by Jory Sherman
“You mean I got to move out? Offen my own land?”
“No, not at all,” Wanda said. “I plan to build on this place, make the house larger, build a barn, a guest house, stables, corrals for the cattle you and I will raise. Within a week, Mr. Richman will see to it that the lumber I ordered is delivered. Lumber, nails, hammer, saws, all bought at the mercantile in town.”
“Lady, I don’t even know you.”
“Oh, but I know you. That is, I knew your father, Jack Killian. He came to the Ozarks once to trade horses. He told me a lot about you.”
Roy began to squirm. He looked again at the enigmatic Wanda Fancher and she was still wearing that half smile, that irritating, grating little smile on her pretty face.
“Where in hell are you going to get the money to do all this?”
“We already have the money,” Wanda said with a smug smile.
“Oh?”
“That’s right,” Hattie said as she emerged from the other room carrying a tray with steaming cups of tea atop it, complete with napkins, spoons, and sugar. “My husband was a good man, but a very miserly man. Until he died last year, I had no idea that he was stashing away some of his money. He has provided a comfortable life for Wanda and me, God bless his soul.”
Roy shook his head. “I—I just don’t know what to make of all this. I mean, my mother left real sudden, and then you show up and tell me you got a lease on this place and that you’re going to make all these changes. I got to see Martin Baron about all this.”
“It won’t do you any good. My lease is legal. Mr. Richman assured me that I have every right to live here. And, that’s what we’re going to do. If you’re the man I think you are, we can build a wonderful ranch here. In time, I will talk to Mr. Baron and see if we can purchase more land from him.”
“Jesus God Almighty,” Roy said.
“I think we’re going to like it here, don’t you, Mother?” Wanda said, ignoring Roy’s outburst.
“Yes, it is a very nice house. We will make it a mite more liveable,” Hattie said, in a drawl Roy had never heard before.
Roy looked around the room, feeling trapped. When his gaze stopped on Hattie, she wore that same puzzling little smile and his heart sank like a stone in his chest. It seemed to him that the bottom of the floor had dropped out from under him and he was falling straight down into the very bowels of the earth.
25
MARTIN HAD DIFFICULTY in keeping his gaze from lingering on Nancy Grant. Every time he looked at her, their eyes met and he turned away, feeling the heat of her, and the heat rising in him, burning his neck, scorching his loins. But, it was obvious to him that Ken had staked Nancy out for himself. The way Ken looked at her, with something like adoration on his face, told him that much.
Yet Nancy seemed to pay no more attention to Ken than she did to Ed Wales or himself. She seemed the perfect hostess, engaging in light banter, smiling, laughing at Ken’s jokes, attentive to the silent Ed, but trying to draw him into the conversation.
“Ed, let me take a look at your paper,” she said.
Ed handed it to her and the conversation halted as she perused the headline, scanned the copy of the main article. “It’s very well written,” she said. “Did you write this?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ed said.
“Ominous, too. Do you really think the North and South will take up arms against each other?”
“That’s the talk in Austin and Washington,” Ed replied.
Nancy handed the newspaper back to Ed. “I dread it,” she said. “Civil war. It’s such a terrible prospect.”
“Yes’m,” Ed said.
“Maybe it won’t come to that,” Ken said.
“All over the issue of slavery,” Nancy said.
“Well, there’s more to it than that,” Ed said. “States’ rights seems to be the main issue.”
“Then, why have a united statehood?” Nancy asked, and Martin was impressed with her intelligence. He listened to her every word, hung on each phrase, watched her mouth form the words and the way her throat quivered, her delicate clean throat, when she spoke. He felt warm and the coffee was not helping any.
During those moments of fascination with Nancy, Martin began to think about Caroline, and a deep longing stirred within him, a longing for the Caroline he had once known, and loved, and married, and the dark abyss that lay between them now, a chasm so huge he could no longer cross it, no longer desired to bridge the vast distance between them.
