by Matt Rand
He said, “You heard about the election, Jed. I’m running Sam, here. Too many Americans coming in for a Mexican alcalde to be of any use to us. You’re voting for Sam.” He made it a statement instead of a question.
Flory shuffled his feet. He was a thin, stooped man with a wrinkled, leathery face. His long white beard was streaked with yellow, and when his lips parted, they showed missing teeth.
He said hesitantly, “I been thinking I’d vote for O’Shaughnessy’s man.”
“The hell you have!” Payne exploded. A wicked spark glowed in his eyes.
Flory gulped, then his eyes grew defiant. “Jim, I’m over sixty years old. I want some security. For five hundred and twenty dollars a square league, O’Shaughnessy will give a man a legal title. I think he’s strong enough to back it up. I’ve got that much money, and I’m gittin’ awful tired of not knowin’ where I stand.”
Payne said in a soft voice, “You’ve ridden with me, Jed.”
“I’m gittin’ too old for that, too,” Flory said, and he plodded on down the street.
Payne stared after him. The spark in his eyes had grown to a flame.
Tribble said uneasily, “Wonder how many more will be feeling like that.”
Payne said, “We’ll find out. I’m glad I got that letter off to Saucedo. There’s more ways than one of winning an election. José, as outgoing alcalde, will act as supervisor of the election.” His lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. “It ain’t the votes cast that are important. It’s the ones that are counted.”
* * * *
Nacogdoches was packed on Election Day. Drunks were everywhere, shouting and waving jugs of liquor.
Nelson and Stevens pushed through the crowd and found a clear spot. They stopped, and Nelson watched the surge of traffic with brooding eyes.
“Someone has put out a lot of whisky,” Stevens said.
Nelson nodded. “Payne. He’ll steal this election, if he can’t get it any other way.”
“How do you think it looks?”
Nelson shrugged. “Who knows how an election will go? But we’ve talked to a lot of people this past week, and I think we’ve got it. All of the old-timers here aren’t dishonest. They’ve given in to the zoners because they were afraid not to. Now it’s different. Even some of the outlaws are beginning to think the old days are over. They’ll throw in with what they think is the winning side.” He shook his head. “I’ve covered everything I could think of. The election’s being held in Elisha Maddy’s store. We know he’s honest. And with Judge Myers to help supervise, I don’t think any votes can be stolen. Let’s see how it’s going.”
They pushed their way to Maddy’s store. A long line of men waited to enter.
“Looks as though everyone in the country is here to vote,” Nelson said. “I don’t know whether that’s good or bad for us.”
Stevens studied the line of men. “You can pick out the ones who will vote against us.”
Nelson nodded. He could. The dirty, noisy ones, the ones who treated this as a farce, who yelled obscenities at every passing person, were the ones he had to fear. There seemed to be a large number of them. The others stood sober-faced and intent, a worried expression in their eyes.
The door of the store flew open, and the men before it scattered. Two men ran a third out of the store, then threw him into the street. The fallen man climbed to his feet, then staggered off, swearing at the top of his voice. The crowd hooted and yelled.
Nelson forced a passage through the line and stepped into the store. A dozen alert-eyed men lounged about, men from his camp.
Judge Myers, a former jurist from the East, looked up and grinned. “Did you see that?” he asked. He was a ruddy faced man with sagging jowls and a paunch. But under that loose skin was a determined chin.
“What was it?” Nelson asked.
“A repeater,” Myers replied. “Makes the ninth this morning.” He studied a long list of names before him. “I think we’re catching them. We’re making it as honest as we can.”
Sepúlveda stood glowering in a corner. His eyes darted away when Nelson looked at him.
Nelson cast his vote, and Stevens followed him. As they left, Myers said, “The damnedest election I ever saw, Nelson. But it’s going all right.”
* * * *
Nelson and Stevens were back at the store when the counting began that night. Before an hour’s count was over, the trend was apparent. Stevens’ margin steadily grew. Enough honest men had come to Nacogdoches to want a change.
