by Matt Rand
Nelson’s tone was dry. “A wrong guess in your speculation, and where are you? Land is permanent.”
Goedeke swallowed a glassful of rum in hurt affront. “Land,” he said, and hiccupped. “Chauncey’s family has land. How much good is it doing them now?”
Stevens lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “Perhaps we’ve mismanaged it,” he murmured.
Nelson looked at him with more interest. It took a high degree of honesty for a man to admit that.
He said soberly, “Land can be mismanaged… The first fourteen years of my life were spent in Ireland. The land was tired and sour. It killed my mother and father. I swore then I would own land someday. Good land, rich and new. I spent eight years in and around Natchez. I saw the land here beginning to tire. Then I heard of all the land a man wanted in Texas. It took me three years to get it.”
He would never forget those three years. Three years of hardship, of waiting. The long, seemingly endless days in Mexico City, of waiting for the government to give him his grant. Two revolutions had broken out during that time, and each new government meant more delay. A man learned patience, if his dream were big enough.
Stevens’ eyes glowed with interest. “That makes you twenty-five,” he said. “I would have taken you for more.”
Nelson nodded. The mirror showed him an older-looking face. Texas was a harsh molder of men. And most men broke long before the mold showed a crack.
“The Mexican government gave you all that land?”
Again Nelson nodded. “Good land. I’ve crumbled it in my fingers. I’ve seen grass growing waist tall. It’s cut with washes, creeks, rivers. A man will never have to want for water. There’s good lumber—pine, cottonwood, oak, cypress. Lumber for building.” His eyes glowed. This was his dream, and an interested listener undammed the torrent of words within him. “Someday that land will be settled. I see prosperous farms and substantial houses. I see cities and—” He broke off with an embarrassed laugh. “I run away with myself when I get to talking about it.”
Stevens shook his head. “I want to hear more.”
Nelson grinned. “Then I’ll talk about it. The Mexican government wants Texas settled by Americans. They realize that many of their people are shiftless, and they hope American ambition will set an example for them.” His teeth flashed in a wide grin. “The Americans will make that land profitable. And profitable land means more taxes. It will work to the advantage of both sides.”
Goedeke mumbled something, and Stevens put a glance of annoyance on him.
Nelson said, “For every hundred families an empresario brings in, Mexico will give nearly five hundred thousand acres. The empresario will keep better than twenty-five thousand acres for himself. Each family that wants to raise cattle will get a sitio. A sitio amounts to four thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight acres. A dirt farmer will get a labor, or a hundred and seventy-seven acres. If a man wishes to do both, he can have the combined amounts. It’s a generous offer. My grant calls for enough land for eight hundred families.”
Stevens whistled. “It’s astounding. This land will be given to the families?”
“Practically. I’m allowed to charge twelve cents an acre for administrative costs.”
Stevens’ eyes went big. “That still amounts to a great deal of money.”
Goedeke raised his head at the word “money.” “Money in Texas,” he babbled. “Lotsa money in Texas.”
Nelson caught the indignant glance Stevens threw him and grinned. “It does,” he said. “It will be needed. Nacogdoches will be my headquarters. It’s a sorry town of crumbling sod houses and roofless stone ones. The log hotel there isn’t fit for goats. When I first saw the town, less than a hundred people lived there. It’s been destroyed three times by wars and raids, until honest people are afraid to live there. I plan to rebuild the town. It’s a natural port of entry to the overland trail into Mexico. It can’t help but grow.”
“Who are the people who live there now?”
“Twilight zoners,” Nelson replied, his eyes going hard. “The twilight zone lies between Natchitoches, Louisiana, and Nacogdoches, Texas. It knows no rulers, no boundaries, and no laws. When the United States bought Louisiana from France in 1803, she inherited a boundary dispute between Spain and France. Rather than go to war over it, both France and Spain had backed up, leaving a neutral zone of a hundred miles wide between them. The United States has left it that way.”
“The zone is inhabited?” Stevens asked.
