctively, he rolled away and kicked out with both feet.

  Still half asleep, Anson felt his feet strike flesh and bone, which jarred him out of his stupor. He scrambled away, rose to a crouch and sought his attacker in the darkness. He saw the Apache sit up, then struggle to regain his footing.

  A thin strip of cream signalled the dawning, as Anson gripped his knife, prepared to meet his attacker. He heard sounds behind him, but far enough away so that he knew he need not worry for a moment.

  The Apache stood up, glared at Anson, then turned and ran off into the mesquite. Anson turned and saw Peebo wrestling with a man, each gripping the other like wrestlers trying to throw the other down.

  Anson rushed over to help Peebo, keeping his knife low, ready to jab. In the eerie half light of dawn, the trees around him seemed like enemies, taller and mightier than he, their arms raised to strike. Peebo was grunting and struggling against his adversary and Anson had to sidestep to avoid Peebo’s back. As Peebo and the Apache twisted again, Anson dashed in close and rammed his knife into the Indian’s back, closing his eyes at the last moment because it was something he did not want to do, had never done before.

  He heard the blade strike flesh and bone, felt the jarring in his wrist. The Indian let out a low grunt and Anson twisted the knife. He felt a gush of blood drench his knife hand and he reacted by drawing the blade back out. He saw the Apache sag as Peebo stepped away, panting for breath.

  “Jesus, God,” Peebo gasped.

  The Apache twisted on the ground, a knife in his hands. He swept the air in a futile swipe of his knife, made a choking sound in his throat and then writhed into a knot as he expelled one last breath.

  “You okay?” Anson asked in a breathless voice.

  “Just barely, goddammit.”

  “Any more around?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “One come after me, then run off,” Anson said.

  “We better get our rifles and find some cover, Anson. We could be up to our asses in Apaches any minute.”

  Anson struggled to bite in a deep breath. His senses
were scrambling with images. He knew the Apache was dead and it gave him a feeling of deep guilt and a peculiar kind of sorrow. He forced himself to look at the dead Indian lying all balled up on the ground and then he felt his stomach convulse in a sudden spasm.

  Life was such a quick and uncertain thing, he thought. One minute, the Apache had been alive, his heart beating, his blood running in his veins, his mouth gulping air into his lungs, and now he was nothing but a rotting corpse, wiped off the face of the earth in a twinkling as if he had never been there at all. It was an awesome moment for Anson, much like the time he had first killed a man, but different, somehow, filled with a deeper meaning.

  He thought of Juanito, so full of life, an eternal man, destined to live forever, but now dead. And gone. The loss of Juanito wrenched at him now and he fought back the tears of self-pity. He drew in air to fill him with life and quell the nausea he felt.

  “Better move, boy,” Peebo said softly and Anson realized that he was still rooted to that spot, frozen there, witless, unable to control movement, to make himself step away from the lifeless hulk on the ground and grab up his rifle.

  For a long moment, he didn’t care. He almost hoped the fallen Apache would rise up and strike him dead and erase all the guilt he felt. But, he cleared his head of the dark shrouds of grief and self-blame and tore himself away from the killing spot and stumbled toward his bed, so like a grave now, an open hollow in the earth, filled with leaves and branches. A tomb that had opened up and released him from an eternity of sleep, and the worms that ate to the bones and removed all traces of life.

  Anson slid his knife back in its sheath and picked up his rifle, felt the pan to see if the powder still was there and it was damp and he rubbed the gummy residue away and reached for his small powder horn. He dried the pan well and poured more powder on it and blew away the excess and closed the frizzen.

  “You comin’?” Peebo called from somewhere in the half dark, a voice from a tree shadow, disembodied, without form or visible breath.

  “Yeah,” Anson said, and his voice sounded strange to him, a voice from someone who was near death, or lost and bewildered. Not his own voice, but a man’s gravel groan in the early morning before he had drunk water to wash away the clog of night.