by Matt Rand
The man’s clothes were poor and patched, but they were clean. He ran a discouraged hand through his hair. “They’re like me, mister. Stranded here and no way to get out. I wish I’d never left Missouri. I wish I’d never listened to Austin. My old woman and me was robbed crossing the zone. Took everything we had. We was lucky to be able to walk in.” He shook his head. “How are we going to get to San Felipe de Austin? I hear it’s a hundred and fifty miles from here.”
Nelson said, “I have land for you here. You won’t have to go to Austin.”
The man’s face brightened. “Are you O’Shaughnessy?” At Nelson’s nod he went on: “I heard you were the empresario here.” The shake of his head was a doubtful gesture. “It’s going to be tough settling here. There ain’t no law in this town.”
“I know what it’s like.”
“Lots of good people here, too,” the man said. “They just don’t know what to do.”
“See me later,” Nelson said, and moved on.
Stevens said, “The poor devil. I wonder how he’s been living.”
“I’ll take his kind, and be glad to get them. The bigger our number is, the safer for all of us.”
Halfway down the street, they passed a group of a dozen women. A couple of them still had some semblance of beauty, but the others were blowzy, faded creatures. They shouted obscenities at the two men, and Stevens’ face burned red.
“Even the women,” he commented.
“Only that kind would live here,” Nelson replied. “Those are whores from New Orleans.”
Stevens put speculative eyes on him, and Nelson laughed. “I found out by asking.”
A crowd slowly gathered in their wake. Nelson moved with purposeful strides to the big live oak in front of Stone House. Stone House was in the center of the town square. It was a fort-like structure about the size of a small barn. Part of it had been destroyed the last time the Spaniards were through Nacogdoches, but the rest was in a fair state of repair.
Nelson pulled nails from his pocket, unfolded the paper under his arm, and, using the butt of his pistol as a hammer, tacked the poster to the tree.
The crowd surged forward, and Nelson waved them back. “Where’s the alcalde?” he asked.
A thin, rat-faced man pushed out of the crowd. He wore a ragged straw hat and pants out at the knees. His boots were of the finest leather, and new. Nelson wondered who those boots had fitted before this man got them.
“Me, señor,” the man said. “I, José Sepúlveda, am the alcalde.” White teeth flashed in a swarthy face, but the smile did not extend to the eyes. The eyes were cold.
Nelson’s eyes hardened. “I’m O’Shaughnessy, the empresario. I have a contract for—”
“I know what you have, señor.” Sepúlveda’s tone said he did not think it amounted to much.
Nelson’s anger mounted. He slowly looked from face to face, and the laughter on each man’s face died as those eyes stabbed at him.
Nelson turned to the sign. “Read this. It will tell you what I’m going to do.”
Sepúlveda started to step forward, and Nelson shoved him back. “I doubt if you can read. I doubt if any of you can. I’ll read it for you.”
He read slowly, making each word clear and distinct: “‘Any person of good repute wishing to engage in farming or ranching can apply to Nelson O’Shaughnessy for title to land. All persons already occupying land must prove legal title to it. If they cannot prove title, they can sign up and take what land is available. All others will get out.’”
He turned his head and looked at the crowd. “This sign is legal. There’s more to it, but that’s the important part.” He saw Hobe Jarmon in the rear of the crowd. Jarmon’s face was bruised and swollen. He ducked behind the man next him when Nelson’s eyes touched him.
It took the motley crowd considerable time to digest his words. The murmur started low at first, then swelled.
A man in homemade jeans yelled, “He thinks he’s going to take our land from us.”
Sepúlveda laughed softly. “Señor, you are foolish.”
Before Nelson could answer him, a man dressed in stiff buckskin pants and a red flannel shirt pushed out of the crowd. He stopped in front of Nelson and said, “Wal, now. If this ain’t interesting.” He rolled a cud of tobacco about in his mouth, then spat a spurt of juice on the toe of Nelson’s boot. “Who do you think you are to—”
He never finished the sentence. Nelson’s fist lashed out and thudded against his jaw. The man dropped and rolled about on the juice-stained ground. His hands went to his jaw, and his eyes were glassy.
