The Baron Brand

by Jory Sherman

  “I’ll go,” David said, his voice so soft, Matteo had to strain to hear him.

  “Good,” Matteo said. “Then it is settled. David, you will be paid along with Reynaud. I think you will like the money these people will bring.”

  Reynaud smiled and David had the strong urge to slap his face and wipe the smirk from it. But, he only nodded and turned away, his stomach suddenly the enemy, roiling with a foul bile that threatened to burst and surge up his throat and embarrass him in front of everyone there.

  “Take the people to the barn,” Matteo told Reynaud. “There is a place to lock them up. My men will feed them. David, come to the house with me and we will have a drink with Reynaud when he is finished.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Matteo. I don’t feel well. I want to go home.”

  Matteo’s expression shifted from benign to hostile in an instant. David felt the heat of his anger and tried to think of something to say.

  “It seems David does not share our enthusiasm,” Reynaud said.

  “Take the people away,” Matteo barked. “I will walk a ways with David. This is all new to him.”

  David felt relief. Reynaud turned away and David took one last look at the forlorn group of Negroes. One of the boys clung to one of the women and a young girl clung to the boy. He watched them shuffle away, prodded by the Mexicans with rifles. Reynaud picked up the lantern and followed after them.

  Then, it was dark, and he and Matteo were alone.

  “You must not show your weakness to Reynaud,” Matteo said. “He will bear watching when you go to San Antonio.”

  “I’ll be careful,” David said, and his heart sank deep into a place where it was even darker than the night. He knew that he had stepped beyond a place to which he would never be able to return.

  And, even though he walked with Matteo back toward the house, he felt all alone.

  23

  A HUSH SEEMED to fall over the land after Bone rode away. Anson stared after him for a long moment, then heasd Peebo clear his throat as if impatient to move on.

  “You don’t trust that Injun, do you, son?” Peebo asked.

  “I don’t know.” The truth was, Anson didn’t know what to make of Bone’s visit, his help. He was still startled at seeing him, bewildered that this emergence from his past had appeared so suddenly, and so suddenly disappeared again. He felt that same compulsion he had felt before, when Bone had left the Box B, to chase after him, go wherever he would go.

  But, he had grown since that dark night, and he no longer felt the same about Bone. Yet, in a way, he did. He envied Bone’s free life, the secrets of his race he carried with him. He had always been fascinated by the Apaches, and, despite their troubles with them, he held a kind of grudging respect for them. He knew, deep down, that the Apaches were the true owners of the land, and that he and his father and the other ranchers had somehow taken the land away from them.

  But, he wasn’t about to give any of it up over sentiment. He had learned that much from his father. The land belonged, Martin had told him, to whomever was the strongest, to the man who could fight for it and keep it.

  “We gonna stay around here all goddamned day, son?” Peebo asked.

  “No, we’d better keep going. One close call was enough.”

  “You figure we got another day of walking to the ranch?”

  “A long day,” Anson said.

  Just then, as the two started to walk away from that place of danger and death, they heard a noise that froze the marrow in their bones. It sounded like a roar, a roar like neither one had ever heard before.

  “What in hell was that?” Peebo asked.

  Anson shook his head. “Damned if I know. But, it scared the hell out of me.”

  Then, they heard the sound again, a deep bellowing, almost a roar, that made the hackles rise on the backs of their necks, the hairs on their arms stiffen as if from a sudden chill.

  A half second later, they heard a human scream, almost unidentifiable in its tortured agony. The scream split the air with a raging series of notes that curdled their blood. Then, the sounds of thrashing and yelling, and hoofbeats, all jumbled together and both men ducked instinctively as if about to be smothered by a wild stampede.

  “Jesus,” Peebo said.

  “Come on,” Anson yelled, jerking his rifle off the ground. “Somebody’s in a hell of a fix.”

  Peebo didn’t need much urging. He sprang after Anson and the two raced toward the sound of the commotion. They dashed past a clump of mesquite trees and came to a small open plain and what they saw next turned their stomachs as they came to a sudden halt.

