by Braun, Matt;
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. And watch that saucy tongue or I’ll box your ears.” Laird faked a swat across the table, and Trudy ducked, giggling playfully behind her hand. He grinned, gave her a broad wink, then settled back in his chair. “Now, just to set you straight, it’s the company I’m talking about, not the boats. There’s where the firm hand is needed and, sad to say, your uncle Art isn’t the man for the job.”
Angela turned from the stove, on the verge of speaking. But she merely shot him a dark look, then took the coffeepot off a back burner and walked to the table. As she seated herself, Trudy gobbled down the last of the flapjack, licked her lips with a loud smack, and smiled at her father.
“I’ll betcha Ramon could do it, Pa. He can do anything! Why don’t you let him go take care of your boats?”
“Think that’d solve it, do you?”
“Porque no?” she replied with a charming little shrug. “That way you wouldn’t have to worry, and you could stay home all the time, couldn’t you?”
Laird never ceased to be amazed by her wiles. For an eleven year old, she seemed uncommonly knowledgeable about men, and how to play on their weaknesses. He often wondered if she practiced on the vaqueros; these days she spent every spare moment astride a horse, apparently fascinated with the rough life of cows and men. The combination of elfin flirt and tomboy was at times disconcerting, yet he found it thoroughly enjoyable. He saw much of himself in the girl, both in her looks and her irreverent humor. Though her eyes were the color of wild honey, she favored him rather than her mother, and her hair had about it the golden umber of his family. Nature had cheated her in a sense, for she hadn’t the promise of Angela’s beauty, but he was not at all displeased with the result. Having lost a son, it gladdened his heart to have a daughter with the very traits he prized the most.
“I’m on to your tricks, you know.” Laird halted her protest with an upraised palm. “No matter. You’ll still get your wish. Quite soon now I’ll be home every night.” He paused, let her dangle a moment on his words. “I’ve ordered the old house to be put shipshape, and when it’s ready we’ll move back to town.”
“No!” Angela cried. “We won’t! This is our home, not Brownsville.”
Trudy was so astounded by her mother’s outburst that her eyes went wide with fright. Angela tilted her chin defiantly, and Laird held himself in check, trying to divine her mood. After a prolonged silence, he glanced across at Trudy and smiled.
“Be a good girl and do your old dad a favor. Run tell Ramon to have my horse saddled. I’ll be along directly.”
Trudy merely nodded, darting a quick look at her mother, then scampered out the back door. Laird removed a cigarillo from his jacket pocket, carefully clipped the ends, and lit it. He studied the fiery tip a moment, his expression abstracted, and finally turned to Angela.
“I’ll not comment on your manner in front of the girl, but I would like an explanation.”
“Henry, I won’t move back to Brownsville. You can do as you please, but Trudy and I stay here. That’s all there is to it.”
“No, lass, not all. Even after last night, you haven’t rid yourself of it, have you? The bad memories?”
Angela stiffened, averted her eyes. “That has nothing to do with it. I simply won’t live among Yankee trash and watch you humiliate yourself and this family. I understand about the oath of allegiance, and I know it was necessary. But this army contract is beneath you, Henry. It’s corrupt and dirty and ... well, it’s just contemptible.”
“Mother of Christ! It was part of the deal. Would you have had me rot in Matamoros rather than do business with Yankees?”
“I’m sorry, Henry. I can’t help how I feel.”
“Yankees be damned! Fool yourself if you want, but don’t lay it off on me. It’s that house that’s got you spooked, and we both know it.”
“That’s not true. But regardless, it doesn’t change anything. I won’t leave this ranch, Henry. So let’s not argue ... that’s my final word on it.”
“Then by the Holy God, you’ll be seeing little of me, woman! And that’s bloody well final! You can mark it down as gospel.”
Laird slammed out of his chair and walked from the kitchen without a backward glance. Several moments later Angela heard voices and shouts of good-bye, then the sound of hoofbeats growing fainter and fainter, slowly fading away. She blinked, staring into a prism of tears, suddenly numb but no longer afraid. The threat had come and gone, and she was still safe. Safer than ever before.
