The Baron War

by Jory Sherman

  “Jesus,” Martin breathed.

  Esperanza crossed herself.

  “Tell me the rest of it,” Martin said.

  “I will try, Patrón. It is hard, remembering it. They did not see me and there was the heavy lead in my feet. I could not move. It was as if my shoes were nailed to the floor. Augustino kept slapping Caroline and she moaned and cried out and still she beat him with her fists but the blows only made Augustino go faster and then he yelled loud and fell on top of her. I knew that he had spilled his seed inside the womb of the señora. He smothered her with his body and she lay very still and stiff, like wood.”

  Martin fought to suppress his anger, clenching his teeth until they ground together to the point of cracking. His neck swelled with engorged blood as his anger crescendoed to a boiling rage. His bone-white lips quivered, and his brown eyes seemed to flash light even as they darkened in their sockets. He clenched his fists so tightly the knuckles blanched.

  Esperanza drew back, away from Martin, as if repelled by his anger. Her eyes began to mist as she took in a breath that swelled her lungs so that her breasts pushed against the cloth of her dress.

  “Augustino,” she continued, “spat in the señora’s face. Then, he lifted himself from her body and pulled up his pants.”

  “Did he see you?” Martin asked, his voice a raspy whisper.

  “No. He leaned over and said to her in English something.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He say, ‘Now you got the pox, you bitch, and you and Martin are going to die like me.’”

  “Christ.”

  Esperanza made the sign of the cross on her forehead and chest.

  “Then I run away, but I don’t make no noise, and I go downstairs and pick up the broken glass when Augustino he come down the stairs and walk past me and out the door. I wait until he go away on his horse and then I go upstairs.”

  “Damn. Why didn’t Caroline tell me? I would have killed Augustino, the bastard.”

  “She say she don’t want you to know what happened. She is crying and she want to take a bath. Her face is, como se dice, all puffed out and she is talking crazy talk. She say she wants to kill herself and I give her a bath and put some leaves on her face and the cold water and the swelling she goes down.”

  “Did Lucinda know what happened to my wife?”

  “She don’t know,” Esperanza said. “Nobody know. The señora, she tell me don’t say nothing and I don’t say nothing to nobody.”

  Martin hung his head for a moment, shook it before he looked up at Esperanza.

  “Thank you for telling me this. Don’t tell anyone else.”

  “I don’t tell nobody.”

  Martin got up from the table. “Tell Lazaro I am not angry with him, will you?”

  “I will tell him,” Esperanza said.

  Dazed, Martin stalked from the room, went out the back door. He shook off a giddiness that made him nearly stumble on the last step of the small back porch. He walked toward the barn, gripped by an anger that nearly blinded him. He did not see Lucinda or Lazaro and he was glad that they could not see him.

  Before he reached the barn, he heard a sound, then, out of the darkness, he saw Wanda Fancher’s buggy rolling toward him. He ducked his head and walked on quickly. He heard Ursula call his name, but he did not answer, pretending not to hear her.

  He heard sounds from inside the barn, but he waited outside for several moments, leaning against the outer wall. He let his anger subside as he thought about Caroline carrying that terrible secret with her to her grave. He felt suddenly alone and sad that he could not talk to her, could not tell her how much he loved her and missed her at that very moment.

  He looked up at the sky and the stars until they blurred with the sudden tears that welled up in his eyes. Then he turned and drove a fist into the side of the barn. He did not feel the pain as his fist came away, the knuckles cracked and bleeding.

  It was too bad, he thought, that Augustino was already dead, for he wanted to kill him at that moment, kill him with his bare hands.

  “God damn the whole Aguilar family,” he said. “God damn them all.”

  22

  MATTEO LOOKED DOWN at the ground, his forehead creased with furrows made by worry wrinkles. One of his men, Hector Obispo, pointed to the tracks that led to the shallow wallows he had discovered. A moment later Mickey Bone walked up, following the line of tracks to that place.

  “Well?” Matteo asked.

