by Jory Sherman
“Pa was a sailor,” Anson said, a pleading for forgiveness in his eyes.
“But he did not go to Africa and he does not mate with animals.”
Just then, Peebo entered the front door and Caroline whirled and left the front room, openly sobbing, her sadness ripping into Anson’s heart and leaving him sad and confused.
“What’s wrong?” Peebo asked.
“Just shut your fucking mouth, Peebo,” Anson said. “Just don’t say a goddamned fucking word.”
32
MARTIN AND THE other three men rode along the old road that he and Juanito had cut many years before, and it had seen enough use to keep from being overgrown, but was nearly invisible in places where flash floods had razed the land. Riding it brought back many memories to Martin and some he harbored with regret and a certain amount of sadness. The road was not straight, and it had taken a long time for it to be a road. It had started out as a game trail and the wild longhorn cattle had used it as a line of least resistance, as had Martin and Juanito. Over the years, wagons had rutted it and the rains had scrubbed it, and he and the Mexicans who worked for him had widened it, pulled its stumps and hacked back the mesquite trees. The road led through the brasada clear to the Matagorda on the Gulf.
Martin had caught glimpses of roadrunners, jackrabbits startled from their motionless shadows, and coyotes slinking off into the brush like gray wraiths, and small deer rising from their beds. The country was still wild and he loved it, could feel it draw at him, hold him, slip into him like the first taste of wine from a glass and make him as giddy as if he’d drunk a quart of mescal.
In the light zephyrs, he could pick up the scent of the sea and the aroma stirred his senses back to that time when he roamed the Gulf of Mexico like a gypsy, free as the gulls that wheeled above his stern when he was on a bite, dragging red snappers, groupers, sea bass, jewfish from the depths, gutting them until the decks ran with blood and slime and the gulls descended onto the decks like a snowfall and, when the bite was finished, he tossed entrails into the sky and watched in amazement the acrobatics of those birds of the sea, dazzled by their skill and aptitude for thievery.
And, the breezes shifted and blew their wending ways from the west and there was a tang to those airs, too, tasting of wildness and the unknown, the grasslands yet to be grazed and beeves not yet harvested with the rope and the gate, beeves yet unbranded, moving across the savannah like ancient herds not yet tamed by man.
The scent of chaparral wafted to his nostrils and the grit of the old trail they now called a road had its own appeal, its special aroma like a strong-willed woman in season, like a five-gaited gal who never closed her eyes and never lost her smile and rode with a man to the very end of the road, and beyond.
It was good to be riding again, though. He loved raising cattle and building the brand, but he hated being confined to the main house, having to avoid Caroline because he no longer had feelings for her that were not seasoned with a bitter root. He could not look at her without thinking of Mickey Bone and what he had done. What they both had done, and that blind kid, Lazaro, he was a constant reminder that Caroline had let Bone have his way with her while he had thought that his friend Juanito Salazar had done the deed. He scattered those thoughts from his mind through the sheer power of will and set it on the task ahead, and the men he rode with, two of whom he knew not at all, and one who was the son of a man he had once hated when he was alive.
Martin told Roy Killian all about the slaves and Reynaud, as they rode toward Aguilar’s Rocking A Ranch that long afternoon. Roy tried to explain to Martin about Wanda Fancher and her mother, Hattie, but he didn’t understand the situation that well himself. He was on firmer ground when he explained to Martin about his mother, Ursula, taking off with David Wilhoit and now living on. the Rocking A.
Cullie and Tom set the pace, taking the lead on their long-legged horses. Late in the day, the four men stopped at a creek to water their horses and build their smokes.
Tom walked over to Martin at a casual pace, as if what he had to say was of no particular importance. He scraped a hand across one of his wiry muttonchops as if to smooth it. He might have been preening himself, Martin thought, so he had something to say, all right, and it wasn’t just offhand.
“Baron.”
“Tom.”