Sepúlveda said, “María santisíma!” as the counting went on. A dozen pairs of eyes looked at him. In the candlelit room, they looked big and accusing. Sepúlveda shrugged and sauntered out. There was nothing he could do here, not with all those eyes watching him. Captain Payne was going to be furious about this. Sepúlveda wished he did not have to tell him. He let the door bang shut after him and walked to his cabin. Jarmon and two others sat at his table, drinking his whisky. He scowled at them. Why did they have to come here and drink his whisky? They never replaced any of it.
Jarmon asked, “How’s it going?”
“Malo,” Sepúlveda said. “Is Payne around?”
“He’s in town somewhere,” Jarmon answered. “He ain’t going to like having you leave this early. He planned on your stealing enough votes to win, if anything went wrong.”
Sepúlveda’s voice quivered with his anger. “Steal the votes?” he demanded, his voice shrill. “With everyone watching me? What could—” He stopped and whirled as the door opened.
Stevens stood in the doorway, his eyes bright. They shifted from face to face as though he were committing something to memory.
“I came for the records,” he said, moving forward.
Jarmon lumbered to his feet, blocking Stevens’ passage. The other two fanned out on either side of him. Sepúlveda stood a little behind Stevens.
Jarmon rumbled deep in his throat, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s all right,” Stevens said, and the shine in his eyes increased. “I’ll just take that little chest.”
Sepúlveda let out a startled yelp. He could not let the chest go, not without Payne’s approval.
Stevens fixed him with those bright eyes. “You know the election’s lost, don’t you? As the new alcalde, I’ve got a right to the records of the office.”
He slowly turned his head to the three in front of him. His manner was casual, deliberate. Then he sprang forward, his fist striking out before Jarmon’s slow mind could even absorb the fact of movement.
There was surprising strength in that thin wrist, and the fist was hard. It smashed Jarmon’s nose, already broken in the fight with Nelson, and knocked him backward. His knees buckled, and he staggered to one side, flinging out his arms and entangling the man to his left.
Stevens bounded through the gap and reached the open china cupboard. He seized a platter and spun. He raised it high and brought it down on the head of the third man, who was rushing at him. The platter shattered over the man’s head and dropped him to his haunches. He sat there groggily shaking his head, while blood welled out of the cut on top of his head. Either the china was too fine or the head was too hard. It did not knock him out.
Stevens whirled in time to face Sepúlveda. Sepúlveda held a knife in his hand, and his face was twisted and savage. Stevens left his feet, kicking out with both boots. One of them knocked the knife hand aside, and the other went true to Sepúlveda’s stomach. He gagged and his face took on a greenish pallor. He dropped the knife and both hands went to his belly. He groaned and sank to the floor.
Jarmon and the other one were on Stevens before he could regain his feet. A swinging foot took him alongside the head. He threw out his hands and a boot stamped on one of them. His mouth flew open, his lips drawn tight against his teeth. He got to his hands and knees and tried to rise, and boots thudded into his arms and shoulders and boomed off his ribs. He bled at the mouth and nose, and he still struggled to rise.
>
The man with the cut scalp joined the other two. They struggled with each other in their impatience to administer the finishing kick. A boot kicked one of Stevens’ arms from under him, and he went down on his face.
He did not see the door open, he did not see Nelson rush into the room.
Nelson took in the scene at a glance, the three men kicking at the helpless Stevens, Sepúlveda groaning and writhing on the floor.
He snatched up one of the chairs and swung it in a wide arc. It crashed against one of the heads around Stevens, and the man went down as though his legs had turned to string. The two front chair legs shattered, leaving the back and rear legs in Nelson’s hands.
“God damn you!” he yelled, and swung the remainder of the chair. It smashed against a jawbone that was slowly turning his way, opening it from point to hinge. Blood spurted from the cut, staining neck and shirt. Surprise did not have a chance to form fully in the man’s eyes before they went blank. He tried to take a step, and his knees would not respond. He half spun and pitched across Stevens’ body.