  “Two men,” Bone said. “They walked here less than two hours ago. Then they returned to a place with at least half a dozen horse tracks.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No,” Bone said. “But they rode in from the direction of the Box B. I did not follow the horse tracks.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was on foot and because I was outnumbered.”

  “Shit,” Matteo said.

  “They did not go far, I think,” Bone said.

  “What else do you think?” Matteo asked, a sarcastic tilt to his words.

  “I think one of those tracks there,” he pointed to the ground, “belongs to Anson Baron.”

  “Why do you think that, Mickey?”

  “Because I know his boot.”

  “So, it was Anson Baron.”

  “Or someone wearing his boots.”

  “Don’t you act the sabio with me. You know damned well it was Anson Baron.”

  Mickey said nothing. Obispo’s face bore a sheepish look. He had been patrolling the outer edges of the land bordering the ranch when he discovered the tracks less than a half hour before. He had left right after finishing the maneuvers the onlookers had apparently witnessed.

  “I will have to think about this,” Matteo said, more to himself than anyone there, and there were three other Mexicans and the silent Reynaud standing nearby. Reynaud had said nothing the entire time they had been there. Instead he had watched as Bone left to follow the tracks and listened to Matteo conjecture on who might have been spying on them.

  “It seems obvious to me,” Reynaud said, finally breaking his silence, “that you have lost the element of surprise, if you wish to leave for the Box B tonight.”

  “I have not lost anything,” Matteo said, a stubborn brunt to his words. “I think maybe we have the opportunity here.”

  “Ah, an opportunity,” Reynaud said. “Pray tell, what might that be?”

  “How many were with Anson, Bone?”

  “I counted at least six horse tracks. No more than eight.”

  “See?” Matteo said to Reynaud. “Eight, only. And we have many more men than has Anson. If we leave now, we can catch Anson and there will be eight less men at the ranch.”

  “You’ll have to hunt them down,” Reynaud said. “And you’ll have to kill them all.”

  “And that is what we will do, eh? Mickey, you will track these men for us?”

  “A blind man could track them.”

  “I want you to track them.”

  Bone said nothing.

  “He will not track Anson,” Reynaud said.

  Matteo fixed Reynaud with a hard look of disapproval, his eyes flashing a dangerous brilliance. Reynaud lifted his shoulders in a Gallic shrug.

  “Even if he does, he will not fight him,” Reynaud said.

  “Shut your mouth,” Matteo said.

  Reynaud shrugged again, as if none of this was any concern to him.

  Matteo turned to Bone. “You will track for me, Miguel?”

  Bone nodded. His face, an inscrutable mask, bore no expression.

  “Reynaud, take ten of my men and go with Bone. I will follow with the rest along the same trail. Leave markers if you go off the trail. If you get into a fight, we will be right behind you.”

  Reynaud nodded, without comment. He turned to go back to the house to gather the men he would take with him. Bone watched him go, with hooded eyes.

  “Bring Bone’s horse back with you,” Matteo called to Reynaud.


  “I ought to make him walk,” Reynaud said before he walked out of sight.

  “Watch him, Miguel,” Matteo said to Bone.

  “I cannot watch him and do the tracking, too.”

  Matteo turned to Hector Obispo. “Then you go with Bone and watch the Frenchman.”

  “What will I do?” Obispo asked. “What will he do?”

  “I do not know. I do not trust him.”

  “Then why do you send him?”

  “I send him because Miguel will not kill Anson. Reynaud will kill him.”

  “Then why do I watch this man?”

  Matteo looked over at Bone. He sighed and dipped his head, then looked Obispo straight in the eye. “I think Reynaud might want to shoot Bone in the back.”

  Obispo sucked in a breath, then looked at Bone. “He would?”

  “I think that is true,” Matteo said.

  “Then you should not let this Frenchman go with Miguel.”

  “It is a problem, is it not?” Matteo said. “But, it is a problem that may solve itself, true?”

  “I do not know how, truly.”