  There, on the edge of the open meadow, a huge longhorn bull swung its massive horns from left to right, and up and down. Impaled on one huge horn was part of a human carcass, red with blood, jagged with flesh torn asunder.

  Apaches ran in all directions, leaving their horses behind as they fled on foot. Peebo’s horses fought against ropes and hobbles, bucking and kicking, screaming with terror. A bunch of smaller longhorns watched from the trees in silence, some chewing their cuds, others switching their tails disconsolately.

  The huge bull kicked up a cloud of dust as it pawed the ground with its forehooves, circled and swung its horns to rid itself of the bloody carcass. On the ground, nearby, an Apache head sat upright, wide-eyed, mouth slack, and a pair of legs and the bottom part of the Apache twitched and kicked spasmodically, a disembodied horror that made the two men blink and lose all power of speech.

  Anson felt his stomach retch and buck and he doubled over, fought for air to keep from vomiting. Peebo turned ghost-white, fingered the trigger guard of his rifle as if struck Cumb by the horrible sight.

  Then, they heard another scream and saw a thrashing among the mesquite trees. When they looked, they saw a wounded Apache brave trying to crawl away, half of his entrails in one hand, the other trailing after him like coiled blue snakes.

  Peebo swore and Anson doubled over to vomit, but nothing came up, for he had no food. He struggled with the dry heaves until his eyes watered and then gulped in air and stood straight to clear his lungs of the foul air he had created.

  The big white bull swung its head in a mighty arc and the blood-soaked torso flew off his horn and landed a few yards away with a sickening thump. Peebo brought his rifle to his shoulder, but he was shaking so bad, he could not get a bead on the errant bull.

  Hearing the sound, the bull turned their way and bellowed a loud roar at them. Peebo brought his rifle down. Anson squeaked a warning: “Run, Peebo.”

  Peebo turned and ran toward the safety of the trees. Anson waited but a second, then began to chase after him. The bull roared again and pawed the ground, stirring up dust. Then, the two men stopped and looked back.

  The white bull had heard the Apache in the trees and charged after him. The Apache rose up and let his entrails fall to his lap. He shot out his right arm, held it rigid as if to ward off the bull’s charge.

  “Godamighty,” Peebo breathed.

  “Damn,” Anson muttered.

  The bull charged the wounded Apache and swung its head left, sweeping its right horn in an arc with terrible force. The blow struck the Apache on the left shoulder and broke it before the horn struck his head and smashed it like a pumpkin. Blood spurted and sprayed from the gory opening between the Apache’s shoulder blades and his head flew off a foot or two and rolled sickeningly out into the open.

  Anson could still hear the Apache’s screams although he knew there was no sound coming from that broken head. The white bull turned and began to stomp the Apache’s remains into a bloody pulp, roaring and bellowing its rage as it ripped and tore with its horns and cloven hooves.

  “Sonofabitch,” Peebo whispered.

  “That’s one mean bastard,” Anson said, breathing freely now, but feeling the rawness of his stomach lining, the swirling sickness within.

  Then, the bull gave a last smash of its boss to the ragged corpse and, bellowing loudly, disappeared into the brush. T
he other cattle ran after its leader and a great silence settled over the crimson-stained battlefield.

  Peebo and Anson listened for a long time as the hoofbeats faded. They watched the hobbled horses blow and snort, shake their heads as they tried to escape the smell of death that hung over the meadow.

  Peebo turned to Anson, who seemed to be still in shock. “Well, what do you think, son?”

  “I—I think we better get the hell out of here. I never saw anything like that in my life.”

  “Me, neither. But, them are my horses yonder and we been walkin’ too godamned long.”

  “What if that bull comes back?” Anson asked.

  “Then, we got several kinds of trouble.”

  “Some of your horses ran off, I think.”

  “I’m not going to catch those, but there are five over yonder all yarned up like Christmas presents. We just as well take them.”

