The Baron Brand

by Jory Sherman

Tom said nothing. He and Roy lifted the dead man, lugged him over to Cullie’s horse. They draped his body over the saddle and Tom loosened the thongs on Cullie’s lariat. He and Roy laced Cullie with a diamond hitch, running rope through the stirrups. The horse acted up until they were finished, turning, sidling to get out from under the dead weight.

  “Where’s Baron?”

  “He’s up that draw with the wagon.”

  Tom mounted his horse as Roy held the reins of Cullie’s horse. Tom rode over and took the reins from Roy. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Roy climbed on his horse and followed Tom to the little draw. He could not take his eyes off the body of Cullie. Not long ago he had been alive and now he was gone. It could have happened to any of them.

  Martin had the wagon turned around and was leading it from the draw when Tom rode up, leading Cullie’s horse.

  “What you got there, Tom?”

  “Reynaud killed Cullie.”

  “That’s a damned shame.”

  “I’ll get the sonofabitch one day.”

  “Reynaud got away?”

  “He lit a shuck.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Cowardly.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  Tom noticed that one of the Negroes was driving the wagon. He recognized him from his and Cullie’s seeing him on the docks, and later on, riding in that same wagon to the Aguilar ranch.

  “Well,” Tom said, “you got what you came for, I reckon.”

  “So it seems.”

  “They all willin’ to go with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty trustin’ ain’t they?” Tom looked straight at Socrates when he said it.

  “They’ll be free men, Tom.”

  “They cost me a friend.”

  Martin turned in the saddle to face Socrates. “Just drive the wagon on to the road and turn left. Roy, you see they make it. Tom, ride on up with me so we can talk.”

  Roy nodded and took Martin’s place at the head of the wagon. Tom handed him the reins to Cullie’s horse and followed Martin out of the draw and onto the road.

  “Tom,” Martin said, when they were out of earshot of Roy and the Negroes, “you don’t want to go and make those darkies any more miserable than they already are.”

  “Cullie got killed giving freedom to them niggers.”

  “Cullie got killed. You can’t blame the Negroes for that. They’re innocent bystanders.”

  “Baron, I ain’t here to tell you your business, but you’re way out on a limb here.”

  “You think so.”

  “Them are stolen slaves. Texas, last I heard, was a slave state. You can’t just go and turn ’em loose like they was white.”

  “Mister, I can do any damned thing I want to. The Box B is not a slave state. And, I’m the Box B.”

  “It sure as hell don’t make me no never mind, but I’d sure as hell think twice and then twice’t more was I you ‘bout payin’ out money to slaves born and bred.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Tom. When we get back to Baronsville, you see Ken Richman and draw your pay.”

  “Might be somebody in Louisiana interested in what happened to them contraband niggers.”

  Martin stopped his horse, turned to face Tom. Even in the dim light, his face reflected his anger in its chiseled features. Tom reined up and met Martin’s stare head on.

  “Tom, I’m going to say this only once. If you ever use that word again on this ride, it’ll be the last thing out of your mouth.”

  “Are you threatening me, Baron?”

  “I’m warning you. I don’t like the term. Those are people back there. Their skins are black and that ain’t no fault of their own. As far as I’m concerned, you aren’t a damned bit better’n any one of ’em.”

  “You got a lot to learn, Baron.”

  “Well, as long as you’re riding for me, I’m the teacher.”

  Tom could almost feel the heat from Martin’s glare. He clamped his mouth shut and jerked his reins, turning his horse around. He rode back to the wagon, jerked the reins of Cullie’s horse from Roy’s hand and rode back up the road.

  When he passed Martin, he said, “I quit, Baron.”

  “Too late, Tom,” Martin said. “I fired you five minutes ago. I don’t want to see you in Baronsville again. You draw your pay and Cullie’s too.”

  “You ain’t heard the last of me, Baron.”

  Tom rode on before Martin could reply, but Martin knew he’d already said all he had to say to Harris. Men like him were a blight on the land. For once, he questioned Ken’s judgment in hiring such a man.