In Nancy’s lilting voice, he heard echoes of a Caroline that once was, a happy woman who was warm and giving and caring and had since turned into a barren creature with no affection for him, hardly any civility. And, he supposed, a lot of that was his fault. But, since she had been raped and he had made the terrible mistake of wrongly accusing Juanito, he could hardly bear to look her in the eye. He could scarcely bear to look himself in the eye, for that matter.
The talk at the table drifted around him as Martin withdrew inside himself, and he forgot about Nancy, his thoughts dwelling on Caroline and Anson, and the terrible mistakes he had made in his life. But, as he looked at the fresh young woman again, he thought of the emptiness in his life, and his loins ached for a woman, not Nancy, but a woman he could care for and who would understand him. It was something he had never thought much about before, and he felt guilty every time he did. Caroline was dependent on him, but he knew there was no longer any love between them. There was hardly even any companionship. She was just someone who lived in the big house and who thought only of the blind boy, Lazaro, and, of course, Anson, whom neither of them hardly ever saw during spring roundup.
“A penny, Mr. Baron,” Nancy said.
Martin heard her say the words, but did not know she was talking to him.
“Martin?” Ken said.
“Oh, huh? What?”
“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Baron,” Nancy said. “My goodness. I must be boring you all to death.”
“Oh, no,” Martin said. “Just thinkin’.”
He drank from his cup to hide his embarrassment. He looked around the table and saw that Ed, Ken and Nancy were all staring at him.
“I—I should get back, I reckon.”
“What’s your hurry?” Ken asked.
Just then, before Martin could answer, they all heard hoofbeats. Horses were coming at a pretty good clip. Ken was the first to rise from his chair and go to the window. He looked out, then turned to face Martin.
“You can’t go just yet, Marty,” Ken said. “Here come the two nighthawks I told you about.”
“Oh,” Nancy said, “Cullie and Tom. My, they seem in such a hurry.”
“Nancy,” Ken said, “we’re going to have to leave you now. Thanks for the coffee and all …”
“But, can’t they come in?”
“No, it’s business, I’m afraid. Ed, Martin. Let’s go outside.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Ed said. “Hate to rush off. I’ll leave the paper with you.”
“Thanks, Ed,” she said.
Martin arose from his chair, nodded to Nancy. He was interested in meeting the men Ken had told him about, but was at a loss for words to say good-bye to Nancy. He tipped his hat to her and was out the door before she could say anything.
Cullie and Tom rode up in a hurry and reined in just in front of the house. Their clothes and horses were covered with dust and the sweat on their horses was turning to mud. Rifles jutted from boots attached to their saddles, and both men were wearing cap and ball six-guns.
Tom swung down from his horse, left the reins dangling. Cullie slid out of the saddle to join him as Tom approached Ken Richman. The horses stayed where they were, reins touching the ground.
“Reynaud’s got them slaves up at Aguilar’s.”
“When?” Ken asked.
“Last night.”
“What’s Aguilar going to do with them?”
“Damned if I know. He’s got ’em in his barn for now.”
“They won’t move
’em at night,” Cullie said. “We thought we’d go back up when the sun falls and find out what’s what.”
The horses wheezed and blew, their sides bellowing out as they sucked in air. They switched their tails, whisking at flies and shook their heads to rid themselves of the pests.
Cullie’s eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep, as were Tom’s. It was obvious to Martin that the two men had ridden a long way. If they had been at the Rocking A the night before, they must have ridden all night to get to Baronsville.
“I’ll go with you,” Ken said.
Martin looked at his friend. “Why are you getting into this, Ken?”
“If we let Aguilar practice slave trading, we risk some of the blame rubbing off on us.”
“That makes sense,” Martin said. “So, what do you plan to do?”
“Take those slaves away from him once Reynaud tries to take them someplace to sell them.”
“And, then what?” Martin asked. “What are you going to do with the slaves?”
“I don’t know,” Ken said.
“There are an even dozen of ’em,” Tom said. “Men, women and kids.”