Jarmon whirled, his mouth hanging slack. Only a stub of a chair leg remained in Nelson’s hand, and he threw it into Jarmon’s face. Jarmon screamed at the added pain to his broken nose, and new blood flowed. He staggered back, his hands pawing at his broken face. Nelson kicked him in the belly, and Jarmon bent over, retching and groaning. His hands went to the new hurt, and his jaw was open. Nelson swung on it with all the force at his command. Jarmon flew back and crashed against the wall. He slumped to the floor, rolled over, and went limp.
Men poured in through the door, and Nelson faced them, the madness still in his eyes.
One of them panted, “We couldn’t keep up with you, Nelson.” He looked around the room, and his eyes went wide. “Christ,” he muttered.
Nelson bent over Stevens. His arms went under him, and he lifted him. “Chauncey,” he said. “Chauncey, can you hear me?”
Stevens forced his eyes open. “I came after the records, Nelson,” he whispered. His attempt at a grin was a failure.
Nelson said, “You damned fool. Trying to take on all of them.” His voice shook with rough affection. He helped Stevens to his feet and anxiously watched the first tottering step.
Stevens gripped his arm and said through drawn lips, “I don’t think anything’s broken, Nelson. But I’m going to need help.”
Nelson’s arm went around him, and he helped him toward the door. He said over his shoulder, “Bring that rawhide chest along. Chauncey wants it.”
He looked at Sepúlveda. The man was pulled into a tight ball, crowding into a corner as far as he could get. Big, frightened eyes looked at Nelson.
Nelson said, “Tell Payne that if he interferes with me again, I’ll kill him.”
Chapter Eight
Don Antonio Saucedo pounded the desk with both fists. His eyes bulged, and his face looked as though his uniform collar were too tight. Two opened letters lay on his desk, and though he had read each of them a half-dozen times, a glance at them was enough to send him into another paroxysm of rage.
“Jesús y María!” he shouted. “Does nothing go right? Will they never let me know peace?”
His aide glanced at him with fearful eyes. Don Antonio was political chief of Texas, and his wrath was no light matter. The aide held his reply. At the moment, silence was probably the wiser course.
Don Antonio Saucedo stood up and paced the carpet. He moved with agitated strides, and his lips and hands worked. “I am the personal representative of Don Victor Blanco, governor of Coahuila and Texas. Would he put me here in San Antonio if he thought I were not capable?”
Loreto Rodríguez thought that was a direct question and ventured a cautious “No.”
“And should I run to him in Saltillo, nearly four hundred miles away, with every little thing that goes wrong?”
“No,” Rodríguez said again. He watched Saucedo’s face and breathed with relief. That was still the right answer.
“No, he must not be burdened,” Saucedo said. He stopped his pacing and adjusted the tunic of his uniform. He was a dapper little man with snapping black eyes. His olive-tinted skin was smooth, and his hands were small. He was filled with a boundless energy, and he could never remain in one place long.
“I prevailed upon Don Victor to let the Americans in. Too many of our people are uneducated and shiftless. I thought they would profit by the example set by the Americans. But the Americans are hungry locusts. They come in and devour everything.”
True, Rodríguez pondered. He did like Americans. They made him nervous. They were always pushing and demanding. A man dared not sleep around them, or he would awaken and find his bed moved.
Saucedo glared at him, and Rodríguez said in haste, “What you say is true, Don Antonio.”
“Austin has executed some of our people,” Saucedo said, the color rising again in his face. “They were tried by his laws, not ours. We have only his word for it that they were criminals. Did we attend the trials? We did not!” he shouted.
Rodríguez stared unhappily at the floor. He wished those letters would stop coming. This was a peaceful office, unless the Americans stirred it up. Those gringos had a genius for trouble.
“And De Witt abuses our people. I have heard reports. But this O’Shaughnessy is the worst of all.” He picked up O’Shaughnessy’s letter and hit it with his fingertips. The page tore and half of it fluttered to the floor. “He writes smooth lies justifying what he has done. He talks about false titles. Is it possible that no title issued by the Spanish or Mexican government is good?”
Rodríguez looked at him and said, “It is not possible.”