  “If you have two men who do not like you, and these two men do not like each other, then what does one do, eh?”

  “Truly, I do not know the answer to this. You are a smarter man than I, Matteo. You are more wise than I.”

  “You send those two men into battle against an enemy. If one or the other kills the other man, then what is lost? If only one of these men comes back alive, it is very simple.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, you kill the one who comes back, and then both of your enemies are dead. Is that not a simple solution to the problem?”

  “Yes, Matteo, I see it. I see it now. It is very simple. And this is what you will do with Miguel and the Frenchman.”

  “Por suerte. Then I do not have to worry about either man doing the job he is sent to do. In this way, one may eliminate three or more enemies with but a single bullet from his own pistol.”

  “Tu eres muy sabio, Matteo. You are a very wise man.”

  Matteo indulged himself in just the flicker of a smile as he turned from Obispo and looked kindly at Bone. Even though he knew Bone could not hear him, Matteo wanted him to feel at ease. Bone, however, was impassive and this was disconcerting to Matteo. He had the feeling, for just an instant, that Bone could read his mind, that he knew, somehow, what he had said to Obispo.

  They all heard the sound of hoofbeats, and when Matteo looked back toward the ranch house he saw Reynaud riding toward him, followed by several men, all on horseback, all carrying rifles.

  Reynaud halted his horse and those following him did so, all in a line. Matteo looked at them and nodded his approval.

  “You have chosen your men well, Reynaud. Then, you are ready?”

  “I am ready.”

  “Then go. Follow Bone and bring me back the head of Anson Baron.”

  “He is as good as dead.”

  “No, he is only dead when he is dead and I know he is dead.”

  “As you wish, Matteo, but he’s not the fish I want to catch.”

  “I will follow you and you will have Martin Baron in your sights by tomorrow’s dawn.”

  “I always kill better on an empty stomach,” Reynaud said.

  “You will be good and hungry by the time we arrive at the Box B.”

  “Tell Bone to get moving, then. I am impatient.”

  Matteo looked over at Bone, who still stood there. “Did you bring his horse?”

  Reynaud looked down at the last man in line and nodded. The man rode up, leading Bone’s horse. He gave the reins to Bone, who mounted up without a word.

  “Satisfied?” Reynaud said.

  “No todavía,” Matteo said.

  “You will be. How close do we follow Bone?”

  “Let him ride for ten minutes. Then take the men and follow his tracks.”

  Reynaud tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, marking the sun. He looked down then, and turned his head to talk to the other men. “Diez minutos,” he said, and the men nodded.

  “Come,” Matteo said to Obispo. “Let us make ready to ride out within the hour.”

  Matteo did not look at Reynaud as he started walking back toward the house through the narrow clearing, Obispo following in his wake.

  “Don’t go to the Box B without me,” Reynaud called after Matteo.

  Matteo cursed the Frenchman under his breath.

  “That filth,” he said aloud. “I hope he gets his balls shot off.”

  “You do not like that Reynaud?” Obispo asked.

  “He has the reputation as a backshooter. I thought he would be just the man to kill Martin Baron, but he is un cobarde, un cabrón sin huevos.”

  Obispo laughed. “If he has no huevos, how can they be shot off?”

  “You have reason, Hector. The man has no balls, therefore there is no need to shoot them off.”

  And they both laughed at that wry observation.

  23

  MARTIN FINISHED INSPECTING his creation, the walled caisson, checking every hinge, latchstring, board, and beam. Men stood waiting next to the cannon, awaiting his orders. Al Oltman walked into the barn, blinking to adjust his eyes to the comparative darkness after leaving the realm of bright sunlight just outside. Martin saw him come in, and nodded to him as he made one last walk around the wagon.

  Oltman walked over and touched one of the sideboards. They were all down, so that the bed of the wagon was visible, and it was still on the wheels used to haul it to the Box B. Four folding beams braced it so that the wheels could be removed when the time came.

  “Looks like you’re pretty well set,” Oltman said.