Never again would she return to Brownsville. Or that house.
Chapter 4
Laird arrived in Brownsville early that afternoon. He left his horse at the livery stable, took the ferry to Matamoros, and walked along the wharf to a large warehouse. Shortly before two o’clock he was admitted to the office of Joseph Starling.
Fierce competitors, the two men had battled one another for the river trade with a sort of atavistic pragmatism. Their unsavory tactics were mutually acceptable, however, and several lesser rivals, caught in the middle of a larger struggle, had been eliminated piecemeal. Yet the two men were like amiable duelists. Similar in many ways, they both shared the same dream, and each had developed a grudging admiration for the other over nearly a decade of river warfare.
Starling rose from behind his desk as Laird entered, and extended his hand. He was a beefy man, with the bulbous nose of a heavy drinker and the girth of one who indulged himself in all the good life had to offer. But his eyes were small and bright, and for all his bulk, he was a nimble in-fighter in matters of business. Laird never underestimated him, and as they shook hands, he wasn’t in the least deceived by the cordial smile.
“Have a seat, Hank.” Starling waved him to a chair. “Can I offer you a drink? Got some mighty fine bourbon.”
“No, thanks. I’ve not come on a social call.”
Starling gave him a cool look of appraisal. “It’s business, then?”
“Aye, Joe. Business, it is. I’ve come to make you a proposition.”
“I wondered about that, when I heard you’d crawled in bed with the Yankees. Thought to myself, ‘Yessir, old Hank probably figures he’s got me by the short hairs.’”
“I do.” Laird regarded him with a great calmness. “Took a war to pull it off, but I’ve finally got the edge. You’re up against it, Joe. Hard times ‘round every bend.”
“So it’s sell out or you’ll bust me, hmmm?”
“That’s about the size of it. With the army contract in my pocket, I can afford to undercut you and take a loss on the rest of the trade. You’d last six months—maybe a year—but in the end I’d scuttle you just the same. Today, I’m offering to buy you out. A year from now, maybe you’d have nothing left to sell.”
“Possibly.” Starling nodded and was silent, thoughtful. ‘”Course, there’s always the Imperialists. I’m in pretty thick with the emperor, and he’d likely stick with me since you’ll be haulin’ for the Yankees. Could be I’d weather through, what with him payin’ so regular in gold.”
“All the more reason to get out now. Juarez will whip him sooner or later, and we both know it. You stick with Maximilian and the guerrilleros will put you up against the wall. Tell you the truth, Joe ... I’d hate to see you end up dog meat.”
“You’re all heart, Hank. All heart! Regular Good Samaritan.”
“I can afford to be charitable. It’s you that’s got the problem.”
“Yeah, and cleverly rigged, I’ll give you that. Very neat and tidy ... for an ax job.”
“Nothing personal, Joe. You would’ve done the same to me.”
Though it had never been proved, both men were aware that Starling had in fact done worse. Shortly before the war,’ with competition for the river trade at its peak, one of Laird’s boats had exploded and sunk under mysterious circumstances. At the time, several rivals were still working the R
io Grande, and it was impossible to single one out from the others. Yet Joe Starling was the least scrupulous of the lot, and it was a tactic uniquely typical of his methods. Laird had confronted him with a blunt warning: Unless it stopped there, every boat Starling owned would go to the bottom. Aside from the normal hazards, which all rivermen accepted as part of the trade, there were no further incidents. It appeared Laird had talked to the right man.
Now, confronted by yet another ultimatum, Starling knew his operation was in imminent peril. After a long silence— his gaze fixed on Laird—he shrugged and spread his hands in a bland gesture.
“Awright, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’ve got me euchred. What’s your best offer?”
“Hundred thousand. Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“The hell you say!” Starling slammed his fist into the desk, face mottled with anger. “That’s not an offer. It’s a goddamn insult! The boats alone are worth double that, maybe more.”
“Take it or leave it,” Laird said flatly. “It’s my only offer, and I’ll not haggle. But remember, Joe ... either I’ll buy you out or I’ll scuttle you. No two ways about it.”