“It is not!” Saucedo shouted. “And now he takes the law into his own hands. He calls for an election when he wishes one. José Sepúlveda was alcalde of Nacogdoches. Elected by due process of law. He is Mexican; he would protect Mexican rights. So O’Shaughnessy removes him. And how? By every crooked device at his command.”
He read excerpts from the other letter, signed by Sepúlveda, and his indignation mounted. “He steals an election for a man who will do as he orders. And we would know nothing about it if José Sepúlveda had not written us.”
Rodríguez popped a knuckle. How was he supposed to answer? He wished Saucedo would not involve him in these political matters.
“Sepúlveda writes that so many Americans have come in that they no longer pay attention to a Mexican alcalde. But there is one American who is loyal to the Mexican government.” He looked at the letter. “A Sam Tribble. The Americans wanted him as alcalde, but O’Shaughnessy did not. Sepúlveda is one of us. We can believe him. He will act as assistant to Sam Tribble and advise him.”
He stared out the window, his forehead wrinkling. His head bobbed in sudden decision. “I will not trouble Don Victor with this matter. Loreto,” he shouted, “write a letter to the Señor Tribble.”
Rodríguez grabbed hastily for paper and pen. “Yes, Don Antonio,” he murmured.
“I appoint the Señor Tribble as alcalde of Nacogdoches. I set aside O’Shaughnessy’s crooked election. I appreciate the Senor Tribble’s loyalty and expect him to work for the best interests of the Mexican and American people.”
* * * *
Nelson looked up from the pile of records spread over the table. Leah sat on the other side of it, her face smudged.
Nelson said, “Damn,” and shoved a volume from him. “I’m sorry, Leah. But ten days of going through these records is enough to drive a man wild. I’ve never seen worse frauds. Or clumsier frauds. Whoever altered these records had no fear of having to make them stand up in a court of law. Either because they knew the court would settle in their favor, or because they expected the records would vanish before it ever went that far.”
She asked, “What will you do, Nelson?”
“I’ll throw them out. Including Payne’s so-called titles.” He said in a wondering tone, “Every inch of land the man owns has been stolen. And for twelve years no one has done a
nything about it.”
He sprang to his feet as the door opened. “Chauncey!” he cried as Stevens hobbled into the room. “Do you think you should be up so soon?”
Stevens grinned. “I’m still sore, but I can’t lie in bed the rest of my life. They stomped me proper.”
They did that, Nelson thought soberly. One entire side of Stevens’ face was cut and bruised, though the once deep purple of it was fading into a greenish yellow.
Stevens’ grin faded as he looked at Leah. “May I speak with you, Nelson? Alone?”
Leah’s smile vanished at Stevens’ last word. She looked quickly down at her hands.
Nelson’s eyes went hard. He started to make an issue of Stevens’ manner, then let it drop. He stepped outside the office with Stevens and asked in a cold tone, “What is it, Chauncey?”
“I heard she was working here,” Stevens said in appalled tones. “I could hardly believe it. My God, Nelson, a woman working for us! People will say—”
Nelson interrupted. “What do you say, Chauncey?”
“I don’t like it,” Stevens answered. His eyes met Nelson’s.
“She’s been invaluable, Chauncey. She has a quick mind and a knack for details.”
Stevens’ eyes did not waver, and Nelson found his patience slipping. “What would you have me do? Send her away? She has no family, no friends. She lost everything in that raid.”
Stevens said stubbornly, “I still don’t like it.”
Heated words trembled on Nelson’s lips. He was going to say, “I don’t give a damn what you like.” But before he could say those words, he heard a commotion down the street. He looked in that direction and saw a noisy crowd of men headed toward them.
“What’s up?” he muttered.
Stevens, too, welcomed the diversion. “That’s Payne and Tribble in the front,” he said. “Sepúlveda is walking beside them.”
Some forty men pushed down the street and stopped before Nelson and Stevens. Nelson stared at Payne and said, “What do you want?”
Payne wore a broad grin. He was highly pleased with life in general. “I want the records of the alcalde’s office.” He lifted a hand, stilling Nelson’s outburst. “They go with the alcalde, and Stevens ain’t the alcalde any longer.”