by Jory Sherman
“And Charlie never said that,” Martin said, smiling. “He said you might ride shotgun for me on a cattle drive if I was desperate.”
“We might,” Tom said. “But you ain’t asked us to do that.”
Millie carried the food out on a tray, began setting the plates down. The men watched her. She tended to Martin last and lingered close to him, catching his eyes with hers, bumping into him, rubbing her thigh against one arm. Tom didn’t miss any of that business, but said nothing.
“Anything else I can bring you, Martin?” Millie asked.
“Not for me. Tom? Cullie?”
“More water,” Cullie said.
“I don’t need nothing,” Tom said, and he emphasized the personal pronoun.
“You just holler if you need anything,” Millie said. Then, “Martin,” looking at him point-blank.
“I will,” Martin said, and Millie loped away slowly, her hips undulating under the starched skirt that fit her like a second skin.
The men ate in silence, except for Cullie’s lame attempts to start up a conversation. Millie kept filling up their water glasses, and Martin made sure his was kept nearly empty.
“You sure do drink a lot of water, Baron,” Tom said, as he sopped up the last of the drippings from his steak. There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
Martin ignored him. “I’ll pay the bill, meet you boys outside.”
Neither man thanked him for the lunch. Tom and Cullie walked outside, although Tom seemed to be in no hurry. Martin got up from the table, walked over to the bar.
“How much do I owe you, Charlie?” he asked. Charlie Stonecipher was the jack-of-all-trades at the Longhorn, tending bar, cooking, cleaning up during the day. But, he also managed the place in Ken’s absence.
“I’ll give Millie a holler, Mr. Baron.”
Charlie went to the door that led to the kitchen, opened it a crack. “Millie,” he called. “Mr. Baron wants to pay his bill.”
Millie emerged seconds later, a small notepad in her hand. She smiled at Martin, stood at the bar and did her addition. Then, she handed the bill to Martin.
“Thank you,” he said, and signed it with his name. Then, he dug in his pocket and took out a handful of silver, laid it on the bar. “That’s for you, Millie.”
“Why, thank you, Martin,” she said. “Will that be all?”
“For now,” Martin said, and started for the door.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Millie said, almost brazenly, and Charlie turned away, suddenly finding a spot on the bar that he might not have polished to a high sheen long since.
“First time a lady ever walked me anywhere,” Martin said.
“You’re a special guest, Martin. Folks in town have a lot of respect for you.”
“who?”
“Ken Richman says you’re a man who knows where he’s going, that you are making this wild country into a good place for people to live.”
“Ken said that?”
“Oh, a lot more than that, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Martin stopped to look at Millie closely. “Where do you hail from?” he asked.
The hum of voices in the background rose and fell like the tides of a sea, and the occasional chip and clack of utensils on plates set up a contrapuntal patter to the faint din of the diners.
“Why, I come here from a little old place called Shreveport over in Louisiana.”
“What brought you to Texas?”
“I like the open spaces, and not too many people always coming and going, never staying put.”
“Do you have a family?” he asked, seemingly not in any hurry to leave.
“Nope. My family run off from Tennessee two years ago.”
“And left you?”
“I didn’t want to go with ’em,” she said. “They went back to stay with relatives in Virginia, kin I never did take a cotton to.”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“I’m twenty-three, going on twenty-four.”
Martin could smell the faint musk of her perfume, not lilac water, but something different, and not like flowers, either, more like the scent of mint and honeysuckle growing by a cistern. He liked the smell. It was a clean smell, like spring fields, or the early mornings at the beginning of summer. Her aroma reminded him of his boyhood, and the newly plowed fields of home, a home dimly remembered now, but far from the sea, far from the fish oil, crawdad, snake and alligator smell of New Orleans.
“You seem mighty independent for being a girl so young,” he said, and wondered at himself speaking of such things to a woman he had just met.