  Roy caught up with him.

  “Where’d Tom go?”

  “He rode on.”

  “Any trouble?” Roy asked.

  “No, no trouble at all.”

  “He looked pretty mad to me.”

  “Men like him come and go,” Martin said. “They have no roots, no ties to anything. He won’t even be missed.”

  “No, I reckon not. I guess he was mad about Cullie gettin’ killed.”

  Martin didn’t answer. He slowed his horse until he was alongside Socrates.

  “If you and your friends are hungry, we have grub in our saddlebags,” Martin told the driver.

  “No sir, we’s too excited to eat right now.”

  “You just let out a holler if your belly starts to rumble.”

  “Yes, sir,” Socrates said, grinning wide. He looked back at his friends in the wagon and nodded his head. They all smiled. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “We can holler for food and that man ain’t goin’ to cane us. No sir. We be free.”

  The ex-slaves in the wagon murmured their joy at Socrates’ words and, later, they began to chant and croon the old songs they barely remembered. Their singing rose on the night air and floated over the country they passed like flower petals of many hues strewn in their wake that fluttered in the soft winking light of the stars and the bright new moon.

  41

  ANSON STUCK THE branding irons in his bedroll, tied the bundle in back of the cantle on his saddle. He could still smell the stench of burnt wood although the fire that had consumed the jacal was long since burned out. He and Peebo found the burnt corpse of Jorge, the skull stripped of flesh by buzzards, coyotes, flies and worms, grinning up at the sky with eyeless sockets. He and Peebo buried the remains in a shallow grave, marked it for Jorge’s family. They covered the small mound with stones so it would be easy to find again.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Anson said.

  “You aim to pick up the tracks of that white bull?”

  “Yes. There’s been no rain, so we ought to be able to find them.”

  “Might should have brought more hands with us.”

  “They’d just be in the way.”

  “You still goin’ to brand any stray cows you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell of a way to earn a living,” Peebo said.

  “You’ll earn every copper.”

  “And then some.”

  The two men still had food left after taking two meals on the ride to the burnt line shack, but Anson said they’d have to live off the land from then on. He told Peebo he had flour and coffee and fatback for gravy and soaking bannock.

  “You got any sugar?”

  “A peck or two. Why?”

  “Sweet tooth,” Peebo said.

  “You never said anything before about having a sweet tooth.”

  “I just got it.” Peebo grinned.

  “Just got it?”

  “You know how it is when you don’t have something. You want it.”

  “And so you suddenly got a sweet tooth.”

  “Yeah. But, now it’s gone away. Now that I know you’ve got it.”

  “Peebo, did anyone ever tell you you were full of shit?”

  “Not to my face.”

  “Well, you are. Don’t be askin’ what else I got or don’t got, hear?”

  “Unless some cravin’ co
mes over me.”

  “It better not,” Anson said.

  They walked the horses to the creek to drink and filled their canteens. Anson tasted the water first to make sure there was no alkali in it, and there wasn’t. As they were about to mount up, they heard noises, something coming through the brush.

  “Hear that?” Anson said.

  “I’m not deaf, son.”

  “Listen. It’s getting closer.”

  “Maybe that old bull’s coming after us. Better get that branding iron hot and ready.”

  “Shut up, Peebo.”

  The two waited, straining their ears. Anson let his hand drop to the butt of his pistol. Peebo stood by his rifle, ready to jerk it from its scabbard.

  “Sounds like a horse,” Peebo said.

  “Could be. Or a deer. Or a cow.”

  “Too steady. Horse.”

  Anson cupped a hand to his ear.

  “Scuffing like a horse,” Peebo said. “Dragging one front hoof.”

  “You got good ears.”

  “Comes from havin’ a sweet tooth.”

  Anson snickered. Peebo grinned. “Horse,” he said again.

  “Well, it’s coming down that old road,” Anson said. “Right here where it crosses the creek at the shallows.”

  “You goin’ to draw on it?” Peebo asked.