“Oh, yes.” Nelson’s laugh was curt. “No country governs it, so the riffraff of all nations has poured into it. Thieves from New Orleans, pirates from the Gulf of Mexico, and criminals of all types from the States. There are quite a few escaped slaves from the South, too. They live in sod huts, log cabins, and Indian-style tepees and lean-tos made of cane. They live by robbing travelers and merchants. An honest man hires reliable guards when he has to cross it, or he isn’t safe.”
“It’s madness!” Goedeke yelled, and he slammed the table with his fist. He glared at Nelson. He was not so drunk as Nelson had thought. At least, he had caught the last part of the conversation. He got to his feet and made a futile attempt to stand erect. “And you came back here hoping to take Melissa to that kind of country. Where there are thieves and pirates and murders. To live in a sod house with no roof in a dirty town. I will not allow it. Do you hear me? I will not allow it!” The bottle jumped under his hammering fist.
Nelson glanced at Stevens and saw his eyes grow dark with shadows. He wondered briefly at the cause of those shadows, then put his attention on Goedeke.
“Melissa is twenty,” he said in a soft voice. “Old enough to judge what she wants.”
Goedeke buttoned his coat with fumbling fingers. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”
He staggered toward the door and almost ran into the wall. He straightened and lurched out of the room.
Stevens stared at the tabletop, embarrassment in his manner. “Forrest is drunk.”
Nelson grinned. “Maybe a man is foolish to argue with his prospective father-in-law.”
“Melissa has a mind of her own,” Stevens muttered.
Nelson glanced at him. “You’ve known her long?”
Stevens nodded. A fleeting emotion crossed his face, and Nelson could not determine what it was.
“Two years,” Stevens said. He made a little gesture with his hand. It could have meant hopelessness or dismissal of the subject. “Are you the only empresario”—he stumbled over the word—“to receive a grant?”
“It means land contractor,” Nelson said. “No, Stephen Austin and Green De Witt received large grants. Dr. Hunter applied for a grant for his Indian tribes. He received nothing. That could mean trouble later.” His interest was no longer on the subject. He was thinking of Forrest Goedeke’s outburst.
He stood up and said, “I want to see Melissa. Tonight.” His grin was rueful. “And make my peace with Forrest.”
Stevens reached for his cane. “I’ll show you the house.”
Nelson started to refuse his offer. He knew where the house was. But when he looked at the man he could not rebuff the eager friendliness.
As they walked out of the door, Stevens said with a wistful tone, “Would you consider taking me with you to Nacogdoches?”
Nelson tried to phrase an answer before he put it into words. He did not want to wound this man with a blunt refusal, yet not by the wildest reach of his imagination could he place Chauncey Stevens in the twilight zone.
Stevens said, “Think about it,” taking away the sting of an immediate refusal. “Natchez grows tiresome. The same old round of parties, the same old faces, the constant purposelessness of living.” He smiled, and the warmth in his eyes erased some of the weakness of his face. “I know surveying. I could be of value to you.”
He could. But the slight value would overweigh the handicap of looking out for him. At the moment, Chauncey Stevens was bored. By morning, this restless u
rge would have vanished.
Nelson put it as gently as he could. “I’ll keep you in mind and let you know if I have a place.”
His eyes met Stevens’, and he saw the hurt behind the attempt at a smile. His words fooled no one, he thought.
They stepped out into the night and found the mist much thicker than it had been. It distorted everything with its snaky gray fingers. The live oaks, with their beards of Spanish moss, looked down like disapproving patriarchs.
Nelson started to make a humorous remark about that disapproval, and the words froze in his mouth. Two men stepped out from deep shadows and blocked their path. Their hats were pulled low, the coat collars turned up about their faces. The stealth of their manner told Nelson these were highwaymen. The pistols in their hands were only superfluous argument.