“What you said before. About there bein’ some stumps between us we had to get cleared away.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I been wantin’ to clear one or two of ’em away.”
“I’ m listening,” Martin said.
“I didn’t mean no harm by what I said back at the Longhorn. I had somethin’ else in mind when I saw you eyein’ that serving gal.”
“It’s not important, Tom. Already forgotten.”
“Not by me. I guess I didn’t get it out right. I’d like to say it straight. Right now.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, Ken Richman, he asked me and Cullie to do something else for him when we went through Galveston, and if we didn’t find out what he wanted to know there, we was to have a look-see in Corpus.”
“About the smuggled slaves?”
“No, about a sawbones. A doc. Ken, he said your wife was real sick and he asked us to find a doctor who would ride to Baronsville and take a look at your missus.”
“You found such a doctor?” Martin asked.
“Name of Purvis. Pat Purvis.”
“He’s not a barber, is he?”
“No, he’s genuine, got him a certificate and all. Says he’s a surgeon.”
“What did Ken tell you about my wife? About what her sickness was?”
“He didn’t. Just said she was always feeling poorly.”
“He didn’t tell you what ails her? What did you tell the doc, this Purvis?”
“I didn’t have to tell him anything. Ken gave me a letter written in Latin. He told me to show it to every doc I talked to and if they didn’t understand it, he wasn’t interested.”
“And, this Purvis could read Latin?”
“Yes. He seemed surprised, but he said he would take a look at Mrs. Baron, see what he could do.”
Tom drew on his rolled cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs until most of it had diffused into his bloodstream, then blew out the blue fumes not absorbed by his lungs.
“Well, you did what Ken asked you to. Beyond that, my wife’s none of your business.”
“I know that. Reason I asked what I did back there, is that I thought maybe your wife had already died.”
“That’s a hell of a thing.”
“I know. Jumped to a conclusion, I reckon.”
“My wife is not dead,” Martin said.
“I reckon I got me some crow to swaller.”
Martin waited for Tom to walk away, but he didn’t. “Roy,” he said, “don’t let your horse drink too much.”
Roy pulled his horse away from the creek. Cullie had already put his horse to grass, but was watching him.
“You got something else to say, Harris?”
“Do you know the Rocking A layout?”
“I’ve been there.”
“They got them slaves in the barn. I figure after dark they’ll load ’em back in the wagon and head north.”
“What’s on your mind?” Martin asked.
“There’ll be the two Mexes, and the Frenchie, and I don’t know about Aguilar.”
“Matteo won’t go,” Martin said. “He lets other people do his dirty work.”
“Well, that’s only three men and we got four.”
“There might be another man,” Martin said.
“Oh?”
“There’s a surveyor living on the Rocking A and I think he might be Matteo’s eyes and ears on this expedition.”
“I don’t know the man,” Tom said.
“No. I reckon nobody does.”
“So, it’s four against four.”
“Unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Nob
ody knows which way the slaves will jump. I’d like to do this without any killing.”
“Those Mexes are armed. Heavy armed, and the Frenchie, he was packin’ a rifle and a pair of horse pistols. Single shots, but big bore sonsofbitches.”
“Reynaud will fight,” Martin said.
“And this surveyor?”
“I don’t know. He might. But, he’s got the most to lose. Just took him a bride and I’ve got a hunch his woman has a snapper hold on him.”
“I know what you mean,” Tom said.
Cullie finished his cigarette, stomped it out, ground it into the dirt. Roy stood by his horse, its hair moth-eaten from summer shedding.
“Let’s follow the wagon from a distance,” Martin said. “Let it get far enough away from the ranch house so that Matteo won’t hear any noise we make.”
“Then, what?” Tom asked.
“One man in front to stop the horses pulling the wagon. Roy, there, maybe. Cullie over there come up from behind, and you and I come in on the flanks.”
“We might have to drop the two Mexicans right off,” Tom said.