“I’m not a girl, Martin,” she said, and there was a soft purr to her voice, a melodic curl to it that seemed to wind into him like music. “And I guess I’m pretty independent, in a way.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I don’t have no man nor anything and I really haven’t been looking that much.”
Millie moved closer to him and he started to back off, but did not take a step, as if wishing to see how close she would come and how much courage he had to call her bluff. If that’s what it was.
“Where do you stay?” he asked, and there was something in his throat that made his voice rasp.
“I got a room at the boardinghouse. Just around the corner on Oak Street. It’s run by Mrs. Lomax, the widder woman.”
“I don’t know her, I reckon.”
“She’s only been here two months and I’ve been two weeks. She’s still got her two empty rooms. But, she says they’ll fill up once people find out about Baronsville and how nice it is.”
“Well, Millie, I’d sure like to talk to you more about that. I—I have those men waiting for me.”
“You come back soon, you hear?” she said, and he heard the soft Louisiana drawl in her voice, not New Orleans, exactly, but a river drawl, for sure.
“I will, Millie. You can count on it,” and he surprised himself with his boldness.
She touched his hand, then, and he didn’t know if it was accidental or not, but she set his blood to tingling and he knew he wanted to see her again and just talk to her, if nothing else, and learn more about her.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, as he walked toward the door.
“Good-bye, Millie. It’s been real nice talking to you.”
“Yes, Martin, real nice.”
And he looked back to see her still standing there, looking at him and he saw an invitation in her gaze that set up a deep longing in him that he didn’t know he still had and there was no shame to it which surprised him even more.
He walked outside into the sunlight to see the two nighthawks standing by their horses in the shade of the overhanging roof of the Longhorn, smoking rolled cigarettes.
“Ready, boys?” Martin said.
“Way behind ready, Baron,” Tom said. “We got a long-ass ride ahead of us.”
“I know how far it is,” Martin said, and walked to his horse. He checked the soogan tied in back of the cantle and patted the saddlebags which he knew were packed with food, jerky, hardtack and dried beans, and canteens of water. “It’s just a good stretch of the legs.”
“You’ll hope your damned legs still work after we get there,” Tom said, and Martin knew he was going to have trouble with that man sooner or later. Harris had a chip on his shoulder as big as a hickory stump and he seemed to be begging for someone to come up and try to knock it off.
“Tom, you ain’t got no manners,” Cullie said.
Tom put out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and climbed into the saddle.
“Oh, I got manners, Cullie,” Tom said, “and they’re as bad as any you’re likely to see.”
“That’s for sure, Tom,” Cullie said, “that’s for damned sure.”
Martin mounted his horse and let out a sigh.
He adjusted the pistol on his hip, and checked the rifle in its boot. He wondered if he’d have to use either of them on Tom Harris before they finished
their business at the Rocking A that night.
30
ROY FELT AS if he was immersed in sweat, even with his shirt off and his wide-brimmed hat shading his face from the sun. His bare torso glistened under a sheen of perspiration and the bandanna around his neck was soaked through. He licked the salt residue from his upper lip and glared at Wanda, who seemed impervious to the heat as she set another board in place atop the one he had just finished hammering to the studs that formed one wall of the addition to his house.
“Roy, come on,” Wanda said, “I can’t hold this board in place all day.”
“Woman, you test every peck of a man’s patience. Ain’t you got no heart? It’s nine hunnert degrees in the sun and not a scrap of shade and all you can do is lay up another board for me to pound nails into.”
“Roy,” Wanda said, her voice silken and low, “you’ll thank me when you can have your own room and a little privacy.”
“I had plenty of privacy before you and Hattie barged in on me.”
He glanced at Hattie, who was hoeing what she had laid out as a garden big enough to feed the three of them and a dozen ranch hands. There hadn’t been a moment’s peace since the two women had descended on him like a pair of crows to a cornfield.