  “Huh?” Anson looked down. He had his pistol half out of the holster. A sheepish look plastered on his face like a sheet of masa dough, he slid the Colt .44 back into the leather.

  More odd noises mingled with the scuff of that one hoof, a fugue of other hooves, leather under strain, the jingle of spurs, various rustlings and rattlings. Peebo and Anson looked at each other. Anson shrugged, and his brow wrinkled, his mouth bent in a puzzled frown.

  “Sounds like a gypsy caravan,” Peebo said.

  “More like a drummer toting his wares on horseback.”

  “More’n one horse,” Peebo said.

  Anson nodded, “Two, three, maybe.”

  “Four,” Peebo said, sorting out the different pads of hooves. Brush crackled and snapped as the noises grew louder and closer.

  “We better take some cover,” Anson said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Peebo said, and pushed his horse toward the nearest oak a dozen yards away. Anson walked in the opposite direction, leading his horse. He took up a position behind the latticework of three mesquite trees.

  A few moments later, Peebo and Anson heard splashings in the creek, then the sounds of horse slurping water. A man groaned as he climbed out of the saddle, and there were more sloshings in the creek, farther upstream. Peebo looked over at Anson and held up four fingers. Anson shook his head. He held up three fingers. Peebo nodded.

  “Hello,” Anson called out. Peebo, behind the oak tree, cringed and waved one hand to silence him.

  “Daddy, someone else is out here.”

  A female voice. Anson’s eyes widened.

  “Who’s there?”

  A male voice, thin, querulous.

  “Show yourself.”

  Another male voice, this one deeper than the other, more authoritative.

  “Friends,” Anson called.

  The people of the voices began to converse in low tones. The slurping noises stopped. Anson thought he heard the word brigands. His mouth went dry and he licked his lips. The muscles of his stomach tautened like the skin on a drumhead. Then, the conversation stopped and it grew very quiet.

  “Show yourself,” the man with the deeper voice said.

  “You show yourself,” Anson said. “This is my ranch you’re on.”

  “Ranch?”

  “That’s right. You’re on Box B land.”

  More conversation, whispers, sentences rising in tone, as if one or two were doubting.

  “Are you Baron?”

  “I’m Baron,” Anson called back.

  “Wait a minute.”

  Still more talk and Anson’s palms began to sweat. Peebo held fast behind the oak. Anson wished the people would ride or walk into view. He was curious about the woman whose voice he had heard.

  Finally, a man splashed across the creek, walked between Anson and Peebo. He was carrying a flintlock rifle that was as graceful and as beautiful as any Anson had ever seen, with a curly maple stock, shiny brass fittings. The blade front sight glinted in the sun. The barrel was octagonal and browned. The man wore a loose-fitting cotton shirt, open at the throat, light cotton trousers, boots that had a shine under the dust, a wide-brimmed hat. He carried a possibles pouch and two powder horns, a brace of pistols, both cap and ball Colts, in holsters attached to a wide belt, of Mexican leather. Both belt and holsters were hand tooled with flowery designs.

  “Where are you Baron?”

  “Over here,” Anson said. He wrapped the reins around one of the mesquite branches and stepped out into the open.

  “I see you. You look mighty young.”

  “For what?”

  “Are you Martin Baron?”

  “I’m his son, Anson.”

  “My name is Al Oltmen.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Peebo cleared his face and Al spun around quickly.

  “Don’t shoot,” Peebo said. “Just wanted you to know there were two of us.”

  “Just a minute,” Al said. He put two fingers to his lips and whistled. “It’s okay Doc. You and Lorene come on out.”

  A man appeared, leading a horse and mule. He was wearing white cotton trousers, a white muslin shirt and a straw hat. His boots were wet from walking through the creek. He was not tall, but wide-chested, stout, and he wore an affable smile. He was unarmed. The mule carried two large wooden panniers that rattled with unknown substances. Behind him, a young girl came forth, leading two horses. She was dark haired, and slender and tall, taller than either Al or the other man. She had brown eyes and a smile curved like a cupid’s bow.