  “Are they broke?” Anson asked.

  “Hell, no. But we can sure as hell halterbreak ’em and ride off before that white bull comes back and makes ’em into glue and hide.”

  Anson drew in a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. “Well, let’s do it damned quick, Peebo.”

  Peebo grinned and the two started across the meadow, rifles held at the ready, looking all around, listening for any alien sound. Anson looked at the torso of the Apache that had been impaled on the bull’s horn and got sick all over again, but he kept going.

  Peebo walked up to a dun and grabbed the rope around its neck. The horse pulled away from him and started backing down on its haunches. Peebo lifted his rifle with one hand and rammed the butt into the horse’s ribs, cursed it.

  The hobbles kept the dun from running off and before the horse could recover, Peebo had jumped onto its back. The horse began to buck and Peebo held onto the rope with one hand while he beat the horse in the flanks with the rifle stock.

  “Go on, Anson. Jump on one and enjoy the ride.”

  Anson approached a lean sorrel with rolling eyes that flickered danger in their depths. The horse was quivering all over as Anson got close to him. Carefully, Anson stepped slowly up to it as it backed away. He grabbed the rope, then began to speak to the horse in a calm voice. “Easy, boy, easy.”

  The horse was wild-eyed and skittery, but Anson walked up to its head, playing out rope until he had it snubbed close to the knot. He kept talking to the animal and realized he was shaking as much as the horse.

  “Steady, boy, easy,” Anson said.

  Anson pressed his upper body against the horse’s flank, kept speaking to it. “Just hold on, boy. Stay steady. We’ll get along.”

  Slowly, Anson began to inch his way upward until he was draped over its back. Then, he edged his right foot up over its rump and slid forward. As soon as he raised up, the sorrel began to buck, nearly jarring Anson loose from his perch.

  He held on, continued speaking to the animal as it twisted and fishtailed around the meadow, landing each time it bucked with hard stiff legs that shook Anson to his bones.

  Finally, the horse lost heart in bucking and slowed down. Anson patted its neck and rubbed it with a gentle hand until it calmed down. He leaned over and looped the bitter end of the rope around through the other loop and tied it in a loose knot. The rope didn’t make a perfect halter, but gave him two places to hold and he thought he might rope break the horse in time.

  “About set?” Peebo asked a few moments later.

  “We can try it.”

  “I’m going to lead those other horses. Maybe it’ll quiet ours down some.”

  “I can take one,” Anson said.

  “Good. Then, maybe that sorrel won’t feel so much like a prisoner.”

  Peebo caught up two of his horses and Anson picked up the rope of the third one. The horses were skittery, and they kept eyeing the pieces of dead Apache, but as Peebo took the lead, they followed, seemingly happy to leave that place of terror. Their rubbery nostrils quivered until the two men and the horses were well past the smell.

  “Which way?” Peebo asked.

  Anson pointed westward. Peebo nodded.

  “Be there tonight, if we keep up this pace,” Anson said.

  “Good. Ain’t none of these steeds worth a damn riding bareback.”

  Anson chuckled. Already, he could feel the bones in his butt beginning to ache. But, it felt good to be on horseback again after walking his feet to blisters. He breathed the air and looked at the high blue sky.

  And, he thought about that white longhorn bull, the one the Mexicans called El Blanco. Someday, he thought, he would have to run it down and put a rope on the beast. He would take great pleasure in planting the Box B brand on its mean old white hide.

  24

  ROY STEPPED OUT of the house as the wagon rolled up, came to a stop. He recognized the two women on the seat. The hard-eyed woman and the rusty-haired gal. Neither of them waved or smiled. The taciturn woman set the hand brake and sat there as the young girl climbed down. She was as agile and graceful as a deer.

  “Hello, Roy,” the girl said. “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Are you going to invite me and my mother in?”

  “Well, yes’m, I reckon.” He did not know her name and as she drew close, his heart began to thrum a bit faster, throbbing enough so that he could hear it and thought she might be hearing it too.