Men surged forward, and Nelson’s blazing eyes checked them. They looked at his eyes, then at the hand hovering near the butt of his gun. Their eyes shifted to Stevens. He stood on widely planted feet, the tail of his coat brushed back, his eyes dancing in a wicked smile. The forward surge stopped.
Nelson looked at the man on the ground. He said in a flat, cold voice, “My boot’s dirty.”
The man sized up the fury blazing at him. He crawled to Nelson and scrubbed the toe of his boot with the sleeve of his shirt. He turned and crawled into the crowd, looking like a great, awkward crab in a hurry.
Nelson scanned the crowd. “My office will be open in a few days. You can apply there for legal land. There will be no other kind.” He turned his back on the crowd and strode down the street.
Stevens followed and caught up with him in a few strides. He asked, “Was that bravery or bravado?”
Nelson did not look around. “They’re not sure where they stand. They’ll read the sign some more, then discuss it among themselves. It will take a time before they work themselves up into acting.”
Stevens said thoughtfully, “An interesting country. Yes, I’m going to like it here.”
The two exchanged grins. Neither saw José Sepúlveda draw a man from the crowd. Neither heard him say, “Ride quick to Captain Jim Payne. He will want to know about this very bad.”
Chapter Five
Captain Jim Payne’s fingers eased under the neckline of the Mexican girl’s blouse. She squealed and wriggled on his lap. He withdrew his hand and reached for the bottle of whisky on the table. This was a new one, and he did not wish to rush her. A man got more flavor from anything if he took a little time to anticipate it.
He looked across the room, and his brother-in-law, Sam Tribble, was fighting his woman and frightening her. That was Tribble. Always rushing things, always in a sweat of impatience.
Payne took a long pull at the bottle. The “Captain” was an honorary title, bestowed on him by himself. He thought it fitted him. Maybe he would even raise his rank one of these days.
He looked around at the sala of the adobe house. He had got rid of the evidence of Helen’s short stay here. It looked like a man’s house again. The thought of her put a grimace of distaste on his face. She was a colorless, complaining woman. Even Tribble had been relieved when his sister went back East.
Payne looked at the girl on his lap. She was young, with full breasts. Her skin was a light brown, and the late-afternoon sun picked up the golden hairs on her arm. In a few years she would probably be fat and unattractive. Payne grinned at the thought. In a few years he would no longer know her.
His fingers pulled at the neckline of the blouse, then stopped as he heard the hoofs. He stood up, almost spilling the woman from his lap.
“Someone coming, Sam,” he said.
He saw Tribble freeze and turn his head toward the door. The horse pulled up before the house, and Payne heard the thud of boots as its rider hit the ground. The door flew open, and a Mexican was momentarily framed in the entrance.
Payne’s hand picked out the knife resting in its sheath between his shoulder blades. He drew and threw faster than the eye could follow. The knife thunked into the door jamb beside the Mexican’s head. Its haft quivered, and the blade made a tiny, thrumming sound.
The Mexican gasped and turned pale. “Señor Payne.” His lips shook so that he could hard
ly say the name. “It is me, Luis Procela.”
“I know it’s you, Luis.” Payne’s lips pulled back in a crooked grin. “I just don’t like anyone busting in on me.” He walked to the knife and jerked it out of the wood. He tested its point with the ball of his thumb and nodded in approval. The hand moved, and the knife disappeared into its sheath.
He was a little man, standing less than five feet, six inches. He resented his lack of height and always looked as though he walked on his toes. His body was compact and wiry. His face had been cut with cruel strokes, and even when he smiled, the eyes remained cold and watchful. His eyes were as black as soot, and no one ever knew what was behind them.
He said, “Now what the hell is all this rush about?”
Procela swallowed hard. “The new empresario is in town.”
Payne nodded. “Been expecting him.” He grinned at Tribble. “Should’ve been there to welcome him.”
Procela said, “José sent me. He said you should know. Señor O’Shaughnessy is taking away the land of anyone who has not the title for it.”