“Hands up,” one of them growled, and moved nearer. Nelson swore with silent vehemence. The money in his pocket did not amount to a large sum, but he could ill afford to lose any amount at the moment. He thought of the expenditures ahead, and rage washed over him. He wished he had not been so foolish as to walk the streets of Natchez at night unarmed.
He glanced at Stevens. Stevens’ hands were raised over his head, and the cane in one of them shook like a sapling in a high wind. He thought of Chauncey Stevens in the twilight zone, where holdups were commonplace, and in spite of his anger he grinned.
The two men were only a few feet away, and one of them said, “Your purses. Be quick.”
The cane in Stevens’ hand came alive. It slashed through the air like the head of a striking snake. It took a quick eye to follow its course. Nelson heard the thud of it across flesh and bone and the small following snap, much like that of a dry twig breaking. The highwayman’s arm fell useless, the pistol dropping from fingers that no longer had strength to hold it. The man’s yell of agony was hardly formed before the cane slashed across another forearm. Nelson heard the same dry snap, and both pistols lay in the dust. Another scream swelled to join the first, and both highwaymen clasped shattered arms. The cane came down again, this time across a head, and the thud had a different sound, a sound like that of an overripe melon being thumped. The man slumped to the ground, his groan a dry rattle.
The other turned to run. His first stride was hardly taken before Stevens was upon him. He moved like lightning, with blinding speed, and the cane was as deadly. It rose and fell, and the man plunged forward on his face, his legs still churning in a vain attempt to carry him away. His good hand clutched at the dust, then opened, and his breathing was a harsh, rasping sound in his throat.
Nelson stared in awe. He had seen it, and still he could not believe it. Not that much action in such a tiny tick of time and with such deadly results. He shook his head as he looked at Stevens, and there was unconscious respect in the gesture. Stevens pulled a handkerchief from his cuff and wiped his face. “Nasty creatures,” he said.
The words and tone were affected, but Nelson noticed that the hands were quite steady, and the eyes held a calm amusement. Nelson had made the mistake of judging by surface appearances, discounting the eyes. He knew better now. The eyes told more about a man than anything else.
He moved to the nearest highwayman and dropped to a knee beside him. The jaw was slack, the eyes vacant. “This one’s dead,” he said. “His head’s broken.” He looked up at Stevens. “What is that cane? Iron?”
“Mahogany,” Stevens answered. “It’s a good stick.”
Nelson nodded solemn agreement and moved to the second man. He was still alive, though his scalp was split and peeled down over one ear.
Nelson said, “He needs attention. I’ll stay with him while you find the law.” Stevens started away, and Nelson said, “Chauncey. About Texas—I’d like to have you.”
Stevens’ face came alive. He thrust out his hand, and its clasp was firm. “I’d like to go,” he said.
He started down the street, and the sound of his steps was jaunty. His whistle drifted back to Nelson.
Nelson chuckled deep in his throat. How Nacogdoches would stare when it saw that pearl-gray topper and cane! The staring would be followed by laughter.
Nelson said softly, “It will be unwise laughter.”
Chapter Two
The unconscious highwayman was turned over to the law. The deputy constable looked at the torn scalp and asked with awe, “Was he run over?”
Nelson looked at Stevens, and his eyes twinkled. He said in a grave voice, “You could put it that way. You won’t need us any more?”
“I know Mr. Stevens,” the constable said. “I don’t think there’ll be any hearing.”
They loaded the unconscious man into a cart, and Nelson watched Stevens as the cart clattered away. Stevens’ face was different. The soft, indeterminate lines were gone. It looked lean and hard. Nelson thought of his disdain for this man at first sight, and silent, mournful words ran through his mind: I thought I was a better judge than that.
He said, “I still want to see Melissa.”
Stevens nodded, and they moved down the street. Something was on Stevens’ mind. Several times Nelson felt he was on the verge of speaking, but he said nothing until they had nearly reached Goedeke’s house. Then he said, “The house is right ahead of us.”
Nelson knew that, but he said nothing. The house was at the end of Main Street, built in the old Southern colonial style. Its walls were of red brick, and stately white Tuscan columns supported the upper gallery. Live oaks lined the driveway, which wound through beds of iris.