A moment elapsed while the two men stared at one another. Then Laird’s mouth twisted in a gallows grin. “How much have you got stashed away from the war, Joe? Half million? Easy that, I’ll wager, and likely more. So be. a smart fellow—take it and get out—live to spend it. You fight me on this and I’ll feed you to the wolves.”
“You’re a number one bastard, Hank. Do you know that?”
“Coming from an old river pirate like yourself, I take that as a compliment. Now, quit grinding your molars and just give me a straight answer. What’s it to be, Joe?”
An instant of weighing and calculation slipped past, but Starling found the younger man’s logic unassailable. His choice was simple: win a little or lose a lot. Perhaps all! He inclined his head in a faint nod. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Wise decision, Joe.” Laird stood, his expression curiously bemused. “I’ll miss you, though, and that’s the God’s own truth. Wouldn’t have been any fun without you.”
Starling merely grunted. But his eyes were cold and hooded, and inwardly he promised himself it wasn’t over. Not by a damnsight! The river hadn’t seen the last of Joe Starling. Not yet.
Nor had Hank Laird.
“A hundred thousand! Come now, Hank, you must be joking. That’s ridiculous!”
“Starling was of the same opinion.”
“Precisely my point. For that price, you must’ve put a gun to his head. He’ll back out on it, you mark my words.”
“He’ll not back out. We shook hands on it.”
“Shook hands! Why, the man’s a scoundrel—a cutthroat! He’s welshed on half the deals he ever made. He’s notorious for it, you know that.”
“I’ve not asked your advice on his character. All I want are the proper documents. And I want them by nightfall! Signed, sealed, and delivered. Now, is that clear enough for you, or must I write the bloody contracts myself?”
Warren Pryor flushed and bobbed his head in agreement. Laird towered over his desk, and the diminutive lawyer suddenly felt like a sparrow trying to outstare a hawk. His lips peeled back in a weak smile.
“Whatever you say, Hank. I’ll draw up the papers and bring them to your office for signature before I see Starling. Assuming there’s no difficulty in obtaining his signature, we should conclude the deal by late this afternoon.”
“There’ll be no difficulty. He’s expecting you, and he’ll sign.”
Laird turned away from the desk and walked to a large topographic map mounted on the wall. Stretching roughly fifty miles northward from the lower Rio Grande, it was crisscrossed with boundary lines and a few meandering streams. Laird studied the map a moment, then rapped his knuckles on a spot some thirty miles upstream from the mouth of the river. It was a wide land mass separating the Rio Grande from a sheltered cove labeled LAGUNA MADRE.
“Buy me a slice of that.” His thumbnail scratched parallel lines on the map. “All the way across. Doesn’t have to be much, but it has to stretch from the river to the bay.”
“The San Martin grant?” Pryor gave him a bewildered look. “It’s worthless! Why the devil do you want that?”
Laird grinned, as if sharing a private joke with himself. “You’ll see, when the time’s right. For now, just do like I say.”
“Certainly, Hank. I’ll begin tracking down the derechos tomorrow.”
“Start early. I want it done muy pronto. Savvy?”
Before the lawyer could reply, Laird again stabbed at the map. His fingertip rested on an inked block representing Santa Guerra Hacienda. Slowly he circumscribed a broad circle around the ranch holdings. He pondered it at length, eyes narrowed in concentration, then nodded.
“Buy it! Every last league.” His finger touched the coast and skipped westward into the interior. “I want to own everything between the Gulf and the headwaters of Santa Guerra Creek.”
Pryor bounced out of his chair, utterly astounded. “Have you lost your senses? My God, Hank, that’s”—his eyes darted to the map, measuring distance with a look of disbelief—”that’s nearly five hundred thousand acres. Maybe more! At least ten times your present holdings.”
“Aye, that it is. And I want a deed to every square inch.”
“But you don’t understand. That includes the Espiritu Santo grant and the Santa Isabel grant, and even part of De Carricitos. The number of derechos are ... Good Lord, they’re incalculable! Not to mention who knows how many Texas grants. Don’t you see, it would take a lifetime to bring that under legal title.”