Payne swore deep in his throat. His wrath mottled his face and flared his nostrils. “The hell he is!” He stomped about the room, and there was nothing ridiculous about his rage. The women shrank from him, and even Tribble pulled away.
“The hell he is!” Payne shouted again. “I came out here in 1812 with August Magee to help the Americans in Nacogdoches. After the Americans were gone, I stayed to help the Mexican revolutionists. I helped run the damned Spanish royalists off their land.” That crooked smile played on his lips. “Some of them didn’t run very far. I took this land from them, and no one is taking it away from me.” He looked at Tribble. “I think we’d better ride in and see José. What kind of man is this O’Shaughnessy?”
“A big man,” Procela said. “He stood high above the crowd. He knocked Matlock down, and his eyes dared anyone to do something about it. No one moved, mi capitán. No one dared move with those eyes watching him.” Procela shivered at the memory.
The description infuriated Payne. “Eyes!” he shouted. “Eyes never killed no one yet. Big, is he? I’ve seen big men cut down before.” He jerked his head at Tribble. “Let’s go.”
The Mexican girl sidled to him. “You would not leave now,” she said in a low, caressing voice.
Payne studied her. Then his hand flashed out and his fingers caught the neckline of her blouse. He jerked, and the material split to the waist. He seized one of her bared breasts, and her eyes gleamed. The gleam changed to pain and terror as the fingers bit into the soft flesh. She whimpered and tried to pull away from him.
Payne let her go. “Just a sample,” he said, and grinned. “So I won’t forget.” He strode out of the door, and Tribble and Procela followed him.
“Where’s José?” Payne asked as they reached the outskirts of town.
“He said he would wait in his cabin,” Procela answered.
Payne nodded and turned in the direction of the one-room log cabin that served as Sepúlveda’s house and office. He pulled up before the low structure, set flush against the earthen sidewalk. He and Tribble dismounted, and before Procela could swing out of the saddle, Payne said, “Beat it.”
“Sí, mi capitán,” Procela said in a nervous voice, and whirled his horse.
Payne and Tribble stepped down from the sidewalk into the cabin. The small inside was rancid with skillet grease thrown on the dirt floor to settle the dust. The furniture was of surprising quality, though it was scarred and covered with grime. A beautiful open cabinet filled with expensive china stood against one wall, and two tallow candles were set in their own grease on a scratched mahogany table in the center of the room. Some family had hoped to establish a new home with that furniture, and somewhere in the zone they had lost it.
Sepúlveda started nervously at the two men’s entrance. “It is bad, no?” he said, his eyes darting from face to face.
“What’s bad?” Payne growled. “Gimme a drink, José.”
Sepúlveda pulled a bottle of whisky from under the eaves. Payne snatched it from his hand and tilted it. It was good whisky, better than any he had at the moment. Sepúlveda must have made a raid he knew nothing about.
He handed the bottle to Tribble and said, “You read that sign?”
Sepúlveda nodded. “I read.”
“You damned liar,” Payne snorted. “You can’t read your own name.”
Sepúlveda’s face turned sulky. “It was read to me. This O’Shaughnessy, he means business. All the empresarios mean business. Austin caught some friends of mine. He cut off one of their heads and put it on a pole. The way this O’Shaughnessy looked—”
“God damn it!” Payne shouted. “Don’t be telling me about his eyes. I’ve been running this town, and I’ll keep on running it. O’Shaughnessy’s got a right to make people prove title to their land, but he ain’t got the right to tell them he can throw them out and sell their property. His contract says nothing about that. If there’s an argument about the title, it has to be settled by law. Saucedo, down in San Antonio, is very particular about that. You know who the law is around here. You.”
Sepúlveda’s eyes grew very wide. “No,” he said in a voice little stronger than a whisper.
“Yes,” Payne mocked. “O’Shaughnessy has to honor every title given by the Spanish government as far back as there was a Nacogdoches. His contract puts no time limit on good titles. There must have been a thousand titles handed out in the last hundred years. Get them out. You’ve got the records. I’ll need a few myself, and you can pass out the rest to the boys.”
“That is—that is—” Sepúlveda stumbled, at a loss for the name of this new crime.