“We might.” Martin kept his smoke going, cupping it from the light wind so that the air wouldn’t fan the sparks.
“Then there’s the Frenchie, and the surveyor. We might have to drop them, too.” Tom rolled his short cigarette up between his fingers, snuffing it out as he made a ball of it. He let the ball drop from his hand, paid it no more mind.
Martin finished his cigarette, lifted his right leg and ground the stub out under the heel of his boot. He let out the spent smoke and breathed in fresh air.
“We’ll talk some more about this when we see what Matteo’s up to,” Martin said. “But, if we shoot the horses out from under the Mexicans, they probably won’t give us any trouble. If the surveyor is on horseback, we’ll shoot his horse while we’re at it.”
“What about the Frenchie?”
“Reynaud is used to riding stables and English saddles. We’ll let him stay on his horse and make sure we give his mount something to worry about.”
“Make it run?”
“Run, buck, anything to keep Reynaud busy.”
“I forgot about the Mexican drover. The one in the wagon.”
“I’ll tell Roy to point his rifle at the man’s face when he stops the team. We’ll see if he wants to give up his life for a bunch of stolen slaves.”
“Lots of ifs in this plan.”
“It isn’t set in baked clay, Harris. These things go best set loose and leave the figuring to each man when the popping starts.”
“Might work,” Tom said.
“What works is what works.” Martin turned to walk over to his horse.
Tom walked away, caught up his horse. Martin nodded to Roy, who climbed on the dappled gray.
The sun fell away in the afternoon sky and shadows began to stripe the land, form puddles of gray on the eastern edges of trees. It would be getting on to full dark by the time the four men rode up to the Rocking A main house and the barn where the slaves were kept.
The birds disappeared and the nighthawks began to appear, silent, flapping rags silhouetted against the raging western sky. Martin felt his stomach go squirrelly as he thought about the business ahead.
“Better check your rifles and pistols while it’s still light,” he told the others. He jerked his flintlock from its scabbard and poured fresh fine powder into the pan, blew away the excess and folded back the frizzen. He heard the snap of locks as the others checked their rifles and cap and ball six-shooters.
The breeze stiffened, and it was from the south, balmy, fresh-warmed in the Gulf and carried with it the scent of sea and the huff against his shirt like the first tug of a sail filling up with wind for a stretch of sailing close-hauled.
Martin felt good just then. He went over the basic plan in his mind and could find no fault in it. But, then, everything depended on the actions of men under pressure, on both sides, and there was no way to figure that out or write it down on paper or cast in clay.
“It won’t be long now,” Cullie said.
“Yeah, like what the cat said when it caught its tail under the ripsaw,” Tom replied.
No one laughed.
33
Ursula KILLIAN, PUT away the early supper dishes, a melancholy droop to her face adding years to her visage. The twilight always brought her a twinge of sadness, but it was worse tonight. Moments before, the western horizon had blazed like a prairie fire frozen in time. Now that the sun had set, leaving gray shrouds streaming across the sky, she was filled with a feeling of dread, and, as always, she missed Roy, wondered what he was doing at every close of day. She listened to the noises in the next room, knowing David was packing clothes for a long trip, several days he said, and she knew that the journey might also be dangerous. She closed the last cupboard, sighed, and walked into the next room of the adobe house, trying to affix a smile to her face so that David would not see what was boiling inside her, what thoughts skulked in her mind. But the minute she saw him, she knew she could not hold her tongue, for that would be against her nature.
“I’m just about ready,” David said.
“I don’t want you to go,” Ursula said.
“Urs, we’ve gone over this. I have to go.”
“Are you a slave to Matteo like those poor people out in the barn?”
David finished tying the thong around his soogan, his slicker, and stood up. He looked at Ursula, framed in silhouette at the center of the doorway. She had not yet lighted the lamps, so she was just a shadow, but no less powerful, appealing.
“I’m beholden to Matteo. When he asks me for a favor, it is in my character to grant it.”