“Seems to me you’re buying into more trouble than you can handle, Ken. Where did Jules Reynaud get the slaves? Off the boat? Or did he steal them? Which is more likely.”
“I don’t know,” Ken said, his brow knitted in thought.
The hammering next door stopped, and there was a silence in the group of men. Martin could hear Nancy talking to the Mexican laborers. Her voice barely carried, but he was pleased to hear her speaking in Spanish, telling the men they could stop work for five minutes.
The horses blew again and one of them nickered.
“We got to walk them horses before we water them, Cullie,” Tom said. “Ken, we thought we’d get a bite to eat at the Longhorn, then head back. You just say the word.”
Cullie walked away, picked up the reins of the two horses, started walking them away to cool them down.
“Cullie, do you want to meet Mr. Baron?” Ken called after him.
“I know who he is,” Cullie said.
“Tom Harris, shake hands with Martin Baron,” Ken said.
“Pleased to meet you, Baron.”
“Equally,” Martin said, thinking in Spanish as he pondered the idea of Aguilar smuggling slaves into the Rio Grande Valley. It could present a problem for him and the other ranchers.
“Well, Martin, Cullie and Tom are waiting for me to give them the word,” Ken said. “What do you want to do about those slaves?”
Ed Wales cleared his throat. Martin and Ken both looked at him. Tom was studying his sweaty hands, the grime in the lifelines, caked in the fissures like black worms.
“You have something to say, Ed?” Martin asked.
“It may not be my place, but I was thinking …”
“Go ahead.”
“Well,” Ed said, “seems to me that you could kill a couple of birds with one stone.”
“How’s that?” Martin asked.
“If you were to obtain those slaves from Aguilar, or Reynaud, and you didn’t know what to do with them, you could grant them their freedom.”
“What?” Ken exclaimed.
“Wait a minute,” Martin said. “Let’s hear him out.”
Ken nodded to Ed.
“Well, sir, if you were to grant the slaves their freedom, you couldn’t be accused of keeping slaves, if Texas should vote later on to be a free state. And, if not, you’d still be all right. You could just turn the slaves loose, or put an ad in some papers—”
“Wait a minute,” Martin said. “If I gave the slaves their freedom, they’d be free to go where they wanted to, right?”
“Well, I suppose …” Ed said.
“But, if they wanted to stay here, say, and work for me, they could do that, too.”
“Sure,” Ed said, “I guess they could do that. You’d be harboring stolen slaves, though.”
“He’s right, Martin,” Ken said.
Tom hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat into the dirt. He appeared to be disinterested in the conversation and kept looking up at the sun to mark its course across the sky.
“If I gave these Negroes jobs on my ranch, that would be legal, wouldn’t it?” Martin asked.
“You wouldn’t want to do that, Baron,” Tom said.
“Why in hell not?”
“You don’t want a bunch of raggedy-ass niggers on your spread …”
“Look, Harris,” Martin said. “I don’t give a damn about your religion, your politics or whether you’re a goddamned bigot or not, but I’ve been thinking about this slave problem a long time. No man has any right to own another human being. And, those Negroes are human beings.”
“If you say so,” Tom said, a sullen tone to his voice.
Martin ignored him and turned to Ken.
“I say we get those slaves away from Aguilar any way we can and set them free. I’ll give them a choice. If they want to work for an honest dollar on the Box B, I’ll give them shelter, food and found. That sound all right to you?”
“Christ, Martin. I don’t know.”
“Do you have a better idea, Ken?”
Ken dropped his head. He wore a sheepish look on his face. Ed smiled. Tom turned away and spat again into the dirt, stirring up a tiny cloud of dust. At the end of the street, Cullie turned, leading the horses back to Nancy’s house and the unfinished school building.
“Look, it makes no never mind to me,” Tom said. “But, unless we get to going, we’ll never find out where Reynaud takes them niggers.”
“Tell you what, Tom,” Martin said. “I’ll stake you and Cullie to some grub and I’ll ride out to the Rocking A with you.”
“Ain’t no need for that, Baron.”