  “This here’s Anson Baron, Doc,” Al said, cocking a thumb toward Anson. “He says he’s Martin Baron’s son. I don’t know who that other jasper is.”

  “My name is Peebo Elves.” Peebo left his horse ground-tied behind the oak and walked out into the open. “I ride for the Box B.”

  “I’m Patrick Purvis,” Doc said. “And this is my sister’s orphaned daughter, Lorene Sisler. She helps me in my work.”

  Anson couldn’t stop staring at Lorene. He had never seen a more beautiful young woman, nor a taller one. He saw that she had splashed water from the creek on her face and had not completely wiped it all off. Beads of it glistened on her forehead and in front of her dainty, seashell ears.

  “Well, gosh,” Anson stuttered, “I wish we had some hospitality to show you. Thing is, the line shack we had here was burned down by Apaches.”

  “We’re just passing through,” Al said. “On our way to Baronsville.”

  “Al here’s a Texas ranger,” Pat said.

  “What’s that?” Peebo asked.

  “Kind of a peacekeeper,” Al said.

  “Oh, he’s more than that, I assure you,” Pat said. “There were Texas rangers here in Texas when the Spaniards owned the land; and Rangers when the Mexicans ran the Spaniards out.”

  “All unofficial, of course,” Al said.

  “Truth is,” Dr. Purvis said, “the Texas Rangers have always looked out for folks, the settlers here in Texas. If they see something wrong, they settle it.”

  Anson took another look at Al. He didn’t look exactly like a soldier, but he was well built, muscular, and he had a cast to his eye that any hunter would recognize, a strong jawline with a shadow from whisker bristles. Anson decided that Al would be a man to ride the river with and wasn’t just wearing a six-gun as a fashion accessory.

  “How come you’re going to Baronsville?” Anson asked.

  “I’m to see Ken Richman there,” Doc Purvis said. “Then, he’s taking me out to the Box B to see your mother, Caroline.”

  “My ma?” Anson asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Does my pa
know about this?”

  “It is my understanding that he probably does not, but he will be informed.”

  “Does my ma know you’re coming?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Seems to me there’s a lot of not knowing about this visit.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Baron, I have the best interests of your mother at heart. Do you know anything about her condition?”

  “That’s my business.” Anson could not help being surly. Talk about his mother had touched a nerve.

  “I understand. We need not discuss these matters here. I’ll be spending time in Baronsville and I’ll see to it that all family members are fully informed of my findings.”

  “Well, you still have to go through my pa before you go talking to my ma.”

  “I’m sure that will be arranged by Mr. Richman.”

  Anson glowered at the doctor, but he held his tongue. Peebo shifted his feet nervously. Lorene gazed at Anson with a look of pity, as if he were some lost derelict found wandering half-mad in the wilderness. Al’s face was an impassive mask.

  “I’m also coming to talk to Martin Baron,” Al said.

  “About what?” Anson’s tone was only slightly less deprecating.

  “There’s going to be a war, I think.”

  “A war? With the Mexicans? The Apaches?”

  Al’s short laugh was mirthless.

  “Not exactly,” Al said. “A war between the Northern states and the Southern.”

  “I heard talk of that,” Peebo said.

  “What’s that got to do with my pa?” Anson asked.

  “If there is such a war,” Al said, “it will affect all of us, your ma and pa, you, and Peebo there. The Texas Rangers will play a big part in keeping order.”

  “Keeping order?” Anson asked.

  “Once any man picks up the gun against another, it becomes everyone’s business. This would be a civil war, a war between neighbors, friends, relatives.”

  “How come there has to be war?”

  “It’s all over the issue of slavery.”

  “We don’t keep slaves,” Anson said. “Pa and I don’t cotton to one man owning another.”

  “There are some who believe it’s a God-given right to own slaves.”

  “Let them have their slaves. That’s no reason to have a big old war.”

  Al chuckled again, that dry laugh of his that was bereft of all humor.