“You’re beholden to me, too, I thought,” she said, and stepped toward him, out of the fading light from the kitchen and into the dark of the front room.
“It’s not the same thing,” David said.
“It’s wicked to sell those people. Like cattle.”
“I know it’s not exactly legal.”
“It’s not legal at all. I lived in Fort Worth, you know. I heard a lot of talk about smuggling slaves. Contraband, the soldiers called it. It’s immoral, that’s what it is.”
“Ursula, we’re in no position to judge what Matteo does.”
She walked close to him and David sighed as she drew near. She folded her arms around his neck, closing her hands like the clasp of a locket. “All you have to do is say no,” she said. “Turn your back on it. Stay home with me.”
“I don’t think we’d have a home here if I backed out now.”
“We can always go somewhere else.”
She pressed her breasts against his chest, and tugged on the back of his neck to bend it toward her.
“I—I think we’re better off here. There’s lots of opportunity. Matteo has big plans.”
“David, please. I—I have a bad feeling about you leaving tonight.”
He resisted her and grabbed her wrists, brought her arms back down to her sides. He held them there, pushed her away.
“Don’t worry, Ursula. I’ll be back in a couple of days. All I’m doing is going along to make sure that Reynaud doesn’t cheat Matteo.”
The darkness seeped into the room, cloaking them in secrecy while Mexican voices outside rose up like croaks from the grasses, crackling phrases that invaded their privacy with insistent staccato signals.
“Andale, pues.”
“Abre la puerta.”
“’Onde está aquel chingado, Paco?”
David heard his name called.
“I have to go, Urs.”
“Damn you,” she husked.
“Don’t make it any worse than it is.”
“Me make it worse? How can you do this to me? I’m begging you to stay.”
“Urs, don’t,” he said, and picked up his slicker, rifle, possibles pouch, and powder horns. He almost left the food she had prepared for him, wrapped in a cloth. At the last minute, he picked it up and tucked it under his arm.
“Kiss me good-bye,” she said, her voice suddenly changed into a purr.
He leaned down and kissed her. She put a hand inside his belt, tugged him toward her.
“Good-bye, Urs,” he said. “Be a good girl.”
“You bastard,” she hissed and he walked away from her and out the door. She did not follow after him, but walked to the window and looked at the swinging lantern one of the Mexican hands carried as he walked to the barn. The darkness became a strangling thing and she turned away to light a lamp.
But, she could not dispel the black shades inside her mind, nor stem the tears that burned her eyes and slaked her hot cheeks as they cooled in the night breeze that crept through the house in vague, uncertain whispers.
34
ANSON LOOKED AT the leg of the horse as Peebo lifted it and cocked it to show him the snakebite. The wound, twin punctures, was still suppurating slightly.
“You sucked all the poison out?” he asked Peebo.
“Much as I could. Horse kicked that snake so far and quick, I don’t think it pumped much juice into him.”
Peebo let the leg back down. The horse nickered and Peebo patted its neck and walked out of the stall. “I’ll keep an eye on him next day or two. If I’m still around.”
“Peebo, I’m sorry,” Anson said. “Tomorrow we can start all over. I didn’t mean to climb all over you.”
“Oh, I figured you were out of your head some, or maybe you and your ma had words. If they were about me, I’ll mosey on.”
“No, it wasn’t about you.”
“I think your ma blamed me for you getting your noggin cracked.”
“No, she did not.”
“All right.”
The two walked out of the barn. They had checked all the horses, grained them, rubbed them down and now the sun was setting, the sky afire to the west. Flaming clouds spread across the horizon like molten bars of iron snatched from the furnace and stacked haphazardly as if they were ingots waiting for the alchemist’s arcane art to turn them into gold.
The adobe was one of several that sat like outbuildings in a semicircle behind the main house and barn. Unlike most of the others, this one had no flowers growing outside or in pots on the windowsills. The shadows were eating it up as the two stopped just outside.