  The girl turned to the woman on the wagon and beckoned for her to get down. Roy saw that they had carpetbags and sacks of something in the wagon and wondered why they had come all the way out here. He knew he hadn’t invited them.

  “You’re quite a fighter, Roy,” the girl said.

  “Ho-how did you know my name?”

  “Oh, everyone knows your name at the Longhorn Saloon. That was all they talked about last night.”

  “I, uh, I don’t know your name, ma’am.”

  “I’m Wanda Fancher, and this is my mother, Hattie.”

  “Yes’m,” Roy said, slightly overwhelmed by the two women. He was about to turn and wave them into the house, but Wanda swept past him, followed by her mother. He went inside behind them, a sheepish pallor to his pasty face. He felt guilty about what he had done at the Longhorn and thought maybe the two women were there seeking damages. He might have caused Wanda harm, but he couldn’t remember.

  “Do you have tea?” Wanda asked. “If not, we brought some. I like tea, do you?”

  “Yes’m. I think there’s tea. There might be some fire left in the stove.”

  Wanda spoke to her mother in low tones, just above a whisper. Roy could not hear what she said. The stolid woman went to the stove and opened the firebox. She took a stick of kindling and poked the morning fire into a blaze and added kindling. Wanda looked around as Roy stood there, dumbfounded, incapable of speech.

  Hattie said something to Wanda. Wanda replied in the same lazy drawl. The two women walked around the small house, looking in and under things, lifting a pot, opening a cupboard, as the pot on the stove began to rattle with heat. Hattie set out three cups and rummaged around until she found the tin of tea. She spooned leaves into the cups as Wanda returned to confront Roy.

  “I had a long talk with your mother last night, Roy,” Wanda said. “She told us she was leaving to get married and that you needed looking after.”

  “Huh?” Roy said.

  “I agree with her.”

  “Look, ma’am, who are you?”

  “Why don’t you sit down on that settee there? We can talk while my mother prepares the tea.”

  Wanda’s speech seemed refined, but carried an accent Roy was unfamiliar with, a slanted tang that was not Texan, but seemed liquid and smooth, even cultured, as if it might be from back east.

  Roy allowed Wanda to lead him to the small couch. And he did not resist when she gently pushed him down on it and took a chair nearby. He stared at Wanda and thought she was even more beautiful in the daylight than she had seemed in the saloon the night before.

  Hattie walked
past them, out the front door. Roy stared after her, saw her walk to the back of the wagon, reach in and pull some valises from it. She returned, carrying what he figured were purses and satchels. She set the carpetbags on the floor, then handed Wanda one of the purses.

  Wanda smiled at Roy and set the purse on her lap.

  “What are you doing?” Roy asked.

  “Wait a minute,” Wanda said, as Hattie returned to the stove. “Ah, here it is,” she said, as she pulled a piece of paper from her purse. “There. Can you read, Roy?”

  “Sure I can read.”

  “This ought to explain why we’re here,” she said, handing him the sheet of paper.

  Roy took it with slightly trembling hands. He began to read the writing, which he recognized as his mother’s. When he got to the bottom, there was his mother’s signature and two others. He could only make out one of them, Wanda Fancher.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked, looking up at Wanda.

  “Your mother took David Wilhoit’s survey maps to the Land Office in Baronsville and laid claim to the land this house is on.”

  “that?”

  “That’s what she told me. After you got into that fight, she leased the land to me for a year.”

  Roy read over the papers. Wanda Fancher did indeed have a lease on the land Martin Baron had given him. For this she had paid the sum of fifty dollars. The document further stated that at the end of the year, if she was married to her son, one Roy Armstrong Killian, she would be granted full title, free and clear.

  “Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Roy muttered.

  “That’s no way to talk about your mother, Roy.” Wanda reached over and snatched the papers from Roy’s hand. When he looked up at her, she wore a curious smile, a maddening smile that he could not fathom. He did not know if she was laughing at him or merely gloating.