But, both women fascinated him, and he even had to admit to himself that Wanda was a most beautiful and capable woman, seeing to it that he ate well, that his clothes were clean and ironed, that his boots were polished. Hattie had cleaned the house and arranged the furniture to make it comfortable. He still resented their intrusion, and was still angry at his mother at having deserted him. He was even angrier that she had gotten married to David Wilhoit and was living on the Rocking A. He considered that a traitorous act, for he knew that Aguilar was an enemy of his friends, the Barons.
Hattie stopped hoeing and stood up, looking off into the distance. He could not see what she was looking at because the house blocked his view, but Hattie took a few steps, shaded her eyes and continued to stare to the east, in the direction of the adjoining Box B.
“Someone is coming,” Hattie said.
“Who?” Wanda yelled.
“Three riders. Three men. Very fast.”
“You’d better strap on your pistol, Roy,” Wanda said.
Roy looked at his pistol and holster lying a few feet away atop a stack of lumber. He walked over and picked it up by the belt. Wanda ran over to her mother and they both looked toward the east. Roy tightened his belt, checked the cap and ball pistol, saw that it was loaded and capped.
By the time he reached the place where the women were watching the oncoming riders, he saw that Hattie had picked up a rifle that she had left leaning against the house. She looked ready for war. Wanda seemed unperturbed.
“They’re in a hurry,” Wanda said.
Roy shaded his eyes and looked at the three riders. One of them he recognized; the other two were strangers.
“That’s Martin Baron himself ridin’ up,” Roy said.
“He rides his horse like an angry man,” Hattie said.
“He’s just in a hurry, I reckon,” Roy said. “Something must be up. Put that rifle away, Hattie.”
“I wanted to meet Mr. Baron,” Wanda said. “Let’s walk out and make him feel welcome.”
Hattie set her rifle down at her feet and did not move from her spot. Roy almost smiled at her behavior. She was a woman who did not take chances, he thought. Nor did she trust anyone she did not know, apparently.
Wanda and Roy walked around the house and Roy waved at the riders. They slowed when they saw him. Martin waved back. The other two riders gave no sign of recognition. Spools of dust floated in the air behind the horses, and gradually disintegrated. Roy surmised that they had been coming from town from the pall of dust far away in their wake.
“I will wait here,” Hattie said, after Roy and Wanda disappeared around the house. She said it in a loud voice, so that the two heard her. Wanda smiled and grasped Roy’s hand with hers. He was surprised at the intimacy, but he did not resist.
“Our first callers,” Wanda said, a proud lilt to her voice.
“I wonder what Martin wants and why he’s in such an all-fired hurry.”
“We’ll soon see,” Wanda said airily.
In a few moments, the three riders pulled up a few feet from Roy and Wanda. Martin touched a finger to the brim of his hat. Roy noticed that all the riders were carrying rifles and pistols, slickers tied to their saddles behind the cantles. Neither of the strangers smiled as Wanda curtsied.
“Mr. Baron,” she said, “won’t you set down and come inside out of this barely tolerable heat?”
“No’m,” Martin said. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Roy?”
“Martin, this here is Wanda Fancher. Her mother’s out back spadin’ the garden. They—they’re uh, stayin’ here for a spell.”
“Mighty glad to meet you, ma’am,” Martin said.
“The pleasure is all mine, sir.”
“Roy, thought you might want to ride along with Tom and Cullie here,” Martin said, cocking a thumb toward his two companions. “Might be something in it for you.”
“Where you going?” Roy asked.
“A ways,” Martin said.
“Is this business, Mr. Baron?” Wanda asked.
“You might say that, ma’am. I can’t say too much right now, but we sure could use Roy if you can spare him.”
Martin looked directly into Wanda’s eyes and it seemed to Roy that she stood right up to him, returning his gaze and no sign of a blink.
“Roy’s his own man,” she said. “If he wants to ride with you, I’m right sure he will.”