Gravel crunched under their boots as they walked up the driveway. The front door was a great carved slab, crowned with an intricately wrought fanlight. The broad veranda was approached by wide steps of concrete.
Nelson cocked his head. “Forrest bought big,” he commented dryly.
“It’s quite a house,” Stevens said as he lifted his hand to the knocker.
The colored butler answered the door. His face broke into a wide smile. “Mistuh Stevens, you—” He saw Nelson, standing behind Stevens, and his words died. The smile was replaced by a look of uneasiness.
Nelson felt a thrust of irritation. What was happening here?
Stevens asked, “Did Mr. Goedeke come in?”
The butler bobbed his head. “Jes a few minutes ago.”
“Tell him we would like to see him.” He smiled apologetically at Nelson. “I thought it would be best to see him first.”
Nelson’s irritation mounted, but he nodded. He felt he was being steered about, and he did not like it.
He followed the butler through the wide hall and into the spacious drawing room.
The butler said, “If y’all will wait…” He shuffled across the hall toward the unsupported spiral stairway rising to the second floor. He walked as though he had rheumatism or lumbago. He looked back uneasily as he mounted the stairs.
Nelson felt uncomfortable in all this elegance. He looked at his muddy boots. It was a crime for those boots to walk on these fine carpets.
He glanced into the large dining room on his left. The room was lighted by candles, held in dainty but substantial frames. A handsome mahogany punkah hung suspended over the dining table.
He said, “In Nacogdoches, a man fans his face with his hat or lets the breeze do it.”
Stevens smiled faintly. The smile made Nelson ashamed of his unreasonable impulse to bedevil the man.
Stevens moved to a desk and said, “Forrest has excellent taste. This is a Hepplewhite. The spinet across the room is made of rosewood. It’s more than two hundred years old.”
The bond Nelson had felt forming between himself and this man a few moments ago was gone. Stevens knew this house well. Too well.
Before he could answer, the butler came down the stairs. “Mistuh Forrest will see you.” He looked only at Nelson.
Nelson strode toward the stairs. Halfway up, he glanced back. Stevens watched him, a curious expression on his face.
The butler led the way to a large bedroom. It had to be large to c
ontain the massive bed. It stood so high that its sleeper reached it by use of a set of specially made steps.
Forrest Goedeke was lost in that billowing expanse of white. The tasseled night cap was an incongruous sight above his red, bloated face.
Nelson walked to the bed, thinking of all the nights the earth was his bed and of the wet blankets that had covered him. His lips curled with ironic amusement. He would not trade the earth and those wet blankets for this bed.
Goedeke was still drunk. His lips were slack and his eyes were bleary. But he was not too drunk to be angry. He said, “You’ve seen the house, and you still think you can take her to the kind of town you described?”
Nelson forced his voice even. “Forrest, I don’t want to quarrel with you. I told you before. I’ll let Melissa choose what she wants.”
Goedeke propped himself upon an elbow, and his face grew redder. “I couldn’t give these things to her mother. But before she died, I promised her that Melissa would have them. And you think you can take them away from her!”
Nelson watched him with calm eyes. A fat, impotent man, letting his money shout for him. Drunk tonight and drunk tomorrow night. Using liquor as an escape from the boredom his money had brought him.
“All right!” Goedeke shouted. “Talk to her. You’ll never learn any other way. Talk to her.”
“I intend to, Forrest,” Nelson said, and he moved to the door.
The butler waited outside, his eyes round. He had heard it all, and Nelson grinned.
He poked a finger into the butler’s ample midriff and said, “In my country, the Indians would like you.” His grin broadened at the butler’s frightened squawk. “Take me to Miss Melissa.”
“Yes, suh,” the man said, and he moved quickly toward the back steps. He led the way through the kitchen with its giant fireplace, complete with cranes and pots and spit. He opened the door and said, “She out dere.”