  “Not quite. We’ve still got to batten down the cannon and put on some more sandbags.”

  “Ken was telling me about this invention of yours. Think it’ll work?”

  “We won’t know until we try it.”

  “Where’s Anson?”

  “Hunting wild cattle,” Martin said, with no bitterness in his tone.

  Oltman’s eyebrows lifted into twin arches. But he made no comment.

  “Ken said to tell you howdy,” Oltman said.

  “Okay.”

  “Anything you want me to do?”

  Martin stood up straight as if jolted by a shock. “Matter of fact, you can do something. Pretty thankless.”

  “I do a lot of thankless things.”

  “I’ve got a couple of hands riding back and forth to the south of here. One of ’em’s supposed to come riding back if he sees dust or hears anything coming from the Rocking A.”

  “Sounds like a smart idea.”

  “The reason I sent them down there is because neither one can shoot worth a bowl of frijoles and I can’t use ’em here. One is very old and the other is just downright timid. But I figure they can ride well enough if they see anything.”

  “You want me to add a pair of eyes to that situation.”

  Martin smiled wanly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “If you think I’d be most useful there.”

  “Right now I need your eyes, Oltman. I’ve got a lot to do here. If you don’t see anything by nightfall, all of you come back in. I’ll have guards posted around the house and barn here.”

  Oltman grinned. “I’ll see you sometime after sundown, if not sooner.”

  “Thanks, Oltman.”

  “Call me Al, will you?”

  “Al. Much obliged.”

  “Glad to be of help.”

  Oltman left the barn and Martin called in the men who were waiting for his instructions. He explained how the cannon would work and asked certain ones to help lift the four-pounder onto the wagon. As they did this, he picked up some large bolts and nuts from a sack he had set aside earlier. A half hour later, the cannon was mounted and anchored.

  Next he assigned the men who would lift the wagon and two others who would lie on top as riflemen. “I’ll fire the cannon,” he said.

  For the next two
hours, he and his men walked the wagon in and out of the barn, practiced putting up and letting down the sides. Some wanted to practice shooting, but he said he didn’t want to waste powder and ball. The men carrying the wagon did not complain about the weight.

  “You won’t have to carry this far or very much,” Martin told them. “Mainly we’ll use it to turn the cannon at my orders.”

  When he was satisfied, Martin set the wagon up behind the house, with the sides up. It looked, from a distance, like a small shed without a roof. However, the overhanging tree branches threw a shadow that could, at first glance, be taken for a flat roof. He fastened a tarpaulin around the bottom to hide the wheels and folding supports.

  “You men will have to stay in the barn, out of sight,” he told them when he was satisfied with the placement of the cannon wagon. “I’ll have food sent in to you. No smoking. Stay alert. Keep your rifles and pistols primed and ready to shoot. When I give the signal, those of you who are going to work on the wagon, come running. Understand?”

  The men all nodded. Some translated for the slower ones, speaking in rapid Spanish.

  Martin looked over the men, started counting. They waited, their expressions laden with curiosity. Finally he picked out one man with his gaze, Eduardo Mejias. “Eduardo, ven pa’ ’qui,” he said.

  Eduardo left the group and walked over.

  “Where in hell is Timo Fuentes? And some others I don’t see here. They’re the best shots with a rifle.”

  “I do not know,” Eduardo said.

  “You don’t know where they are?”

  “I do not know where they are, I think.”

  “Did you see them this morning?”

  “No, I do not see them this morning.”

  “Damn it, Eduardo, don’t lie to me. If you know where they went, tell me.”

  “I do not know where they went,” Eduardo said, and Martin knew he had to wear him down, ask the specific questions so that he would answer truthfully. He knew that Eduardo wasn’t lying—not exactly—but he wasn’t telling the truth, either. He was surely not telling what he knew about the missing men.

  “Bueno,” Martin said. “I believe you. Did you see Timo last night?”

  “I see him last night, yes.”

  “And did he say he would not be here today?”