“Yes’m,” Martin said. “Roy?”
Roy did not hesitate. He thought about the boards waiting to be nailed up, the two women watching over him like hawks, the scrutiny he would undergo at suppertime when the two ladies had him cornered between them, picking over him like birds over spilt corn, questioning him from both directions as if he had been caught with his hand in Hattie’s purse.
“I’ll saddle up.”
“We got enough grub for you,” Martin said. “Bring a rifle and pistol with you, too.” He said it almost casually, but Wanda’s eyebrows arched slightly and when she turned to catch Roy’s eye, he was already trotting toward the lean-to barn where the horses were getting some afternoon shade.
Hattie came around the corner of the house a moment after Roy passed her. She was holding the hoe, not the rifle. The men on horseback looked at her with curious gazes.
“This is my mother, Hattie, Mr. Baron,” Wanda said. “Mother, meet Mr. Martin Baron.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Martin said.
Hattie did not curtsy, but stared at Cullie and Tom, who did not tip their hats or acknowledge the introduction.
“I know you two from the stage coach,” she said.
“Yeah,” Tom mumbled.
“Where are you going with Roy?” Hattie asked.
“Ranch business,” Martin said.
“You will hire him to work for you?”
“In a way, yes.”
“Will you hire me?”
Martin looked at Hattie. Her face was well tanned and she obviously spent a lot of time outside. And, although she looked strong enough to do a man’s job, he didn’t want any women on this trip.
“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon,” Martin said. “It’s not hardly a regular job and a lot of riding to boot.”
“Maybe some shooting, too,” Wanda said.
“I hope not,” Martin said.
“You and your men look as if you’re chasing after someone.”
Martin squirmed in the saddle. He slipped the bandanna off his neck and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His horse switched its tail and kicked one leg out to dislodge a biting fly on its rump.
“We’re not chasing anyone.”
“But, it’s a dangerous job you have for him,” Wanda persisted.
“This is dangerous country, ma’am.”
/> “You must have confidence in Roy, then.”
“I do,” Martin said.
“Then, I will leave him in your good hands, Mr. Baron. Come, Mother, we have work to do.”
Martin watched the two women as they walked to the back of the house. Cullie cleared his throat. Tom rode up alongside Martin, a faint smile on his lips.
“Either one of them might could do this job, I figger,” Tom said.
“You may be right. They don’t look like they scare easy.”
“I don’t reckon,” Tom said.
Roy appeared a few seconds later, riding a dappled gray gelding. Martin noticed that he had a slicker tied to his saddle and a rifle jutted out of a leather boot. There was an extra cap and ball pistol dangling from his saddle horn, as well.
“The son knows what he’s doin’,” Tom said.
“He’ll do to ride the river with,” Martin replied.
Roy joined the three riders as they passed him on the way back to the road. “Where we going, Martin?” he asked.
“Over to the Rocking A.”
“Hell, it’ll be plumb dark by the time we get there.”
“That’s the idea,” Martin said.
The four men rode in silence for a time, until they were well away from the house and out in the range country that was dotted with mesquite and oak trees, sage and cactus.
Martin was the first to speak, after motioning for Tom and Cullie to ride behind him. He leaned over toward Roy so that his voice would not carry.
“How do you feel about holding slaves?” Martin asked.
“I never thought about it none. Why?”
“Matteo Aguilar’s bringing slaves into the country. Aims to sell ’em.”
“That where we’re going? You’re going to buy some slaves from Aguilar?”
“What if I was?”
“I’d say that’s your business, Martin,” Roy said, a tightness to his lips that made the words spit out like an epithet.
“But, you wouldn’t like it much, eh?”
“I wouldn’t think much about it,” Roy said, but he began to look at Martin oddly, as if the older man had lost his senses.
“I think you would, Roy.”
“What are you aimin’ at, Martin?”
“There’s talk in town of a war between the states, North against South. Over slavery.”