“There is if I plan to free those slaves—if we get them away from Reynaud. I’ll ride along with you.”
“You’re not packin’ iron, Baron.”
“Ken can give me a rifle and pistol, can’t you, Ken?”
“Can do,” Ken said.
“Let’s do it. I’ll meet you and Cullie at the Longhorn. Okay?”
“Sure, Baron, if that’s what you want.”
“Maybe we can clear some of those stumps between us over some grub, Tom,” Martin said, looking Harris straight in the eyes.
“I reckon maybe we can,” Tom said.
Martin waited as Tom walked away toward Cullie.
“You sure you want to do this, Martin?” Ken asked.
“You worried?”
“No. It’s just that …”
“Ken, let me tell you something. I’ve let you have your head pretty much in my business. Maybe you ought to back off some, and let me handle some of it.”
Ken stepped back a couple of paces, his face drawn and colorless.
“You don’t like what I’ve done for Baronsville?”
“No, you’ve done a hell of a job,” Martin said. “But, sometimes a man can get too much leather in his hand and pull a hard rein. I don’t know those two fellers you hired on, but I know saddle trash when I see it. You might trust ’em, but.I wouldn’t hire gunnies like them if my life was on the line.”
“They’re hard men doing a hard job, Martin. I bought ’em with tax money. Didn’t cost you a dime.”
“You stick to town business, Ken,” Martin said, and started walking back to the saloon, leaving Ed and Ken standing there. When he was out of earshot, Ed spoke up.
“Trouble?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Ed. Martin’s got something in his craw.”
“I noticed him looking Nancy over pretty good.”
“No, that’s not it. Martin is quick to judge a man. Let’s just hope he makes his peace with Tom and Cullie. Those men work for me and they don’t know Martin like I do. They might not take to him.”
“And?” Ed asked.
“Ed, either one of those men would kill Martin in the blink of an eye and never think a thing of it.”
“Don’t you thi
nk you ought to warn Martin?”
Ken shook his head. “Nope. Martin knows it, same as I. And, he never was one to back away from a hornet’s nest if there was honey in it.”
“But, slaves?”
“Yeah, he’s got a burr under his blanket about those slaves, that’s for sure. I wonder why.”
Ed sighed. “He seems a very complex man, Martin Baron.”
“Oh, he’s a tangle, all right, like a big thicket. You think he’s going one way and he goes another.”
“Well, I hope it all works out,” Ed said.
Ken turned toward the house as something caught the corner of his eye. Nancy stood at the door. He waved to her and tipped his hat. She waved back.
“Come on, Ed,” Ken said, “I’ll have to get a rifle, pistol, powder and ball for Martin. Some grub for the trail.”
Ed looked back at Nancy, who was still standing in the doorway. She smiled. He wondered if she was trying to figure out where Martin had gone or if she was just looking after Ken.
Martin was married, he knew, but he had also heard there was something wrong with his wife. He wondered if Baron was the type of man to stray. It was a situation that might bear watching, he thought.
“Don’t even think it, Ed,” Ken said. “Nancy’s not Martin’s type.”
Startled, Ed spluttered for a moment. “Do you read minds, Ken?”
“I read some minds real well,” Ken said affably.
26
THEY SPOKE SOFTLY in a dialect of the Bantu language. In the darkness, they seemed to the Mexican guards like invisible people. Huddled together in the makeshift cell in the Aguilar barn, they complained of hunger and thirst among themselves. Claude, a boy of thirteen, lay next to a pile of straw, gripping his belly. He had not eaten in three days.
The Mexicans listened to them for a few moments, then found soft places to sit and lean against the boards of the barn where they could doze.
“Are they going to kill us, M’buta?” the young woman nearest the older man asked.
“I do not know,” M’buta said. He was a big man, of thirty-five years, as near as he could figure. On the white plantation, he had been called Socrates. The young woman was named Sarah by the family who had owned her. But, they still remembered their real names and when they spoke, they used those appellations rather than their slave names.