Payne snorted. “You worrying about a little forgery? After what you’ve done? You think it’s worse than murdering and robbing?”
Sepúlveda kept shaking his head. The new crime worried him. He knew how to use a knife, but a pen was a different thing.
Pieces of dirt fell on the table. Payne looked up at the ceiling. A rat was running across one of the rafters, jarring the sod roof. His hand flashed to his pistol, and he drew and fired in one smooth motion. The slug plucked the rat from the rafter and slammed it against the far wall. It left a dark stain before it fell to the floor, a bleeding mass of furry pulp.
“The records, José.”
Sepúlveda looked at the smoking pistol. He looked at the remains of the rat and shivered. He went to an old rawhide chest and pulled out several volumes.
Payne inserted his knife point under one of the candles and lifted it off the table to make room for the volumes. He leafed through the pages, reading slowly the fine old Spanish script.
He looked up and said, “As far as I’ve gone, there’s only been a few old Spanish grants actually proved up. Lots of applications filed, but people either moved on or died and never followed their applications through. O’Shaughnessy can just about settle his families anywhere he likes. It looks like the Catholic Church is the only one that has any titles that’ll stand up.”
Tribble’s face was glum. “That’s bad.”
“That’s good,” Payne corrected him. “All we’ve got to do is fix up these old titles. José is the law here. He’ll swear to them, won’t you, José?” His black eyes glittered at Sepúlveda.
Sepúlveda sighed. “I swear to them.” Cupidity sparked his eyes. Someone was going to get much land, but what was he, José Sepúlveda, going to get?
He said, “What do you do for me?”
Payne grinned. “I thought you’d get around to smelling money in this. O’Shaughnessy can charge twelve cents an acre. We’ll settle with the boys for ten. It’ll amount to quite a sum. And they’ll pay or get kicked off.” He reached for a blank piece of paper and a turkey-quill pen. “Get me some ink, José.”
Sepúlveda rummaged about in the beautiful open cabinet. A china plate fell to the floor and broke. He kicked the pieces out of the way and came back to the table with the ink. “I did not think I had
any.”
“You sure wouldn’t have a lot of use for it,” Payne said. He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “I want to write to Saucedo. A lot of Mexicans are settled on land around here they don’t own, but Saucedo don’t know that. We’ll tell him O’Shaughnessy is kicking the Mexicans around. You sign the letter, José. He’ll believe you, and that’ll burn him for sure.”
His pen scribbled line after line on the paper, and he grinned as he wrote. He finished and said, “That’ll do it. Get this letter on its way, José.”
He stood up, and Tribble reluctantly abandoned the bottle. “Now we’ll find O’Shaughnessy and offer to help him. He’ll need a couple of bands of regulators to keep order around here.” He chuckled, and the sound had no mirth. “We can get him just the kind of men he needs.”
He looked back from the door. Sepúlveda was laboriously scrawling his name.
Payne moved down the street and Tribble stumbled beside him. Tribble was about three-fourths drunk. He could get away with more free whisky than any other man Payne had ever known.
Tribble stopped suddenly and stared ahead. He said, “Is that him? Jesus, he’s big.”
Payne’s rage flared anew at the word. He jerked his eyes in the direction of Tribble’s stare. The big man was a stranger, and he moved with a purpose in his stride. It must be O’Shaughnessy. No one else here moved that way.
He said, “You keep your mouth shut, Sam. I’ll do the talking.”
He cut across the street to intercept the man. He said, “Are you O’Shaughnessy?” At Nelson’s nod, he said, “I’m Captain Jim Payne. This is my brother-in-law, Sam Tribble.”
Nelson took the proffered hand. He said, “I’m O’Shaughnessy,” and waited.
Payne said, “I own land here. Have for twelve years.” Those black eyes never left the face opposite him. How much did the man know? Not too much, for Sepúlveda had the records.
Nelson said, “Your title will be checked, like everybody else’s.”
“Sure,” Payne said in a hearty tone. “It’s about time there’s been a fair shake for everybody around here. A couple of men or a handful can’t do much.” He shrugged, and the gesture said that he and Tribble had tried.