The lawyer’s point was well taken. All of the land within a hundred miles of the Rio Grande was a convoluted maze of ancient, and often conflicting, land grants. The original grants, awarded by the Spanish Crown, as well as later Mexican grants, were recognized under Texas law. Descendants of the original grant holders had multiplied generation by generation, and while few of them actually lived on the land, each held an undivided derecho, or inheritance right. To acquire title to a land grant, it was necessary to buy up all the derechos from countless heirs scattered across the border. The problem of multiple ownership was further complicated by land certificates, usually for 640 acres, issued by the Republic of Texas to the veterans of past wars with Mexico. The task of securing incontestable title was not only monumental and costly, but highly improbable. There were simply too many families, too many heirs, and a whole new generation of derecho holders being born every day.
Yet Hank Laird had little patience with either his lawyer or the legal complexities. He waved his hand across the map, as though dusting away the problem. “Don’t bugger me with details. Just get it done! Spend what you must, but bring me the titles.”
Pryor regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head. “Hank, I hate to be the one to say it, but you’ve got visions of grandeur. It simply won’t work. No matter how many derechos we acquire, there’ll always be a hundred more who lay claim to the land. And some of them will hold out until you’re forced to pay an astronomical price in order to validate title.”
“By the great crippled Christ! Are you deaf? Do like I told you, and let me worry about the holdouts. I’ll tend to ‘em in my own time and my own way. Now, that’s my last word on it, so leave it lay.”
“Very well, Hank.” Pryor spread his hands in a bland gesture. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I have, and most emphatically.”
“Duly noted, Counselor. Duly noted. Now get to work.”
Laird swatted him across the shoulders, and walked out the door chuckling to himself. Warren Pryor stood there for a long while, wondering if the insanity of Irishmen was congenital or merely a defect of the race. Finally he turned back to the map, peering at it with owlish scrutiny, and realized he hadn’t the least idea where to start.
Late that afternoon Artemus Johnson ushered the riverboat captains into Laird’s office. None too sober, Laird was in a dazzling good humor, and he greeted each of the three men with a warm handshake. A half-empty bottle was on the desk, and he poured drinks around while the captains seated themselves.
Behind the desk again, Laird raised his glass and laughed. “A toast! To the King of the Rio Grande, and the finest goddamn captains that ever manned a wheel.”
The three men exchanged puzzled glances. Sam Blalock held seniority, but Lee Hall and Oscar Gilchrist had been with Laird since before the war. By now they were accustomed to his extravagant moods, and each of them knew better than to ask questions. Blalock silently knocked back his drink, and the other two quickly followed his lead.
Laird took a swipe at his mustache, beaming down on them. “Aw, look at you! Three wise men scratching their heads. Well, boys, it’s simple.” He flung an arm at the wharf-side window. “Come dark, I’ll own that whole bloody river. Every drop of it!”
Thumbs hooked in his vest, grinning broadly, he told them the story with all the gusto of a drunken lord. Skipping details, he related the highlights of his meeting with Joe Starling, and proudly informed them that he now owned every riverboat on the Rio Grande. Starling was out, and the Laird Steamboat Company at last had a monopoly on the river trade. The captains were held spellbound by his performance, and as he concluded they sat watching him with the expression normally reserved for sword-swallowers and trapeze artists.
Finally, the three men shifted uneasily, looking everywhere but at Laird, and Sam Blalock cleared his throat. “Cap’n, it’s a neat piece of work, and damn me, if you’re not the only man alive who could’ve pulled it off. But there’s them that won’t like it. They’ll-say you sold your soul to the Yankees just so you could keelhaul Joe Starling.”
“They’ll like it even less come morning,” Laird announced. “Tomorrow I’m posting new freight rates. Ten percent hike across the board.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Gilchrist rose from his chair. “I’m as hard as the next man, Cap’n. But I don’t hold with skinnin’ people. Not when you got ‘em down. It just ain’t my way, and I don’t like it.”
